Your ten year old daughter, Louella was sprawled out on the cold floor, utterly lost in the book she held, her small fingers gripping the worn pages as if they contained the secrets of the universe.

Haymitch could see the crease between her brows, the slight parting of her lips as she whispered words under her breath, tasting them as she read. Whatever world she had discovered in those pages had its hooks in her now, and nothing short of an emergency would pull her out of it.

And you sat nearby, your head bent over a needle and thread, patching up yet another hole in your daughter’s jumpsuit. It wasn’t the first tear she’d fixed this week, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

Louella was always running, climbing, sneaking into places she wasn’t supposed to be. She had the boundless energy of someone who had never known anything but motion.

Haymitch liked to pretend he didn’t know where she got that rebellious streak from, but between your quiet defiance and his own tendency to do exactly the opposite of what people expected, the girl hadn’t stood a chance.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, watching them for a moment before speaking. “What’s she reading this time?”

You didn’t look up, but there was a small smile on her lips. “Poetry. About magic.”

Haymitch raised a brow and pushed off the wall, making his way over before flopping down beside Louella. “Magic, huh? Didn’t think District 13 allowed that kind of thing.”

Louella shot him an unimpressed look over the top of her book. “It’s poetry, Papa. Not spells.”

Haymitch smirked, leaning in as if she had just admitted to something scandalous. “Still sounds like nonsense.”

Louella let out a dramatic sigh and held up the book. “Just listen.”

She cleared her throat, straightened her back, and read aloud:

“The wind hums secrets through the trees,

The river sings to passing bees.

The sky bends low to kiss the land,

And leaves spell stories in the sand.”

She closed the book with a decisive little snap and looked up expectantly, waiting for his reaction.

Haymitch tilted his head. “Huh. Not bad.”

Louella beamed, victorious, and turned to her mother. “See? Even he likes it.”

You chuckled, tying off the stitch with practiced ease. “Took him long enough.”

Haymitch rolled his eyes but turned back to Louella. “So, you really think there’s magic in all that?”

Louella nodded eagerly. “Mama says magic is just seeing things the right way. Like when the sun looks like melted gold, or when the air smells different before a storm.”

You take a pause, setting down the sewing, stretching your fingers before smiling at your daughter. “My family always believed in magic,” you said, voice soft with nostalgia,

“We grew up in the fields, and we saw it in everything—the way fireflies danced like little stars, the hush of the earth before the first snowfall, the way seeds always knew how to find the sun.”

Louella’s eyes widened in that way only a child’s could, full of wonder and longing for things just out of reach. “I wish I could’ve seen all that.”

You smiled fondly, brushing a curl from Louella’s face. “You still can, sweetheart. Magic’s in the little things. You just have to know how to look.”

Haymitch snorted, shaking his head. “That why people used to call your family wild?”

That caused you to smirked at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling with amusement. “Of course. You’d know that. You’d also remember that people often said we were odd for believing in things you couldn’t hold in your hands. But it takes special people to see the magic in little things.”

Louella grinned. “Good thing I’m special, then.”

Haymitch hummed, “yes you are, sweetheart,” he said glancing between the two of them—you, his wife, with your quiet strength and stubborn belief in things bigger than themselves, and his daughter, practically glowing with excitement at the idea of unseen wonders hiding in the world around her.

Louella yawned, rubbing at her eyes but still stubbornly gripping her book. “Can I read one more?”

You glanced at the clock on the wall—lights-out was soon, and rules were strict here. But sighed, a small, indulgent smile on your lips. “Just one more.” How could you deny one of the few pleasures you were able to indulge in?

Louella grinned and flipped through the pages, searching for the perfect poem. Haymitch, meanwhile, leaned his head back against the wall, one arm draped lazily over your shoulders.

He wasn’t much for poetry, but he liked the sound of Louella’s voice as she read, soft and full of belief. Reminding him so much of you.

“The stars will shine beyond the dark,

Their light will never wane.

A whispered wish, a hopeful heart,

And magic stays the same.”

Luella looked up, blinking sleepily. “That means magic is always there, right? Even when we can’t see it?”

You ran her fingers through Louella’s hair. “That’s right.”

Haymitch huffed. “Poetry’s got a lot of nerve making promises like that.”

Louella giggled, pressing her face into his side. “You just don’t get it, Dad.”

He smirked, pulling the blanket up over her. “Guess not.”

She let out another small yawn, and this time, her eyes didn’t open again. Haymitch exhaled, shifting to pick her up. She made a sleepy sound of protest as he scooped her into his arms, but she didn’t fight it, just curled against his chest like she’d done since she was little.

You stood and followed as he carried Louella to the small cot she called a bed. He tucked her in, smoothing down the blanket while you brushed her hair back, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

Haymitch stayed there a moment longer, watching as Louella breathed slow and deep, already lost in dreams. He reached out, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Sleep tight, wild thing.”

She didn’t stir. You slipped your hand into his, lacing their fingers together as they stepped back from the bed.

Haymitch pressed a kiss to you temple as they settled onto their own bed. “You’re gonna turn her into a dreamer.”

You smiled against his shoulder. “Good. The world needs more of them.”

Haymitch didn’t answer right away. He just held you a little tighter, his fingers absently tracing slow, idle patterns against your arm.

Even after all these years, it still felt surreal sometimes—having this family, having you.

He thought back to the first time he saw you, standing on that stage at seventeen, trying to keep your face blank as your name was called. He’d been your mentor then, five years after winning himself. And he had been forced to watch 10 kids die since then. He was sure you would be the 12th.

And so he was forced to watch as you stepped into the arena, as you fought. But this time you proved everyone wrong as you won.

He had known, back then, what kind of person would walk out of that place. What it took to survive.

But you had come back still you, against all odds. You had come back stubborn and sharp and kind in ways the Capitol couldn’t kill. You still held onto who you were. And that alone was the perfect act of rebellion.

And somehow, in the years that followed, through nightmares and rebellion and the slow, aching process of trying to be something more than just survivors—you had found your way to each other eventually. And then became more.

Then two, became three. You had sobbed in his arms when you found out, fearing the day that she too would have to be reaped from the bowl of names. With a high chance of her dying in that god forsaken arena. The guilt, Haymitch remembered, took such a toll on you.

“How could I do this? Bring a child into this world?” You had once said. But after some time you had come to terms with the baby—Luella. Light in the dark. And a memorial name after the one of the tributes from Haymitch’s games. A sweet little girl you remembered from the Seam.

But now, you all were here, in a dimly lit room beneath the earth, with the most incredible daughter who believed in poetry and magic, in a place where hope was hard to hold on to.

And yet, somehow, you still did.

Haymitch exhaled, pressing his forehead against your hair. “You know,” he muttered, “I always knew you were trouble.”

You laughed softly, shifting closer. “Oh? Since when?”

“Since you looked me in the eye after they called your name and didn’t cry.” His voice was quiet, thoughtful. “Since you gave me an attitude that first day on the train. And especially afterward,”

Your fingers brushed against his hand, lacing together. “Guess that means you didn’t do a terrible job as a mentor.”

Haymitch huffed a small, dry laugh. “Didn’t do a great one, either.”

You squeezed his hand, tilting her head at him. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

He didn’t answer, just pulled you against him, pressing a kiss to your hair.

You were here. You were still you. Even after everything you both had gone through.

You came from a wealthy family. Generational wealth that had taken a hit during the War, but quickly bounced back when your family invested in clothing manufacturing. Your family helped sponsor the reconstruction of factories destroyed in Eight, and soon, the business boomed. Your wealth grew, surpassing anything you’d ever imagined.

But despite having access to the finest fashion first, you remained the same sweet girl. Always willing to give a skirt, blouse, or dress with a flaw to Tigress, saying, “It would be a shame to waste it. I just don’t have the talents to fix it.” Tigress always smiled in return.

Watching you during the Hunger Games years ago had been painful. When the games changed, and Academy students had to mentor District tributes, you were assigned Wovey, a poor thirteen-year-old from District Eight. You did everything in your power to keep your promise to get her home. But near the end, after Wovey drank some water and died within minutes, your frustration boiled over. You demanded answers, questioned the contents of the water, and felt humiliated. You had failed, and it ate at you, gnawing at your pride.

After the Games, life seemed to return to normal—for you, at least. News broke about Coriolanus Snow’s involvement in cheating and his banishment to District 12 as a peacekeeper, and the gossip spread like wildfire.

You’d liked him—been acquaintances. You exchanged basic pleasantries, nothing more. He was smart. Incredibly so. Even in silence, his eyes were constantly assessing, watching everything.

You felt sorry for him. Sorry that he was stuck in an awful district with awful people. Sorry that he’d been manipulated by Lucy Gray, that District girl who you believed was only using him. How awful those District people were.

Then, near the end of summer, after Sejanus Plinth’s death, Coryo returned to the Capital. And he was different—hardened, colder, more toned. But the way he looked at you was also different.

It began with simple compliments during classes at University. Compliments that made you blush. Then came walks to class, studying together, dinners. And before you knew it, you were standing beside him as the First Lady of Panem, ever so cold, calculating, and calculating. You saw the side of him he only allowed you to see—the soft, loving Coryo you had come to know and love.

And now here you were. Just two years into his presidency. The grand hall of your home was packed, its glittering elite seated in perfect rows as cameras broadcasted the event to the districts. Tonight, the event was designed to be a spectacle—a night of carefully crafted rhetoric.

You stood at the podium, poised, regal, your silk gown flowing over the unmistakable curve of your belly. Coriolanus had urged you to rest, to stay seated during the event, but you insisted. This speech was important.

The initiative you were launching, The Future of Panem Fund, symbolized progress—a new focus on education and healthcare for the next generation. It reinforced Coriolanus’ image as a leader who not only brought order but invested in the future. As his wife, you played a key role in solidifying that vision.

Standing before the audience, you smiled, your voice unwavering. “Good evening. I would like to thank you all for taking the time to come tonight. I assure you, it will be worth it,” you began, the polished ease of a practiced speaker settling over you. A sweet smile, a perfect face, the ideal First Lady for their perfect President.

“For too long, we have focused on the present—on survival, rebuilding, improving. But tonight, we look beyond the now. We look to what comes next. What comes tomorrow.”

A wave of nods rippled through the audience, all of them hanging on your words. You had crafted this speech carefully, balancing inspiration and strength.”

“The Future of Panem Fund is not just an initiative; it is a promise.” Your hand rested lightly on your belly. “A promise that every child in the Capital will have access to education, healthcare, and the resources to grow strong and capable.”

Applause rippled through the hall, and beside you, Coriolanus stood composed, his sharp gaze never leaving you.

You took a steadying breath before continuing. “Because the future of Panem is not written by chance. It is shaped by those with the will to guide it. Together, we will build a nation that does not just survive—but thrives.”

The applause swelled, echoing through the hall. You allowed a brief smile, savoring the moment—

And then, the contraction hit.

Your breath hitched, pain radiating through your abdomen. You gripped the podium, forcing yourself to maintain a serene expression. You weren’t going to falter.

Coriolanus noticed instantly.

Though he didn’t move, you could feel his attention shift, his calculating mind assessing every detail.

Still, you pressed on. “This fund will ensure that every—” Another contraction. This time, your breath left you in a slow, controlled exhale. You gave a short laugh, shaking your head.

Oh.

Oh, this was happening.

You turned to Coriolanus and, in a voice that carried through the microphone, murmured with quiet amusement, “I do believe I’m in labor, my dearest.”

Silence.

Then the hall erupted.

Laughter, cheers, applause—thousands of people on their feet, reveling in the spectacle. This was their perfect moment—their President, his wife, and the arrival of their child, the future of Panem.

But Coriolanus didn’t see it that way.

For the first time, his mask cracked. His usually unreadable expression betrayed sheer disbelief.

You, however, were laughing softly, gripping the podium as another contraction struck. “Well,” you exhaled, glancing back at the crowd, “it seems the future of Panem is arriving a little earlier than expected.”

More laughter, more cheers, more applause. Half the room was celebrating, while reporters scrambled to capture every moment as though it was a privilege to witness.

Coriolanus finally snapped into action.

“Go,” he barked sharply to the peacekeepers, “Bring the doctor. Now.”

The peacekeepers moved immediately, but Coriolanus was already at your side, one hand pressed to your back, the other reaching to steady you. His grip was firm, unwavering, but you felt the tension radiating off him. More peacekeepers formed around you, escorting you out of the hall and to the private part of your home.

“You should have been resting,” he muttered lowly, his voice tight as he guided you away from the podium.

You smirked despite the pain. “And miss my big speech? Not a chance.”

His jaw clenched, but a faint twitch of his lips betrayed something softer. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” you teased breathlessly, leaning into his support as another contraction hit, a small groan escaping, “you married me.”