#thg coriolanus

Coriolanus Snow had missed his class’s first year at the University. His stint as a Peacekeeper had set him back, not completely, but just enough to knock him out of sync with his former classmates. They had gone ahead without him, eager young minds diving into privilege and position while he remained in limbo. Still, the delay came with its own reward: a full year of Dr. Gaul’s undivided attention. A rare, but exhausting privilege.

The University loomed larger and colder than the Academy, perched like a marble monument above the rest of the Capitol, its iron gates twisting with frost in winter. Its towers stabbed upward, spined with gold and lined with dark windows that reflected the ever-drifting snow. It was older than the war, older than memory, and inside its echoing halls lived the kind of knowledge that built and broke empires.

Unlike the Academy’s polished propaganda and curated privilege, the University wore its intellect like a crown of thorns: severe, prestigious, unforgiving. But Coriolanus no longer entered it as a poor Capitol boy from a crumbling apartment. He returned draped in the Plinth name, fortune stitched into every thread of his tailored coat. Becoming Sejanus Plinth’s replacement had opened every door he previously couldn’t touch. Overnight, the Snow name glittered again.

And yet, despite the reinstated wealth and the carefully restored legacy, Coriolanus found himself lingering in smaller corners of the grand institution. Perhaps it was years of deprivation that made the finer things seem... untrustworthy. The velvet chairs and gilded fixtures felt too much like theater. Too much like a lie. He had lived on the other side. The cold winters, the hollow pantry, the nights when they’d fed the fire with his childhood books just to keep the air from freezing them to death.

It wasn’t Gaul’s lab he longed for, though most assumed it would be. Volumnia Gaul’s infamous laboratory was his proving ground. The place where monsters were born and futures forged. But he hated it. The room pulsed with too-bright lights that seemed to hum with unseen electricity. The floor was always too clean, smelling of bleach and formaldehyde, and the glass tanks that lined the walls swam with things that shouldn’t have been alive. They moved wrong. They breathed wrong. And when they screamed — high, clipped, wet sounds — the echo haunted his ears long after he left.

No, the only place he felt peace was the library. It stretched across an entire wing of the west tower, a dark, hushed sanctuary of mahogany shelves and oil paintings faded by time. The air there smelled of old ink, brittle parchment, and the lingering warmth of firewood. In winter, the snow outside cloaked the windows in soft white, and the hearths crackled in every corner, casting light that danced across the spines of centuries-old books.

There was something almost sacred about it. The way silence settled like dust, the way history pressed in on him from every direction. Sometimes he’d sit for hours beneath the painted gaze of long-dead scholars and statesmen, their eyes yellowed with varnish and time. They’d watched empires fall and rise again. They watched him too, it seemed, with judgment and curiosity. The library reminded him who he was. Or who he could still become.

In the first weeks of term, the University shed its hushed solemnity and came alive. What had once been still, echoing halls now hummed with ambition. The previous empty halls from a summer away from academics, now replaced by students once more. The soundscape shifted. Leather soles against stone, low conversations in clipped tones, laughter that echoed too loudly from marble stairwells. Students had returned like a flock of birds migrating home, their plumage vibrant, their confidence effortless.

Coriolanus watched it all with a certain distance. He walked among them, yes, but rarely with them. His clothes were tailored, his shoes shined, his name reborn in gold. But he hadn’t grown into this world so much as he’d been thrust back into it. A place at the University had once seemed unreachable. Now it was expected. Demanded, even. And yet, even surrounded by rising architects of Panem’s future political heirs, scientists-in-the-making, and carefully bred diplomats, he found himself distracted.

Or rather, drawn. Relentlessly, quietly, to someone who did not try to be seen. She was there in the library before he ever realized he was looking for her. At first, just a shape moving between shelves. Quick, efficient. Not hurried, not lazy. Purposeful. She handled the books differently than others. Never tossing them onto carts or letting their corners bang against the desk. She moved them like they mattered. Like they were alive.

He noticed the way she dressed before he noticed her face. Always in darker colors—blues, grays, browns—soft fabrics that gathered gently at her wrists or collarbones. Modest, but never careless. As if her clothes were meant not to conceal, but to quiet the world around her. There was something unassuming in it, something that whispered rather than demanded attention. And that, he found, was far more intriguing. Capitol girls often wore themselves like advertisements. Loud makeup, sharper silhouettes, everything lacquered and loud. She was the opposite. She was intentional. And it unnerved him.

He told himself he returned to the library for the quiet. For the firelit alcoves. For the smell of wax and parchment and the lingering warmth. But his eyes always sought her. She never sat long. Always working. Always moving. Sorting, shelving, scribbling notes in tight, upright handwriting in the margins of ledgers he could never read from a distance. She spoke rarely, but when she did—usually to the aging head librarian, a woman with clouded eyes and a spine like a question mark—her voice was soft, low, and certain. Not shy. Just... restrained. Like she’d learned long ago that most people didn’t deserve her full volume.

He couldn’t place her. There was a different shape to her vowels, a different economy in her movements. A provincial edge, but softened by something else. Sharpness or learning or both. She was a student, he knew as much as he’d seen her exiting lectures with a folio clutched tightly to her chest. But her role in the library seemed more permanent. Like she belonged more to its wood and shadow than any classroom.

And she watched. Not constantly. Not obviously. But sometimes, while reshelving near where he worked, he’d feel her eyes linger on him for a breath too long. Not flirtatious. Not challenging. Merely... assessing. As if she, too, hadn’t figured him out yet.

It infuriated him.

It fascinated him.

In the first few weeks of his return, she became a kind of gravity. He found himself inventing reasons to stay longer. Digging into books he didn’t care about, scribbling the same notes twice just to avoid standing. Always waiting for a glimpse of her: half-lit between rows of books, or bent over some old volume, one fingertip tracing the spine as if reading by touch.

He didn’t know her name. He hadn’t asked.

Not yet.

But he would.

He first spoke to her because of the ink on her hands.

Not a grand excuse. Not something clever. Just a thin, inky stain smudged along the edge of her thumb and across her knuckles. Blue-black and half-faded, like she’d tried to wash it off but hadn’t bothered to scrub. She was seated behind the desk when he noticed it, her head bent low over the circulation ledger, writing in firm, narrow strokes. The firelight caught the side of her face, softening the planes of it, drawing warmth from otherwise unadorned features. No powder. No rogue. Just her skin. And the ink.

He watched her turn the page, still mid-sentence. Her eyes scanned it once before she resumed writing. Precise. Focused. Unaware of him, or pretending to be. Coriolanus stepped closer. Not close enough to startle, just enough to be seen. “That doesn’t come out easily,” he said, nodding faintly toward her hands. “The ink.”

She glanced up then, brows barely lifted. Not defensive. Not intrigued. Just aware. “I fear that is the point. To make marks that will not wash away with time,” she replied, closing the ledger with care.

He smiled faintly, playing at charm, though part of him was watching her like a hawk. “Do they make you log all that by hand?”

“They don’t make me,” she said. “I prefer it.”

“Even with the mess?”

A pause. Then: “Some things are worth a little mess.” He felt that. More than he expected to. Her tone wasn’t sharp, but it landed all the same. Honest in a way that caught him off guard. She reached for a cloth and pressed it into her palm, dabbing at the remnants of wet ink without much effort.

“I’m Coriolanus,” he offered then, smoothly, extending a hand. She looked at it. A blink. No surprise in her face: Only calculation. The kind that worked through a gesture before responding to it. Eventually, she took it. Her grip was firm, dry, and brief.

“I know,” she said.

He let that hang between them for a second too long. “And you are...?”

“I help with the library,” she said, neither smiling nor cold. Her tone was pleasant, almost wry. “That’s usually enough.”

Not your name, he noted silently. A boundary. Still, he nodded once, conceding the point with an easy elegance. “Then I suppose I’ll have to keep coming back. See if you ever decide to tell me.”

She didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t flirt. Just returned to her work, flipping open a fresh ledger page. But before he could step away, she spoke again. “The book you asked to have pulled,” she said without looking up, “was misclassified. It’s political theory, not constitutional law. I had it pulled from the archive.”

He hesitated. He had asked for no such thing. Yet, she seemed to be keenly aware of the kind of material in which he normally sought to read. Political theory was a majority of the texts he found himself going back to. He understood the invitation in her carefully crafted lie, and the fact she’d raised her tone ever so slightly in case anyone lingering nearby seemed to be listening. “I’ll be back for it tomorrow,” he said quietly.

“I know,” she murmured. And just like that, a door cracked open.

He returned the next day just after the second lecture. The library was quieter in the mornings, the hearths not yet fully stoked, the air still holding the last of the dawn chill. She was already there, of course.

This time, she was kneeling beside a low shelf near the historical archives, her sleeves rolled to the forearms as she sorted a tray of aging catalog cards. Her hair was tied back loosely, with strands falling free around her temples, and a half-finished cup of tea sat forgotten on the floor beside her. The scent of it—black tea and something faintly floral—hung in the air between them. Coriolanus approached without speaking, slowing his steps to let the soft sound of his shoes announce him. She didn’t startle. Didn’t glance up right away, either.

“The book,” she said, before he could speak, reaching without looking into the crate behind her. She held it up as she stood: slim, bound in rough maroon cloth. Worn at the corners.

He took it from her, careful to let his fingers brush hers only for the briefest second. “No ink on your hands today,” he said, letting his gaze flick meaningfully to hers.

“I’m more careful when I know I’ll be watched,” she said, calm, measured.

A pause. He smiled again, slower this time. “Am I that obvious?”

“You’re not the first student who likes to wander through here looking thoughtful.”

“But I’m the only one you’ve spoken to,” he said, testing her. To that, she didn’t reply. Not with words. She merely stepped back toward the shelf and resumed her work, slipping a stack of cards into their drawer, her movements smooth and unbothered. And yet, there was something different now. A beat of silence between them that felt less like dismissal and more like... allowance.

He crouched near the opposite end of the same row, book in hand, pretending to skim a nearby title while he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She didn’t fill the silence with small talk. She didn’t ask why he was still standing there. And that, somehow, was permission. “I read the first few pages,” he lied, tapping the book’s spine. “The author’s a bit dry.”

“She’s meticulous,” the girl replied without looking up. “That’s different from being dull.”

He leaned an elbow on the shelf beside him. “You sound like you’ve read her.”

“I’ve read most of the people students only pretend to.” The line was delivered without arrogance. Just truth. It made his smirk falter, just slightly, replaced by something quieter. Respect, though he didn’t name it. He looked down at the book again, running a thumb along the faded letters on its cover. “Then maybe I’ll need your help interpreting it,” he said. “If I’m pretending too.”

This time, she glanced at him directly. Just for a second. Then she returned to the catalog drawer and slid it shut. “I doubt you're pretending,” she said. “But I do think you like to be seen reading.”

He laughed. Genuine, brief, surprised by her analysis. And for a moment, she smiled too. Small. Real. Then it was gone again, tucked away like a page turned too quickly. “If you find her dull then perhaps I can find something more to your liking tomorrow.” With that she turned and headed for the back rows without another word. 

He came back the next afternoon. Not immediately. Not so soon that it would look deliberate. But soon enough that she would remember her promise and see his effort to ensure she delivered upon it. The book she’d mentioned was waiting for him at the front desk, just as promised. A slim volume, clothbound and faded, marked with a small slip in her handwriting: See Chapter IV — margins are annotated.

Her script was neat. Upright. Coriolanus ran a finger along the top of the page, not reading the words just yet. Just thinking. Not about the book, but the gesture. She hadn’t signed the note. But she may as well have. He took the book, thanked the older librarian at the desk, and carried it not to his usual table in the center alcove, but to a smaller one just behind the reference shelves. Near the back, where the wood creaked and the walls curved in with old heat.

It took twenty minutes for her to appear again. She emerged from between the theology and statecraft stacks, carrying a few misfiled atlases and a slim red volume he couldn’t make out. Her pace was calm, measured, as always,  but her eyes flicked once toward the table where he sat. He saw her see him. He didn’t wave. Didn’t speak. Instead, he opened the book and turned directly to Chapter IV. The notes were precise. Sparing. Just small lines of pencil, underlining certain passages, bracketing others. There were no full notes, no opinions, only emphasis. It felt like a quiet kind of conversation between her and the author. And now, between her and him.

One phrase had been bracketed twice, a thin arrow pointing from one sentence to another: "Public loyalty is not rooted in law, but in fear of exile."

He read it again. And again. There was a chair across from him. Empty. He didn’t expect her to take it. That would be too forward, and she didn’t seem the type to offer her time so easily. Still, when she passed his table, he looked up. “Was this meant to be a warning?” he asked.

She didn’t stop walking. But she paused just long enough beside his table to glance down at the page. “If you think it applies to you,” she said quietly, “maybe it is.”

A breath. Then she was gone again, vanishing into the rows with her arms full of books. Coriolanus stared after her, lips parted slightly, the book still open in front of him. He couldn’t decide if she was mocking him. Or if she saw him more clearly than anyone else ever had. Either way, he knew one thing with complete certainty.

He would be back tomorrow.

The next time he saw her, she was at the desk again — not working, not shelving, but reading. A battered copy of The New Panem Legal Reader lay open in front of her, spine cracked from use. Her chin was resting on one hand, her expression unreadable. And beside her, as before, a chipped ceramic mug, contents long gone. Coriolanus paused a few feet back, adjusting the strap of his satchel so it fell noisily against his shoulder. She didn’t startle, but she looked up. The smallest flick of her eyes, the kind she might give to a passing shadow.

This time, he didn’t approach empty-handed. He set a small thermos on the desk beside her mug. Steel, clean-lined, warm to the touch. Neutral. Nothing ostentatious. “I thought I’d bring you something better,” he said simply. “Your usual smells like boiled dust.”

She blinked once, then looked down at the thermos. No movement to touch it. Not yet. “You’ve been cataloging my tea?” she asked, dry but quiet.

“I’ve been cataloging a lot of things,” he said.

That made her lips press together. Not a smile, but not disapproval either. A pause followed. Then, delicately, she closed her book and reached for the thermos. Twisted the top open. Sniffed. “Citrus?” she said.

“Orange blossom. And bergamot.”

“You drink this?”

“Sometimes, but I assumed you preferred bergamot because of your perfume.” Another pause. Then, surprisingly, she poured a little into her own chipped mug. She didn’t thank him. But she took a sip. Her eyes didn’t close, but he saw something shift in her posture. Just slightly. As if she'd exhaled without meaning to. “You don’t strike me as generous,” she said.

“I’m not.”

“So what’s this?”

“An investment.”

She looked at him, finally. Really looked, like she was trying to read past his face, past the Capitol-perfect posture and the studied calm of his voice. “And what kind of return are you expecting?” she asked.

He smiled. “That you remember it came from me.”

Her gaze didn’t drop. But after a long second, she reached into her book and pulled out a folded slip of paper. A page torn from a student ledger. She scribbled something quickly, then slid it toward him across the desk.

“Second floor,” she said. “Annex reading room. There’s a set of trial transcripts they never added to the public catalog I am supposed to be putting away later but conveniently I have found myself distracted. You want something real to read? Try those.”

He picked up the note. “Why give me this?”

She looked back down at her tea. “Because you actually read what I suggest.”

He found her in the annex, exactly where he’d read the transcripts last time. The room was dim, lit only by the failing light of a high, narrow window and a small desk lamp she’d angled toward a box of yellowing legal documents. His eyes traced the delicate lines of her tailored trousers as they turned into a looser button down blouse. She had one leg tucked beneath her, a few pieces of hair falling into her face as she flipped carefully through pages marked with age and ink.

She didn’t look up when he entered which meant, he was sure, that she’d already heard him coming. He didn’t speak right away. Just moved to the table and took the seat across from her, resting his elbows on the wood. She turned another page. “Careful,” she murmured, her voice soft in the stillness. “The spines crack if you open them too fast.”

He leaned forward slightly, studying the document in front of her. “I never see students in this annex”

Her eyes flicked up. “Most people don’t like it or have much use for the materials here. And those who do, simply request we retrieve it for them so they may leave.”

“I like it here.”

“No, you like me,” she said simply, and turned another page. “The records and this annex are seemingly a byproduct of stalking me it would seem.”

He blinked. She hadn’t said it unkindly. Not smugly. Just a fact. “I like both,” he said, after a beat. “But you’re right.”

That made her glance at him again, properly this time. He let the silence stretch. Let her look at his growing blond hair, at his perfectly trimmed suit jacket. “I was going to ask something,” he said, voice lower now. “But I’d rather not play with subtlety.” She tilted her head, not quite encouraging him, but not stopping him either. “I’d like to see you,” he said. “Outside the library.”

A pause. Her expression didn’t shift. She closed the folder gently, fingers still resting on the cover. “Why?”

His reply was quiet, without hesitation: “Because I think I’d still want to talk to you about something more than books and at a proper volume.”

She sat with that. Thoughtfully. The air between them changed. Then she exhaled through her nose. Almost amused. Almost not. “I work,” she said. “I study. I don’t go out.”

He didn’t move. “You could make an exception.” She watched him. Her thumb tapped once, twice, on the folder’s corner. Then stopped.

“There’s a used bookstall off the old Capitol Square,” she said quietly. “End of Rion Street. The owner doesn’t catalog anything properly, but he lets me sort through before it opens.”

“When?”

“Saturday mornings. Early.”

She stood then, gathering the stack in front of her. Not dismissive, simply done with her task and moving on to the next one. She didn’t tell him to meet her there. But she didn’t say not to. As she moved past him toward the door, her voice came, soft and dry over her shoulder: “Don’t wear anything you’re afraid to get dust on.”

And then she was gone.

It was just past sunrise when he arrived at the end of Rion Street. The Capitol was still half asleep, its glass facades bleary with frost, its avenues nearly empty save for the quiet shuffle of early workers and the smell of warm bread from a distant vendor. The bookstall sat wedged between two shuttered storefronts. And there she was.

Bent slightly at the waist, sifting through a crate of mismatched volumes with both hands. Her traditional worn academic clothes, replaced by something unexpected.  A heavy knit pullover that hung off one shoulder, sleeves pushed up, covering something akin to a sundress which ended above the knee. Nylon tights clinging to her exposed legs. Her hair, usually pinned or knotted back, was loose now. Soft. Falling across her face in unkempt curls as she leaned forward. She wore wire-rimmed glasses this time. Nothing stylish. Much more dressed down than he normally saw her, and even then, she lacked the extreme fashionability of most of their peers. And still,  somehow, it caught him off guard.

He hadn’t thought of her as stunning before. Beautiful, yes. In a way that didn’t demand attention, but simply had it. He was more attracted to her mind and the fact she seemingly didn’t want to give him the time of day. She was lovely now.  More lovely than he thought possible. Not in the Capitol way. Not with shine or polish. But this was different.  Unstudied. Quiet. And it unnerved him more than he liked. She glanced up as he approached, blinking once through her frames. No surprise. Just a slight incline of her chin. “You’re late,” she said.

“It’s barely seven.”

“Exactly.”

He stepped closer, hands in the pockets of his coat. “You look…”

She raised a brow. “…like someone who doesn’t spend all their time in a library sorting books?” That earned him the smallest of smiles, crooked, barely there. “Interesting,” she said. “I believe you said you wanted to see me outside the library. You can’t expect me to always behave and look the same as I do there.”

He watched her kneel beside a crate, adjusting her glasses as she flipped open a clothbound title. The sleeves of her sweater slipped down as she moved, and for a moment he could see the pale line of her wrist, marked faintly by ink smudges. “From what I’ve gathered you really don’t care what people see,” he said.

She looked up. “Should I?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. She sat back on her heels and pulled a second book from the pile. This one with a thicker, spine cracked, title worn gold. She held it out without standing. “This one’s about wartime court proceedings. No one reads it because the language is dense. But it’s clean. Unfiltered. The kind of thing the University keeps under lock and key.”

He took it. Their fingers brushed. “You brought it for me?”

“I set it aside.”

He glanced down at it, then back at her. “Sorry, you look different today. Your hair its…” he trailed off, unsure as to the point he was trying to make..

Her gaze didn’t falter. “I’m not a different person simply because I look unlike the way you know me.”

“I didn’t say you were. I just wasn’t expecting this,” he gestured to her appearance.  Another quiet. He heard her suck in a slight breath, her eyes meeting his then darting away again. The street behind them rustled with wind.

Then, simply and without ceremony, she stood and brushed her hands on her thighs. “I usually get coffee after this,” she said. “The shop two blocks down scorches it.” A pause. Then, as she turned away: “You can come. If you don’t mind bad coffee.”

He followed. Of course he did. The coffee shop was barely marked. A peeled decal on the glass, a bell that didn’t ring when the door opened. Inside, the lights were dim and yellowed, the walls lined with uneven shelves and a chalkboard menu half-erased. It smelled like scorched grounds and the sweetness of sugary pastries. She didn’t wait for him to catch up. Just stepped to the counter, nodding once at the man behind it.

“Two,” she said. “Black.” No cream. No sugar. No hesitation. He reached into his coat for money, but she was already sliding a coin across the counter. She didn’t look at him as she did it. Just turned, took both mugs, and crossed to the back corner. A small table. Two stools. The kind that teetered if you shifted your weight too quickly.

He followed. She set one mug in front of the empty seat and sat without ceremony, pushing her sleeves higher up her forearms. A strand of hair slipped forward as she bent over the cup. She didn’t tuck it back. He sat. The stool creaked. He didn’t speak.

Outside, the street moved slowly. A flicker of light against a car window, the ghost of someone passing. The city hadn’t quite decided to wake up yet. She took a sip. “Still terrible.”

He mirrored her. “Burnt and bitter. Impressive, really.”

She didn’t smile, not exactly. But something eased in her jaw. For a moment, neither of them reached for the conversation. Then: “I almost didn’t come today,” she said, without looking at him.

“Why?”

She swirled the coffee in her mug. “I thought it would ruin it. This.”

“And has it?”

She looked up at him then. Really looked. “Not yet,” she said softly. “But it might.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words. Just sat a little straighter, hands curled loosely around the warm ceramic, letting the weight of the moment settle without trying to rearrange it. The coffee steamed between them, bitter and thin. Neither of them seemed to mind. Coriolanus leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, fingers curled around the chipped mug.

“So,” he said, voice low, “where are you from?”

She didn’t blink. “The Capitol.”

“I figured,” he said. “But I never saw you at the Academy.”

“You wouldn’t have,” she said, calm. “I was tutored privately.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “That’s rare.”

She only lifted one shoulder. “I don’t do well with routine. Or noise. Or sitting in rows of desks pretending everyone’s there to learn because they actually enjoy it or see the value in it..”

He smiled, crooked this time, genuinely curious. “So what did you do?”

“Studied. Read. Argued with my private instructors. Took notes no one asked me to take.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“It was quiet,” she corrected.

A silence settled for a moment. He watched her trace the rim of her mug, slow and absent, like she was tuning something out. Then, before he could ask the next question: “I know you turned up at the University late,” she said. “And that you are being mentored by Dr. Gaul, yet you are not a biology student. You are in Political Science.”

He stilled, not visibly. “Do you?”

“You transferred in by request of the Plinth family. Top marks from your former schooling but, and correct me if I am wrong, appeared more like a Peacekeeper than a student the first few times I saw you.”

His jaw tensed faintly and then questioned, “Why do you say a Peacekeeper?”

“Your hair. It was shorn when I first saw you. Leaving Dr. Gaul’s lab.” 

“I hardly imagine that to be something worth notice. My hair.” he scoffed, sipping the coffee easier now that it wasn’t scalding. Somehow the bitter taste went down better than the higher quality one he now had at home.

“You mentioned mine looking different earlier did you not?”

He didn’t have a reply for that. Instead he changed the subject. “I didn’t know I was being watched.”

She didn’t smile, not exactly, but her gaze sharpened with something like amusement. “You’re a Snow. And you’re orbiting the Plinths now. People watch.”

He studied her for a moment. “But you do more than watch.”

She met his eyes. “I have been known to also listen to the whispers.”

Coriolanus leaned back in his seat, just slightly. “All right. What else do you know?”

“You sit straight even when no one’s looking. You read exceptionally fast. Your handwriting is quite frankly, terrible.” She rattled them off easily.

He laughed. A short, surprised and daresay light one. “That’s either flattering or terrifying.”

“Both,” she said simply.

“And what do I know about you?”

She raised a brow. “Apparently not much. Other than that I dress a certain way at the library, and that my perfume smells of bergamot.”

“I’m trying to know more.”

That made her pause. For just a breath. Then: “Try harder.”

He nodded once. Not offended. “Fair.”

Outside, the street was beginning to stir. Low voices, footsteps, a bell chiming open on the corner. She glanced toward the window, then back at him. “You want to know what I care about?”

“Yes.”

“Books that don’t lie. People who don’t pretend. Mornings when the city forgets to be loud. And burnt bitter coffee.”

He held her gaze. “And what don’t you care for?”

“Flash. Ceremony. People who ask questions just to get their turn to talk.”

But he only smiled again. A little smaller this time. “Those are rather charming observations.”

“I suppose.” No invitation in her tone. But no dismissal, either. She didn’t leave. Instead, she moved toward the window, cradling her mug in both hands, letting the silence settle between them again. The light was brighter now. Soft and gray, filtering through the frosted glass, tracing the curve of her cheek.

Coriolanus watched her for a moment before speaking. “If you were privately tutored,” he said slowly, “you have money.”

She didn’t look at him. Just let her finger trail down the side of the mug, collecting condensation. “Is that a question?”

“It’s an observation,” he said. “Which leads to a question.”

She tilted her head, still not facing him. “Go on, then.”

He nodded toward her. The oversized knit, the worn skirt, the wire-rimmed glasses slipping slightly down her nose. “Why come here? Why dress like this? You could be up the hill right now, sipping something hand-pressed with a lemon twist, talking about gallery openings and scholarships. You’ve got the pedigree — I can tell. But you show up on Rion Street with dust on your sleeves and ink on your wrists dressed like a commoner.”

She turned back to him then, slowly, until she faced him. Her eyes were clear behind the scratched lenses, and when she spoke, it was even. Not cold. Not defensive. “I was raised among people who performed wealth like it was faith,” she said. “Every shoe polished, every word rehearsed. I wore the clothes. Sat at the right dinners. Smiled at the right times.”

“And?” he asked.

“And none of it ever felt like mine.” That landed heavier than he expected. He looked at her, really looked — the undone hair, the small ink stain near her thumb, the softness of her cardigan as it hung off her shoulder.

“But people notice,” he said. “They talk.”

“No they don’t,” she said. “Not when you play enough into their rules and stick to the edges of their orbit like I do.”

Coriolanus watched her for a long moment. “You know, it’s strange. The first time I saw you — on one of those ladders in the art history section — you had your hair pinned back like a senator’s wife. Pearl collar. Nothing fancy by still playing enough into the illusion.”

She smirked, faintly. “I was hiding in plain sight.”

“From whom?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she took another sip of her coffee, then turned it slowly in her hands. “I do what’s required. And then I go home and wash it off.”

His voice was softer now. “And this? Today? Is this you?”

She considered him for a long moment. “This is closer,” she said.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Then I prefer this version.”

Her eyes flicked to his, unreadable. “You don’t know me well enough to have a preference.”

“Not yet,” he said.

A pause stretched between them, but not uncomfortably. Outside, a breeze moved past, scattering a page of newsprint across the street. She glanced toward it. “People are always so eager to be known,” she murmured. “Like it proves something. Like being understood makes them more real.”

“And you?” he asked.

“I think being misunderstood has its uses. As does hiding in the fringes of the world in which we occupy.”

He smiled. “You’re very practiced at disappearing in plain sight.”

“Good,” she said. “Then maybe you’ll stop looking.”

But she said it too late — too lightly — and they both knew he wouldn’t.

They met again in a quiet hallway off the main records building. Not planned, but not a surprise either. He’d stopped by the central filing office to sign off on something for Dr. Gaul, and she was there, crouched beside an unattended cart of misplaced volumes, re-shelving them in her own silent order. No clerk in sight.

“You volunteer here now?” he asked.

“I got tired of watching them shelve everything in the wrong place.”

He leaned against the doorframe. “So you’re rescuing lost files.”

“They deserve better.” There was that dryness again, effortless and soft-edged. She didn’t look up. Not until he crossed the room and crouched beside her. “I’ve got two hours before I’m expected anywhere,” he said.

Her eyes flicked toward him. “And?”

“And I’m asking if I can spend them with you.” She didn’t answer right away. Just slipped the last book into place, stood, and gestured with her chin toward the back exit. They walked silently until they were off school grounds, when he took the lead. She followed him to his flat without asking why.

He hadn’t offered an explanation, only a quiet, “It’s close,” when they left the archives, and she hadn’t asked for more. That was something about her: she didn’t press. She simply chose whether or not to follow. And tonight, she did.

The flat was what she’d expected. Spare. Orderly. Functional, in the way Capitol apartments often were. Polished wood floors, glass shelving, one too many mirrors pretending the space was larger than it was. She stood just inside the doorway, taking it in with the same composed disinterest she used to examine records or redacted testimonies. He’d allowed Tigress and Grandma’am to continue to occupy the apartment above, but as he’d begun repairing it with the Plinth’s money, he’d bought the one on the opposite side of the building, repairing it as well. Privacy when he sought it. Proximity to be with them if he chose. “You clean before you leave every morning?” she asked.

He shrugged off his coat. “It stays relatively clean.”

“Which is another way of saying you don’t live in it very often.”

He glanced over. She was running her fingers along the back of one of the chairs. Not sitting, not settling. Just touching. “Tea?” he asked.

“No thank you.” she said and instead, moved to the small sofa. He did the same, sitting next to her. Not close, not distant. Enough that their knees might brush if one of them shifted. “This isn’t how I thought tonight would go,” he admitted.

“You didn’t think it would involve me?”

“No, but I hoped.”

She smiled at that. It wasn’t wide. But it was real. “I don’t usually do this,” she said.

“Come to strangers’ flats?”

“Let people wonder about me for more than a few minutes.”

He studied her. “You knew I was wondering?”

“You make it obvious.”

“And you let me?”

Her voice was quieter now. “You haven’t asked anything I wasn’t ready to answer.”

He nodded slowly, eyes still on her. “You look different here,” he said. She raised an eyebrow. “Softer, and I daresay unsure,” he added.

That made her laugh, just once, dry. “That’s an illusion. You’re seeing me when I haven’t had the chance to calculate all the outcomes.”

“Is that what you’re usually doing?”

“All the time.”

He leaned back, watching her. “And right now?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” She looked at him then. Met his gaze for longer than she usually did. Not darting away, not calculating. Something in it held. And after a pause, she reached forward. Her hand was slow and  deliberate as she fixed the collar of his shirt. Not dramatically. Just smoothed it, her fingers brushing the base of his throat. She didn’t seem to notice the way it stilled him. “You don’t relax easily,” she murmured.

“Neither do you.”

“No,” she agreed. “But I like quiet rooms.”

Their eyes held again. Neither of them moved. Then her hand dropped. Her arm stayed close, though, resting lightly along the edge of the cushion between them. Their sleeves brushed. She didn’t pull away. “You want to ask me something,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Then ask.”

He hesitated, not because he didn’t know the question, but because he wasn’t sure she’d stay if he asked it. Still, he asked: “Why me?”

She tilted her head slightly, considering. Then leaned in, just enough that he caught the scent of her, something rich and decadent, jasmine mixed with bergamot. “Because you don’t fill the silence with nonsense," she said softly. “You wait in them until you are confident, and then you move.”

He nodded once, slowly. And then not boldly or abruptly, she rested her hand lightly on his knee. Just a touch. Brief. He didn’t move. “Don’t mistake this,” she said. “I haven’t let you in.”

He looked down at her hand, then up at her again. “I know,” he said. “But you didn’t lock the door, either.”

She held his gaze. Then stood. He stood too. Not blocking her, but close to it. At the threshold, she paused. Turned back. “If I come back,” she said, “don’t read too much into it.”

He smiled.  “I know,” he said again.

She left without another word. But the ghost of her touch lingered, emphasizing the heat in the room.

She came back three nights later. No warning. No message. Just a quiet knock against his door. Not tentative, but not loud either. The kind of knock that knew it would be answered. When he opened it, she was standing there with her hair half-pulled back and a wrapped bundle of old legal transcripts under one arm. He blinked. She lifted the bundle slightly. “You said you’d never read the Tribunal reviews from after the war.”

“I… did.”

“So,” she said, stepping past him, “I brought them.” He shut the door slowly, watching her cross the room with confidence since she’d done so before. She didn’t take off her coat, just set the papers on the table and turned to face him. She was waiting for something. Or maybe she wasn’t.  He looked at her. Really looked. This time she was a perfect blend of what he’d come to know her as. Her clothes from the University. Their worn, older academic appeal, but her hair shaken out, curly. The wire rimmed frames made their return.  “You came here just to bring me files?”

“I came here because I wanted to,” she said. “The files were just an added bonus of my presence.”

She unbuttoned her coat then, letting it slide from her shoulders. Underneath, she wore something he’d seen before. Soft fabric and bare forearms, her collarbone catching the light when she turned slightly toward him. “I don’t make these kinds of decisions lightly,” she said.

“I know.”

She stepped forward once. Slowly. “I don’t open doors,” she said, voice low, “unless I’m ready to walk through them.”

Coriolanus felt the weight of that, not purely as invitation, but as a sign of her trust. She was handing him something fragile. And he didn’t want to fumble it. “I haven’t stopped thinking about the last time you were here,” he said.

Her expression didn’t shift. “Then don’t waste the opportunity I’m granting you now.”

His hand lifted, slowly, to her elbow, just above where the sleeve was rolled. He touched her gently, barely pressure, like testing if she’d stay. She did. Closer now, just within reach.

“With this opportunity, do I get to kiss you?” he asked.

“Not if you ask like that.”

His thumb moved slightly along the curve of her arm. “How should I ask?”

“You don’t.” And she leaned in. Not all the way. Just close enough for her lips to graze the corner of his jaw. It wasn’t a kiss. Not quite. But her breath was warm against his skin. “Since you are hesitating, I think I’ll choose when,” she said softly.

“Understood.”

She stepped back half a pace, eyes still on him. “I don’t want pretty words,” she said. “Or rehearsed lines.”

“You think I rehearsed that?”

“I think you rehearse everything.” That made him smile  just a little. She was right.  She brushed past him then, toward the table. He let her. But not before letting his hand trail from her elbow to her wrist with a touch that lingered before it fell away.

“I don’t plan to stay very long,” she said. And even that small promise of minimal time, from her, was everything. She settled at the table, unwrapping the bundle with practiced care, but he could tell she wasn’t focused on the papers. Not really. He moved to the kitchen, not because he needed to, but to give her a moment. To give himself a moment. When he returned with two glasses — something better than the tea he often saw her drink — she’d already kicked off her shoes and drawn one leg beneath her, the Tribunal pages barely skimmed.

She accepted the glass without thanks, just a small nod. Their fingers brushed again but this time, he didn’t pull away. Neither did she. For a while, they sat in the hush of it, the warmth of the room settling around them. Outside, the city murmured faintly. Car lights sweeping past windows, distant hums from the grid towers. Inside, just the shift of paper, the soft clink of glass returning to the table, and the occasional rustle as she adjusted her sleeve where it was rolled.

“I was wrong about you,” she said, not looking up.

He glanced over. “How so?”

“I thought you wanted something pretty you could show off. Someone that said the right things at the right dinners. A Senator’s wife.” He recalled his choice of words the day at the coffee shop, his decision to refer to her in that manner. Now it felt clipped in a way. 

“And now?”

She lifted her eyes. “Now I think you’re not entirely sure what you want.”

He didn’t answer right away. Her gaze didn’t flinch. “I know I want you to stay,” he said, quietly.

“I already knew that,” she said. “You are just catching up.” She shifted then, closer. Casually, but not without purpose. One of her knees brushed his thigh beneath the table. She didn’t move it. He watched her, the way her hair fell along her jaw, the faint light playing off her collarbone. Gods, he really loved her collarbones. He wasn’t sure why. She wasn’t unnaturally thin but something about the way they always caught the light looked divinely feminine in a manner he wasn’t accustomed to focusing on. Her lips were slightly parted, but not waiting. Just breathing.

“Say something real,” she demanded after a moment of silence.

He leaned toward her. Just slightly. Close enough to speak, not to touch. “I think about you,” he said, “more than I should.”

Her eyes didn’t drop. “And what do you think about?”

He hesitated. “About how you look when you're not playing a role you seemingly don’t want. About your hands when you’re sorting through old books. About what it would take to make you stay longer than ‘a while.’ About what I’d do if we were alone.”

Her breath caught just barely. And then she stood. But not to leave. She came around the table, glass in hand, and stopped in front of him. Her free hand reached out — slow, deliberate — and touched his jaw, just with the side of her fingers. “We are alone right now,” she whispered. 

“Funny how that happened…” he replied, a charming smile playing on his lips. He wanted to highlight the fact she sought him this time. Where every other time he was chasing after her like a lost puppy, this time she hadn’t satisfied his request. This had been the first time in which she came to him of her own free will and in a way larger than simply entertaining him at work. That had to mean something. 

“I’ve never needed someone,” she said. Her eyes were uncertain. He could see the conflict within them. She looked as if she couldn’t make up her mind. She looked like he was beginning to address the manner in which she returned curiosity towards him. She seemed at war with herself in a manner that was maddening. After a moment she continued. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

Her hand slid back into his hair and she kissed him. It was deliberate. Quiet. Not the kind of kiss meant to spark something immediate, but the kind meant to linger. Like she was giving him permission to know her differently. As if that war within her slowed only for a moment to allow herself the brief indulgence of taking something she wanted without consequence. When she pulled back, she didn’t move far. Her forehead rested lightly against his. “I’m still not staying the night,” she whispered.

He nodded, his breath shallow. “I didn’t ask you to.”

She let her hand trail down from his hair to his shoulder, her fingers catching faintly at the collar of his shirt. She looked at him then for the first time as if there wasn't any distance behind it. “I should go,” she murmured. But she didn’t move. Neither of them did. Seconds passed like held breath. Then he shifted slightly, just enough to brush his knuckles along the inside of her wrist. “You could stay a little longer.”

Her eyes didn’t drop. “Why?”

“Because for once, I don’t feel the need to watch my words for the fear of you finding out how I am imagining you.”

She was quiet at that. He couldn’t tell if she was flattered, flustered or something else entirely. She was simply…still. And then, slowly, she exhaled. She stepped back, not away, but just enough to turn, grab his hand in her own and pull him to the sofa behind her. Her thigh pressed against his as she drew her legs up beneath her, the tension in her shoulders loosening inch by inch. “Do you always say things like that?” she asked. “Like you're rehearsing a speech no one asked you to give.”

He smirked. “Only when I mean them.”

She looked over at him sidelong. “Still, you are very practiced in eloquence."

“Trust me when I say, I am starting to not be that way when it comes you.” That silenced her again. She reached behind her head, unpinned the clip from her hair without comment, and let it fall around her shoulders. He watched the motion — the casual vulnerability of it — and felt something inside him ache a little. Not with want. Instead it bore the weight of knowing her more than he imagined most people could, and yet, still wanting more. She looked over their shoulders, at the Tribunal papers still spread across the table. “Are we going to pretend we’re still working?”

“We could,” he said. “If it makes you feel better.”

She shook her head and turned toward him. Her leg resting against his now, warm through the fabric. “I don’t need to pretend tonight,” she said. And then she leaned in again, slower this time,  her hand settling on his chest like she was grounding herself there. Their mouths met again, deeper now. Her fingers curled into his shirt. His hand slid along her waist, and for a while there was only that. Quiet breathing mixed with the slow caress of their lips moving.  The shared warmth, the kind of touch that didn’t rush because there was no need to.

When they finally pulled apart, she stayed where she was, resting against him, her head tucked beneath his chin. He didn’t say anything. Neither did she. It was better that way. Later, after the streetlights had become the only source of light, and the silence between them had deepened into something heavier but not uncomfortable, she spoke again, her voice barely above a murmur. “I don’t sleep easily.”

He brushed his thumb lightly along her forearm. “Neither do I.”

Another pause. “But I might close my eyes,” she said. “For a while. Just to rest.” He nodded. And when she leaned into him fully, her body settling along his, he reached down and pulled the knit throw from the back of the couch, draped it over her shoulders without a word. She didn’t thank him. But her fingers, resting near his ribs, curled softly into the fabric of his shirt and didn’t let go.

The Capitol’s grand hall gleamed under dozens of chandeliers, the air thick with whispered alliances and polished charm. Coriolanus moved beside his grandmother, the embodiment of control and propriety. His tailored coat, immaculate. Her silk gown catching the light with every measured step. But then his eyes caught her. She was seated just off to the side near the gilded balcony, poised in a way that drew the eye without trying. Her dress was exquisite. A deep blue satin that hugged her figure and shimmered softly with each slight movement. Her hair swept into a loose, elegant updo. Every detail marked her as someone who belonged in the room.

And yet—her attention was buried in a dog-eared book. Worn and well-loved, held close as if it were a lifeline. She barely noticed the swirl of Capitol aristocrats drifting around her. His grandmother noticed too, arching a delicate brow. “She’s beautiful,” the old woman murmured, “and utterly distracted by that book. Not something you see every day.”

Coriolanus blinked, heart quickening. “I know her,” he said quietly.

“Really?” his grandmother asked, with a sly tilt to her lips. “Poor thing seems a bit odd.  What does she do in a place like this? With all that beauty? Sit alone, ignoring the crowd?”

He hesitated, the memory of quiet mornings at a cluttered bookstall flooding back. The way her wild curls tumbled loose, the casual defiance in her sweater and glasses. Then again on his sofa somewhere between this world and that one, where she’d kissed him without urgency, but stayed nestled against him as she slept. “She’s… different,” he admitted.

“Well then,” his grandmother said with a mischievous smile, “go say hello. Or better yet, ask her to dance.”

Coriolanus felt a flicker of hesitation, but the warmth of his grandmother’s gaze urged him forward. He stepped toward her, the polished floors echoing beneath his steps. She looked up, meeting his eyes with a calm that made him catch his breath. “You didn’t expect to see me here,” she said, closing her book gently.

“No,” he admitted. “To be frank, I haven’t seen much of you at all recently. Perhaps you’ve been hiding from me?” He raised a brow. Her expression didn’t shift, so he continued. “But you are right where I would expect to find you.”

“On the fringes?” She smiled, a small, knowing curve of her lips.

“I was going to say in your own world. A goddess not bothering with mortal men.”

“As if I command that level of attention Coriolanus,” she scoffed, but her smile depended with his compliment.

“You command my attention,” he stepped closer, “Isn’t that enough?” He offered his hand, a silent invitation. “May I?”

Her eyes flicked to his hand, then back to his face. “Only if you promise not to step on my toes, mortal.”

He grinned. “You have a deal my goddess.” As she rose, their hands found each other, a touch light but electric. They moved into the flow of dancers, and for a moment, the weight he’d felt since her disappearing act began to lift. Here, beneath glittering chandeliers and watchful eyes, something quiet and real began to bloom. They moved slowly across the dance floor, the music swirling around them like a private current.

She glanced up at him, eyes glinting. “So… did you attend with a cougar, or…?”

He laughed under his breath. “That’s my grandmother. The one who ensures I don’t tarnish the family legacy.”

“Ah. The matriarch. No wonder you looked like you couldn’t exhale.” She tilted her head. “I half expected her to hiss at me for luring you away.”

“She’s too sophisticated for hissing,” he murmured. “But she’s definitely assessing you as we speak.”

“Well,” she said, voice light, “if she’s anything like you, I’m probably already catalogued, footnoted, and filed.”

“She admired you,” he said simply.

Her brows lifted, pleased. “Then perhaps I should conclude this early and thank her for her impeccable taste.”

He chuckled. “You’d have to escape me first.”

She leaned in, her breath brushing his ear. “I think I’m up for the challenge.”

His hold on her tightened slightly, not possessive, but aware. Measured. As if instinctively drawing her closer before the dance slipped through his fingers. “It’s hard to focus on anything else,” he murmured, “when you’re this close.”

Her lips curled, a touch of mockery in the smile. “Flatterer. Do you say that to all the Capitol's most eligible women, or am I truly that disarming?”

“Special,” he said, without pause. “I’m not even trying to hide it. Especially when I know how perfect your lips feel against mine…”

“Good.” Her eyes flicked to the cluster of onlookers across the floor, faces half-lit by crystal and calculation. “But you should learn to.”

He studied her, brow tightening slightly. “Why?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she turned with him, letting the music guide them through the wide arc of the ballroom floor. They moved in rhythm, but her gaze was somewhere else, sharpened, weighing the room like a strategist surveying a battlefield.

Then she looked at him again, and her voice lowered. “If you want to be able to kiss me in a place like this,” she said, “you’ll have to learn to play by the rules. Not charm. Not instinct. Rules.” He blinked, caught off guard not by the words, but by the cool precision of them. She continued, more gently now. “This world isn’t built on honesty, Coriolanus. It’s built on performance. Timing. Power. And appearances, most of all.”

“I thought you don’t care for appearances,” he said, quieter now.

“I often don’t,” she replied. “That’s what makes this... complicated.”

Their steps slowed into a turn. His hand remained at her back, hers at his shoulder, but the space between them had shifted. “Until you handle their expectations properly,” she said, “we’ll have to keep this”, she glanced briefly down at their joined hands, “as it stands. Private.”

He exhaled slowly, but nodded. Not in defeat. In understanding. “And what is this, exactly?”

She looked up at him again. No coyness. No pretense. “A possibility,” she said.

“And if I choose to play by the rules?” he asked.

Her gaze flicked to his lips, then back to his eyes. “Then someday,” she said, soft but sure, “you won’t have to ask or be kept at arms length in rooms like this.”

And then she slipped her hand from his and stepped back, her absence sudden and sharp as cold air. He watched her walk away, her gown sweeping behind her like a trailing secret, every movement composed. Measured. Controlled. But she didn’t look back. She didn’t have to.

He knew she’d left him with a challenge. And a promise. And both of them were going to keep him awake.

The street was quieter than usual, bathed in the honeyed light of late afternoon. Long shadows spilled across the worn cobblestones, and the air held that stillness just before evening settles in.

Coriolanus spotted her before she saw him. She walked briskly alongside a tall, broad-shouldered man whose lined face and steady eyes spoke of a life lived alert. His hand rested lightly at her shoulder. Not commanding, just present. Protective. Her curls were tucked beneath a simple scarf, her coat slightly oversized, sleeves pushed to her elbows to reveal delicate wrists. She looked... ordinary. And still, impossible to miss. She wasn’t expecting him. It had taken days—quiet questions, discreet inquiries, and careful threading of names and routines—until he’d gathered just enough to find her here. With the man she called uncle. He stepped forward and cleared his throat gently. She looked up. Surprise flared in her eyes, flickering quickly into composure.

“Oh. Nice to see you again,” she said. Too formal, too bright. Her voice pitched higher than usual. It grated, because it wasn’t her. But Coriolanus understood. The performance was for her uncle’s benefit. He was finally coming to understand how she operated in the perfect balance of her own wishes and expectations. 

Still, he pressed forward, polite smile in place. “You as well. I’ve found I rather enjoy our conversations at the University Library.” The man turned to face him, assessing. Not unkind, but not careless either. “Coriolanus Snow,” he said, extending a hand to the man.

“Lukas,” the man replied, gripping his hand with practiced strength.

“It’s an honor, sir.”

Lukas’s gaze narrowed. Not hostile, just sharp. “You’ve been around my niece long enough to be familiar. But I’d appreciate a little more than a name, young man.”

Coriolanus glanced at her, then back to Lukas. “We’re both students at the University. I spend a great deal of time in the library researching policy and strategy. I also assist Dr. Gaul with her development projects for the Capitol.”

Lukas gave a small grunt, considering. “So you're the one working under Gaul. An aspiring Gamemaker.”

“Yes, sir.”

A pause. Then: “And what do you know of her?” Lukas asked, tilting his head slightly toward his niece. “She rarely gives the time of day to anyone. Yet here you are, not long after a gala where, if the reports are true, she was seen dancing with a young man. Tall. Fair-haired.”

“That was me,” Coriolanus said calmly. “My grandmother and I passed her as she was reading. Alone. I thought someone so beautiful shouldn’t hide in the shadows with a book all night.”

“You managed to pull her out of a book?” Lukas said, eyes flicking to his niece with mild disbelief.

“So it would seem.” Coriolanus hesitated, then added more quietly, “Forgive me if I speak too freely, but... your Niece is remarkable. Intelligent. Self-possessed. Exceptionally well-mannered. I was hoping to ask your permission to take her out. Properly. For dinner. Somewhere deserving of her.”

Lukas’s gaze lingered on him, measuring, not just the words, but the weight behind them. Then he looked at his Niece. The flicker of something passed between them. A history. A warning. “You know she’s not like other Capitol debutants,” he said, voice low. “She doesn’t bend easily. She’s cautious. And I’ve kept her that way on purpose.”

“I know,” Coriolanus said. “That’s part of why I admire her.”

Lukas raised a brow. “And you? What is it you want?”

“To be someone she can trust,” he said. “To offer her more than distraction or fading affections. To build something real. I much enjoy our conversations on literature and her perspective on our society. Beauty fades, however intellect is a noteworthy characteristic I hold firm in admiration.”

The silence held for a moment, heavy with unspoken things. Then, slowly, Lukas nodded. “Alright, Snow. You have my permission.”

She looked at Coriolanus then. Her eyes wide, touched with disbelief, and something softer just behind it. “Thank you,” Coriolanus said quietly. She smiled. A rare, unguarded one. The kind that warmed even the fading light around them. He stepped forward and offered his hand. She took it with practiced grace, letting him lift it gently to his lips. He kissed her knuckles lightly, then released her. “I’ll send word once I’ve made arrangements,” he said.

“Until then?” she replied, voice laced with something amused, something curious.

He bowed his head slightly, then turned to leave. As he walked away, he heard Lukas chuckle behind him. “So… you’ve got an interest in Crassus Snow’s son?”

Coriolanus slowed his step, just enough to catch her quiet reply: “He noticed me when most do not.” It was true, he did notice her. And in time, she was becoming such a well guarded possession he intended to claim in more than simply private. 

The restaurant was quiet. Tucked into a narrow side street where the Capitol’s noise faded into something softer, more deliberate. The air inside was warm with low conversation and the scent of saffron and roasted citrus. Candlelight shimmered off polished silver and glass, dancing over the crisp white tablecloth between them. Coriolanus watched as she settled into her seat. Elegant, composed, effortlessly striking. Capitol polish, yes, but that same quiet defiance still burned in her eyes. The same spark that had unraveled him since the very beginning. “Nice place,” she said, her gaze sweeping the room, precise and appraising. “You have a talent for finding corners no one else would think to look for.”

He gave a slight smile. “I thought it suited us.”

She looked back at him, arching a brow. “Us?”

“Well,” he said, lifting his wine glass, “I didn’t charm your uncle just to share dinner with an empty chair.”

She took a slow sip of wine, the candlelight catching the curve of her cheek. “Impressive, by the way. Lukas doesn’t usually take to… anyone.”

“I was on my best behavior,” he said smoothly.

“Seeing you size up the man was quite humorous. He usually is not caught off guard, but a suitor for me certainly caught his attention. Normally I send the boys running for the hills and he knows that.”

He laughed softly, a quiet thing. “I’m full of surprises.”

She tilted her head, eyes catching the light. “You say that like a threat.”

“Maybe it is.”

A flicker of amusement crossed her face. The first course arrived in careful, artful portions. They ate slowly, unhurried, but with a tension that simmered just beneath the surface. “So,” she said eventually, setting down her fork with deliberate grace, “If you are so full of surprises and things have taken a more traditional approach, how long before you start quoting obscure romantic poetry at me?”

He feigned offense. “You wound me. I hadn’t even reached the sonnets portion of the evening yet.”

“Good. I’m terrible at trusting men who speak in riddles.”

He smiled, just enough to be disarming, not enough to lose his footing. “Then maybe it’s time I stop pretending I’m unreadable.”

Her gaze met his, steady. Sharp. “Are you?”

He didn’t flinch. “I don’t want to be.”

A beat. Then she leaned in, elbows lightly brushing the edge of the tablecloth, voice low but unguarded. “What if I told you I was tired of the performance? Tired of pretending not to care what happens next.”

He reached across the space between them, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek with a touch so careful it almost wasn’t there. “Then I’d say you’re not alone.”

Her eyes dropped to his hand, then lifted again, softer now. “That would be… new.”

“Not unwelcome, I hope.”

She gave a quiet laugh, real this time, unpolished around the edges. “No. Not unwelcome.”

He leaned back slightly, but didn’t break the connection between them. “Then let’s agree,” he said. “No more theater. Just us.”

She studied him, and the quiet between them grew rich. Thick with something unsaid, warm and golden, as if the whole world had narrowed to a single breath held too long. Then she gave a single nod. Measured. Certain. “And if it turns out I like the idea of us?”

He didn’t smile this time. His gaze didn’t flicker. He simply said, voice low and steady,  “Then you came to the right table.” Around them, candlelight flickered softly, casting the rest of the restaurant in a warm haze of murmured conversation and clinking glasses. But their table felt separate. Removed. As though whatever hovered between them had carved out its own space in time. By the second course, the tension hadn’t softened, it had sharpened. And then, somewhere between a sip of wine and a shared glance over the rim of her glass, he felt it.

The faintest scuff beneath the table. Quiet and deliberate. He assumed she was merely adjusting her crossed ankles but then felt it. A brush of her heel against his ankle, featherlight. Then the slow glide of nylon-covered toes tracing up the line of his shin, just beneath the hem of his tailored trousers. His fork paused mid-air. His breath hitched. His eyes met hers across the candlelit glow, wide—caught somewhere between astonishment and awe. She didn’t look away. Didn’t even blink. Her expression was perfectly composed, but her eyes told a different story: cool, calculating heat. He swallowed, lowering his fork with forced calm. “Is that... strategic provocation?” he asked, voice pitched low.

Her lips curved. “Consider it a field test.”

“For what?”

“To see how easily you're rattled.”

“You’re assuming I am,” he replied, adjusting slightly in his seat.

“You’re not?” she asked, tilting her head, teasing with the pretense of innocence.

He leaned in, elbows resting lightly on the table, voice dropping into something velvet and dangerous. “I’m many things,” he said. “But I don’t scare easily.”

Her foot retreated slowly, almost lazily, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. She picked up her wine glass, eyes never leaving his. “Good,” she said. “I don’t enjoy chasing things that collapse too quickly.”

He took a long sip of his wine, trying to ground himself. “Remind me not to underestimate you again.”

She smiled. “You’ll forget. That’s part of the fun.”

Their main course arrived, but neither of them looked down at the plates for a moment too long. The food might as well have been decorative for how little either seemed interested in it. Conversation resumed, but it had changed. It became taut and layered. Every word was a double-edged note. Every glance another drawn breath between moves.

And still, beneath the table, her foot found him again. Lighter this time, but with more confidence. He shifted in his seat again, this time deliberately, inching closer to the table’s edge. “You do realize,” he said, his voice dry, “that I invited you here to make a proper impression.”

“Darling,” she murmured, eyes gleaming, “you’re making an excellent one.”

He looked at her. This girl with her silk composure, her sharp mouth and sharper mind, all elegance and provocation wrapped in one, and knew, with absolute clarity, that nothing about her would ever be easy. He also knew he would never want it any other way. He returned his attention to his plate, or at least made the attempt. But the food was secondary now. His senses were tuned entirely to her. To the warmth of her presence across the table, and more urgently, to the press of her foot slowly climbing his leg again.

Her toe slipped past the cuff of his trousers this time, the faint glide of nylon against skin drawing an involuntary breath from his lips. He didn’t flinch. Not visibly. Instead, he set his knife down with deliberate precision and reached for his wine, using the motion to conceal the clench of his jaw. When he spoke, his voice was maddeningly composed. “Is this how you usually conduct your field tests?”

She raised her glass, her expression placid, but her eyes sparkled like dark wine catching the light. “Only when the subject is particularly... uncooperative.”

His fingers curled slightly around the base of his glass. “You’re not making it easy to behave.”

“That’s the point,” she said sweetly, her foot now dangerously close to the inside of his thigh. “I wanted to see where your control ends.”

He didn’t move, but his pulse thudded beneath his collar. Still, his voice was smooth when he spoke. “Careful,” he murmured. “You might not like what happens when it does.”

Her head tilted, as though considering him under a microscope. “Oh, I think I might.”

He gave a quiet, humorless laugh, low in his throat. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“Then you should stop me.”

He leaned forward then, just slightly, enough to close the air between them without touching. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it,” he said, voice like a slow match being struck. “But if I did, I’d want no misunderstandings about who started it.”

Her foot stilled, just barely, hovering at the edge of somewhere truly irreversible. For a breathless beat, they simply looked at each other. He didn’t move away. He didn’t touch her. He simply held her gaze, as if daring her to go further. She didn’t blink. “Fine,” she whispered. “Let’s both pretend we’re not tempted.”

He smiled, but there was no humor in it. Just tension, sharp and taut. “Pretending,” he said softly, “is something I thought we agreed to no longer do with one another.”

“We did,” she said, drawing her foot back inch by inch, “yet, you still look like you’re unraveling.”

“I am,” he said. “Just politely.” They sat back in their chairs at the same moment, perfectly composed, as if nothing had passed between them but wine and wit. A slow silence settled between them, not awkward, but charged.

Then she reached for her water glass, and with a smirk that barely touched her lips, said, “I hope dessert is something cold. You look like you need it.”

He chuckled, tightly, dry. “You’re impossible.”

Her smile widened. “And yet here you are.”

The seconds ticked by, stretched taut by unspoken things. Her foot had returned to its place, and yet the memory of it still ghosted along his skin like a secret he wasn’t allowed to acknowledge. They spoke less now. Not from lack of things to say, but because every glance, every shift in posture said too much already.

He reached for his glass, but she reached at the same time, fingers brushing, brief but electric. Their eyes met. A beat passed. Neither pulled away. She leaned in, the candlelight catching the gold at the edge of her lashes. “If you were hoping for a quiet night of manners and politics,” she murmured, “you chose the wrong girl.”

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling into something unreadable. “On the contrary. I think I chose exactly the right one.”

“Is that confidence,” she asked, voice barely a whisper, “or surrender?”

He laughed under his breath, quiet, low, almost dangerous. “Does it matter if I’m still walking willingly into whatever fire you have planned?”

The flicker in her gaze changed then. Something shifted. The amusement remained, but underneath it came a hunger, flickering at the edges like a flame finally given air. “Then stop walking into it,” she said. “Run.”

The words hit him. She wasn’t just provoking now. She was inviting. Daring. And he was already halfway there. For a moment, he sat still. Very still. Then he reached slowly across the table and took her hand, not playfully, not with pretense. Just contact. Direct and deliberate. Her fingers curled into his, soft but certain. His thumb traced a slow line across her knuckles. “This isn’t going to end the way either of us expect, is it?” he asked.

She smiled, the slow, secret kind that belonged to someone who knew exactly how dangerous she was. “That’s the point, isn’t it? All the games. All the tension. Finding out exactly what sweet spot between bold and uncertain we occupy? There is a joy in contradiction. There’s an excitement in seeing how far each pendulum swings.” She leaned closer. “Don’t you want to know all the ways I think of you when I am alone?”

He exhaled through his nose, letting the weight of the moment settle. Then he straightened, controlled again, but just barely, and signaled to the waiter. “Check, please,” he said, not breaking eye contact with her. The waiter appeared instantly, discreet. As he placed the bill on the table, Coriolanus reached for it without looking down. She leaned back in her chair, arms folded lightly, eyes sharp with satisfaction. “What’s the rush?” He slipped a credit token into the folder and handed it back with a faint, knowing smile.

“There’s only so long I can sit across from you without doing something foolish,” he said.

“Foolish,” she echoed, voice soft and velvet-dark. “Or overdue?”

He stood and stepped aside to let her rise, offering his hand once more. This time, when her fingers slid into his, there was no performance. Just heat. And intent. As they stepped into the night, the restaurant faded behind them, candlelight and restraint left at the table. What lay ahead… was no longer polite or restrained… But something else entirely.

Continue reading here!

If he couldn’t use his political power as President to get you ahead, he’d dote on every single other aspect of your dancing.

A leotard in every color you pleased. The best hairstylists and gentlest products to keep your hair silky and healthy, unlike what most ballerinas had to deal with. Hell, a whole dance studio in the presidential mansion all to yourself for the few days you didn’t have rehearsal with your dance company.

Coriolanus noticed in particular that your feet took the largest toll. Bruised and battered between heels for events as the First Lady of Panem and pointe shoes for performances as a Prima Ballerina… it broke his heart. He saw to it that your slippers were custom-made to fit your feet, the finest quality and comfortable as possible.

And yet, though the pain was exponentially better, your passion continued to discomfort you. You’d insisted how much you loved ballet, insisted that you didn’t mind some pain in the face of your career.

That didn’t mean that Coryo didn’t feel awful.

One night, Coryo slipped into the dance studio. You were somehow more awake than him in the late hours of the night. He’d finished up his address for the next cabinet meeting, and for the first time in the past few months felt truly ready for bed.

You? Not so much. You were in your ballet slippers, in a cream-colored leotard and pink skirt. Working your pretty little ass off. You were practicing an important routine for the next show, which you had an important role in. When you heard the door open, your heels immediately hit the floor and your head whipped to see Coriolanus.

You let out a soft sigh. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.” Your husband cooed, his sapphire eyes shamelessly drinking you in. He waved a hand to you as he crossed the room to sit on the bench against the wall. “Keep going, my love, don’t let me stop you.”

You smiled a bit shyly, turning around so your back was to him. You met his eyes in the mirror as you began from where you left off in the dance, a dainty arabesque.

Coryo just leaned against the wall, his legs spreading lazily as he sat and watched you dance. You were absolutely captivating in every movement. Graceful and iridescently beautiful.

That was, until you couldn’t bear to dance on the pointe of your slippers and stumbled a bit. You groaned in frustration, slipping to your knees in a smooth and somehow still elegant motion.

“What happened?” Coriolanus sat up now, brows drawing in concern as you began to undo the ribbons of your pointe shoe. You shook your head, rigid with frustration.

“I think it’s time for bed.” You admit, slipping your right flat off and undoing the thick bandage wrapped from your heel to your toes.

You grimaced at the sight of your foot. Some of your toes were purple with bruises, cruel and mocking blisters on your knuckles. There were indivudual bandages around certain more damaged toes, a bandaid under the ball of your foot. The bones of your foot were strained against your skin. Even you could admit that you looked beaten.

Before you realized it, Coryo was scooping you up with his arms under your back and knees. You gasped a little, though it delved into a little giggle. He couldn’t pretend that your battered feet didn’t bother him, he couldn’t manage a smile. Your husband gently sat you down on the bench he had been on, reaching for your ballet duffel bag. He dug around a bit.

“Poor baby.” Coriolanus cooed, pressing a kiss to your knee as he shifted to kneel at your feet. In his hand he clutched a roll of soft pink bandages and a tube of Neosporin you kept in your bag. “It looks like it hurts.”

You hummed, admiring the sight of Coryo on his knees in front of you. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and baring his forearms, his dress shirt’s top few buttons unbuttoned. His hair was ungelled, to your delight. “It’s not that bad.”

But you flinched as Coryo pressed gently on a bruise with his thumb. He’d hardly applied any pressure, and you were reacting like that. “This? This isn’t that bad?” Coriolanus huffed, he held your foot in one hand and gestured to it by lifting it just a bit. He raised his brows, blue eyes wide in disbelief. He shook his head disapprovingly, looking down and applying some Neosporin to the opened blisters on your toes.

“My love, you’re pushing yourself too far.” Coryo murmured, his breath warm on your shin as he reached for the bandages. He took loving care in wrapping your foot, once, twice, as much padding as he needed to ease his mind.

You shake your head. “Don’t be dramatic, Coryo. This is normal.” You watched your husband’s jaw tick. He leaned down to press a tender kiss to your ankle, his eyelashes tickling your calf.

“Normal, fine. But I’m not dramatic when I say that it hurts to see.” Coriolanus turned to lean his head against your knee, unraveling the ribbons of your other slipper with an agonizingly gentle touch. His fingers were featherlight, as if you’d crumble under his fingers. “You don’t deserve this. Such a good, beautiful woman as you shouldn’t have a scratch.”

You smiled faintly down at him as he slipped your pointe shoe off. He was unbelievably doting, despite what people might say about his coldness. Coryo was completely different behind closed doors. He melted with you. He adored you.

“You’re too good to me.” You murmured softly, Coriolanus scoffed and shook his head as he carefully unwrapped the fabric covering your toes. He could see the deep crimson staining the cloth already, his brow was already pulled taut.

You grimaced at the damage to your feet. Damn. You hadn’t realized it was bleeding until now, looking down at the rubbed-off skin and blisters cracking your toes. Now that the wounds were exposed to the air, they suddenly stung and ached. Coryo was staring down at your foot for a long few moments before rifling through your duffel bag for some baby wipes. He was sure this had happened before, he was sure you would be hesitant to tell him.

“My poor darling..” Coriolanus cooed, successfully finding a wipe and cleaning the blood from your skin. You whimpered at the touch on the raw skin, but when your husband looked up at you as if to ask if he should stop, you gently pushed your fingers through his blonde curls.

“I’m fine.” You assured him, watching as he squeezed some Neosporin onto the opened skin. Coryo was painfully gentle in wrapping up your foot, he cooed sweet words and apologies to you, though it wasn’t his fault.

Coryo was certain you didn’t deserve any of this pain that came with your passion. You were too good for any kind of pain, period. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your foot, his lips trailing up to your ankle, the length of your shin, your knee. That last kiss, he let his azure eyes flutter shut, humming lowly against your skin. You couldn’t help smiling down at him, gently scratching and rubbing his scalp. If only he could see himself now, kneeling in front of you, kissing up your legs and practically worshipping you.

“I love you.” Coriolanus murmured, propping his chin on your knee and looking up at you with soft eyes. Well, he was looking up at you like you were a goddess, like you were something to pray to. His eyes twinkled, his expression sincere.

Your smile only widened. You folded at the waist to press a kiss to the crown of Coryo’s hair, whispering, “I love you too.” That brought a fond smile to his lips, a little snort from his nose.

He tossed those devilish slippers into your bag after a long, lingering few moments of staring up at you. “Let’s get you to bed.” Coryo hummed, zipping up the duffel and swinging it over his shoulder as he stood. You moved to stand, opening your mouth to ask for the sandals in your bag, but before you could speak he was scooping you back up into his arms like a princess. You couldn’t help the giggle bubbling from your lips, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Coriolanus pressed his lips to your temple as he pushed the door open with his back, carrying you down the hall. He didn’t really care if a servant or an Avox saw you two; he wasn’t doing anything that a loving husband wouldn’t, anyway.

Your pain truly hurt him. Coryo felt an ache in his heart every time you’d complain of stiff joints or blistered feet. He made sure to have ballet slippers created specifically for you, so that you wouldn’t feel such pain again.

You didn’t have to ask; Coriolanus was a husband who jumped to your every need before the words rolled off your tongue.

The city had quieted by the time they reached his building. Its grand facade bathed in the pale wash of moonlight. He led her through the marble foyer with practiced ease, but his hand never left hers, their fingers still laced from the walk. In the lift, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was anticipation distilled. Compressed into breath and heartbeat and the faintest shifts of body language. She stood close, not quite touching, but near enough that he could feel the warmth of her. The hum of everything she wasn’t saying made his skin vibrate. When the doors opened, he motioned her out first with a flick of his fingers. Always the gentleman. 

But when she crossed the threshold of his apartment, something in the air changed. The door clicked shut behind them, and with it, the Capitol with all its propriety seemed to fall away. The high ceilings and sleek furnishings faded into the periphery. The only thing that felt real was her, standing there, coat draped over one arm, eyes sweeping the room like she was mapping out the territory of something inevitable.

She dropped her coat onto the arm of the sofa. Her dress clung to her in the low light, elegant but unpretentious. It was the kind of silhouette he’d come to expect from her, as it toed the line of playing into the expectations of their world while still sitting on the outskirts of it. A line of skin at her collarbone gleamed faintly, and when she walked toward him, there was nothing casual about it. “You’ve been walking a line all night,” she said, voice low. “I wanted to know how long you'd last.”

“I’m still standing,” he said, but it came out quieter than he intended.

“Barely,” she replied, stepping into his space. “You’re very good at pretending you’re in control.”

“And you’re very good at making me forget that I should be.”

She stopped just in front of him, close enough that he could smell her perfume, something soft, clean, expensive. “You brought me here,” she said, tilting her head, “because you wanted to see what would happen.”

He nodded, slowly. “You let me,” he counters before continuing, “And now?”

She reached up, brushing a hand along his collar, just enough to make him still beneath her touch. “Now I’m deciding.” The moment stretched, coiled tight. His breath came shallower, but he didn’t move. He let her lead. Her fingers found the edge of his jacket and undid the button on his lapels with the same slow precision she used when turning pages. She stepped back. “I like watching you try not to react,” she murmured.

“I like watching you pretend you don’t want me to.” That made her smile, and not the polite one she gave at galas or the restaurant. This one was sharp and slow, a private secret. And then she kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t delicate. It was deliberate. Her hand slid into his hair as his arms locked around her waist, and the tension that had haunted them all evening. Through dinner, in their conversation, and in looking into one another’s eyes across candlelight, ignited all at once. There was no space left between them. Just the heat of mouths, the press of fingers, the quiet sounds that marked surrender in slow degrees.

She broke the kiss first, just barely, her lips brushing against his as she whispered, “Am I still pretending?” He smiled. “No,” he replied, his voice rougher now. “And I plan to take advantage of that fact.” She kissed him again, harder this time, pulling him further into the living room without ceremony. His coat hit the floor. Then his tie. Then the last of their restraint.

His hands found the zipper of her dress, dragging it down, pushing the fabric off her shoulders to bunch at the waist as he walked her back towards the wall dividing his living room from the bedroom. In the lowlighting he could only make out the basic shapes of her features, but with her kissing his neck the way she was, mixing with her content sighs when he returned the favor, he hardly cared. Pushing a leg between her dress covered thighs, he pressed harder against her core as his palm found the curve of her breast. 

Sick of the current positioning, as he had to lean down considerably since her heels had slipped off at some point, he bent enough to lift under her thighs, pulling her to his frame with ease. He anticipated a flirtation remark, possibly even a dismissive one. But what he hadn’t anticipated was laughter. A lighter than air chuckle as he moved them from the wall into the safety of his bedroom.  Coriolanus didn’t think himself massive, but he was stronger than one might assume. His time as a peacekeeper showed him as much. The physicality of it all, something he enjoyed continuing to enhance in his space time with the pull up bar in the other room. Conditioning his body in a way that was hidden beneath scholars cloaks. Still thinner than most of his peers, some damage from the time post war could never fully be undone, but much stronger than he was as an academy student. 

He felt the sharp bite of her nails digging into his bare shoulders, a grounding contrast to the way her thighs clung tightly around his waist, holding herself steady until he lowered her onto the edge of his bed. There, poised on the corner like some rare and delicate offering, she looked up at him. This eccentric student who preferred dusty archives and forgotten manuscripts to living, breathing people, now with a quiet, blooming hunger in her eyes. The sight of it stirred something low and hot in his core. A need that unfurled like fire roaring inside a hearth.

Snow’s pale gaze lingered, greedy and reverent. He took in every detail. The way her eyes found his through the veil of her lashes, dark with anticipation; her hair, tousled from his fingers, falling in loose, imperfect waves; her skin, flushed and glowing from the momentum of their closeness. And then there was the lace—fine, intricate, and maddeningly delicate—clinging to her body like it knew exactly what it was hiding. Sacred things, wrapped in temptation. 

He didn’t touch her again right away. Instead, he watched her. The way her chest rose and fell, shallow with anticipation. The slight part of her lips. The faintest tremble in her fingers where they gripped the edge of the mattress, as though she wasn’t quite sure what would happen next but refused to look away. Coriolanus leaned closer, just enough that their breath mingled. “You handle books at the library like they’re sacred. Like they might shatter if you aren’t careful.” Her eyes flicked to his, something uncertain behind them. But she didn’t interrupt. She waited. “I used to wonder,” he went on, his gaze dropping to her mouth, “what it would feel like to be touched the way you touch those first editions. The way your fingers linger on the spines, as if the story might whisper something just to you if you’re patient enough to hear it.”

He reached out then, brushing his knuckles along the line of her jaw, light as the turning of a page. “And ever since I noticed,” he continued, “I haven’t been able to stop wanting that. To be held with that kind of care. That kind of intention.”

Her breath caught, not loud, not performative. Just enough that he knew he’d struck something deeper than want. The silence between them wasn’t empty now. It was full. Heavy with all the words they hadn’t said, all the things that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. His hand slipped behind her neck, cradling it gently in his large palms.

“And now?” she asked, voice quiet, raw around the edges.

His thumb traced a slow line beneath her ear, reverent. “Now I think I’d let you ruin me instead.”

She smiled slowly, deliberately, and devilishly. And that’s when he knew he’d been right all along. All the times she had drawn near only to retreat, the moments where her fingers lingered just a second too long, or when her voice softened into something close to intimacy, he had suspected. Not just attraction, not just interest, but something deeper. Calculated. Intentional. She had always extended trust with precision, shown gentleness not out of fragility but because it was a choice. A tool, even.

She was not merely the quiet girl curled up in corners of the library, lost in someone else’s thoughts. That image, while true in part, was only a surface. One she allowed others to see because it kept them at a safe distance. But Coriolanus had looked longer. Closer. And now, in the firelight of her smile, he saw it for what it was. She was bold when she wanted to be. Poised when it served her. A lady in the company that demanded it, and something far more dangerous when it didn’t. She never played his games unless they aligned perfectly with her own. And that was what fascinated him. It’s what had ensnared him.

Because beneath the wit and layered silence, she was fire and brimstone. A force. The kind of woman who didn't need him, but might choose him. And for Coriolanus Snow, there was no more powerful position to be in than standing beside someone who could walk alone, but let him match her stride. She wasn’t dull, not in the slightest. She was challenge, ambition, and intellect all wrapped in the elegance of restraint. A partner with her own orbit. Someone who would push him, sharpen him, leave him to his own thoughts when he required solitude, and return not in need but in presence. A companion who could sit beside him in silence without seeking to fill it with redundancy.

She was what he had always believed power should look like: subtle, self-possessed, and singular. And now that he had seen it clearly, he didn’t just want her physically.

He wanted everything she was. It wasn’t just the smile. It was everything that came before it: everything that had led to this point. He could still feel the ghost of her lips from that night weeks ago. A kiss that hadn’t been part of any plan, hadn’t been teased or bargained for. No coy glances, no clever prelude. Just the sudden press of her mouth to his: warm, deliberate, and devastatingly soft. It had undone him. She had curled into him afterward like it was the most natural thing in the world, her head resting on his chest, her breath evening out against his skin as if she belonged there. He hadn’t dared move. Not when every part of him felt suspended between disbelief and surrender. Her fingers had lightly gripped the fabric of his shirt, a silent anchor, and he’d stared at the ceiling for hours, wide awake and reeling.

By morning, she was gone. No note. No farewell. Just the faint scent of her perfume clinging to his collar. And then came the distance. Chilling, deliberate distance. She hadn’t avoided him entirely; she was far too strategic for that. But she’d shifted. Eyes that once lingered now passed over him like wind over glass. Conversations clipped short. Invitations politely declined. And gods, it made him burn. The fact that she could give him that moment—that kiss—and then walk away like it hadn’t tilted the entire axis of his world.

The game had changed. She wasn’t just avoiding entanglement. She was making him chase. And worse, she was doing it with exquisite precision, offering just enough presence to keep hope alive, to stoke the fire, but never letting him get close enough to hold it. It was driving him mad. Because Coriolanus Snow was not used to being the one in pursuit. Not used to feeling like his want was an exposed nerve, a flaw someone could see and toy with. But when it came to her... he didn’t want to dominate the game.

He wanted to win her. Because now that he’d tasted her, he craved her in a way he hadn’t thought himself capable of. Not just for her body, or her mind, or even the convenience of her silence. He craved the choice of her. Her permission to allow him even within a foot of her presence. The way she would offer herself when she decided, not when he willed it. It was infuriating. Addictive. And it was working.

And now, with her perched before him, smiling like she knew exactly what she’d done, what she was still doing, he couldn’t hold the stillness any longer. His hand, the one still resting lightly at her jaw, shifted, fingers sliding into her hair, cradling the back of her head with a touch that bordered on reverence. But his other hand moved lower, to her waist, pulling her forward with a firm, undeniable intent until her legs bracketed his hips and there was no space left between them.

“You don’t get to kiss me like you did that night,” he said, voice low, cracked with the tension he’d kept caged too long, “sleep on my chest like it meant something, and then disappear.”

Her lips parted, but he didn’t give her the chance to reply. Not yet. “Do you have any idea what it’s been like?” he went on, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone. “Every time you look through me like I’m just another forgotten volume on a shelf. Pretending you haven’t already marked me up like the margins in the books you give me. As if I don’t still feel the ghost of your breath on my skin when I sleep.”

He leaned in, his mouth near hers, close enough to tempt her. “You’ve been haunting me,” he confessed. “And I let you. I let you keep me at arm’s length because I thought maybe that was part of the game.” His eyes searched hers, sharp and unguarded now. “But let me be perfectly clear when I say, I’m not content being your passing curiosity anymore. I don’t want distance.”

And finally, he closed the space between them, his mouth crashing into hers, not with reckless hunger, but with a desperate, consuming ache that had been simmering for weeks. It wasn’t careful this time. The kind of kiss that demanded an answer. His hand at her waist tightened slightly, holding her to him, grounding them both. There was no pretense now. No power play. Just this: his need, laid bare.

Her mouth moved beneath his, responsive, electric, but it wasn’t enough. Not after everything. Not after weeks of flirtation, of her distance in other moments, of her slipping through his fingers like smoke. He deepened the kiss, one hand sliding from her waist to her thigh, gripping it firmly, possessively, pulling her closer until she was flush against him. Like her body could answer everything her words never had the courage, or cruelty, to say.

“You don’t get to vanish,” he murmured against her lips, voice thick with something darker now. “Not after what you did to me. What you keep doing to me.”

He kissed her again, harder this time, like he could press the ache out of himself and into her. His hand threaded deeper into her hair, not quite harshly, but certainly more firm. Holding her there. Holding her still while she squirmed. “You gave me a taste,” he continued, dragging his mouth down to her jaw, then to the warm skin beneath her ear. “And now I want the whole damned meal.”

She gasped, quiet, instinctive, and it only fueled him. “I see you everywhere. In the margins of my books. In the silence between meetings. In the corners of my mind when I can’t sleep. In my dreams with wild hair and commoner's clothing. I taste you in bitter coffee, knowing we both prefer it to perfectly ground espresso for some gods forsaken reason.” He lifted his head again to look at her, his gaze sharp, his breathing uneven. “And you think you can smile at me like that, like this is some scholarly debate, and I won’t take what’s mine?”

His thumb traced the edge of her lower lip, lingering there. “Say you didn’t mean it. That it was a mistake. I’ll stop.”

She said nothing. And that silence, her silence, was everything. He pressed his forehead to hers, voice quieter now but no less intense. “Then you are mine. And you always have been. Even when you were pretending not to be.” There was no smugness in it. No victory. Just the quiet desperation of someone who had tried not to want something and failed. Utterly.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Her hands slid up his back, slow and deliberate, fingers dragging over skin as if committing it to memory. There was no hesitation now. No coy retreat. Just the quiet yielding of someone who had made a decision, one she wasn’t going to explain, because there was nothing left to say. The space between them ceased to exist.

He kissed her again, but this time slower. Like the urgency had cracked open into something deeper, if not more dangerous. His hand slid along her thigh, tracing the line where skin met lace, the silk-soft edge of temptation that had been haunting him since the moment she walked into his life. She arched into him to meet him. Equal. Present. Her breath warm against his neck as he dipped his head, lips brushing the hollow beneath her throat, where her pulse fluttered. He stayed there for a moment, letting it steady him, letting it prove she was real.

The bed shifted beneath them as he eased her backward, one knee pressing to the mattress, guiding her down like she was something he was finally, finally allowed to hold.

No more distance. No more silence.

Just the sound of breath and movement, the soft rustle of fabric, the tremble of anticipation giving way to inevitability. His hand splayed over her ribcage, feeling the sharp inhale beneath it, the way her body reacted to his touch without resistance. There was nothing performative in her. No calculation now. And it undid him. Everything she had withheld, every glance, every withheld word, every retreat, was burning away beneath his hands. She was here. She had chosen this. Chosen him. And so he moved with purpose, deliberate and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to learn her the same way she studied those books. He could carefully trace her spine, read between every line for the hidden meanings of her eyes, and take in the secret language written across her skin in beauty marks.

“I think you owe me for all this chasing,” he murmured against the hollow of her throat, his nails digging into the soft skin of her hips, anchoring them both in the moment. She lifted her face just enough to catch his eye, a slow smile teasing the corner of her lips, daring him to push further. He took it as permission. His lips trailed down her neck, lips and teeth and tongue marking a path like punctuation on a sentence that refused to end. His hands tightened at her hips, fingers curling just enough to remind her that this was not gentle. 

“You’ve been running circles around me,” he whispered, his voice rough with need, every word carrying the weight of weeks spent chasing her elusive attention.

Then, without warning, she moved, swift and sure, faster than he could have anticipated. The sharpness of the motion caught him off guard, a reminder of everything he’d admired but sometimes forgotten about her: that beneath her delicate lace and quiet exterior pulsed a wild, unpredictable spirit. With eyes wide and unabashed, as if silently daring him to follow, she settled herself on his lap, her body curving perfectly against his. Coriolanus found himself lying back against the soft embrace of his duvet, utterly silent. Words escaped him, not because he was stunned, but because everything he might say paled against the intensity of what she was offering.

She smiled, slow, confident, and charged with promise. Her fingers brushed the few stray strands of his disheveled hair from his forehead with a tenderness that was unexpected. Then, with that same smile still lingering on her lips, she ground her hips down against his, a deliberate, delicious motion that sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through him. The contrast was exquisite. The softness of her touch against the boldness of her movement. It unsettled him, thrilled him, and anchored him all at once.

He reached up, fingers curling around her waist, pulling her just a little closer. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, voice thick.

She laughed softly, the sound both warm and wild, a delicate tremor that sent shivers down his spine. Leaning down, her breath brushed over his skin. “Good,” she whispered back, voice low and daring. “I want to be.” The space between them vanished completely as she dipped her head to kiss him again. This time, he let her lead, granting her the moment, allowing her to dictate the pace within this fragile window they’d carved out. But beneath the tenderness, a plan already formed in his mind: once the last piece of fabric slipped away, he would reclaim control.

His fingers moved with quiet certainty, tracing the delicate lace that clung to her chest. Finding the tiny latch holding it in place, he paused just long enough to search her eyes, and when she didn’t stop him, he slid the fabric free with practiced ease.

Sitting up, the dim light filtering through the curtains cast soft shadows over her skin, revealing the lovely slope of her chest, the gentle rise and fall with each breath. The softness of it was almost disarming beneath his gaze. Before he could stop himself, his hand was already there, fingers tracing the curve of her ribs, mapping the warmth beneath the cool night air. The sudden contact made her shiver against him, a silent invitation and a quiet surrender.

His thumb brushed over her collarbone, heart pounding as he drank in the sight of her, so close, so real. The world outside the room fell away, leaving only this charged silence. He bent his head again, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was both a question and a command, promising that while she might lead now, the reckoning was coming. And when it did, he would be ready.

He made up his mind then and there, that at some point his length would be buried between her bosom. That the skin there would fold itself so beautifully around his cock and simply, house him there until he came in her face, or decided he’d had his fill. Maybe he’d keep himself there, forcing her hands to press them around him, using his own spill to repeatedly finish over and over again until he’d decided he had enough. 

But that would be after he finished his current task after all: wrapping his lips around her peaks. Bottom row of teeth pulled gently on the delicate skin as his hands ran down the length of torso, tugging at the thin scrap of lace covering the rest of her body. He planned on multitasking. That was, until the breathy sigh of his name passed her lips. Then he pulled back, eyes wide. Hell bent on hearing it again. 

He’d never heard his name whispered with such tenderness. Such reverence. Such raw, desperate need. In an instant, he was on his feet, quicker than the bullet that had claimed Mayfair. His hands yanked down his briefs without a second thought, driven by the relentless pounding behind his temples. He didn’t pause to let her adjust. Didn’t hesitate to wonder if this was her first time. He pulled her down onto the duvet with a rough urgency that bordered on recklessness, claiming her as if the world might collapse if he waited a moment longer.

She didn’t fight him on the matter, only letting out the most enjoyable sound he thought he’d ever heard as he leaned down roughly, running the flat of his tongue in the space between her breasts. His knees came to rest on each side of her body as he stared down at her. Then he held himself out, only muttering “open” and thrusting himself into her mouth. 

He felt the way her throat initially contracted at the intrusion. Staying there until she relaxed enough to take him. He thrust only a few times, enjoying as he heard the most glorious gags coming from her and then pulled out. He could see the sheen of her saliva on his tip as it trailed to the base. Even if it was enough he wasn’t going to risk it. Collecting as much as he could, he leaned down, spitting onto her chest right in the valley to be sure. 

Her eyes grew large, realizing almost instantaneously what he had imagined. “Hold them” he commanded and she nodded, pressing them up more and he took advantage of her obedience, adjusting until he was pressed so tightly between her breasts. Then he moved. He didn’t care if the way he rutted seemed to push air from her lungs. He didn’t care that every so often he’d have to pull back and shove himself back down her throat to keep things moving better with more lubrication. 

He only cared about the fact that her chest grew increasingly rosy and her eyes burned into his with intensity that screamed of her wanting to please him. Let him use her in this way, even if it did nothing for her own pleasure. It only felt fair after the weeks of running around she’d made him do. Going to some dusty book store. Forcing him to ask her guardian for permission to escort her around even though she’d already been inside the walls of his apartment. Every thrust of his hips was payback. It was surrender. It was his conquest to conquer her coming to a most glorious conclusion. 

Coriolanus felt movement, looking down he saw that she was trying to rub her thighs together for some sort of relief. “You can wait,” he hummed, watching her eyes snap to his with surprise. He kept moving, gesturing behind his back. “You will wait,” he corrected as he pulled himself from between her breasts, threading his other hand in her hair. His vision settled on the way her skin looked raw and decided the least he could was give her a break. 

He dragged her down with him, just enough pressure to command, just enough gentleness to keep from startling her. His grip remained firm in her hair, fingers threaded deep, holding her steady, not just physically, but in the moment. A quiet dominance burned beneath his skin, hot and thrumming with control barely leashed. She knelt before him without resistance, gaze lifted, waiting. There was nothing weak in her submission, only choice. Intention. A silence that spoke volumes.

He looked down at her, his chest rising with heavy, uneven breaths, eyes roving over the sight of her there: bare, composed, his.

“So good when you want to be…” he murmured, the praise dark and low as his fingers trailed the curve of her cheekbone. The motion was almost tender, a stark contrast to the iron grip he still held in her hair. “When you choose to be.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. And that, more than anything, sent a pulse of heat straight through him. There was power in this. Perfectly aligned in the quiet tension between dominance and surrender. In the way she gave herself not out of obligation, but its own unique form of defiance. And he would reward her for it. In his own way.

 His thumb followed the trail of his fingers, brushing over her lower lip, pressing just enough to feel the warmth of her breath. She didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch. Her eyes remained locked on his, wide and unblinking, like she was daring him to test just how obedient she could be. Coriolanus let out a low exhale, more growl than sigh. “You enjoy driving me mad,” he said softly, almost like a confession. “And the worst part is, it’s working.”

He tightened his grip slightly in her hair, tilting her head back just a touch, exposing the soft line of her throat. She swallowed, slow and deliberate, and his eyes flicked down to catch it. “Look at you now,” he continued, his voice somewhere between awe and possession. “On your knees for me. And still, somehow, holding all the cards.”

He could’ve taken more from her then—pushed her further, commanded instead of coaxed—but something in the way she held herself, regal even in submission, kept him anchored. She wasn't fragile. She wasn’t broken open. She chose this. And that knowledge made his blood burn hotter than any kiss could.

His grip loosened. Not fully. Just enough to let the tension stretch and breathe. Like a string drawn taut, not yet released. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear, his breath hot and deliberate against her skin. “I wonder,” he murmured, voice rough as gravel, “if you even know what you do to me.” Her breath hitched, just slightly. But she didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch. He let go of her hair slowly, deliberately, as if it cost him something to release that anchor. His hand slid to her jaw, tilting her face up toward his with a reverence that stood in stark contrast to the storm building behind his eyes. His other hand traced down her bare shoulder, down the length of her arm, a featherlight touch that left heat in its wake.

Then she spoke. It was soft, sure, devastating. “Perhaps…” she whispered, her lips close enough to graze his length, “you should show me.”

Her words landed like a match illuminating a darkened room. Not an invitation, despite the word choice themselves. The tone showed it was truly a command. And gods, he wanted to obey. His breath left him in a low exhale. “You’re right,” he said, gaze heavy on hers. “I should.”

His hand dropped from her jaw to the hollow of her throat, fingers sliding down her sternum, over the delicate rise of her chest, until both hands framed her ribs, steadying her. Then, in one motion, he lifted her. Effortless.  She let out a soft gasp as he rose to full height, carrying her with him, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He moved like a man with purpose now. No more teasing, no more stillness. Just the quiet thunder of control reclaimed, of desire finally given direction.

He laid her down on the duvet with far more care than his urgency suggested. As if she were something rare. Sacred. The silence between them pulsed with unspoken promises. Then he knelt over her, eyes raking over the lines of her body like scripture. “I’ve imagined this,” he said lowly, bending to press his mouth to her collarbone. “Too many times. But now…” He kissed lower, slowly, thoroughly, claiming her inch by inch. “…now I intend to memorize it.”

And this time, he would prove everything. Not with power. But with precision. With patience. With a hunger restrained only by the need to make her feel it. That she was wanted, yes. But also that she was worshipped. Because if she was going to undo him, he’d make damn sure she knew exactly what she was breaking.

She lay beneath him, breath shallow, eyes locked on his. And for a moment, just a moment, he stilled. Not to hesitate. But to look. To see her. Not as a symbol of power, or strategy, or some feverish obsession. But as she was now: flushed with heat, stretched across his bed, heart pounding beneath skin he’d revealed with nothing more than his eloquent words and gentle touch.

His hand slid along her thigh, thumb pressing into the soft flesh, grounding himself in her. Then his mouth was back on her skin. Her collarbone, the curve just beneath it, the top of her breast. Slow. Purposeful. Worshipful. Every movement was measured. Not lazy, not hesitant, but deliberate, like he was studying her all over again, this time not from across a library or a formal event, but from the most intimate distance imaginable.

She arched slightly into his touch, wordless, and the shift in her hips made his control falter just for a second. His breath caught in his throat, but he didn't let the moment rush him. Instead, he doubled down, teeth grazing the soft skin above her sternum before his tongue soothed the mark. “Do you feel that?” he whispered, his voice low, strained. “That’s what you’ve done to me. Every time you walked away. Every time you looked at me like I was something you could take or leave.” He trailed a hand across her stomach, flattening his palm against her abdomen, holding her still. “No more leaving,” he murmured, almost to himself. 

She reached for him then, slowly, fingers curling into his hair, anchoring him. And in that moment, something wordless passed between them. Something not born from control or cleverness or lust, but from the ache of having wanted for so long. Then he moved lower, dragging his mouth down her body, lips charting a path no one else had ever taken. And when he reached the top of her mound, he looked up at her and she nodded.

Quiet. Certain. Open. Coriolanus didn’t hesitate. He lowered himself with the kind of care usually reserved for his studies or secrets, and when his mouth met her, he didn’t rush. He proved. Every sigh from her lips. Every shift of her hips. Every desperate grasp of his shoulders, he drank it all in like it was his due. His devotion. His reward. And above it all, the thought that rang loudest in his mind wasn’t victory or conquest. It was a foundation. It was a cornerstone to build upon the direction of his future in an all consuming pleasure. 

Pleasure that poured into him from everywhere. From the way she tasted: sweet, tangy, warm and wholly his. From the broken sighs and the soft, breathless way she said his name, like it was a prayer barely holding her together. From the way her fingers tightened in his hair no, not with reverence, but with need, yanking with the kind of desperation that blurred control. From the way her hips moved against his mouth, instinctive and aching, searching for more. More friction, more contact, more of him. From the dizzying, all-consuming knowledge that he had her now. Truly. Fully. That for all the chasing, all the games, all the distance she’d once kept like armor, there was nothing between them anymore.

And neither of them seemed ready to let go. Coriolanus groaned softly against her, the sound low, the vibration pulling another gasp from her lips. His hands gripped tighter at her hips, holding her still, not to restrain, but to savor. To prolong the edge she was frantically climbing. Every movement she made, every sound, every pull of his name from her throat, it fed something primal in him. But it was more than that. Deeper. It felt like a victory, yes, but also a surrender. One neither of them wanted to name.

She was trembling now. He could feel it in the way her thighs flexed against his shoulders, in the stuttering cadence of her breath. And still he kept going, more focused, more precise, until her grip in his hair turned almost punishing and her hips bucked once, twice Then stilled. Her cry was quiet, but raw. A shudder rolled through her, body tightening, then giving way completely beneath him. And he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just held her through it, mouth still soft against her, grounding her as she unraveled.

Only when she began to ease, breath slowing, limbs heavy with the weight of release, did he finally rise. His hands were steady as he pulled himself up over her, dragging his mouth along her skin in soft open mouth kisses on her inner thigh, her hipbone, her stomach, until he hovered above her again, looking down into her dazed, flushed face. And for once, he didn’t feel the need to say anything clever. He just looked at her and waited to see what came next.

Her eyes fluttered open slowly, still unfocused, her lips parted as she tried to steady her breath. There was no mask now. No smirk, no shield of wit or deflection. Just her. Laid bare beneath him in every sense. And he felt it. The shift. That fragile, almost unbearable gravity pulling at his chest. Her fingers reached up, tentative at first, then more certain as they slid through his hair, smoothing where she’d tugged moments before. Not to claim this time, but to touch. To anchor. “You’re staring,” she whispered, voice husky, a rasp drawn from everything they'd just shared.

He smiled. “Can you blame me?” he said, quieter than usual, lacking his usual edge. There was no performance now. No posture. Just the aching truth in the space between their bodies.

She exhaled something close to a laugh, small, warm, and leaned up, tilting her head, and brushing her lips against his chin. A barely-there kiss. An answer of its own kind. He settled beside her then, not fully breaking contact, one arm slipping beneath her neck, the other hand splayed across her stomach, grounding them both.

She didn’t speak right away. Neither did he. Because something about the quiet was sacred now. Heavy, but not uncomfortable. “I didn’t think it’d ever get to this,” she murmured finally, fingers tracing idle shapes against his chest. “Not really.”

He turned his head, catching the side of her face. “Because you didn’t want it to?”

“Because I didn’t trust it,” she said. “Didn’t trust you.”

Her honesty didn’t sting. It steadied him. If anything, it made him want her more. “But now?” he asked, voice low, barely audible against her hair.

She didn’t look at him, but her hand slid down and rested just above his heart. Her thumb moved in slow circles. “Now I’m unsure,” she admitted. “But I’m here. Trying to trust you.”

That cracked something open in him. And for once, Coriolanus Snow—the strategist, the manipulator, the man always three moves ahead—had no idea what came next. But for the first time in years… he didn’t mind. Her words lingered in the quiet between them. And he didn’t fault her. Not even a little. Of course she hadn’t trusted him. He knew who he was. The smile that touched his lips was faint, but real, wry and a little self-aware. “I wouldn’t have trusted me either,” he murmured, fingers tracing idle patterns along her ribcage. “Honestly, I’m still not sure I do.”

She huffed a laugh, soft and incredulous. “You’re not supposed to say that.”

“I thought we were being honest,” he said, turning slightly so he could see her face better. “Besides… you’re smarter than to fall for a lie now, aren’t you?”

She rolled her eyes at that, but there was no bite behind it. No real protest. Just warmth. Familiarity. “Fine,” she said, after a beat. “I don’t trust you. But I believe you, sometimes. That’s... worse, I think.”

He chuckled under his breath, and she felt it in the way his chest rose beneath her hand. “You’re dangerous when you say things like that,” he said, eyes narrowing with quiet amusement. “It makes me want to convince you.”

“Oh?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Mm,” he hummed, leaning in to press a kiss to the edge of her jaw, then another just beneath her ear. “Slowly. Thoroughly. Repeatedly.”

“You’re insufferable,” she breathed, though her body betrayed her, arching slightly toward his touch.

“And yet here you are,” he whispered against her neck, smiling into her skin.

She tilted her head back toward him, eyes meeting his again. Clearer now, but no less full. “For now.” He nodded, accepting it. Not as a threat, or a condition, but as the simple truth it was. For now, was more than he’d had before. For now, was a beginning. For now, was more honest and truth than he thought he’d be granted. He hadn’t had a place for liars, and her honest uncertainty was a relief he hadn’t thought he could need. He kissed her then and when she kissed him back,, it felt like an answer.

The kiss lingered, not deeply or frantic, just slow. Warm. A quiet exchange of breath and softness that neither of them seemed in a hurry to break. When he finally pulled back, it was only by an inch, just enough to look at her again. Her cheeks were still flushed, lips slightly parted, her hair draped across the silk of his pillow.

She looked like she belonged there. And something about that thought nearly undid him. “Do you ever stop thinking?” she asked, voice still low, but a little teasing now.

He blinked, caught. “No,” he admitted with a small smile. “It’s inconvenient.”

She reached up to push a strand of hair behind his ears, fingers light, affectionate. “You’re thinking right now.”

“Only that you’re… remarkably distracting,” he said, letting the compliment settle without the usual performance behind it. “And alarmingly good at reading me.”

“Not that alarming,” she murmured. “You’re just not as subtle as you think.”

He let out a quiet laugh, surprised by how easy it felt. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t. I like having the advantage.” They fell into silence then. Her fingers traced lazy circles against his chest, and his hand rested along her back, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t the kind that lulled to sleep. No, this was heavier. Tighter. Tension coiling again beneath the softness like something half-restrained, neither of them quite ready to admit the high hadn’t yet passed.

She was still tracing circles against his chest, absent at first, until her hand dipped lower. Intentional. Testing. His breath caught. “You’re not tired,” he said, voice quieter now, more curious than accusing.

Her lips curved into something that could’ve been a smile, dangerous, if not knowing. “Should I be?”

He turned his head slightly, meeting her eyes in the half-light. “You were just trembling under my mouth five minutes ago.”

“And you think I’m the only one who should be trembling tonight?”

He exhaled through his nose, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You’re insatiable.”

“You’re the one who said you’d convince me,” she replied, fingers now dragging across the line of his abdomen, just above the sheet pooled around his waist. “Was that an empty promise?”

He caught her wrist, not to stop her, but to slow her. Control the pace. Make her wait. His eyes burned into hers, sharp and dark. “You really want to test me right now?”

“I think you like being tested.” He pushed himself up slightly, bracing on an elbow, his body already stirring back to life beneath the weight of her touch. Her smirk deepened at the sight of it, her gaze dipping lower, hungry and unbothered.

“You’re going to make me ruin you,” he said, leaning in close, lips brushing the corner of her mouth. “All over again.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” she whispered, breath hitching.

And that was all he needed. In one swift movement, he rolled her beneath him, reclaiming the space between his body and the mattress with no hesitation this time. His mouth found her throat, then her chest, relearning her shape with renewed purpose, still reverent, but no longer patient. She arched into him instantly, one leg hitching around his waist, already pulling him closer, chasing friction. “Round two, then,” he said against her skin, teeth scraping lightly. “But this time... you don’t get to stay so quiet.”

Her laugh was low, breathless, wicked. “We’ll see..”

And just like that, they were undone all over again. This time with no pretense, no distance, nothing but skin and heat and the dizzying thrill of two people who could never quite get enough of each other. His hands didn’t hesitate, traveling from her waist to the curve of her hips, gripping firmly as if anchoring her to him. Every inch of her skin beneath his touch sparked like fire.

Her nails raked down his back, sharp and demanding, pulling him closer until there was no space left between their bodies. His mouth found hers again, a collision of urgency and hunger that left them both breathless. He broke the kiss, trailing slow, deliberate kisses down her jawline, along her collarbone, savoring every soft gasp that escaped her lips. The room was thick with the scent of their desire, the heat of skin against skin.

She met his eyes, wild and fearless, the playful smirk never leaving her lips. “You said I don’t get to stay quiet,” she teased, voice trembling with anticipation.

He growled low in his throat. “Good. I want to hear every promise, every curse, every name you call me.”

Her hands tightened in his hair as she arched into him, lips parting to release a breathy moan that sent a thrill deep into his core. “You’re insufferable,” she whispered, voice rough with need.

“And you’re irresistible,” he countered, pressing himself against her, feeling the slick heat building between them.

She didn’t respond. He could gather why. His long fingers had wrapped themselves around his aching length. The reminder that he had neglected to finish earlier now pounding in his skull as he used his hand to line them up. The tip of himself coming to rest at her opening. He could already feel how her body was going to open up for him. The shake of her legs from the anticipation. The arousal in her eyes as she nodded slowly, encouraging him to actually press inside. 

For all the vivid fantasies he’d entertained—and there had been many—none of them came close to this. Not even remotely. Every careful phrase he’d used to mask his thoughts, every deliberately refined word meant to keep her from guessing just how often he’d imagined being this close… all of it unraveled in an instant. Because the moment he felt her tighten around him, warm and impossibly real, every imagined version of her shattered against the reality. And gods, the reality ruined him.

From that first day he’d seen her in the library, with her curious eyes, all he could think about was the way they could look up at him while he was plunged inside. Every time he saw her leaning over the counter to reach some book, he thought how wonderful it would be to keep her there as he forced his way inside. The way he’d use his foot to widen her stance by shoving her ankles apart. That day at the bookshop, with that charming look of a girl much less privileged than she was, he thought how wonderful it would’ve been to lift that dress enough to slip inside and keep her in his lap while they read. For all his fascination with her mind, there were equal measures of sexual fantasies that often made him mad from having to conceal them. But no more would he have to. 

Every desire to have her panting beneath him. Every thought of pushing her into his tesserae bathroom wall as he shoved himself inside her repeatedly. The need to claim her in every spot humanly imaginable, with fire and brimstone, but also tenderness and longing surged within him.

They moved together in a rhythm that was equal parts familiar and electric, the past weeks of teasing and chasing melting away in the heat of this moment. Every touch, every gasp, every whispered word was a declaration of need, of power, of something fiercely unbreakable. He lost himself in her. Her taste, her scent, the way her body molded perfectly against his. Her nails digging in, her breath hitching, the spark of rebellion in her eyes that made him want to prove, again and again, that he was hers.

And in this fierce, tangled dance, neither wanted to let go. Her breath hitched again as he drove deeper into the moment, not just physically, but completely. With every movement, every drag of skin against skin, he wasn't just touching her body, he was answering every unspoken challenge, every boundary she’d ever set between them. She clung to him like she didn’t quite know whether to push him away or pull him closer. And gods, he adored her for it. “You don’t fight fair,” she murmured, voice tight with something that wasn’t quite surrender.

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, breath hot against her flushed skin. “I didn’t come here to play fair.”

She laughed softly, breathlessly, her body rising to meet his with a desperate kind of grace. “Obviously.”

Their rhythm grew deeper, more consuming, a slow burn that neither of them wanted to end too quickly. He studied every expression that crossed her face. How her brows knit, how her mouth fell open, how her lashes fluttered with every cresting wave. She was beautiful. Not just in the way that turned heads in libraries or drew glances at formal events. She was beautiful like a storm. Fierce, unyielding, alive. And for the first time in a long time, Coriolanus didn’t feel like he was winning or conquering or getting ahead. 

By the time the tension broke again between them—sharp, sudden, and shared—they were both breathless, foreheads pressed together, caught in that fragile space between hunger and satisfaction. He could feel the intensity as he erupted, ribbons of cum filling her beyond anything he’d ever experienced in his own self gratification until he finally slowed. Neither of them spoke at first. Their breathing filled the silence, heavy and ragged. His hand was still at her hip, thumb drawing slow circles into the curve of her waist. Her fingers were splayed across his back, no longer clutching but resting.

Eventually, she opened her eyes. And in them, he saw it. Not victory. Not submission. But recognition. She saw him. And he let her. Didn’t deflect, didn’t cover it with a joke or a challenge or some careless, cutting remark. He just held her gaze, letting her read whatever truths he wasn’t yet brave enough to say aloud.

She blinked slowly, lashes brushing her cheeks, and he felt her shift slightly beneath him, just enough for her fingers to sweep gently up the nape of his neck, curling in the loose ends of his hair again, not out of urgency this time, but something quieter. Something closer to comfort. “Are you always like this?” she murmured, voice rough with the aftermath of being thoroughly undone.

He raised a brow, lips quirking faintly. “Like what?”

She gave him a look. “Relentless.”

A pause. Then, a soft laugh. “Only when I want something badly enough.”

“And now that you have it?” she asked, her thumb brushing just below his collarbone, a question buried in the movement.

He leaned down, lips brushing hers in a kiss that wasn’t hungry. “I want more.”

Her breath caught  from how easily she believed him. “And if I let you?” she asked, lips barely moving against his.

He smiled into the kiss. “Then I’ll keep taking my time. Until you forget what it was like to keep me at arm’s length.”

She hummed, content and defiant all at once. “That sounds like a challenge.”

His voice dropped to a murmur, laced with fondness and something darker, deeper. “You’re becoming my favorite challenge.”

And though the ache between them had quieted, the hunger had not. The fire that had roared between their bodies still smoldered, slow and low and enduring. He kissed her again, and this time, her hands slipped down his chest, curling around his waist to pull him back in.

Round three, it seemed, was inevitable. And neither of them minded one bit.

Continue the story here!

Coriolanus Snow stormed out of the meeting. It didn’t matter that they were catastrophically behind schedule on the preparations for the Eighteenth Hunger Games. It didn’t matter that he was the Head Gamemaker. He could tolerate their panic, their inefficiencies, their thinly veiled accusations into the early hours if necessary. He had already planned to go without sleep, before, during, and after the Games.

But none of that mattered. What did matter was the slip of paper passed to him mid-meeting, folded crisply and written in his secretary’s elegant hand on clean, official stationery. Just three words, unadorned and startlingly intimate: I need you.

His wife, for all her composure, rarely used the word need. It had only crossed her lips a handful of times in all their years together. Once, the night before their wedding, when she’d stormed his flat soaked through from walking a mile in the rain, trembling with something unspoken. Another, when she had worked herself past exhaustion to open the public library, the strain quietly consuming her. She’d asked for him, not for solutions, just to be there. And again, when she had been gravely ill, her body racked with fever. She had clutched his hand and whispered that same word, asking him to stay rather than leaving her care to the nurse he’d hired. And he had stayed. Without argument. Without hesitation.

That was part of what bound him to her so deeply. She did not demand him. She never tried to possess him. Which gave him the space to care for her without ever confessing that he loved her. Their marriage was built not on romance, but something sharper. Mutual respect. Understanding. A quiet, enduring loyalty. Affection, yes, but not love. Not openly.

And that was precisely why a message like this, a need, plainly spoken, meant everything. It was reason enough to walk out of an important room. To drop everything. To go to her.

He didn’t ask where she was. He didn’t need to. There were only a few places in the Capitol she ever allowed herself to come undone, and only one of them was truly hers: the library.

The one he’d bought her years ago, in the aftermath of a bitter legislative fight he’d barely won. She hadn’t asked for it but he’d known. Known in the way her fingers lingered on the spines of old books. Known by the way she’d walked through the empty building before it was restored, looking not at the rot but at the light pooling through the tall windows. He’d given it to her quietly. He had proposed to her there, too. Not in some grand public gesture, but in the same reading room she went on to repair by hand. Dust still clung to her sleeves that day. Her hair was half-pinned. She hadn’t been wearing makeup. They had been married beneath the painted ceiling following the restoration.

So when she said I need you, he knew precisely where to go. He didn’t bother with a hovercar. He walked. More accurately, ran.  The streets of the Capitol were dim with the fading day, the polished buildings gilded with amber light. He passed silently beneath them, not seeing the people who noticed him.

By the time he reached the tall doors of the library, dusk had settled fully over the city. The building stood serene and stately beneath it, the golden dome aglow from within. The lights were still on. She was still here. He entered without ceremony, his footsteps echoing through the marble vestibule. It was quiet. Always was. He passed the main hall, then the eastern wing. Past shelves he’d seen her organize herself, rows of volumes she'd saved from basements and burn piles and bureaucratic neglect. And then he turned toward the back office, her private one.

The door was cracked open. He pushed it gently. And there she was. Sitting on the floor. Not at her desk, not in her reading chair. Just on the floor, her back against a shelf, knees drawn in slightly. Her hair was half-loose, as if she’d started to undo it and forgotten. One shoe was off. Her blouse was wrinkled at the collar. Around her were scattered sheets, notes or letters, he couldn’t yet tell, fluttering slightly in the draft from the open window.

And her face—Gods. Her face was pale, her mouth slack with something that wasn’t quite sadness, but wasn’t peace either. Her eyes were rimmed red, and her hands trembled faintly where they rested in her lap. She didn’t hear him come in. And he didn’t speak. He simply walked to her, each step deliberate and quiet. As he knelt, the wooden floor creaked beneath his weight, and her head turned just slightly. Her eyes met his. She didn’t say his name. Didn’t try to explain. She didn’t need to.

He reached for her, without hesitation or restraint, and gathered her into his arms, folding her against him with the kind of care that made the intricacies of their arrangement seem irrelevant. Her breath hitched against his chest, just once. Then her fingers curled into the fabric of his coat. He said nothing. There were no questions. No demands. No performance.

One arm wrapped securely around her back, the other rising to cradle the back of her head, his thumb brushing the strands of her hair as she breathed through whatever storm had led her here. Her body slowly began to loosen against his. Not fully. Not yet. But enough. Enough that he felt the tension bleed out of her with each shaky exhale.

And as he sat on the floor of that office, he felt something wordless settle in his chest. Love was not what they built their lives upon. But here, in the quiet, in her need, and his presence… something so akin to it bloomed anyway.

He didn’t know how long they sat like that, with her breath muffled against his chest, his arms a cradle around her trembling body. But eventually, his hand moved. Slowly. Carefully. He tilted her chin with two fingers, easing her face up from where she had hidden it against him. Her eyes, when she met his, were glassy and distant. As if she’d been somewhere far from here and hadn’t quite made it back yet. “Tell me,” he said softly. His voice was low, controlled, but there was something underneath, fragile and aching, like ice cracking beneath pressure. “What is it?”

She shook her head, once, sharp and small. Her lower lip trembled, and she pressed it between her teeth to still it. No words came. His brow furrowed, and his hand moved to cup her cheek. His thumb brushed the soft skin just beneath her eye where tears had dried, leaving faint traces of salt. He didn’t press her. Didn’t ask again. But his gaze flicked downward, slowly taking in the disarray around them.

Documents lay scattered like fallen leaves across the floor. Papers folded, creased, some still half-tucked in a file that had toppled open beside her. Most bore the cold, clinical markings of Capitol medical records, headers in that sharp, sterile font, barcodes, stamped signatures in red ink. And then his eyes fixed on one page, its edge curling slightly where it had been gripped too tightly. The words hit him like a blow to the ribs.

Diagnostic Confirmation: Pregnancy – Positive

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The breath in his lungs stilled. Time seemed to compress. Every second pulled taut between one heartbeat and the next. The paper didn’t shake, but his hands did, faintly, where they still held her. She watched him. There was no dramatic flourish. No confessions. No collapsing into tears. She just looked at him, as if waiting to see whether he would stand or shatter.

And he, who had stood on stages and arranged weapons, who had never let the world see the fault lines inside him, did neither. Instead, with a care that felt almost too fragile for this world, he drew her closer again, his hands shifting from her face to her shoulders, then down her arms, until his fingers found hers and folded them gently between his own.

His voice, when it came, was barely a breath: “…You’re certain?”

She nodded once, and for a heartbeat, her eyes flickered, not with fear, but with apology. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

He looked down again at the page, as if the words might change. But they didn’t. Of course they didn’t. Pregnant. She was pregnant. With his child. The thought didn’t hit all at once. It arrived in fragments, each one sharp with meaning. The way she’d looked that morning. The way she’d reached for him last week and said nothing, simply leaning on him on the sofa and breathing deep and heavy. Her silence during their last dinner together. The way her body had curled into itself tonight, trying to hold something in, or maybe hold something together.

And now this. He reached again, brushing a lock of hair from her face, and let his hand settle at the base of her neck. His palm was warm against her skin. Steady. “You should be resting,” he said quietly, almost absently.

She gave a small, tearful laugh at that, half disbelief, half relief. “I couldn’t,” she whispered. “Not until I saw you. I needed you.”

He leaned forward then, resting his forehead lightly against hers. “You have me,” he said. “You always do.”

And though his heart still thundered in his chest, and his thoughts spun in directions he couldn’t yet name, his hands never left her. He stayed grounded in this moment, in her warmth, in the soft shape of her fingers around his. He would reckon with the meaning of this later. The implications. The risks. But for now, there was only this: The woman who never asked for him unless it mattered, and the fragile, undeniable truth growing inside her.

He didn’t pull away. He kept his forehead pressed to hers, his breath slow and even now, anchoring them both in the quiet. But after a moment, his voice broke the stillness. Gentle. Low. “Why were you crying?” he asked. His thumb brushed just beneath her eye again, catching another tear before it could fall. “Do you not want this?”

She drew in a shaky breath, her fingers tightening faintly around his. “No, it’s not that,” she said quickly, voice catching in her throat. “It’s not that I don’t…” She swallowed, and her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her. His brow furrowed deep, but not in anger. It was born of concern, as if he could hold the weight of her confession before she even finished speaking. “You thought I’d be upset?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She hesitated. Then nodded. “We never talked about this,” she murmured. “Not really. Not seriously. And then I missed a cycle, and I thought it was stress, and then it wasn’t, and I…” She exhaled. “It caught me off guard. Completely. And once I knew, it all became so loud.” Her hands lifted, gesturing vaguely at the room, at the floor strewn with documents, as if the mess mirrored the storm inside her. “I couldn’t think. I didn’t know how to tell you. I kept thinking, What if you don’t want this? What if this ruins everything we’ve built?”

He stayed quiet, letting her speak. “I feel unprepared,” she admitted, her voice smaller now. “We didn’t grow up with this, not really. My parents were already gone before the war ended. Yours too. Neither of us had siblings to look out for. I don’t know what it’s supposed to look like. I don’t know how to be good at it.” Her throat tightened, and she looked away then, ashamed of her own honesty. “I don’t want to fail it. Or you.”

Coriolanus reached for her again, both hands cupping her face now, thumbs warm against her cheeks, as if to remind her she was here, and none of this was capable of breaking him. He waited until her eyes met his. “I’m not upset,” he said quietly. Her breath caught. “I’m not disappointed. I’m not afraid of this… not the way I’ve been afraid of other things.” His voice steadied. “You gave me something I didn’t think I’d ever have. And now… you’re giving me something I never thought I was allowed to want.”

She blinked at him, as if trying to believe it. He leaned in again, pressing his lips to her forehead with aching care. His next words were spoken there, soft against her skin. “I do want this.” Her shoulders trembled beneath his hands. “We’ll figure it out. Together. You won’t do this alone. Not for a single day. We’ll make it work. Even if we’re scared, even if we mess up. We’ll make it ours.”

Her hands lifted and covered his, grounding herself in the certainty of his touch. He lowered his head again, brushing his nose against hers, letting his breath mingle with hers in the hush. “You are not going to fail,” he said.

“How do you know?” she whispered.

“Because you’ve already built something beautiful from nothing,” he said. “You’ve done it before. I’ve watched you.”

She finally broke then. A quiet letting go. Her forehead fell to his shoulder, and she held onto him like he was the first time she’d relaxed in days. And he let her. He held her with all the gentleness the world had tried to take from him. He held her tighter, as if the gesture alone could anchor them together. Could steady the ground shifting beneath his feet.

A child.

After the first swell of emotion, he found himself needing something to hold on to. Something tangible. He’d been trained his whole life to rule through facts, strategies, and controlled variables. And this was none of those things. So he drew in a slow breath and leaned back, just enough to see her face again. His hands remained on her arms, warm and steady, as if he feared she might vanish. “How far along are you?” he asked, his voice rougher now, quieter, tempered by awe more than fear.

She blinked, surprised by the question, then gave a soft exhale, half a laugh, half a breath she’d been holding far too long. “Not far,” she said. “Maybe… six, seven weeks. It’s still early. They only confirmed it a couple days ago.”

His eyes dropped for a moment, returning to the discarded papers near them, then back to her. “You’ve been carrying this alone.”

“I wasn’t sure how to tell you,” she admitted. “I didn’t even know how I felt about it at first. It didn’t feel real, not until I saw the scan.” Her voice quieted. “And even then…”

He nodded slowly, taking that in. His hand drifted down her arm, his thumb tracing a slow, grounding line over her wrist. “You don’t even know the gender yet,” he said, not quite a question, more a thought spoken aloud. The edges of his voice were soft, careful in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

She shook her head. “No. It’s too soon.” That silenced him for a long moment. It was too soon. For answers, for certainty, for plans. But not too soon to feel the way the ground had shifted. Not too soon for the ache in his chest to turn warm and protective and frighteningly real. He stared past her for a moment, his thoughts threading themselves into shape. He imagined a child with her eyes and his mouth, or maybe the reverse. Light hair. Pale skin. Hands too small to hold anything but his fingers. He imagined a tiny, perfect being who didn’t know war. Or hunger. Or loss.

And he wasn’t ready. Of course he wasn’t. But the part of him that had once known only ambition and vengeance had gone quiet now, melted into something softer. “You’re scared,” he said finally. “And so am I.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, startled by the admission. She knew how rarely he allowed himself to speak that kind of truth aloud.

“But,” he added, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, “that doesn’t mean we won’t be good at this.”

She looked down, her fingers curling lightly around his wrist. “I don’t know how to be a mother,” she whispered.

“And I don’t know how to be a father,” he said, just as quietly. “But we’ll learn. Together.”

She looked at him again. His eyes, so often cold and unreadable, were bare, almost boyish in their wonder. And beneath the fear, there was something fierce in them. Something tender. Unshakable. “I want this,” he said again. Firmer this time.

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then rested his lips against her hair, breathing her in.

And for the first time in his life, Coriolanus Snow did not look ahead to what could be gained or lost. He simply sat in the moment beside the woman who had never demanded anything from him … And the child who, even in silence, was already changing him.

The sun had barely risen over the eastern spires of their estate when Coriolanus Snow found himself in the kitchen. Barefoot, hair unkempt, wearing a robe he'd never dare wear in public, with a three-year-old clinging to his leg and a six-year-old carefully arranging strawberries into the shape of a heart on a porcelain plate.

It was her birthday.

And he’d woken with the particular kind of urgency that only came from wanting to do something right. Not allow their servants to handle such an occasion, but to deliver upon it himself. The children had helped, if generous interpretations of "help" counted. Their eldest, precise and serious like her mother, had taken charge of the fruit with quiet concentration, brows furrowed as if she were orchestrating a state banquet. Their youngest, more chaos than coordination, had dropped an egg on the floor and then cried.

Coriolanus had crouched down to him, wiped the flour from his little cheeks, and said, “She’ll love it anyway.”

He was certain of it. If there was one thing in this world his wife loved, it was their children. Her calculating and cold nature, evaporating the moment both their children had come bounding into their lives in a whirlwind of chaos. 

The kitchen now smelled of toasted brioche and warm cinnamon. The tray was simple but carefully assembled. Bergamot tea steeped just the way she liked, soft cheese and jam, the strawberries in their shaky little heart, and a folded napkin tucked with a note he’d penned himself while the children weren't looking. He rarely wrote her notes. He’d learned, over time, that words from him meant more when they were saved for the right moment. 

The children trailed him now, whispering too loudly as they ascended the stairs. “Don’t stomp,” he murmured over his shoulder.

“We’re sneaking,” their daughter whispered, holding her brother’s hand as they tiptoed behind him with exaggerated care.

At the top of the stairs, the bedroom door was slightly ajar. Pale morning light spilled across the hardwood floor in narrow stripes, soft and golden. He paused there for a moment, tray in hand, children at his side. And something caught in him. Through the half-open door, he could see her, still asleep. The covers were drawn up to her shoulders. Her hair spilled over the pillow, illuminated gold at the edges by the sun. One hand rested palm-up near her face, loose and open.

She looked younger, somehow. Softer. Time had not erased the beauty from her, but he’d watched it settle. What was once young, sharp magnetism, seeped into soft eyes and cheeks. She had built a life with him not through force, but through insistence: quiet, patient, and extreme care.

He drew a slow breath. The children stood beside him, watching. The little one reached up and tugged at his sleeve. “Is mommy awake?” he asked, eyes wide.

“Not yet,” Coriolanus whispered. He pushed the door open a bit farther, and they crept in, three shadows and a tray of breakfast, held with the kind of care that made his hands feel too large, too clumsy for the moment. He set it on the side table. Then leaned forward and touched her shoulder. “Darling,” he whispered, voice as soft as he could manage.

She stirred, lashes fluttering. Her brow creased, then relaxed when she saw him. Her lips curved into a sleepy, unguarded smile. “Happy birthday,” he said. And then came a rush of feet and high-pitched giggles. Her title of mom shouted twice in delight as two small bodies clambered onto the bed and nestled in beside her. She laughed, the sound drowsy and warm. Coriolanus watched her sit up, hair tangled, arms full of both children. Her eyes met his over the curve of their daughter’s shoulder. Her smile deepened in that way reserved only for him.

He picked up the tray and brought it to her lap, steadying it with both hands. “Made by all of us,” he said.

“Even him?” she asked, nodding to the little one, who was already reaching for a strawberry.

He gave her a wry look. “Especially him.”

She kissed the top of the boy’s head, then looked down at the note folded beneath her napkin. Her fingers brushed it, and her breath caught. He said nothing. Just watched. And in that quiet, the sunlight streaming through gauzy curtains, his children pressed against her sides, her eyes glassy from tenderness instead of tears, he felt something unfamiliar lodge in his throat.

Coriolanus watched her skim the edge of the napkin with her thumb, their son had already clambered over her knees and reached for another strawberry with sticky fingers. Their daughter, more patient, sat primly at her side, trying to sip the tea. “Easy,” he said with a quiet smile, gently righting the cup before it could spill. “Let’s not ruin your mother’s breakfast before she’s had a bite.”

“They’re wild this morning,” she said, laughing softly as she tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear.

“They’re excited. We all are.” He leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his hand steadying the tray across her lap. Then he straightened, clapping his hands lightly. “Alright, you two. Off.” Two small faces turned up to him, blinking. “Go on,” he said with a faint smirk. “Upstairs. You’ve got outfits laid out. Get dressed. We’re taking your mother out.”

“Where?” their daughter asked, immediately curious.

“It’s a surprise,” he said, kneeling between them. “But there are flowers. And sweets. And possibly, just possibly, a carousel.” That did it. Their son let out a whoop and tumbled off the bed in a tangle of limbs, darting for the hallway. His sister followed at a more graceful pace, but her excitement buzzed in the air like static. “Shoes!” he called after them. “And not the mismatched ones!”

The bedroom quieted the moment the children disappeared down the hall, their footsteps fading into the soft scuffle of socked feet and excited whispers. Coriolanus stood for a beat longer than necessary at the closed door, hand still resting on the knob. Then he turned back to her.

She was nestled upright in bed now, legs tucked beneath the linen, the breakfast tray balanced neatly in her lap. A half-bitten strawberry rested against her fingertip. But she wasn’t eating, just watching him, eyes still full of that sleepy brightness he so rarely got to see before the rest of the world caught up to them. “I think,” she said lightly, “this is the first time in three years I’ve had tea without needing to reheat it.”

He smiled. Crossed back to the bed. “Luxury,” he murmured, easing down beside her once more.

They sat like that for a moment. Then her gaze dropped to the folded note, now resting on the nightstand beside her. The seal, pressed into the flap with his personal insignia in the wax, was cracked. “I already read it,” she said. He nodded. She tilted her head toward him, that faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “But I’d like to hear it from you.”

That note had been written alone in the quiet hours of the night, when the house was still and the world outside felt far away. It had come easily, the words uncoiling from a part of him he rarely let speak aloud. But to say them now, to her, while the light touched her face and she looked at him like she always did , like he was someone good, made the words feel heavier. Realer.

She didn’t press. So he reached for her hand. “I said…” He cleared his throat quietly. “I said that I’ve built many things in this life, but none of them made me proud until you.” Her fingers tightened slightly around his. “I said that you are the first thing I’ve ever chosen for the sake of joy, not survival. And that I would choose you again. Every day.”

She blinked slowly. Her eyes didn’t move from his face. “I said,” he continued, voice growing quieter, “that I don’t know what I did to deserve this. You. Them. Any of it. But I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure it was never a mistake.”

She looked down, biting back a smile that trembled at the edges. Then she turned her face and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, the cotton of his shirt soft against her lips. “You say it better than you write it,” she murmured.

He laughed under his breath, just once, and leaned in, letting his forehead brush against hers. “I meant every word.”

“I know.” For a long, quiet moment, they simply breathed together,  a hush of warmth and comfort held beneath the hush of morning. Outside the window, the city stirred, but in this room, time moved slower. She shifted closer, her hand resting over his chest, above the steady rhythm of his heart. “I used to wonder if you’d ever let yourself have this,” she said.

He blinked. “Have what?”

“This life. Something gentle. Something good.”

His jaw tensed faintly. Not defensively,  more like he was steadying himself against the sharp truth of it. “I didn’t think I’d live long enough,” he said after a pause. “And if I did… I didn’t think I’d deserve it.”

She leaned up, her lips brushing against his cheek before she whispered, “You do.” He swallowed. Looked at her. And then,  without ceremony, he kissed her. Deep and unhurried. A kiss that said thank you, and I’m still learning how to admit I love you.

When they parted, her fingers lingered in the hollow of his collarbone. “So,” she said, brushing her thumb lightly against his skin. “Carousel?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “They’ll riot if I don’t deliver.”

“Then we’d better not keep them waiting,” she said, but made no move to leave the bed. Instead, she looked at him. Her still-impossible husband, and leaned into him once more, just for a second longer. And he let her. Her head rested against his shoulder, her hand still clasped lightly in his. For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then she shifted just slightly, her fingers moving to his cheek, the touch feather-light. Her gaze studied him. “You know,” she murmured, brushing her thumb just below his eye, “you really have aged like good wine.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, head tipping back against the pillows. “Don’t start.”

“I mean it,” she said, her voice low and playful. “The silver threads in your hair, the lines near your eyes… You’re more handsome now than you ever were.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Today’s not for flattering me. I believe me and our little mini-mes made that clear.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m only speaking the truth.”

He turned to her then, one hand lifting to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “No,” he said softly, “you’re studying me. Like you used to back in the library. Like you’ve always done. And as always, its very dangerous.”

She smiled, not arguing. His palm lingered against her cheek for a breath longer. Her skin was warm, her eyes softer now. She leaned into his touch. “Well,” she said lightly, “dangerous or not, I’ve made a habit of seeing you. I don’t plan to stop now.”

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I like being seen by you.” She drew back just far enough to kiss him. When she pulled away, her thumb traced the corner of his mouth. “Happy birthday to me,” she whispered, smiling.

He kissed her once more, then stood, smoothing the sleeve of his shirt like he needed something to do with his hands. “I’ll go wrangle the little monsters,” he said over his shoulder, pausing at the doorway. “But please take your time. I meant it. Today is about you. No arguing with me.”

She laughed under her breath. “You’re only saying that because you know I’ll win.”

He gave her one last look, and in it was everything: the years between them, the quiet steadiness they’d built, and the way she still undid him, completely, without ever trying to. He lingered for a moment longer in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame, as if anchoring himself before stepping back into the noise of the day. There was something about the way she looked in that light. Wrapped in linen and early sun, the outline of her framed by everything they’d built, that made him hesitate.

She had once been a stranger across a room. An eccentric librarian at his university who kept him on the fringes. A woman that openly made him pursue her without ever giving the illusion he could penetrate her impossibly high walls. Someone who confused him in every right with her insistence on simplicity not luxury, in preferring books to living humans, but playing the role when she needed to. She had spent the years learning to trust him, to see him as he was. A monster and a man in all. Now she was the home he didn’t know he could have. And somehow, impossibly, she still looked at him like he was worth allowing into her orbit.

He dipped his head, just slightly, not quite a bow, but something close. Something grateful. Something reverent. Then he turned and walked out, the door clicking gently behind him. As he shut the door, he looked down at the simple gold band on his hand. Even as the hallway filled again with the sound of children, with laughter and half-tied shoes and the clatter of morning chaos, the warmth of her remained at his back.

She was the ink in the margins of the story he’d narrated. She was the archivist of his legacy. The librarian holding his collection of important declarations with reverence. There was softness always left in her wake. Proof that love, once earned, does not have to be loud or even spoken out loud. A truth he carried with him. 

The doors creaked open, long-forgotten hinges groaning under their own weight. No ceremony. No escort past the threshold. Just the faint shuffle of two guards who waited on the steps behind him, eyes lowered. Coriolanus Snow stepped inside the library alone.

Coriolanus Snow, once a boy too proud to beg, then a man too proud to break, had finally bent. Not for survival. Not for power. Not even for penance. But for a promise. His last request had been simple: to see it once more. The library. Her library.

The building still stood, spared from fire and ash, though its windows bore the fractures of years. Ivy had returned, climbing the old stone like a hand reaching for warmth. The front doors were heavier than he remembered, or perhaps it was simply that he’d grown older, but the familiar creak greeted him as they opened, and he stepped inside.

He stopped in the entryway. It smelled of old paper, wood polish, and rain. But beneath that, just faintly, it still smelled like her. He didn’t move at first, one hand curled over the edge of his coat, eyes locked on the hearth. The portrait was still there.

Her likeness, painted decades ago, when she was bright with youth and fire and dreams too delicate for the world she’d married into. Her head was turned just slightly, caught in the act of listening, as if the artist had interrupted her mid-thought. The corner of her mouth teased a half-smile. Her eyes were steady. Curious. Fierce.

She hadn't aged. She never would. Not like he had.

He approached slowly. The echo of his steps felt too loud in the hush of the room. “I rerouted soldiers to protect this block,” he said quietly, stopping beneath her gaze. “Told them the archives were culturally invaluable. But I lied, you know how I detest liars..”

The quiet seemed to bend toward him. “I did it for you,” he said, eyes not leaving the painting. “I didn’t want them to touch this place. I couldn’t let them. You built it. Shelf by shelf. You filled it with meaning, even when everything around us was just chaos and blood.”

He reached into his coat. Fingers trembling now. He hadn’t worn it in years, not since the day they'd buried her. It had been quiet, without a state funeral, per her wishes. Only himself, their children, Tigress and a few close acquaintances.

But he’d kept the ring. Simple gold, dulled by time. Familiar. Heavy in his palm. He slid it back onto his finger. “I should’ve visited you here again,” he whispered. “I always meant to. When it was over. When it was safe. But I kept moving the finish line.”

A pause. He exhaled slowly. “The children were kept far from this,” he added. “They’re safe. I made sure of it. I let them go before I burned what was left of myself to ash. It’s the only thing I’m certain I did right.”

The painting watched. Still. Unchanging. His eyes stung, but he didn’t cry. He hadn't in years. Not since the night he held her hand and couldn’t feel her squeeze back. “I don’t know what you saw in me,” he murmured. “I was never… easy to love.”

He looked down. Then back up. And finally he let the truth rise up through the ache in his chest, the one he’d buried too long. “You died thinking I couldn’t say it. And you were right. I couldn’t.” He swallowed, jaw trembling, then continued. “You said it once. After the children. After one of those quiet nights when I wasn’t looking for softness and you gave it anyway. One of those nights I showed you my worst and you hadn’t batted an eye, you said it.” His voice broke around the memory. “And I just… nodded.”

He reached out, barely brushing the bottom frame of her portrait. “But I loved you,” he said aloud. “God, I loved you. My wild, untamed, eccentric librarian who made my life full of much more care than I deserved.”

The silence didn’t answer. It didn’t need to. His hand dropped back to his side. The ring caught the light, gold against the papery thinness of his skin. “I should’ve said it,” he murmured. “And I should’ve said it when you were still here.”

A beat. Then, quieter still: “I hope you knew anyway.”

Behind him, the guards shifted, signaling the time had come. He stood there for one moment longer. Eyes fixed on the woman who had once softened him, who had seen who he could’ve been beneath the armor of ambition. The woman who had died before he ever had the courage to hand her the words she always deserved.

And then he turned. He did not look back. Because everything left of him… remained in that room.

Read the other ending here...

Talk (Completed) 43k words

Summary: Coriolanus snow, new University Student, finds something pretty and complicated in the library, so he makes it his goal to seduce such an odd woman...

"I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things we'd do So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you"

Part 1 (mostly SFW) Part 2 (NSFW) Part 3 (NSFW) Epilogue: Choose your own ending- coming soon! \_> Option 1 - More romantic/light hearted \_> Option 2 - Bit more... grounded/angsty

Ao3 LINK

The Dance of Pawns, Queens & Kings (coming soon)

Summary: Seven years after the 10th Hunger Games, Coriolanus Snow returns. Not as a mentor, but as the mastermind behind the 17th Games. When an unexpected tribute steps forward—a mysterious girl from District 1—everything changes. Bellona Titus, Capitol-born yet representing the districts, is a puzzle Snow didn’t anticipate. Fierce, calculating, and unpredictable, she disrupts his carefully laid plans and ignites a storm that could either secure his rise… or unravel everything.