Chapter Text
There was something mortifying about turning up to a New Year’s Eve party alone.
No one treated her like a spectacle. That was almost worse. People were drunk, celebratory, or both. Standing in easy pairs, arms looped and bodies angled together. They smiled at Effie as she passed, lifted their glasses in her direction, warm and gracious and full of unspoken sympathy.
And she hated them for it.
This was Effie’s first New Year’s Eve alone in years. Not long ago, she’d been one of them, half of a unit, part of a pair. For the past few years she’d hosted her own New Year’s party.
Their New Year’s party.
Hers and Galba’s.
It had always felt more like her party. Effie arranged everything: the food, the decorations, the guest list, the entertainment. That was her business, after all. Party Planning. She was very good at making things look full and effortless.
Still, there had been something reassuring about having another name printed beside hers on the invitation. Proof that she wasn’t doing it alone, even if she mostly was.
That was over now.
She didn’t just feel alone.
She was alone.
The thought of throwing a New Year’s party this year made her feel sick. People would turn up out of pity, or curiosity, to see if she was coping and to check whether she was falling apart. Or worse, they wouldn’t turn up at all.
All of it felt exhausting before it had even begun. Her plan had been to stay home this year with no audience and no performance. She’d imagined pouring herself a generous glass of champagne, the good kind she’d been saving for an occasion that never quite arrived. She would disappear into a large tub of ice cream, curl up on the sofa in something soft, and let the television do the celebrating for her.
Midnight wouldn’t matter. She wouldn’t wait for it. She’d let the noise blur into the background, let herself drift off before the countdown even finished, cocooned and unnoticed and, for once, entirely at peace.
Yet somehow, the previous week, her sister Proserpina had convinced her to accept an invitation to a New Year’s Eve party.
“I won’t know anyone there,” Effie had said at Christmas dinner, nudging a piece of turkey around her plate instead of eating it. She’d arranged the food perfectly when she served it, but now it sat untouched, cooling beneath her cutlery.
“You’ll know the host,” Proserpina replied easily, topping up her wine without looking and leaning back in her chair. She’d already abandoned any attempt at neatness, gravy threatening the edge of her plate as she took another satisfied bite.
“I work with him occasionally,” Effie said. “Or rather, with his company. Plutarch Heavensbee and I are hardly best friends.”
“That’s still knowing someone,” Prosie said, unfazed. “Besides, you won’t know anyone else, so no one will be there pointing at you.”
Effie looked up sharply. “Pointing at me? Why are you making it sound like I’m the court jester?”
“I told you to tone down the blusher.”
Prosie said it mildly, spearing another potato and popping it into her mouth like she hadn’t just issued a critique.
“Oh, shush,” Effie replied. “You wear far more than I do, and you’re still not making a convincing argument for me going to this party.”
Effie exhaled through her nose and returned to rearranging the vegetables on her plate, lining them up as if order might make the idea less unbearable.
Prosie rolled her eyes and reached for the gravy, unapologetic. “My point is, you don’t have to worry that anyone’s going to gossip about the breakup. You can just turn up, mingle, be your bubbly self. Meet some new people.”
“Why?”
Prosie didn’t hesitate. “Sex?”
Effie nearly dropped her cutlery. “I’ve just had a breakup. I’m not going to jump straight into bed with someone, Prosie.”
“It was almost two months ago,” Prosie said calmly. “And it wasn’t good for you. Time to get back on the horse before you forget how to ride.”
“I am not turning up at a party and riding anyone,” Effie muttered, her mouth tightening as she smoothed her napkin unnecessarily across her lap.
Prosie grinned. “Fine. Then think of it as a professional opportunity.” She gestured vaguely with her fork. “Plutarch Heavensbee has friends. Friends who throw parties. It’s networking.”
Effie sighed, her shoulders lifting and falling in a way that felt far too big for the dining room. Prosie wasn’t wrong. There would be a lot of people there, and she could already see the calculations forming in her head. Who might need a planner, whose number she should keep and which conversations might be useful later. Financially, at least, it would be sensible.
“Perhaps,” Effie said carefully, folding her napkin into a neater square. “But I just don’t think I’m in the mood. Business or not, it’ll remind me too much of my New Year’s parties. I won’t have any fun.”
Prosie didn’t miss a beat. “You didn’t have any fun at your parties either.”
Effie looked up sharply. “I loved my parties. Everyone was having fun.”
“Exactly,” Prosie said, gently. “Everyone except you.” She leaned back in her chair, studying Effie over the rim of her glass. “You worked them. You floated around making sure everything was perfect, like you’d planned it for someone else. In your head, as long as everyone else was happy, that was enough.”
Effie’s fingers tightened briefly around her cutlery.
“Sounds a lot like your sex life with Galba,” Prosie added.
“We had a good sex life,” Effie said quickly, though the words landed flat even to her own ears.
Prosie shook her head. “No. He had a good sex life. He had everything good. And still managed to balls it up.” She paused, then softened. “When he comes crawling back, you kick him in the balls.”
Effie stared down at her plate. “He won’t come back. He’s made his choice.”
Prosie scoffed, but there was sadness behind it. “They always come crawling back.” Then she sighed and reached across the table, nudging Effie’s untouched fork. “Alright. How about I come with you?”
Effie looked up.
“Max is working anyway. That’s what I get for dating a doctor, and it saves me from sitting around sipping mimosas with Great Aunt Messalina.”
Effie’s expression cracked, just slightly. “You’d really come with me?”
“Promise,” Prosie said brightly. “Which is literally my name. Just…with a couple of letters changed. And an added M.”
Effie sighed. “Are you really starting to inherit Father’s jokes?”
“Well, you’re starting to inherit Mother’s wrinkles,” Prosie shot back.
“I do not.”
Prosie grinned. “Don’t worry. We’ll go to the party. It’ll be a great time.”
Half an hour before Prosie was meant to meet her for the party, she called to say she wouldn’t make it. Food poisoning.
Effie rolled her eyes and let the phone drop onto the bed. She’d seen exactly what Prosie had eaten the night before, thanks to social media. Her sister would be the first person in history to claim food poisoning after chugging eight glasses of Chardonnay.
She’d make Prosie pay for this later.
Unfortunately, she had a more immediate problem. A party to attend.
Every fibre of her being wanted to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over her head. To stay there. To pretend the evening simply wasn’t happening.
But she’d already confirmed she would be there. And Effie hated the idea of inventing an excuse, especially one that would be politely seen through. She needed Plutarch Heavensbee. It was one thing to decline an invitation because you already had plans; it was another to disappear at the last minute.
That wasn’t professional. That wasn’t reliable. And if there was one thing Effie Trinket refused to be, it was someone who didn’t show up when she said she would.
Besides, she was already dressed.
The ballerina-pink gown was all soft tulle and careful sparkle, the sort of dress that suggested effortlessness while requiring anything but. Her hair was pinned into place, each strand obedient and her makeup flawless. Bright enough to look festive and precise enough to pass for confidence. She looked exactly as she was supposed to.
So here she was, moving through the room with a champagne flute in her hand, taking small, polite sips. She’d surveyed the food table earlier and found she couldn’t stomach much, even as hunger twisted faintly in protest. The alcohol went straight to her head anyway, a light, fizzy warmth that softened the edges of the evening without easing the tightness in her chest.
To be fair, she’d been productive. She’d made a handful of new contacts, collected promises and polite enthusiasm, talked about her business until the words came automatically. She smiled, laughed in the right places, and tucked names away for later. For the version of herself who would follow up.
Now, she just wanted to go home. The smile was starting to ache, a dull pressure blooming behind her eyes. Not from the champagne but from holding herself together, from being ‘on’ when all she wanted was quiet. She wanted to see the year out with a whimper, not a bang.
It was only half past ten. A perfectly reasonable time to leave a normal party. A New Year’s Eve party, though? That was almost unheard of without a dramatic excuse.
Still, it was crowded, and she knew almost no one. She could slip away unnoticed. If anyone went looking for her, they’d assume she was in the bathroom, or wandering some other wing of the house. As much as she hated poor manners and hated leaving without thanking the host, tonight might have to be the exception.
These were special circumstances.
She could just do it now. Edge toward the door, wait for a lull, then bolt when she was close enough. She could phone a cab from the end of the road, duck into the late night cafe if there was a wait, sit somewhere warm and anonymous until it arrived.
As she drifted nearer to the lobby, a shiver ran through her. The December air crept in every time the door opened, cold and sharp against her bare arms. It would be freezing outside, but her coat was thick enough to fend off most of it.
Shit.
Her coat.
She didn’t have it.
The greeter had taken it when she arrived, smiling professionally, and Effie had given it up without a thought. Now she had no idea where it had been put.
She could still go. Just make a run for it. The cafe would be warm enough.
But then, when everyone else left, her coat would be the one still hanging there, abandoned and conspicuous. She’d have to come back for it.
She’d have to lie. She could do that, of course, but the thought of inventing a story, of carrying that small, persistent anxiety home with her, made her stomach twist. There was no point escaping the stress of the party only to sit at home worrying about when and how she’d retrieve her coat.
She would have to announce her departure. There was no avoiding it.
Effie spotted Plutarch Heavensbee across the room, a drink in hand as he smoothed his way through a knot of guests. He wasn’t enjoying his own party so much as orchestrating it. Circulating, introducing and ensuring the right people felt appropriately seen.
In that respect, Effie understood him. She hosted to make people happy. Plutarch did the same, though his happiness came with a return. Influence. Leverage. Momentum.
Eventually, the guests around him drifted away. Effie seized the opening and crossed the room, her smile already in place.
“Mr Heavensbee,” she called, her voice pitched bright and cheerful. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to bid you farewell. You know my sister, Proserpina, who was meant to be with me tonight? She’s come down with a touch of food poisoning, and I’d like to check in on her before she goes to sleep.”
Plutarch regarded her for a moment. Not suspiciously, not unkindly. Simply attentively. If he heard the excuse for what it was, he gave no sign of it.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said smoothly. “Though I must say, it’s been lovely having you here, Effie.”
He smiled, lowering his voice just a fraction. “People have been asking after you. I’ve taken the liberty of telling them how excellent your work is.”
Effie inclined her head. “I appreciate your support, as always. I only wish I could stay longer.”
He gave a knowing smile. “There will be other parties,” he said easily. “You can’t disappear that easily, Effie Trinket. This is going to be a good year for you. I feel it.”
When Plutarch Heavensbee felt something, it usually came true. He had the kind of influence that could will things into being.
Still, Effie wasn’t convinced that extended to every corner of her life, even if it might mean a few more doors opening professionally. If the next year resembled the past month in any way, good was not the word she’d choose.
“I suppose we’ll have to wait and see what the New Year brings,” she said lightly, already angling for an exit. “I was wondering if I might collect my coat?”
“Of course,” Plutarch replied. “Give me two minutes and I’ll have someone bring it to you.”
Effie knew what two minutes meant at a party like this. Two became five. Five became ten. She’d still be standing there twenty minutes later, smiling politely, lingering when all she wanted was to be gone.
“If you don’t mind,” she said carefully, “I’m quite happy to fetch it myself.”
Plutarch studied her, just briefly. “Are you sure? I can have someone do it.”
“Quite sure,” Effie said. “I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”
His smile softened. “Miss Trinket, you are never a bother.” He gestured down the hall. “Third door on your right.”
Effie beamed, genuine relief breaking through at last. “Thank you, Plutarch. And…Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year,” he replied. “I hope you get everything you want.”
Effie nodded and headed in the direction he’d indicated.
The corridor was dim, the party noise falling away behind her as though she’d stepped through a curtain. The house here felt different, much quieter and heavier. A single lamp along the wall cast a warm, inadequate pool of light, barely touching the edges of the space. Everything was polished.
She counted the doors as she went, steps measured. One. Two. Three. The last thing she needed was to wander into somewhere she shouldn’t. Burst in on a sleeping elderly relative, or stumble across something Plutarch very much preferred to keep unseen.
At the third door, she paused, then eased it open, peering inside.
The room beyond was dark as well, the overhead lights left off, but the blinds were drawn back just enough to let the city glow spill in through the windows. Plutarch’s house sat high on the hill; from here, the city stretched out in full with lights scattered like constellations, distant and untouchable.
It was, by any reasonable standard, a main bedroom. In anyone else’s house, it would have been the most important room.
There was just one problem.
She’d come in here to retrieve her coat.
Spread across the double bed was the largest, most chaotic pile of coats she had ever seen. Silk brushed against wool, faux fur tangled with cashmere, sleeves knotted together in a way that suggested someone had simply swept an arm across the room and let gravity do the rest.
Effie stared at it, faintly horrified.
There was no system. No tickets. No order. Just a careless heap.
She would never allow this at one of her parties. Coats were logged, tracked, returned promptly and pristine. Guests left knowing they’d been looked after down to the smallest detail. No one should ever have to rummage through a stranger’s belongings to find what was theirs.
And yet here she was, standing alone in the dark, faced with the physical manifestation of everything she tried to prevent.
She’d wanted to be out of here within a minute. Instead, she’d be lucky to escape before midnight, still pawing through strangers’ coats while the year turned without her.
Effie sat down on the edge of the bed and let out a long, tired breath.
Plutarch was wrong.
This wasn’t going to be a good year.
The thought settled heavily in her chest. She felt foolish for ever believing otherwise. She couldn’t even retrieve her own coat, something so small and so ordinary. How was she supposed to put her life back together when it kept slipping through her fingers like this?
Her shoulders sagged. For once, she didn’t straighten them.
With a defeated little sound, she let herself fall backward onto the bed, the coats swallowing her in a rush of unfamiliar fabric and weight.
Maybe she could lie here forever.
The coat beneath her shifted.
Effie frowned.
No. That wasn’t possible. Coats didn’t move. It had to be the champagne, or the exhaustion, her mind finally turning against her.
Then it moved again.
She bolted upright, shoved at the pile, and screamed.
“Fuck,” the coat grumbled, as the pile beneath her began to shift.
Effie scrambled backward, heart slamming, her gaze flying around the room for a weapon. Her hand closed around the lamp on the bedside table and she yanked it free, clutching it with both hands.
“Do not come any closer,” she said sharply. “I am armed.”
The coat paused.
Then it gave a low, unimpressed scoff.
“Armed?” it said. “With a lamp? What are you planning to do? Backlight me to death? Give me a halo glow?”
As her eyes adjusted, the shape resolved itself. A head. Shoulders. Arms pushing free of fabric. Legs disentangling themselves from the mess.
Effie staggered back as the coat climbed off the bed, very solid, very human.
Oh.
It was a man.
That, at least, made more sense than a sarcastic, sentient coat. It still didn’t explain why he’d been hiding under a pile of outerwear in a dark bedroom. But it did narrow down the possibilities.
“What exactly are you doing?”
He blinked at her. “What am I doing?”
His gaze flicked to the lamp clutched in her hands.
“You’re asking me that?” he went on. “Lady, I’m not the one standing in the dark threatening strangers with a lampshade.”
“Oh, please,” Effie snapped. “You’re just the man who decided to bundle himself into a pile of coats so he could grope unsuspecting women who happened to wander past.”
“Woah, woah! Absolutely not.” He raised both hands in surrender. “I was not here to grope anyone. Nor would I.”
He tilted his head, considering her.
“You, however, climbed onto me and put your hand somewhere that would make us married in at least three cultures I can think of. So if anyone was doing the groping-”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Effie cut in, heat rising to her cheeks. “I was trying to find my coat.”
He snorted.
“Honey,” he said mildly. “What you were grabbing ain’t a storage solution.”
“Are you always this crude?” Effie tutted. “I couldn’t see where I was going. There wasn’t any light.”
There was a brief pause.
“Do I need to explain to you what your handheld weapon is actually for?”
Heat crept into Effie’s cheeks. She lowered the lamp slightly. At this point, she was fairly certain that if the man had intended to attack her, he would have done so already. The absurdity of the situation was starting to outweigh the danger. Though it still didn’t explain why he’d been hiding in Plutarch’s spare room like some sort of guilty secret.
Still, she needed to see him properly.
Effie fumbled for the switch and turned the lamp on.
The light was soft rather than bright, casting a warm, imperfect glow that didn’t reach every corner of the room. But it was enough.
He squinted against it, narrowing his eyes, one hand lifting instinctively as if to block the sudden change. He was taller than her. Not imposing, but solid, the kind of man who looked like he’d hold his ground if pushed. His hair fell untidily across his forehead, and Effie couldn’t tell whether that was the result of neglect or simply having been buried beneath a mountain of coats.
His clothes were respectable enough, though clearly no longer cared for tonight. Creased fabric, a collar that refused to sit properly and buttons left undone on his waistcoat. Nothing about him looked polished. Nothing looked planned.
Effie took all of this in carefully, methodically, as she did with most things.
And despite herself, despite every sensible instinct telling her not to catalogue this at all, there was one thing she noticed immediately.
He was handsome.
Not like the men she’d moved among in her social circles since she was fifteen. Something different. Something that made her want to keep looking.
Which was precisely why she didn’t.
Effie cleared her throat and turned away, setting the lamp back on the bedside table. She regretted it immediately. With the light no longer in her hands, she suddenly didn’t know what to do with them. The space between them felt exposed, awkward.
She reminded herself why she was here.
“I apologise if I disturbed you,” she said briskly. “I just need to find my coat, and then I’ll leave you to your...whatever it is you were doing.”
She leaned over the bed, peering hopefully at the pile, as if her coat might reveal itself of its own accord, waving at her politley to spare her further embarrassment.
The man rolled up his sleeve and glanced at his wrist as though checking the time. Finding a watch there, he frowned at it, then tapped the face once, suspiciously, as if it had personally disappointed him.
“Has it gone midnight?” he asked.
Effie shook her head. “No. Not for a while yet.” She lifted a coat or two aside, careful, methodical.
“You got kids you need to get back to?”
She chewed on her lip and dug a little deeper into the pile. Still nothing.
“No. No children.”
The silence that followed was palpable, thick with unspoken possibilities. It felt as though he were weighing something, the air between them crowded with questions neither of them quite wanted voiced.
“Anyone at home waiting for you?” he asked at last. “Boyfriend. Partner. Wife. Something.”
Effie let one of the coats fall back onto the bed a little harder than necessary.
“No,” she said. “There’s no one waiting for me. There’s no one anywhere waiting for me.” She paused, then added, more quietly, “I just have a headache. And I’d like to go home.”
She braced herself for more. Sympathy perhaps, maybe curiosity. Or something sharp and pitying.
Instead, he simply nodded.
Without another word, he climbed over the mountain of coats and disappeared off the far side of the bed.
Effie should have found her coat and left.
Or simply left. Gone back to Plutarch, explained she couldn’t locate it, promised to return at a more convenient time.
That was what she should do.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she found herself circling the bed, carefully and deliberately, unwilling to clamber over the coats the way he had. She told herself she just wanted to see where he’d gone. Nothing more.
When she reached the other side, she stopped short.
The man was sitting on the floor, his back resting against the bed, one knee bent comfortably as he gazed out the window. The city lights stretched out below him, distant and glittering. In his hand, held aloft like an offering, was a large bottle of Moët & Chandon.
“Come on,” he said easily, gesturing to the space beside him. “Have some. It’ll help your headache.”
Effie arched an eyebrow. “Champagne helps headaches? Is that a professional opinion?”
She surprised herself by kneeling down anyway, smoothing her skirt beneath her with habitual care.
“I don’t know about professional, but it certainly can’t hurt,” he said.
“Hmm,” Effie said dubiously shuffling closer. “I’ll remember that when I have a hangover tomorrow morning. Do you have a glass?”
He huffed out a breath and shot her a look. “No, I don’t have a glass. You’ll have to drink it straight from the bottle, Princess.”
“My name is Effie,” she said primly, taking the bottle from his hand anyway. “And you’ve managed to steal a thousand dollar bottle of champagne from Plutarch’s collection. I don’t think locating a couple of flutes would have been beyond you.”
“I wasn’t exactly planning on company,” he replied, watching her as she took a careful swig. “I’m Haymitch.”
They passed the bottle back and forth for a few moments. The champagne fizzed pleasantly through her veins, taking some of the tightness with it. Not enough to make her careless, just enough to make breathing easier.
“So,” Effie said at last, handing it back, “Haymitch. Why are you here?”
He gave a shrug. “Same as you, same as everyone, Plutarch invited me.”
Effie sighed. “I didn’t mean why you’re in the house,” she said. “I meant why you were hiding under a pile of coats in a dark room instead of mingling with the other guests.”
“I’m not a great mingler.”
Effie angled her head, watching him. “Then why come to the party? Why not stay at home?”
He rolled the bottle slowly between his palms before answering. “Like I said, Plutarch invited me. It’s easier to say yes than owe him anything.” He glanced around the darkened room. “I came to the party as agreed. I never agreed to where I had to be during it.”
Effie tutted, reaching for the bottle when he lifted it toward her. “That’s not the spirit of accepting an invitation,” she said. “You can’t exploit a loophole.”
He snorted. “Says the woman leaving a New Year’s Eve party when it’s still practically daylight.”
She took a sip, longer this time, then passed the bottle back. “Like I said, I have a headache. I thought coming out would be better than sitting at home alone, and Plutarch was kind enough to invite me.” She shrugged lightly. “I’ve done my fair share of mingling.”
“I’m not much of a conversationalist,” he said, tipping the bottle to his mouth. “I tend to stay wherever the drink is.”
He handed it back again, their fingers brushing briefly this time. Not accidental, but not lingered on either.
They drank in companionable silence, shoulders resting against the bed, eyes drawn to the window. Below them, the city glowed. It was alive, electric and celebratory. Lights pulsed and shifted as people moved through streets and rooms and moments, counting down together toward something loud and shared.
For the first time all evening, Effie didn’t feel compelled to be part of it.
Before this month, she would have said that this, the flash, the lights, the crowds, the collective happiness, was where she felt most alive.
Sitting here now, tucked away from all of it, she felt something else instead. Her shoulders eased, the tight line of her jaw loosening without her quite realising it. She took a deeper breath than she had all night.
That was unusual.
“Why?”
Haymitch’s voice cut gently through the quiet.
Effie frowned at him as she passed the bottle back, suddenly unsure whether she’d spoken aloud.
“Why don’t you have anyone at home?” he clarified.
“Oh.” She hesitated, fingers lingering on the glass a moment longer than necessary before letting go. “My relationship ended recently. So it was either come here…or sit at home and eat junk food.” She gave a small, self-aware huff. “I seem to be sustaining myself entirely on peppermint chip chocolate ice cream at the moment. How about you?”
“No,” he said at last, smirking as he handed it back. “I’m not a fan of ice cream that’s got crushed up candy canes in it.”
Effie gave him a light shove with her shoulder. “I meant, do you have anyone at home?”
He looked at her sideways, sceptical. “What do you think?”
“It’s polite not to assume,” she said. “Plenty of men have a wife and three children and still choose to stay out for the evening.”
He scoffed softly. “On New Year’s Eve?” He shook his head and took another pull from the bottle. “Don’t think much of men like that. If you’re foolish enough to be in a relationship, then act like it. Or get out of it.”
Effie studied him. “You don’t like relationships?”
He paused, the bottle hovering near his mouth. Then he lowered it.
“I don’t have them,” he said simply. “Haven’t for a very long time.”
Something in his tone, that was flat and final, made her tread carefully.
“What happened in your last relationship?” she asked.
He didn’t look at her when he answered. His gaze stayed fixed on the city beyond the window, the lights flickering across his face.
“She died.”
There was a pause. The quiet pressed in around them.
“I’m sorry,” Effie said at last. Then, more carefully, “Do you not have any other family you could be with tonight?”
“No,” he replied. “They’re dead too.” He tipped the bottle back, unfazed. “I’m a real good luck charm.”
He handed it to her, then glanced her way. “What about you? Why aren’t you with your family?”
Effie took a sip before answering. “I’ve been with them for weeks,” she said. “Christmas. Twixmas. All of it.” She let out a breath. “They keep looking at me like I’m made of glass.”
Her grip tightened slightly around the bottle. “I’m not fragile.”
“I know,” he said.
She turned to him, narrowing her eyes. “You do?”
Haymitch nodded. “You were ready to take me out with a lamp,” he said simply. “And you chose to sit down here with me when there’s a whole mansion full of people out there.”
His gaze met hers, steady.
“You’re more than you look.”
Effie huffed softly. “Perhaps you could tell my friends that.” She passed the bottle back. “They mean well, but they keep waiting for me to break down. Like that’s the only way they’ll believe I’m hurting.”
“My friends want me to stop breaking down in front of them,” he said with a half smile, tipping his head back against the bed. “Perhaps we should swap.”
Effie laughed, the sound surprising her with how easily it came. “I would love for you to attend Sofia Tassleby’s monthly afternoon tea party in my place. She’ll always make underhanded comments about my outfit through three courses of sandwiches, pastries, and scones.”
“I’ve got a shirt that’s been half eaten by a sheep,” he said. “And it smells like it. She ain’t gonna enjoy a cucumber sandwich with me sitting there in that.”
Haymitch paused. “But you’d have to go drinking with Chaff, who would-”
He stopped himself, glancing over her appraisingly, before he shook his head. “Actually, fuck that. He’d much rather go drinking with you than me.”
Effie smiled and rubbed at her temple, the champagne beginning to blur pleasantly at the edges. “How did your shirt get eaten by a sheep?”
“Half eaten,” he corrected. “If it’d been fully eaten, I wouldn’t still have it.”
He took the bottle from her, then glanced sideways.
“Your head still hurting?”
“Oh no, it’s fine,” Effie said quickly, dropping her hand from her temple as if caught out.
Haymitch didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at her, properly this time, long enough that she shifted slightly under the attention.
“Effie,” he said, more gently now. “Your head still hurting?”
People usually took her at face value. They didn’t ask twice. If she smiled and said she was fine, that was the end of it.
“It’s better,” she said. His expression didn’t change. “Honestly. It’s dulled now. Probably the champagne helping.”
He snorted softly.
“Let’s find you some painkillers,” Haymitch said, already shifting his weight forward. “You can’t start the new year with a bad head.”
“I’m sure Plutarch has a whole pharmacy full of medication somewhere,” she remarked, sighing at the thought of going back out there. “But I really shouldn’t take it after the champagne.”
“As long as you don’t knock them back like sweets, you’ll be fine,” he replied, standing up and offering her a hand without ceremony. “And we’re not asking Plutarch for anything.”
To Effie’s surprise, he pushed himself to his feet and reached for the nearest coat, lifting it from the pile and turning it over with practiced ease. He plunged a hand into one of the pockets.
“What are you doing?” Effie asked sharply.
“Seeing if someone’s got painkillers,” he replied, already checking the inside pocket.
Effie’s mouth fell open. She scrambled to her feet. “That’s not your jacket?”
Haymitch paused, holding the coat away from himself and inspecting it with open distaste. It was heavy wool, dark and expensive, the lining slick beneath his fingers.
“God, no,” he said. “Definitely not.”
At her look of pure scandal, he rolled his eyes and tossed another coat at her from the pile. “Relax. Don’t get your panties in a twist. Try that one.”
Effie caught it awkwardly and immediately recoiled, pinching the collar delicately between thumb and forefinger and holding it as far from her body as possible. It smelled faintly of cologne and cold air, the sleeves still damp from melted frost.
“No!” she said. “That’s stealing!”
“Only if you take something important,” he said, already moving on to a third coat, this one lighter, cashmere maybe, with a silk lining that whispered as he searched it. “No one’s going to miss a couple of painkillers. It’s like hotel rules.”
He glanced back at her.
“You take the little bottle of shampoo. You don’t drag the bed out the door.”
“Well then it’s breaking and entering,” Effie said primly, eyeing the coat in her hands while Haymitch dug through another.
“Breaking and entering?” he scoffed. “Into a pocket?” He shook the coat once, as if offended by the idea. “Don’t be so uptight. Sofia Tassleby would do it.”
Effie shot him a look and sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed. “Then perhaps I should go and ask her for you,” she said lightly, slipping her fingers into one of the pockets. “She’s at the party, after all. Maybe you’d prefer her company.”
She felt his gaze travel over her. It wasn’t leering, not rushed. Just taking her in before he spoke.
“She’s not here, is she?”
Effie didn’t look up as she quickly returned a crumpled tissue to the pocket. “Are you willing to take that risk?”
Haymitch grinned. “Nope. I’ll stick with you.”
He rolled the jacket he’d just searched into a loose bundle and tossed it aside, where it landed in an undignified heap.
“Charming,” Effie tutted, though she couldn’t quite suppress the smile at her mouth. “Haymitch, stop. We need a system. You’re just throwing the coats you’ve checked straight back where they were.”
He stared at her for a moment, incredulous.
“Two minutes ago you thought the police were going to kick the door down and arrest you for fiddling with buttons,” he said. “Now you want to organise a full blown coat heist?”
His grin widened. “Told you. You’re full of surprises, Princess.”
Effie ignored him.
“If you’re going to do something,” she said briskly, already moving. “You may as well do it properly. You take the pile nearest the pillows. I’ll take the ones by the foot of the bed. We’ll stack the ones we’ve checked over there. Neatly.”
Haymitch watched her for a beat, then shrugged and did as he was told.
They worked like that for a few minutes. Coats lifted, shaken, searched. Wool and cashmere, faux fur and leather. Pockets turned inside out, buttons knocked together softly as items were set aside. Every so often their hands brushed, a sleeve grazing her wrist, his knee bumping lightly into hers as they shifted positions.
Effie found herself smiling. Then biting it back. Then giving up entirely and letting out a quiet laugh.
This was ridiculous.
She was tipsy, kneeling on the floor of a stranger’s bedroom with a man she’d met less than an hour ago, rifling through the pockets of the Panem elite. And she hadn’t felt this unselfconscious in months.
The cusp of a new year always did strange things to people. It invited reflection whether you wanted it or not. You were supposed to look back, tally up the good and mourn the bad. Then look forward with intention. Reinvent yourself. Promise change.
Effie folded a scarf carefully before setting the coat aside.
Most of the time, those promises didn’t stick. Life crept back in. Habits reasserted themselves. It was easier to settle into what you knew. Even when what you knew wasn’t making you happy.
Because it was so much easier.
Change required stepping into something untested.
She glanced at Haymitch across the bed, bent over another coat, brow furrowed in concentration.
Maybe that was why this moment felt different.
Not because it was grand or planned, but because, without meaning to, she’d stepped somewhere unfamiliar. And she hadn’t turned back yet.
Effie felt as though she’d stepped through that door without quite meaning to. She was enjoying herself. Genuinely enjoying the company and, more surprising still, she was being allowed to be herself. The jabs traded between them weren’t barbed or cutting, but softly aimed, teasing rather than cruel.
“Have you found anything?” she asked, laying another jacket carefully onto the searched pile and smoothing the sleeve into place.
“Not much,” he said, nodding toward the small collection of items he’d amassed on the bed. “A few things I can keep. Couple of business cards, a packet of gum, three throat lozenges…” He paused, then added, almost proudly, “And a condom.”
“You’re taking the condom?” Effie said, aghast. “What if someone needs it?”
Haymitch laughed. “Trust me. If they’re thinking about hooking up at this party, I’m doing them a favour.”
“You’re preventing it?”
“I’m preventing a terrible decision,” he said lightly.
“Not if they go ahead anyway and end up pregnant or diseased,” Effie said, lunging for it, only to realise she had no idea which coat it had come from.
Haymitch lifted his hand out of her reach and tucked the condom beneath his little pile of contraband. “That’s on them for being irresponsible,” he said. “What about you? What have you found?”
Effie gestured to the small scatter of items beside her. “Two hair bands, a packet of dog treats, a hand warmer…and sunglasses.”
“Sunglasses?” he said. “In December?”
Effie slipped them on, pushing them up her nose despite the dim light. She wished, briefly, for a mirror. Then decided she didn’t need one.
“Someone who doesn’t expect to go home tonight,” she said lightly. “Someone planning to walk back in the morning with a hangover.” She tilted her head toward him. “What do you think? Should I put them back?”
Haymitch shook his head. “No,” he said. “They look better on you.”
He nodded toward his small pile of confiscated items. “Let’s just hope the condom wasn’t theirs. Otherwise they’re in for a very sexually frustrated walk home.”
“Sexually frustrated and with a killer migraine,” Effie added.
“Exactly.”
“Story of my life,” she laughed, the words escaping before she could stop them.
The air shifted. Not dramatically, not all at once. Just enough to notice. They were both still kneeling on the floor, close enough now that she could feel the warmth of him beside her. The champagne buzzed softly through her veins, loosening edges without blurring intent.
They weren’t naïve. They were both single. Both a little tipsy. Both aware of how close this was to becoming something else.
It felt like standing at the edge of somewhere new.
Somewhere she couldn’t yet see.
That alone was frightening.
Usually, when Effie flirted, she knew the shape of things. When the move would come, how it would happen, what they would do in bed, where it would end. The predictability had always been reassuring.
Haymitch wasn’t predictable.
He was a wild card.
And she’d never felt such a pull to play one.
“Right,” Effie said, breaking the moment before it could tip too far. “One more coat each.”
She handed him a jacket as though it were a Christmas present waiting to be opened. “What have you got?”
Haymitch checked the first pocket and turned it inside out. Empty. He moved to the second, and she saw it immediately in his expression. The brief pause and the flicker of interest.
He drew his hand out slowly and opened his palm.
Resting there was a small Christmas ornament. A silver butterfly, delicate and finely worked, a thin thread looped through it for hanging. It caught the light faintly, wings poised as though on the brink of flight.
“We can’t take that,” Effie said at once. “It’s too pretty.” She leaned closer without meaning to. “We have to put it back.”
“You sure?” he asked. “Someone left it in their pocket. If it mattered that much, it’d be on their tree.”
Effie hesitated, chewing her lip. Maybe the owner wouldn’t notice. Maybe they wouldn’t miss it at all.
She would, though.
If it were hers, something so small, shining and hopeful, she’d feel the loss. The butterfly looked ready to take its first flight, delicate and determined all at once.
“No,” she said quietly, then more firmly.
She placed her fingers over his hand and gently closed it, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath hers. Her breath caught before she could stop it.
“We put it back.”
Haymitch shrugged, unfazed. “Alright. If you’re sure.”
He turned his hand palm down again, and for a fraction of a second she wanted to let her fingers trail along his. To feel the shape of that warmth a moment longer.
He broke the spell with a small grin. “Last chance, then. What did you find?”
Effie slipped her hand into the first pocket. And stopped.
She drew it out slowly, surprised by the weight of something so light.
Mistletoe.
The small bundle sat innocently in her palm, green leaves bound together with red thread. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Effie didn’t look at him right away. Her heart had started to beat faster, a little unsteady, and she took a breath to steady it.
She wasn’t a shy schoolgirl. She was a grown woman. She could handle this.
“Someone was feeling optimistic and hoping to get lucky,” Haymitch said at last, clearing his throat and shoving his hands into his pockets. “Maybe we should put it back. Tuck the condom in with it. Complete the set.”
Effie snorted despite herself, then sat back down on the floor, the mistletoe still in her hand. The room felt warmer now. Or maybe that was just her.
“I don’t think it’s traditional to have sex under mistletoe,” she said lightly.
“No,” he agreed, lowering himself to the floor beside her again. “But there’s no rule that says you can’t.”
Effie turned her gaze toward the window instead, where the first fireworks were beginning to bloom. Brief flashes of colour against the dark sky.
“I think a kiss is more traditional,” she said. “What time is it?”
Haymitch glanced at his watch.
“One minute to midnight.”
Effie felt torn.
She could say goodnight. Step back into the party, make her apologies, leave quietly and forget this evening ever happened. It would be sensible. Predictable. Exactly what everyone would expect of her.
But she didn’t want to.
She wanted to stay. She wanted to start the year by choosing something she wanted. Even if, tomorrow, she went back to choosing the safe path.
Her thoughts were still circling when Haymitch reached for her hand. He didn’t rush it. His fingers slid between hers as if testing whether she’d pull away. She didn’t.
They sat like that for a moment, hands joined, watching the fireworks bloom beyond the window. Colour flared and faded over the city below, reflected in glass and distance, framed so perfectly it felt as though it had been arranged just for them. Just for this moment.
“There’s a little bandstand in West Side Park,” he said quietly. “By the lake.”
His thumb traced a slow, absent-minded circle against her palm, and Effie felt the touch travel through her. A low, steady pulse that had nothing to do with the fireworks outside.
“You can see the whole sky from there,” he went on. “The colours reflect in the water. It’s got the best view in the city. From up here though, the fireworks look like flowers pushing up through the ground.”
Effie swallowed, eyes still on the window, unwilling to break the spell by looking at him just yet.
For the first time in a long while, the future didn’t feel like something she needed to manage. It felt like something she might simply step into.
“That sounds quite poetic,” Effie said, shifting closer until the side of her body rested against his.
Haymitch laughed quietly. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
She squeezed his hand. It had to be the champagne. The way it made everything feel a little looser, a little brighter and that made her want to hold on to it longer than necessary.
“I’m not,” she said. “It’s just…beautiful.”
His free hand lifted slowly, deliberately, brushing the mistletoe still curled in her other palm. Not taking it. Just touching it. Testing the space between intention and permission.
She liked that.
That he waited. That he paid attention.
“Happy New Year, Effie,” he said softly.
The words brushed her cheek, close enough that she felt the warmth of him, the faint fizz of champagne on his breath. Not sharp. Not overwhelming. Just warm. He radiated warmth.
“Happy New Year,” she replied, and then finally, she turned to face him.
It had been her last defence, not looking at him.
Now their eyes met, and she found she didn’t want to look away. Fireworks reflected in his gaze, shards of colour and light, making his eyes look impossibly alive. She could lose herself there.
And for once, the idea of getting lost didn’t feel frightening.
It felt like a choice.
They didn’t need to say anything else.
Effie let the mistletoe slip from her fingers, dropping softly between them, and edged closer until her knee brushed his. She rested her hand there, tentative, giving him time to pull away if he wanted to.
He didn’t.
Haymitch leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers for a brief, grounding moment. His hand came up to her chin, thumb warm against her skin as he tipped her face upward. The kiss he gave her was light, almost questioning. Just a brush of lips.
It wasn’t enough.
She chased it instinctively as he pulled back, the loss sharp and immediate. He paused, searching her face, reading the answer she hadn’t yet put into words.
Whatever he found there made his decision for him.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, claiming her mouth with intent, his lips firm against hers as the world outside the room fell away.
Effie didn’t want slow anymore. These were her first moments of the new year, and what she wanted was him. The noise, the doubt, the ache she’d carried for weeks, all of it dissolved, leaving only heat and want and the certainty of being exactly where she chose to be.
Her hand slid into his hair, fingers threading through it, nails grazing his scalp. Haymitch let out a low sound at that, his grip shifting to the small of her back. She felt his fingers through the thin fabric of her dress, steady and anchoring.
He wasn’t gentle now. He held her like she might disappear if he loosened his grip.
And she didn’t want him to.
Effie brought her other hand up into his hair, tipping forward as her arms slid around his neck. This was no longer a simple midnight kiss. She knew that. And the knowledge scared her even as it pulled her closer. Stopping felt harder than going on. Stopping meant thinking.
The kiss deepened, messy and hungry, and a sound slipped from her before she could stop it. His mouth moved against hers with unpolished urgency, not careful, not choreographed. Just need. She felt the scrape of breath, the pressure of lips, the tangle of his tongue, and the way they kept finding and losing rhythm before crashing back together again.
It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t practiced. It was overwhelming in the best possible way. Effie’s thoughts scattered completely. She wanted his hands everywhere at once, move them to places she ached to be touched. She wanted to lay back and pull him on top of her, so all she felt was the weight of him surrounding her.
And then he pulled back.
Not abruptly. Not coldly. Just enough. He pressed a brief kiss to her lips, grounding and deliberate, then he withdrew.
The absence was immediate.
“What?” Effie asked, breathless, the word almost a demand as she searched his face. Outside, the fireworks had faded. The room felt darker now, quieter. Want pooled low and restless inside her with dark hunger.
She leaned forward and kissed him again. Once. Twice. Before he could answer.
“Do you really want to go at it on Plutarch’s floor?” Haymitch said, half amused. There was no disgust in his tone. If anything, the idea seemed to tempt him. “Because in about five minutes, a hundred people are going to come charging in here for their coats. They’d have to be spectacularly drunk not to notice two people fucking on the carpet.”
Effie huffed out a breath, shaking her head slightly. The lingering heat of the kiss, as well as the champagne and the closeness, made her feel buoyant and untouchable. Like nothing could reach her in this moment.
“Yes, well,” she said, faintly breathless. “Perhaps it’s not a good idea to become the evening’s entertainment.”
Haymitch swallowed, then took both her hands in his, grounding her again. His thumbs pressed warm circles into her palms.
“Do you think it’s a good idea at all?” he asked quietly.
The question hit like a bucket of ice cold water poured over her.
She tried to pull her hands back on instinct, but he didn’t let go, not tightly. Not possessively. Just enough to keep her there with him.
“You don’t want to?” she asked, the words betraying her before she could stop them.
“I didn’t say that,” he said immediately. “I asked whether you think it’s a good idea.”
She searched his face, heart still racing, as his fingers threaded more deliberately through hers.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” she asked.
“For one thing,” he said, gently. “We’ve both had a drink.”
Effie scoffed. “I’m not some teenage girl. I haven’t downed a bottle of tequila. I’ve had some champagne. I know what I’m doing.”
Haymitch hesitated, and she knew immediately that the alcohol wasn’t the real concern.
“And you’ve just come out of a relationship,” he said carefully. “Recently. That’s not an easy place to be. Your head’s going to be all over the place.”
Effie lifted her chin stubbornly. “So what if it is? You’re telling me you’ve never had a one night stand?”
She pulled one hand free to gesture, agitated. “You know how those work. I can go back to being all over the place tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’ve had one night stands.”
He paused, then met her eyes.
“But they’ve never felt like this.”
“Like what?” she asked.
Haymitch’s jaw tightened slightly before he answered.
“Like I wouldn’t know how to walk out the door in the morning and disappear,” he said. “And I would need to. I will need to. And right now…I don’t know how I’d do that. But I wouldn’t know how to stay either.”
Effie let the admission sit between them, heavy and unguarded.
“So what do we do?” she asked softly. “Stop before we’ve even started?”
It felt like defeat.
Like the opposite of what this night was supposed to stand for. New Year’s Eve was meant to be about chances. About stepping forward, choosing differently, doing something you wanted instead of what was sensible.
Haymitch went quiet for a moment, thinking. Then he shifted closer, positioning himself so her legs rested between his knees. Not crowding her, just steadying the space between them.
“Let’s spend New Year’s Eve together,” he said.
Effie frowned. “It is New Year’s Eve,” she replied slowly, as though she needed to hear herself say it.
“No,” Haymitch said, gently chiding. “Next year.”
“Technically,” she said. “It’s already next year.”
“Effie,” he huffed, a faint smile breaking through. He released one of his hands and lifted it to her cheek, thumb warm where it rested. “New Year’s Eve. Twelve months from now. At the bandstand by the lake in the park. If you’ve got your head straight. If you’re still interested.”
He hesitated, then added more quietly, “If you’re still free.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You think I’ve already RSVPed to something a year in advance?”
“I mean free, as in you don’t have someone else you’d rather spend it with,” he clarified, “You might have plans by then. With them.”
“I won’t.”
Haymitch studied her for a moment, something careful and unreadable in his expression.
“You might,” he said. “You probably will.
“Why do you think that?” Effie asked. She wanted to spend this New Year’s Eve with him. Why wouldn’t she want to spend the next one too?
He exhaled softly. “Because women like you don’t stay alone for long. And it’s…it’s rare that it’s with men like me.”
He grimaced slightly. “Sorry if that makes it sound like I think you’re snobbish.”
“No,” she snorted. “I think it makes you sound snobbish.”
Then, more quietly, “I’ve always been alone. Even when I’m not.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “And what about you? You might not even be there. You agreed to spend this evening with Plutarch and still ended up hiding under a pile of coats.”
Haymitch laughed. “I wasn’t close to doing Plutarch on the carpet, at least.”
Her lips twitched.
“I’ll be there,” he said, more certain now.
“How do you know?” Effie asked. “A year’s a long time.”
“Because I was sitting in the dark for a long time,” he said quietly. “Hiding under coats.”
His gaze held hers.
“And you brought in the light.”
He kissed her again. Slow this time, lingering, and Effie kissed him back with everything she had left in her. She clung to the moment, to the feel of his mouth and the warmth of his hands, knowing with a quiet, aching certainty that this might be all there was. That this might be the only shape this thing was ever meant to take.
When they finally pulled apart, it wasn’t because the want had faded. It was because they were both breathing harder now, foreheads pressed together, the world beginning to creep back in at the edges. The muffled sounds of the party drifted through the walls. Footsteps. Laughter. Time, stubborn and insistent.
Effie let out a slow breath and stood, smoothing her dress as if it might anchor her back to herself. She gathered her small, ridiculous collection of stolen items and slipped them into her bag.
It felt oddly domestic. Ordinary. And somehow, that made it harder.
“Your coat’s over there,” Haymitch said, nodding toward the far end of the bed. “Under the blue one.”
Effie paused, fingers stilled on her bag. “How do you know which one’s mine?”
“Your perfume,” he said simply. “It’s on you. And it’s on the coat.” His mouth tilted slightly. “Besides, it’s the prettiest. All the others are dull by comparison.”
Effie found it easily once she knew where to look. She slipped her arms into the sleeves and shrugged it on, the familiar weight settling around her shoulders like something reclaimed. She was acutely aware of him watching. Still kneeling on the floor, still exactly where she’d left him.
He didn’t stand. He didn’t move toward her. She understood why without him saying a word. Because if he did, he might follow her out the door. And neither of them was ready for what that would mean.
“Goodnight, Haymitch,” she said, her hand lingering on the door handle a fraction longer than necessary.
“Goodnight,” he replied.
Not goodbye.
Effie paused, her fingers tightening slightly around the metal. She didn’t turn back, not yet.
“The bandstand?” she asked, quietly. As though saying it aloud might anchor it, might prove that this wasn’t something she’d imagined in the haze of champagne and fireworks.
“The bandstand,” he echoed. “In the park. By the lake. New Year’s Eve.”
That was enough.
She nodded once and opened the door, stepping out without looking back. The sounds of the party rose to meet her again but something inside her felt steadier than it had when she’d first arrived.
With that, she didn’t look back, but continued forward into the new year.
She walked forward without knowing what waited for her, or what the coming months might bring. What journey the year would take her on.
But maybe, just maybe, she knew how it would end.