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New York never slept, but this undeniable fact didn't do much for Haymitch's optimism. He thought that this city was perhaps the only place on earth where you could stand in the middle of a million people and feel completely alone. The skyscrapers here grew straight out of the asphalt, like concrete trees, and the air was filled with exhaust fumes and the feeling of someone else's melancholy. He had recently turned twenty-two, was in his third year of a major that didn't particularly inspire him, and worked part-time for a private transportation company because his scholarship didn't even cover half his rent.
Haymitch didn't dream of being a driver. He tried not to dream at all — empty hopes had an unpleasant habit of either not coming true or coming true in the most mocking way possible. So he just gripped the steering wheel, listened to rock from a local radio station that sometimes only picked up the signal on the edge of interference, and silently hated every passenger who left crumbs from expensive cookies on the back seat or perfume that seeped into the cabin for a whole week.
What he hated most were the orders from the Upper East Side.
That's where the people lived who never looked at price tags in the grocery store. Their children received the keys to a new Tesla at sixteen, and the word "no" existed for them only in Scrabble. The parents of these teenagers hired drivers to chauffeur their offspring to endless parties, shopping trips, and other events whose purpose Haymitch refused to understand.
He was paid — and for that, he endured their chatter, their whims, their habit of treating him like a loser who happened to know how to drive. Sometimes he'd catch the eye of some spoiled golden child in the rearview mirror and grip the steering wheel tighter, counting the minutes until the end of the ride.
The order that came on Friday evening looked painfully familiar, no different from the previous ones. The same lines: "Regular service. Client: Trinket, Effie. Pickup address: Upper East Side, 89th Street. Destination: Manhattan Ballet Academy. Time: 7:30 AM. Note: Punctuality is mandatory. The client does not tolerate lateness." Haymitch stared at the screen, nearly rolling his eyes.
"Oh, of course. 'The client does not tolerate lateness.' As if I can magically teleport the car across half the city when the roads are jammed, the traffic lights are conspiring against me, and the navigator has decided to show me an 'alternate route' through a construction site," he thought, smirking.
He pictured this Effie Trinket — surely a woman with perfectly styled hair, an expensive coat, and an expression that suggested the entire world existed only for her convenience. And he, Haymitch, was just a cog in that machine.
"Well, then. Punctuality is mandatory. So I'll have to get up at five in the morning just to make sure I'm on time. How lovely," he exhaled and pressed accept order.
He would have refused, but the regular orders paid more, and he needed to put down a deposit for the summer semester. So on Monday at 7:15 AM, Haymitch parked the dark blue sedan at the main entrance of a red-brick building with wrought-iron gates and turned off the engine. Outside, dawn was just breaking — the sky over Manhattan was painted a pale pink, like a watercolor wash. He took out his phone, checked the news, glanced at the headlines about traffic and weather, then stared at the building entrance, settling in to wait for his new client.
She appeared exactly at 7:30. Not a second earlier, not a second later.
The building door opened, and a delicate girl stepped out, whom Haymitch immediately mentally dubbed "the doll princess." She had blonde hair pulled into a high bun without a single strand out of place. She wore a perfectly pressed pastel blue coat, gloves, and a ballet bag slung over her shoulder. Her makeup looked as if it had taken at least half an hour every morning. She looked as if she were preparing for a magazine photoshoot, not heading to an early morning rehearsal.
Effie Trinket got into the back seat without looking at him and said:
"Good morning. The Ballet Academy, please."
The "please" didn't sound like politeness but like a command disguised as sweet cotton candy. Haymitch started the engine, and the car smoothly pulled away.
"Good morning," he replied in an even tone. "Please fasten your seatbelt."
She silently complied, then a second later opened her makeup bag and began touching up her lipstick.
That was their routine. Every weekday morning — pickup at exactly 7:30. The drive to the academy took fifteen minutes without traffic and forty with it. Fifteen minutes of silence, which Effie filled with makeup, texting on her phone, or the occasional remark: "Could you turn on the seat warmer?" or "Could you drive a little more smoothly? I have fragile things in my bag."
Haymitch hated this job more with every ride.
But the real trials began on Tuesday of the second week. He got held up at a traffic light for thirty seconds longer than usual, and Effie, checking her watch, said coldly:
"Haymitch, you're late."
He didn't remember introducing himself to her. So she'd found his name in the app. That was at least strange — most clients couldn't care less what the person behind the wheel was called.
"By thirty seconds," Haymitch corrected, glancing in the rearview mirror. "And that's not being late, that's a margin of error."
"Late is late," Effie cut him off. "My warm-up is scheduled for 8:05. Every minute counts."
"I'll keep that in mind," Haymitch replied dryly.
"I hope so," Effie said with such sincere, genuine pomp that he barely held back a smirk.
Haymitch gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, trying not to show his irritation.
*"Every minute counts,"* he repeated mentally. *"So mine don't? What am I, a robot who has to move with split-second precision?"* But aloud, he said something entirely different:
"Understood. I'll take it into account."
In the rearview mirror, he saw Effie bury herself in her phone again, as if the conversation was over.
---
On Thursday, Effie managed to spill powder all over the back seat. The fine, expensive, ivory-colored dust settled on the black leather like the first snow on asphalt. Haymitch noticed this in the mirror and gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
"For God's sake," he said indignantly, pulling up to the academy. "Couldn't you have done this at home?"
"I didn't have time," Effie replied, brushing the powder off her coat. "My hairbrush broke, and it threw off my entire morning ritual."
"Ritual…" Haymitch drawled.
"Yes, ritual. Order is important, Haymitch," Effie insisted. She gave him a quick once-over, assessing his worn jeans and old sweater, and then added: "Perhaps you don't understand that because… you have no reason to care about order."
"I have reasons to care about keeping the car clean," Haymitch retorted. "I'm the one who washes it."
"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Effie waved him off. "Powder shakes out easily."
She got out of the car without a backward glance. Haymitch looked at the little white cloud on the seat and thought that one of these days he would just quit. Just get out of the car, slam the door, and walk away. But he didn't act on the impulse because he needed the money. And also because — as Haymitch reluctantly began to notice by the end of the third week — Effie Trinket, for all her irritating perfection, was in her own way amusing in her relentless quest to control everything.
Effie chattered non-stop. Damn it, she talked incessantly!
"…And then my mother said that purple isn't my color, but I disagree," she continued. "Purple suits all blondes, that's an axiom. Don't you agree, Haymitch?"
"I don't know anything about colors," he replied.
"You see, that's the problem," Effie stated confidently. "Men rarely understand colors. You only wear black, gray, and sometimes dark blue. That's statistically reliable — I've observed."
"You analyze what men wear?" Haymitch asked in surprise.
"I just notice things," Effie smiled. "I have excellent visual memory. It's crucial for ballet — remembering movements, positions, transitions. By the way, do you know how long it takes to prepare for a single arabesque?"
"No," Haymitch replied shortly.
"Three years minimum," Effie explained enthusiastically. "Three years of daily rehearsals to make a single movement truly beautiful!"
Effie fell silent, burying herself in her phone, and Haymitch finally allowed himself an exhale of relief. Fifteen minutes of blessed silence — a rare gift on trips with Miss Trinket. He even allowed himself to relax his shoulders slightly and glance out the side window: morning Manhattan, bathed in sunlight, looked almost welcoming.
But then she perked up again and launched into an enthusiastic monologue: first about her choreography — how hard it was to remember the sequence of movements for a new piece — then about her teacher — "an unbearable perfectionist, but a genius, nothing to be done about it" — and then about wanting to try espresso without sugar.
"But that must be disgusting!" Effie exclaimed. "Why do people torture themselves like that?"
Haymitch agreed, without really listening to the content of her monologue. He had long since learned to pretend to listen — nodding at the right moments, occasionally inserting a short "I see" or "yes, of course." Meanwhile, his mind was occupied with entirely different thoughts: how many more of these rides he had ahead of him, the approaching deadline for his deposit payment, the fact that he needed to fix the lock in his bathroom.
Yet somehow, he remembered many details about her life anyway. For example, Effie ordered a latte with oat milk and two cubes of raw sugar. She didn't like rain because it messed up her hair and made her shoes slip on the wet pavement. She had a younger sister, Proserpina, who went to boarding school in Connecticut, and she considered her her best and only friend. Effie confessed that she missed her terribly.
"Do you drink coffee?" Effie suddenly asked, breaking away from her story.
"Yeah, I live on caffeine," Haymitch joked, not taking his eyes off the road.
"And with sugar?" she clarified.
"Yeah," Haymitch nodded.
"Of course you do," she smiled, as if confirming her theory, and said goodbye to him, getting out of the car.
---
Effie Trinket was fidgety. Endlessly fidgety. She would apply lipstick and then wipe it off five minutes later.
"Wrong shade, I made a mistake this morning," she would apologize for some reason, meeting his bewildered gaze.
She would check three times whether she had her ballet tutus. She would ask to turn up the air conditioning, then a minute later, to turn it down. She drove him crazy. But one day — after a month, on a Wednesday morning — Effie didn't say a word. She silently got into the car, fastened her seatbelt, and just stared out the window. Haymitch couldn't help but notice: her bun was slightly less perfect than usual, and there were dark circles under her eyes — the kind that even careful makeup couldn't completely hide.
He remained silent. He drove the usual route, glancing at his passenger out of the corner of his eye. When they stopped at a traffic light at the intersection with Park Avenue, he suddenly decided to break the silence:
"You're kind of quiet today."
Effie didn't answer. Haymitch felt an unfamiliar unease stirring inside him — he usually didn't ask unnecessary questions, but now he couldn't help himself:
"You're not sick, are you?"
She was silent for a long time, as if weighing whether to share what was gnawing at her. Then she said quietly, and her voice no longer had its usual lightness and assertiveness:
"I had an audition yesterday evening. For a summer program in Europe. I… I didn't get in."
She didn't cry. But Haymitch could see her fingers trembling on the seatbelt. He made no comment, because he didn't know how to comfort people. Words of comfort always sounded false, especially coming from strangers. Instead, he turned off the usual route.
"Haymitch," Effie realized a minute later. "You're going the wrong way."
"I know," Haymitch smirked, noting her habitual fussiness.
"I need to get to the academy," Effie said rapidly. "I have a class at 9:15."
"You have thirty minutes," he nodded. "I'll get you there on time. I promise."
He parked at a small coffee shop on the corner — one of those places known only to locals. The establishment wasn't part of a big chain: an old sign, a creaky door, and an atmosphere of cozy unpretentiousness. Haymitch got out of the car, slammed the door loudly, and returned five minutes later with two cups of coffee and a paper bag.
"Croissants?" Effie said in surprise, taking the bag from him.
"Almond," Haymitch smiled. "I don't know if you like almonds, but they don't have any other kind here. And I don't think the world will end if you forget about your diet for once."
"I love almonds," Effie smiled warmly.
"Well, good then." He got behind the wheel, took a sip of his black coffee, and started the engine.
"Why did you do that?" Effie looked at the croissant, then at him, then at the croissant again.
"You looked like you needed something sweet," Haymitch tossed over his shoulder, not turning around. "I don't have any other therapeutic methods."
She didn't ask any more questions. She nibbled the croissant carefully in small pieces, gently brushed away the crumbs with a napkin, and remained silent the whole way to the academy. Haymitch dropped her off at the entrance at 9:10.
"Thank you," Effie said as she got out. And added at the last moment: "You showed up very promptly today."
"I'm always on time," Haymitch remarked.
"No," she carefully corrected him. "You're always punctual. Those are different things."
Then Effie walked through the tall doors of the academy, leaving behind a faint trail of floral perfume and a light scent of almond croissants.
---
That day became a turning point, though neither of them admitted it.
On Friday of that same week, Effie left for a performance at the Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts, and the rehearsal ran later than usual. Haymitch waited by the service entrance. A light, unpleasant rain was falling, and droplets ran down the windshield. Haymitch glanced at his watch, fidgeting with his keys, cursing the organizers for not sticking to the schedule.
At exactly midnight, the door swung open, and Effie appeared. She looked tired: her bun was disheveled, her tutu was worn over warm leggings, her makeup was slightly smudged around her eyes, leaving dark traces of mascara. In her hands, her usual ballet bag.
"You're keeping me late," he said instead of a greeting. "It's already midnight."
"I'm sorry," she replied quietly. "The rehearsal ran long."
It was the first "I'm sorry" from her. Haymitch noticed it but didn't comment — just nodded curtly and opened the back door of the car. Effie got into the back seat. Haymitch started the engine, turned up the heat a bit, and carefully pulled away. Five minutes later, he heard her steady breathing in the rearview mirror. Effie had fallen asleep — sitting up, still clutching her ballet bag, her cheek pressed against the cold glass.
In the dim light of the streetlamps, her face in the mirror's reflection looked young and defenseless — without her usual polite smile, without her fussiness, without her need to control everything. Her eyelashes cast thin shadows on her cheeks, and her lips were slightly parted, as if in sleep she had finally allowed herself to relax.
Haymitch involuntarily slowed down on a rough patch of road, not wanting to disturb her sleep. He caught himself thinking that this was the first time he had seen Effie so vulnerable and tired. And in that moment, he understood: she was never just another capricious passenger. She was a girl who pushed herself to exhaustion for her dream. He lowered the mirror a little to see her better and, for a moment, forgot about the miserable weather.
Haymitch slowed down. He was in no hurry. He drove out onto the Manhattan Bridge, which offered a view of the illuminated city — thousands of lights reflecting in the river — then turned around and drove back. He drove around nighttime New York without purpose or route — just so Effie could sleep a little longer. The silence was broken only by the occasional distant honk of a car, the rustle of tires on asphalt, and Effie's steady breathing behind him.
The glowing signs slid across the car's interior, momentarily illuminating the girl's pale face, then giving way again to semi-darkness. An hour later, he parked outside her building. Effie never woke up. Haymitch turned off the engine, got out of the car, took his spare hoodie from the trunk, and carefully draped it over her shoulders. She didn't even stir — just sighed softly in her sleep and furrowed her brows a little, as if she were having some wonderful, peaceful dream.
Then he sat on the hood, lit a cigarette, and watched the dawn slowly blur the blackness of the sky over the East River. The first timid rays of sunlight broke through the haze, painting the clouds in soft pink hues. The city was gradually waking up: somewhere in the distance, a garbage truck rumbled, the first voices of early pedestrians sounded, and the air filled with the freshness of a new day.
In that moment, he realized he was a goner. Not just touched by sympathy or affection — but truly, deeply lost. In this tired girl with the disheveled bun, in her quiet breathing, in the way she had trustingly fallen asleep in his car, forgetting her eternal fussiness and perfection. He suddenly realized that he was ready to do this again and again — drive her, wait for her, and protect those brief moments of her peace.
Haymitch took a drag on his cigarette, shaking his head. The last thing he needed was another stupid infatuation.
---
They didn't discuss what had happened. Instead, their communication flowed through details and little things that meant more than words. Haymitch noticed that Effie no longer spilled makeup. She stopped complaining about his driving style and switched to discussing the weather, new productions, and the strange habits of her classmates. Her voice no longer held its former sharpness, and her fussiness seemed to have subsided, giving way to a new, calmer demeanor.
"Marissa was twenty minutes late yesterday," she said, adjusting her bun. "Twenty minutes, can you imagine? The teacher made her do pliés in the corner the whole lesson."
"Harsh," Haymitch replied briefly, glancing in the rearview mirror.
"That's discipline," Effie said firmly. "You probably don't understand, but ballet is ninety percent discipline and ten percent talent. Without the first, the second is worthless."
Haymitch smirked slightly:
"So if I learn to be disciplined about… uh, drinking tea and eating breakfast in the mornings, I'll become a great dancer?"
Effie laughed brightly.
"No, of course not," she said, shaking her head slightly. "That's completely different, Haymitch. Stop fooling around."
One Saturday, Effie invited him to join her and her friends. At first, Haymitch didn't understand at all what she wanted from him, but then Effie finally stopped changing the subject and said clearly:
"If you're interested, of course… We're going to an open-air cinema in Brooklyn, and I don't feel like taking a taxi back, so…"
"In other words, I'll be your personal taxi?" Haymitch smirked.
"It could be… pleasant," Effie replied. "If you don't mind watching a movie with a bunch of strange people who do ballet."
In the end, Haymitch agreed and even refused payment. Not because he had nothing better to do on a Saturday evening. Quite the opposite. He liked the prospect of lying on the couch, watching sports, and not talking to strangers. But he went anyway, succumbing to a completely irrational impulse and believing that the princess needed supervision.
Effie's company consisted of three girls and two guys from her academy. They were loud, expressive, gestured like Italians, and were constantly discussing something.
"En dedans," "fouetté," "relevé" — to Haymitch, it all sounded like a language from another planet.
They were watching an old movie — "Some Like It Hot," maybe — but Haymitch wasn't sure: the ballet girls chatted through the first half, and in the second, one of them brought out wine and started loudly commenting on every frame. Her name might have been Portia.
"Just look at that costume, Effie!" she exclaimed. "It's a disaster. Who even wore that kind of thing in the sixties?"
"I would wear it," Effie replied. "With the right cut."
"You'd wear anything if it was pink or sparkly," Portia laughed.
"And what's wrong with that?" Effie protested.
Haymitch sat on a blanket off to the side, sipping soda from a can, watching her. Here, Effie was completely different — not the perfect lady, not the saccharine-polite princess of the Upper East Side. She laughed with her head thrown back, let her hair down, and even left popcorn crumbs on her sweater. And he caught himself thinking that this was probably the real Effie — the one no one saw behind the makeup and self-control.
"Why so gloomy?" one of the guys, who had introduced himself as Cinna, asked him.
"Sorry, pal, hate to disappoint," Haymitch snorted, "but I was born with this face."
"Effie said you communicate exclusively through sarcasm," Cinna smirked.
"Well, she's right," Haymitch took another sip of soda.
Just then, Effie turned to him, caught his eye, and smiled. She had a very beautiful, infectious smile, and Haymitch was somehow angry at himself for noticing it. Something in his chest gave a lurch — an unsettling feeling that made him want to look away, to pretend nothing had happened. But he couldn't tear his eyes away.
Effie kept smiling, showing the world her genuine joy, and Haymitch suddenly realized: he was glad he'd come. That he was willing to endure talk of ballet and commentary on old movies, just to see her so carefree.
He took another sip, coughed, trying to hide the conflicting feelings tormenting him, and smiled back.
On the drive back, they hardly spoke. Effie was tired but didn't fall asleep. She watched the lights streaming past the window and occasionally glanced at the back of his head. An unfamiliar silence filled the car: no usual remarks about his driving, no endless stories about her life. Just the steady hum of the engine and the occasional sounds of the night city.
"You weren't… your usual self tonight," she finally said.
The switch to "you" (informal) happened spontaneously, and Haymitch quickly turned his head, raising an eyebrow in question.
"And what am I usually like?" Haymitch asked, not taking his eyes off the road.
"Sometimes very prickly. And sarcastic," Effie explained. "But tonight you hardly joked."
"I didn't want to embarrass you in front of your friends," he replied.
"Come on, that's nonsense!" she picked up. "Are you mad at me?"
"Relax, princess. Maybe I was just relaxed?" Haymitch still wasn't looking at her, but he distinctly felt Effie freeze in the back seat. After a short pause, he added: "Don't worry about it. I'm just not the most sociable person. I don't like noise."
"And Brooklyn?" she clarified.
"Brooklyn I like," Haymitch smirked.
Effie was silent until they reached her house. When the car stopped at her building, she got out but paused for a moment, leaning down to the front window:
"Goodnight, Haymitch."
"Goodnight, ballet princess," he replied with his usual smirk.
She would have protested, but instead she just smiled and disappeared into the building. Haymitch sat for a few more seconds, staring at the closed door, then slowly pulled away. Her words, her smile, and that unexpected switch to the informal "you" swirled in his head…
---
The following weeks fell into a strange pattern: morning drives, occasional evenings, and fleeting touches. Haymitch noticed that Effie smelled of vanilla and somehow of mint when she sat in the front seat. At some point, Effie moved to the front, claiming that "the back seat makes her carsick." Haymitch didn't believe it, but he didn't argue — just nodded briefly and turned up the heat a little, noticing that Effie was slightly cold.
Once, she fell asleep on his shoulder while they were stuck in traffic on the Queensboro Bridge. Haymitch didn't wake her for ten minutes. He stared ahead, feeling the warmth of her head through the fabric of his jacket. In the rearview mirror, he could see her relaxed face, her slightly parted lips, and a stray strand of hair. And for the first time in a long while, he felt a strange calm, as if the whole world had stopped for a moment and he didn't need to think about any of his everyday worries.
Haymitch started bringing her coffee in the mornings without being asked, knowing exactly that Effie loved a latte with oat milk. And she, in turn, would order him a cheeseburger from a roadside cafe when his usual lunch got canceled because of her evening rehearsal.
"You work too much," she said one day, noticing him yawn.
"What's it to you, princess?" Haymitch asked.
"I just… don't want my driver falling asleep at the wheel," Effie frowned.
"How considerate," he suddenly didn't understand how he almost hugged her.
"I just don't want to get used to another driver," Effie parried with an important air.
And the two of them knew perfectly well that was a lie.
---
At the end of the spring semester, Effie had her final performance evaluation. Two weeks before it, she casually dropped:
"I have my exam performance next Thursday. It's a big deal. Teachers, guest choreographers, sometimes agents."
"Sounds serious," Haymitch replied.
"It's important to me, Haymitch. I'm dancing a solo. Fifteen minutes — it's my ticket, you know?" She looked at him with such hope that he felt uncomfortable.
She didn't need to say "come" — it was written in her eyes, in her slightly trembling lips, in the way she nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
Haymitch stared at the road and said:
"I don't know anything about ballet. And I have other plans on Thursday."
Effie nodded. She didn't insist — and that was so her. For all her fussiness and demanding nature, she didn't have a habit of imposing. She accepted his refusal with the same polite smile with which she asked to open the window or turn up the volume when her favorite Taylor Swift song played.
"Of course. I understand," she said quietly and turned to the window.
Effie never brought it up again.
On Thursday, Haymitch felt lousy from the morning. He sat in his apartment kitchen, staring at an empty coffee cup, thinking about what an idiot he was.
"I don't know anything about ballet," he said, stating the obvious.
So what? He really didn't know anything about any kind of dance, but he understood Effie. He understood how worried she was, remembering her past failure. He knew how she held her breath before going on stage. He'd seen her rehearse that damn solo for a week until her fingers were blistered — and all that time, she never complained once.
At 6:45 PM, he canceled his plans with friends, grabbed his car keys, and left his apartment. Haymitch didn't warn her, didn't text, didn't call. He just found the academy's poster online, typed the address into his navigator, and drove across the city. The hall was small, a rehearsal studio with rows of folding chairs. Haymitch made his way to the back row just as the lights went out. On stage — only spotlights, black curtains, and no one. Then she came out.
Effie was in an ivory-colored tutu, her hair in a perfect bun adorned with small rhinestones. She didn't see him — it was too dark and too far back in the hall. She stared at a single point, took a deep breath, and the music began. Haymitch had never consciously listened to classical music before. For him, it had always just been background noise — a sound he could ignore. But now, as Effie moved to the music so fluidly, so painfully beautifully, as if her body weren't subject to gravity — he suddenly understood what she had been talking about.
She danced for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes during which Haymitch forgot that he could look at anything else. He didn't know anything about arabesques and fouettés, didn't know if she was holding her back correctly or pointing her toe properly. But he saw something else — how she poured herself into every movement. Her punctuality, her exactingness, her hidden vulnerability. Her longing for something or someone, the thing she couldn't name aloud but that was evident in every turn of her head, every sweep of her arm.
When the music faded and Effie froze in her final pose, the hall erupted in applause. People stood up, shouted "bravo," some whistled, clapped so loudly that the sound echoed in his chest. Haymitch just sat there, watching her, and felt something huge and unbearable rising in his chest — a mixture of pride and a piercing tenderness that was foreign to him.
After the performance, he found her by the service entrance. Effie was still in her tutu, a cardigan thrown over her shoulders, talking to her teacher. The man was saying something, nodding, patting her on the shoulder. Then she noticed Haymitch, and her face changed, reflecting a whole spectrum of emotions: first disbelief, then recognition, and then a wide, radiant smile.
"You actually came!" Effie exclaimed.
"You were right. I didn't know anything about ballet," Haymitch replied. "But that was… damn, Effie. That was beautiful."
She looked at him. Her eyes glistened with tears.
"You came," she repeated, and now it seemed she was definitely about to cry.
"You knew I would come, princess," Haymitch impulsively hugged her.
"No," she shook her head. "You said you had other plans."
"I lied," Haymitch admitted.
Effie buried her face in his chest, right into his old hoodie with the faded logo. Haymitch held her tighter, as if rocking her. He was never good at this — in his family, it wasn't customary to constantly share sentimentalities. But now, on the contrary, he wanted to be very gentle.
"You smell like vanilla," he said into the top of her head.
"And you're a romantic after all," Effie smiled even wider.
She lifted her head and looked up at him — with that eternal mixture of defiance and hope.
"I think I couldn't have done it without you. My parents are always busy and never come to my performances, but you came anyway, decided to support me," she said quietly. "You know, in the first weeks of knowing you, you used to annoy me constantly."
"Likewise, princess," he replied, kissing her forehead.
He very much wanted to kiss her desirable lips, but there were too many people around, the lights were too bright, and Effie had just danced the best performance of her life. She didn't need him to ruin it with a kiss that would make her legs go weak. So Haymitch took her hand, led her to the car, and said:
"Let me take you home, ballet princess."
"I asked you not to call me that," Effie laughed. "And I don't want to go home."
"And I asked you not to spill makeup in my car. Neither of us got what we wanted until today," Haymitch finally gave in and quickly kissed her cheek. "Where do you want to go before the carriage turns back into a pumpkin?"
"To your place," Effie stroked his cheek.
She sat, watching the streetlights of nighttime New York flicker past, and smiled. Haymitch started the engine. The car pulled smoothly away. There was still much ahead — arguments, awkward moments, his cutting remarks and her endless chatter, days when they couldn't stand each other, and nights when he would wait for her again by the service entrance, and they would while away the time until morning, warming each other in their arms, sharing passionate kisses. There would be mistakes, misunderstandings, arguments over which series to watch and over the lipstick that wasn't lost but was lying on the back seat.
But now, in this moment, as Haymitch drove across the lit bridge and Effie placed her warm hand on his on the gear shift, he understood one simple thing. New York still wasn't sleeping. But for the first time in a long time, Haymitch didn't want to sleep alone. Only next to her.