Archive of Our Own

ATTEMPT ONE

Wyatt leans against the wooden wall of the Hob near the side exit. The Hob is suffocating. The air hangs heavy with the smell of stale beer, sweat, and coal dust carried in by miners looking to drink after a long day in the dark. The bulbs flicker overhead, their weak yellow glow barely cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke that clings to the air like fog. Every surface feels sticky, coated in years of spilled liquor and neglect. He rolls his scrip coin between his fingers, the familiar weight grounding him in the chaos. It’s a signal to gamblers, and it draws them in like a siren lures sailors to their deaths.

The bar is deafening. The cacophony of noise assaults his senses and Wyatt tries to drown it all out. But it’s difficult. In no part thanks to the rowdiness of the regular drunkards, the women gossiping about something or other, and the people who came to gamble away their life savings in the hope they’ll make a profit.

A man stumbles past, beer sloshing out of his glass and darkening the wooden floor with a puddle that’s likely to seep into the wood rather than be mopped up. Someone bumps into his shoulder hard enough to lurch him forward. Another man mutters under his breath, breath sour from liquor. The floor creaks under the constant shuffle of boots, and somewhere behind him, a glass shatters. Wyatt grimaces. Why is he always the one who has to do the call for gamblers?

“Out by the shed,” he says monotonously as people file past. His ears pick out the distinct jingle of loose change and the slow flutter of fingers brushing along a wad of bills.

He scans the rest of the room— one more cursory look before he rejoins his family to set the odds. His gaze catches on a flash of purple. A rare color in the Hob, where patrons usually wear muted brown, gray, and black to not draw attention to themselves.

A pretty familiar blonde sits with two others, one in pink and the other in a muted shade he recognizes. The apothecary girl. His Ma always sends him there whenever he or his brothers have a hint of a cough. He frowns, mind combing through names until a glint at her throat captures his attention. Various necklaces— beaded, corded, thin, thick— adorn her neck, and he knows suddenly who she is.

Maysilee Donner. Someone he’s never properly met, but has heard plenty about. Whispered rumors about how mean she is compared to her sister Merrilee and best friend Asterid. Wyatt never puts much stock in others’ opinions. Every time he’s gone to the Sweet Shop, she’s been behind the counter and never rude. His brothers, Kennedy and Beau, have differing opinions on her, but Wyatt knows how they are— they probably deserved whatever she said.

“Wyatt!” His Pa’s brusque voice snaps.

Reluctantly, Wyatt pulls away from the wall and slips out the side exit. The last image his mind captures is Maysilee’s head thrown back, mid-laugh.

He’s done for the night. The odds have been set and he’s not a fan of the actual gambling. His Pa already paid him his portion. Wyatt reenters the Hob, adjusting the paperboy cap on his head. A quick scan of the room reveals that Maysilee, her sister, and friend are still at their table, now joined by Burdock Everdeen, Haymitch Abernathy, and Lenore Dove Baird.

Wyatt finds an empty spot and settles into it. Normally, once he’s done setting the odds, he goes home. Always wanting to distance himself from the Booker Boys, but tonight he’s feeling different. His dark eyes observe his surroundings, but his gaze keeps drifting back to Maysilee.

It’s difficult to look away from her. She’s like a disco ball in a dim room, pulling his attention without trying. But he’s forced to turn his gaze away when a couple of men stop by to interrogate him on upcoming bets, like the mayor’s appointment. Wyatt answers easily, his mind doing the calculations.

Afterward, he orders a drink. Some white liquor to clear his mind. He’s on his way back to his table when he sees her.

Maysilee is sitting in his spot, hands folded and looking like she’s waiting for someone. When her eyes meet his, she tilts her head, her golden hair falling behind her like a curtain. Wyatt pauses, scanning the area. Her sister remains seated with everyone else, none of them paying Maysilee any mind.

“Well, come on,” Maysilee says. Wyatt looks behind him before speaking, searching for who she's talking to.

“Me?” 

“Yes. You.”

Wyatt takes a seat. His hands are clammy around the glass.

“You were watching me,” she says simply. “Why?”

“Your outfit,” Wyatt answers, eyebrows drawn. “People here don’t wear bright colors. Well, other than the Covey.”

“My outfit?” She echoes. “That’s all?”

He nods. “That’s all.”

Maysilee studies him. 

Wyatt feels the weight of her gaze like a hand pressing lightly against his chest. But it’s not uncomfortable, more so noticeable. He shifts in his seat, fingers tightening around the glass until condensation slicks his palm. 

She doesn’t look away. Her eyes are sharp, assessing, like she’s trying to solve him the way he solves probability charts to keep his brain functioning. It makes his stomach twist.

“Do you always watch people like that?” She presses, amusement dolloping her tone.

He clears his throat. “I wasn’t— I mean, I didn’t mean to stare.” His gaze flicks down to the pale liquid pooled inside the crystalline glass.

“Were you really staring?” Maysilee leans in, whispering conspiratorally. The scent of vanilla lingers on her skin, most likely from the Sweet Shop. “I think you were observing.”

“Is that bad?” Wyatt takes a gulp of white liquor. It burns on the way down, but the sensation confirms that he’s not dreaming. 

“No,” she answers after a beat. Her lips curve slowly. “It’s interesting.”

His ears burn. He’s grateful that it’s only the tips that turn red and hope she doesn’t notice. He’s never been called interesting before. Mostly weird or quiet or the occasional creepy when he talks too much about odds.

Wyatt glances down at his drink. “Sorry if it bothered you. I didn’t mean to.”

“It didn’t.” Maysilee leans forward, elbows resting on the table, chin resting on her hand. A grimace crosses her face at the slightly sticky surface. “You don’t seem like the regular crowd here.”

He snorts softly. “I’m not much of a crowd person.”

“I can tell.” Her voice is warm, teasing but not sharp. He doesn’t know what to do with that.

Maysilee glances at his scrip coin then back at his face. “So what do you do? Besides watching people in bars.”

A moment of silence— well, as silent as it can get in a rowdy bar frequented by drunks— passes between them. He hesitates, unsure if she really wants to know the answer. His current side occupation isn’t well-liked and she obviously knows he's a miner, with the coal dust layered under his nails and in the creases of his skin no matter how hard he cleans himself.

“I work numbers,” he replies simply. “Odds. Probabilities. My family uses them.”

“Uses them?” Her brows quirk up, intrigued by his answer.

“For gambling,” he clarifies. “I don’t gamble myself. I just do the odds.”

She hums thoughtfully. Her fingers drum against the edge of the table. “So you’re smart.”

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t know how to, if he’s being completely honest. Sure, he’s used to being called smart by the gamblers and family, but the way she says it makes it sound different. Like she’s actually complimenting him.

So, he shifts in his chair, uncomfortable in a way that feels suspiciously like he’s flattered. His gaze drifts toward the door.

Maysilee watches him with a small, knowing smile. “You’re quiet,” she says, “but not in a boring way.”

“I’m just not good at talking,” he admits, heart thudding in his chest.

“Well, I think you’re doing fine,” she states bluntly. She pushes back a piece of her hair behind her ear. 

Wyatt swallows. His mind blanks. His eyes stray toward the door again. Already mentally preparing to leave before he overstays his welcome, even though she’s the one sitting in his seat. Before he bothers her any further, before she realizes he’s not interesting at all.

But Maysilee notices. Her hand shoots out, fingers brushing the sleeve of his jacket. His eyes catch sight of her manicured hands, pale purple glazed on her nails.

“Where are you going?”

“I— I thought you’d want to get back to your friends,” he stammers.

“They’re fine,” she says dismissively. “They’re more Asterid’s friends than mine. I’m here.”

Wyatt stares at her. “Why?”

She laughs softly. It’s a pretty sound that warms his stomach. “Because I want to be.”

“But why?” Wyatt studies her. She’s fairly wealthy, pretty, and popular if not feared. It just doesn’t make any sense. People don’t choose to spend time with him. Hell, he’s despised by most of the Seam.

Maysilee ignores his question. Instead, she leans back, eyes bright. “Stay a little longer.”

He freezes. For a moment, his breath escapes him. Her words ring in his ears. Stay a little longer. It’s the nicest thing anyone (barring his Ma) has ever said to him.

Wyatt opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He’s not totally sure what he should say anyway. How does one with hardly any social skills respond to that?

Maysilee’s smile softens. “If I didn’t like your company, I wouldn’t be here.”

The world around him comes to a stand still. Wyatt stares at her. His thoughts are a whirlwind of mixed emotions. Does she truly mean it? Or is she lying? She doesn’t seem like the type, but he remembers being friends with kids until they started ignoring him because he was awkward. She can’t mean it like that. She doesn’t even know him— doesn’t even know what his family truly does. Maysilee’s just being polite, friendly, and kind to him. Though, he certainly doesn’t feel like he deserves any of her generosity.

“Will you stay?” She repeats. Her eyes hold his gaze, an expectant look on her face.

Wyatt nods, slow and unsure. “Okay.”

He stays. Doesn’t know why she wants him to or what she sees in him.

But she smiles like she expected nothing less.

Maysilee watches him. Sees the way he startles when her words finally hit him. It’s adorable, if she’s being perfectly honest. Stay a little longer. It’s obvious he doesn’t have many friends— or any at all, if she wagered a guess.

He goes still. His fingers tighten around his glass, knuckles whitening, and his eyes flicker from the tabletop to her face like he’s checking if she’s being genuine or not.

She is. She’s always honest. It’s an important trait to have and Maysilee’s never been one to shy away from words that need to be said. Sure, some people think that her honesty translates into meanness, but she’s just trying to help better others. Well, except for when she was younger. Some cruel comments made from a place of deep loneliness that she regrets now, but she’s grown since then. She has one reaping left. Tonight feels like a tentative glimpse of what life could be if her name doesn’t get called.

Wyatt still looks unsure.

She smiles softly, trying to coax him into staying. “If I didn’t like your company, I wouldn’t be here.”

Maybe it’s selfish to want to keep him near. She’s sure he has better things to do, but she can’t help but be intrigued by him. The way he always plays with the scrip coin, the way he chooses his words carefully, the way he hedges around what his family does. Maybe she’ll interrogate Burdock or Haymitch later. Find out more about Wyatt, if he doesn’t willingly offer up the information himself.

“Will you stay?” She repeats herself. She hopes he agrees. A small gnawing feeling grows in her stomach at the thought of him leaving.

“Okay,” he finally says, voice soft, almost shy. The look on his face says he’s internally waged war against it, but staying put won.

Maysilee hides a smile behind the rim of her drink. She didn’t expect him to bolt, but she did expect him to question her. He didn’t though. He accepted it, even if he didn’t understand it. Her blue eyes scan him. She observes the way his jacket is ill-fitting, the way the brim of his newsboy cap is pulled low enough to cover his eyebrows, the tightening of his eyes whenever the noise around them spikes.

Just like now. His posture tenses, brows drawn. The raucous clamor reaches a crescendo as a large group of men cheer loudly. Maysilee reaches out and taps his wrist.

Wyatt raises his eyes. She tilts her head toward the exit. A simple instruction that he follows wordlessly. They push through the crowd, the air humid with sweat and spilled beer. It’s disgusting. Maysilee resists the urge to gag.

Stepping outside is a breath of fresh air. The night wraps around her like a cool blanket, the air crisp and clean compared to the smothering heat of the Hob. The distant hum of the Seam settles into a low murmur. She inhales deeply, letting the cool night air flood her lungs. Wyatt stands beside her, but the tension in his shoulders has lessened. Maysilee opens her eyes, letting her gaze linger on the dark sky speckled with bright stars. She spots a wooden bench nearby. 

She walks over and takes a seat, adjusting her dress over her knees and smoothing it down. Wyatt stands awkwardly, fingers moving his scrip coin between them. It catches the pale moonlight.

Maysilee beckons him. “Sit.” She doesn’t mean for it to sound like an order, but it comes out that way anyway.

Wyatt sits beside her stiffly. She lets the silence simmer around them, wondering whether to start another topic or wait for him to speak first.

“You always play with that,” she finally says. She doesn’t look at him. Her eyes are on a point in the distance. A rundown shed partially obscured by the Hob, down the alley, with glowing amber lights and a door constantly opening and closing. She wonders what’s going on in there.

“What?” Wyatt frowns.

“The scrip coin. You’re always playing with it. Why?”

“It helps me think,” he admits.

“Ah.” Maysilee nods. She always clutches her necklaces whenever she’s thinking. “When you said you set the odds, what did you mean?”

Wyatt freezes, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “For an event I calculate the odds of something happening.”

“Okay,” she says slowly. “What are the odds I get reaped this year?”

Her question must surprise him because he actually turns his head to stare at her. Maysilee turns her head to meet his gaze. He frowns.

“I’m not doing that,” he says.

“Please?” She asks.

He gives in. “You’re from the merchant side of town, so you’ve never had to take tesserae. You’ve only got seven slips in. Factor in the fact that Seam kids have a much higher chance of getting chosen, you’d have a .000027 percent chance of getting chosen.”

Her shoulders relax. She knows it’d be unlikely to be called, but anything can happen during the reapings.

“Well, I’m glad about that,” she admits. “But, obviously, it sucks that others have a higher probability of getting chosen.”

“It does,” he agrees. “But I’m glad you most likely won’t be getting called.”

That surprises her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods and looks away.

It’s hard to see in the dark, but the moon casts enough light that she can see the tips of his ears turning red. A loud noise captures her attention. Raised voices echo down the alleyway. Maysilee peers in that direction. Two men bicker loudly, shoving each other.

“Do you know what happens there?” She asks Wyatt.

“It’s the gambling shed,” Wyatt answers, his eyes focused on the two men arguing. “Everyone who wants to bet goes there.”

“So you’ve been in there,” she surmises.

“Yeah. I set the odds, then I go once I’m not needed anymore,” Wyatt says.

“You don’t like gambling?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “That’s my family’s job. Not mine.”

“What exactly does your family bet on?” She tries to think of some ideas.

“Anything really. Mayor appointments, mayor decisions, if we get new Peacekeepers…” He hesitates.

“What?”

“The Games,” he admits, hands gripping his knees. His voice is hushed, she can barely hear it.

The words sink into her skin. Maysilee looks at him. His head bows, eyes focused on the ground, a look of exhaustion etched on his face. She doesn’t feel repulsed or hatred, but something else entirely. Familiarity. The expression on his face is one she sees everyday in the mirror.

“You’re doing what you need to to survive,” she murmurs, reaching out and touching his hand. She expects him to yank it away, but he doesn’t.

“What?” Wyatt finally looks at her, confusion burgeoning in his eyes. “You don’t hate me? You don’t think I’m scum?” He pauses, then softly, “You don’t think less of me?”

“No,” she says. “I don’t think less of you. I think that you’re doing what you need to. I can’t fault that. Times are hard. And I’m guessing you’re not happy about it.”

“I’m not,” he admits. “I hate it, but it’s my family.”

“I get it, Wyatt. I’m stuck behind the Sweet Shop counter for the rest of my life,” she gives him a tired smile. “We’re in the same boat. Stuck doing something we hate for our families.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

The door to the main entrance of the Hob opens and Maysilee spots Merrilee and Asterid stepping out, giggling quietly to each other. They stumble slightly, clearly tipsy. She sighs. She wishes she could spend longer with Wyatt, but she knows she needs to get them home.

Maysilee stands, albeit reluctantly. She turns toward Wyatt, her eyes catching his scrip coin. Maybe she’ll make something for him so he can keep it close at all times. Her eyes soak up every plane and dip of his face.

She likes him, she realizes. It’s surprising because she’s never had a feeling like this before, especially not with someone she just met. But something about being near Wyatt feels effortless, like he won’t judge her for the thoughts that she wants to voice.

“Bye, Wyatt,” she says softly. “I like talking to you. More than I expected.”

“Bye, Maysilee,” he responds, standing too, confusion lurking behind his eyes. He stretches out his legs. “Get home safe.”

“You too,” she says. Maysilee bites her lip, debating whether the thought that just cropped into her head is something she should do. Oh, well, she thinks. What if I do get reaped and I never get to see him again?

So she goes for it. Maysilee presses a chaste kiss against his cheek. Wyatt stiffens, his eyes wide, his hat pushed up on his hair.

“Have a good night, Wyatt,” she says. Then she leaves, strolling over to her very tipsy sister and best friend.

When she glances behind her, Wyatt remains where he was, stunned.

ATTEMPT TWO

Wyatt sits on the bench outside the Hob, his coin glinting in the lowering sunshine. July has come and gone. Maysilee's aged out of the reaping, which comes as a relief to him. The early August heat presses down on him, overwhelming and suffocating. The air thick enough to slice through, heavy with the smell of hot dust and sun-baked earth. Even the wooden bench beneath him radiates leftover heat, warmed all day by the relentless sun. Sweat beads at his temples, sliding down and mixing with the coal dust until he feels more grit than skin.

His limbs are exhausted, his shirt clings to his chest, damp and disgusting. Coal dust coats his skin like a second layer. The buzzing of insects comes from the trees. He got off work over an hour ago, but the mines have a way of tiring one down to the bone so he took a seat on the bench. And his Pa’s probably drunk by now and he’s not in the mood to deal with that. He should be heading home to wash off, discard the layer of grime and dust, but the heat has pinned him to the bench like a weight. He has to set the odds again tonight.

He rolls the coin between his fingers, letting the familiar weight settle his thoughts. But no matter what he thinks about— odds, dinner, the next shift— only one thought persists. Maysilee kissing him on the cheek. Sometimes, when the air is still and the world is quiet, he can feel the softness of her lips again. It doesn’t feel real. It feels like something he imagined, something his mind conjured out of loneliness and wishful thinking.

When he got home that night, before his brothers and father returned, he told his Ma about it. She told him that it might’ve been a friendly kiss. Or perhaps Maysilee liked him. The thought was almost laughable. 

A pretty girl like Maysilee Donner liking a boy from the Seam? How could she? After knowing what he does, what his family does?

It just doesn’t make sense. Ever since that night, over two months ago, his thoughts have circled her like moths around a flame. He’s picked apart every detail, every expression, every word she said. He’s replayed the moment so many times he’s worn it down to its bones.

He’s been so embarrassed about his role in the Booker Boys that he hasn’t even gone into town to get anything from the Sweet Shop.

If he’s being entirely honest, it’s also because he’s avoiding Maysilee. Not because he doesn’t like her, but because he does. He doesn’t want to see her face filled with disappointment— doesn’t want to see her realize that he’s not worth her time. The idea of that marring her expression makes something in his chest twist painfully. 

There’s no way she actually believes the words she told him that night. No way she meant them. But what if she did? His thoughts spiral before a voice yanks him out of his reverie.

“Wyatt?”

Her voice cuts through the heat like a cool breeze.

He startles, coin slipping between his fingers. It clinks against the bench before falling through the thick wooden slats. Wyatt catches it before it hits the ground. He turns, embarrassment flooding under his skin. It makes his skin prickle.

Maysilee stands a few feet away, sunlight catching on the gold in her hair and the assortment of colored beads around her neck. She looks out of place in the dusty August evening. Her vivid dress and pale skin a contrast to the coal dust layered over everything else.

She’s holding something small in her hands. He squints, trying to decipher what it is. Maysilee strolls toward him with the same confidence she had the night they met, but there’s something softer in her expression.

“You’re hard to find,” she says lightly, coming to a stop in front of him, feet crunching on the gravel beneath her feet.

Wyatt swallows. “I’ve been busy.” 

The words taste metallic on his tongue— he’s not lying, he has been busy. He works in the mines from sun up to sun down, then he has to set odds for his Pa practically all night, leaving him hardly any alone time. It’s something that he should’ve expected after aging out of the reaping, but now he realizes how trapped he is in his life.

She raises an eyebrow. But she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she sits beside him. Close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off her skin, close enough to smell the faint scent of lavender from her perfume. He’s certain he stops breathing when she holds out the small object.

“I made something for you,” she says. “I think you’ll like it.”

Wyatt stares, the world narrowing to the space between his hands and hers. He doesn’t take it. His fingers feel numb, useless. He’s terrified if he touches it, he’ll break something. Either the gift or the moment. He doesn’t want to ruin anything. He likes this fragile friendship— if one could call it that— between them.

Maysilee nudges it closer. “Take it.”

He does, carefully, like it’s made of glass. It’s a necklace. A corded one, sturdy but soft, woven in a pattern from the bracelets she sometimes wears. At the center of the necklace is a loop, perfectly sized for his coin. His throat tightens.

“You made this?” His voice cracks embarrassingly.

She nods. “You’re always fidgeting with that coin. Thought you should have something to keep it on you. Make it easier for you to think.”

He runs his thumb over the cord. It’s smooth, warm from her hands. The craftsmanship is deliberate. She spent time on this, she thought about him while making this. His chest aches. It’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for him.

“I–” he clears his throat. “You didn’t have to.” His voice is quiet, eyes honed in on the necklace laying atop his palm.

“I know.” Maysilee shrugs. “I wanted to. I even made it simple so it wouldn’t overwhelm you.”

He glances up at her. She’s watching him like a hawk, analyzing every line on his face. But there’s pride lingering in her expression.

“You don’t have to wear it,” she adds, voice softer now. “I just thought you might like it.”

“I do,” he says immediately, wincing at how eager he sounds. “It’s nice. Really nice.”

Her lips twitch. “You can say you like it, Wyatt. I don’t bite.”

He flushes. “I like it.”

“Good.” Her tone is light, but her voice is warm.

Silence settles between them— not awkward, but heavy with something unspoken. Wyatt’s fingers trace the cord again, memorizing the texture, the subtle dips woven in. He wants to put it on, wear it forever. He hesitates because he knows how his family will react. Kennedy will tease him, Beau will ask if he’s finally found a girl that likes him, his Ma will gush over it, and his Pa will tell him to stop dilly-dallying and focus on odds.

Maysilee watches him closely. She seems to sense his hesitation.

“Here,” she says, reaching out. “Give it.”

He freezes. “What?”

“I’ll put it on you.”

His heart stops, blood rushing to his head, pulse pounding in his ears. He stares at her, studying her face for any microexpression of annoyance or discomfort. Maysilee looks at him expectantly. His gaze drops to her outstretched hand. He shouldn’t let her touch him, and doesn't want to ruin her clean skin. Wyatt hands over the necklace before he can overthink it any longer. She doesn’t even seem to mind the small particles of coal dust that clings to the cord.

Maysilee stands and moves behind him, her array of necklaces tinkling when the trinkets tap each other. Her fingers brush the back of his neck as she lifts the cord. Her touch is light, careful, but it sends a shiver down his spine. He hopes she doesn’t notice.

“You’re tense,” she murmurs. “Relax.”

Slowly, the tension eases from his shoulders as she fastens the necklace. Her fingers lightly touch the hair at the nape of his neck as she adjusts the clasp.

“There,” she says. Her hands pull away from his skin, but the warmth still lingers.

Wyatt glances down, his fingers lifting the loop. It feels nice against his neck— not enclosing or rough. He doubts he’d even realize he’s wearing it if she hadn’t been the one to put it on. Maysilee sits beside him again.

“Comfortable?”

“Yeah,” he says with a nod. “I hardly notice it.”

“Good. That’s what I hoped,” she replies. “Give me your coin.”

He hands it over. Maysilee shows him how to put it in while the loop is slack and then how to tighten it so it stays.

“I thought that it’d be easier for you to pop in and out when you need to think,” she says, a light dusting of pink scattered across her cheeks.

Wyatt tries it. His scrip coin pops out easily. This is much nicer than having to dig into his pocket for it whenever he needs.

“Thank you,” he says softly, looking at his shoes. “But you didn’t have to.”

“You’re welcome. And I wanted to. Don’t argue with me.” She tilts her head. “You seem to think you’re undeserving of people’s kindness, but I disagree. I think you’re kinder than you think.” Her fingers tip his chin up. “Just because you work for your family, doesn’t mean you’re an awful person, Wyatt. You’re trying to survive like everyone else in this shithole.”

He nods, his throat constricting.

Maysilee stands, brushing the frock of her dress. “And don’t avoid me anymore.”

“What?” His stomach drops, panicking at the thought that she noticed. “I wasn’t–”

“You were,” she states without accusation. “You haven’t been to the Sweet Shop in weeks.”

“I’ve been busy.” His answer comes out thin, even though it’s true.

“So you’ve said,” she says not unkindly. “I’d still like to see you come by when you can. Maybe early in the morning?” She smiles at him. “I open on Wednesdays and Fridays.”

He nods, filing that piece of information away.

“I mean it, Wyatt. Stop by.”

Then she’s gone, disappearing down the path back toward the merchant square. Leaving him with a fluttering feeling in his gut that he doesn’t know how to pick apart. Does she really want to see him? Is she just being kind? That must be it. She’s just being kind— she sees something in him that reminds her of herself so she’s being nice to him because of that.

He walks home with his fingers grasping the necklace hanging on his chest over his heart, wondering when he started wanting things he shouldn’t have.

Maysilee woke with determination written across her face. She knew Wyatt’s been avoiding her, ever since the night she kissed his cheek. Whether he was avoiding her out of embarrassment or regret was something she didn’t dwell on for long. The thought of him not liking her made her stomach lurch.

But she refused to let those thoughts spiral any further. She spent weeks working on the necklace for him. It wasn’t a difficult thing to make, a simple pattern that she could’ve done in her sleep, but it was for Wyatt so she kept overthinking it. Constantly braiding and unbraiding the strands, staying up late every night to the point Merrilee complained to their parents and she got reprimanded by her mother.

It was the most important project she’s ever worked on. And when she worked on it, all she could think about was how Wyatt would react. Would he be happy? Or would he ignore it? Her stomach had briefly dipped in despair when the reaping came. Her last one. She remembered the feel of Merrilee’s nails digging into her skin as they waited for the female tribute’s name to be called.

She had felt sick at the wave of relief that crashed over her when someone else’s name was called. But she was alive— she was going to live for longer than eighteen years. She was going to get to see herself age, see the wrinkles that come with getting older, the payoff of having a life to live whether or not she's free. That night she had worked on his necklace for hours, after finishing her shift after the reaping. She had accepted scrip as payment from someone so she could get the loop correct in Wyatt’s necklace, using her own allowance to pay the difference.

Maysilee despised the Sweet Shop, hated having to placate entitled customers or deal with them in general. But she worked every shift, excited at the prospect of seeing Wyatt again. She remembered him from before. He used to come in with his head down and order quietly before taking leave. She always prepared to make conversation with him, but he was just too quick. Exact change on the counter and disappearing out the door like a ghost.

When she didn’t see him, she started to make herself sick. Not on purpose— she’s not that dramatic— but guilt has a way of chewing through her stomach lining. Did she cause him to stop coming in? Is it her fault she hadn’t seen him for weeks? The worry gnawed at her gut leaving her stomach in a tumultuous state of rolling, she worried the inside of her cheek to the point of tasting blood, she picked at her cuticles until Merrilee threatened her.

She even tagged along with Burdock, Asterid, and Merrilee when they went to the Hob. The hope of seeing Wyatt was too big for her to ignore, but she never saw him. Not against the wall, not seated in a secluded corner. She’d even snuck outside in the hopes he was outside, but he never was. She didn’t dare go toward the shed, at least not without company. Her Papa always told her to avoid being alone with drunkards.

But today? She’s determined to find Wyatt, to give him the necklace she made. She spent the morning working, dealing with customers, her eyes always searching for a mop of dark hair covered by a paperboy cap. But he didn’t come in.

So, she decided to look for him.

When she finally finds him, sitting on the bench outside the Hob, he looks worn. The air outside the Hob is thick with the smell of hot gravel and spilled liquor, the building’s warped boards exhaling heat like a furnace. Cicadas drone from trees, their steady buzz filling the heavy August dusk.

His shoulders hunch over, his coin rolling between his knuckles with practiced ease, eyebrows drawn. A thin layer of coal dust coats him and she feels a pang of disgust before she pushes it away. It’s not his fault that he has to work in the mines, it’s the Capitol’s. They leech life out of every district.  

But even the sight of him doesn’t make the soft smile on her face disappear. He looks good, even when exhausted. The muscles in his arms rippling when he rolls his shoulders, the way his shirt clings to his torso like a second skin. She wishes she could sketch the scene in front of her. There’s something about it that makes her feel serene.

She hates to break the quiet spell around him, but she wants to give him the necklace before the world intrudes.

“Wyatt?” She calls out, even though she knows it’s him.

He startles, the coin falling from his fingers and nearly through the bench before he catches it. She can still see the tips of his ears tinged with pink in the early dusk light when he turns to face her. Her fingers tighten around the cord in her hand as he stares at her.

She walks toward him, confidence seeping from every step. Her sandals crunch over gravel, each step sending tiny dust clouds swirling around her ankles. The fading sunlight catches on her necklaces, scattering flecks of gold across her collarbone as she closes the distance between them. He watches her, weary from a hard day’s work.

“You’re hard to find,” she says when she stops in front of him.

He swallows, her eyes watching his Adam’s apple bob. “I’ve been busy.”

She’s sure he has, but the irrational side of her wonders if he’s been avoiding her because of the kiss. So, she lifts an eyebrow and takes a seat beside him. He smells like coal dust and sandalwood. 

Maysilee holds out the corded necklace. “I made something for you. I think you’ll like it.”

The dying light paints the cord in a warm amber, making the woven strands glow. A faint breeze stirs the loose hairs around her face, carrying the scent of lavender and summer heat between them.

Wyatt’s staring at the corded necklace. She knows that his scrip coin is important to him; it helps him think, helps him organize his thoughts. His fingers twitch, but he doesn’t reach for it. Maysilee suppresses a frown and gently moves it closer.

“Take it.”

It comes out as an order, but Wyatt doesn’t say anything. His trembling fingers pluck the necklace out of her palm, the coal dust stuck to his hand and under his nails drifting onto her hand, but she ignores it. A little dust doesn’t matter when everything in District 12 is covered in it.

“You made this?” He asks, voice cracking as he studies the necklace.

A pleased smile crosses her face as she nods. “You’re always fidgeting with that coin. Thought you should have something to keep it on you. Make it easier for you to think.”

Her nails carve crescents into her skin as she awaits his response. His thumb runs over the cord and Maysilee crosses her fingers that he likes it.

“I–” He pauses, clearing his throat. “You didn’t have to.” He doesn’t look at her.

A defensive feeling rises in her chest and expands, slowly clouding her senses.

“I know,” she says, trying to swallow the nerves creeping up. “I wanted to. I even made it simple so it wouldn’t overwhelm you.”

Wyatt glances at her then, a scrutinizing expression on his face. She’s proud of her work, it’s something she has total control over. But the worry never leaves.

“You don’t have to wear it,” she whispers, stomach churning like a raging sea. “I just thought you might like it.”

“I do.” His response is immediate. She watches as a grimace flashes on his face. “It’s nice. Really nice.”

She can’t stop her lips from twitching. “You can say you like it, Wyatt. I don’t bite.”

“I like it,” he replies, the tips of his ears turning red again.

“Good.” She’s pleased with his reaction.

They sit in silence. She’s fine with it, but she’d rather have something to do. She watches Wyatt out of the corner of her eye as he continues to stare at the necklace. Maybe she should help him put it on.

“Here,” she orders, stretching out her hand. “Give it.”

“What?” Wyatt freezes, shoulders tensing.

“I’ll put it on you.”

She stands, moving behind him so she can fasten the clasp. If her fingers brush his neck or the hairs stuck to the nape of his neck, then so what?

“You’re tense. Relax.”

Wyatt relaxes as she fastens the clasp. She admires her handiwork from behind, a simple comment slipping from her before she retakes her spot beside him. He touches the necklace, fingers tracing the loop.

“Comfortable?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, a shy smile on his face. “I hardly notice it.”

“Good. That’s what I hoped,” she answers. “Give me your coin.”

After he hands it over, Maysilee shows him how to loosen the cord to fit the scrip coin in then tighten it so the coin doesn’t fall out. When he attempts it, she helps him until he finally gets it.

A blush creeps across her face. “I thought that it’d be easier for you to pop in and out when you need to think.”

“Thank you, but you didn’t have to.” Wyatt’s voice is quiet and he still won’t look her in the eye.

Her heart twists in her chest. He seems to have this feeling that he’s undeserving of things. She doesn’t know who implanted that feeling into him, whether it be his family or coworkers or the gamblers he has to associate with, but she doesn’t agree with it. Wyatt’s been nothing but kind, even when she was interrogating him for some harmless behavior, even when she bothered him with questions.

“You’re welcome,” she says. “And I wanted to. You seem to think you’re undeserving of people’s kindness, but I disagree. I think you’re kinder than you think.” Instinctively, she reaches out and cups his face, raising his chin until he looks her in the eye. “Just because you work for your family, doesn’t mean you’re an awful person, Wyatt. You’re trying to survive like everyone else in this shithole.”

Her ears pick up the sound of distant laughter. People are coming. The bubble around them pops, so she stands brushing the skirt of her dress. She wants to see him again, wants to memorize everything about him. She’s never had a feeling like this before.

“And don’t avoid me anymore.” It’s a warning more than a threat.

He pales, eyes widening. “What? I wasn’t–”

“You were.” It’s a fact and they both know it. “You haven’t been to the Sweet Shop in weeks.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“So you’ve said.” She looks at him. “I’d still like to see you come by when you can. Maybe early in the morning? I open on Wednesdays and Fridays.”

She watches him nod, a peculiar expression on his face. But the voices are getting louder and she needs to get back before her mother interrogates her about where she’s been.

“I mean it, Wyatt. Stop by.” Soon. The unspoken word hangs in the air as she turns and walks away, resisting the urge to linger.

ATTEMPT THREE

Wyatt stands in front of the mirror uncomfortably. Dressing up has never been his forte. He’d rather wear jeans and a t-shirt rather than a suit, but it’s for Maysilee, since she asked him to wear something she made instead of something his older brothers passed down. And he’d do anything she’d ask. 

He stands tugging at the sleeves of his dress shirt (Maysilee handmade it for him, she told him it had taken her days but it was worth it, and called it a French cuff shirt), grimacing at the collar. It feels constricting against his skin, but the thought of Maysilee smiling when she sees him makes him deal with it.

If he’s being honest, he still doesn’t know how they ended up living together. It’s been two years since he and her first met. One year and nine months and twenty-two days since she gifted him the necklace and he’s never taken it off since.

He had gone to the Sweet Shop like she requested. Always went in the early morning, the cool air a balm against the heat rising under his skin at the thought of her, before his shift down in the mines. Wyatt always made sure to order something from the shop, whether it be for him or for his mother. He didn’t want Maysilee to think less of him if he just came in to chat. She always snuck him extra, giving him a cheeky wink.

It made his stomach flip constantly. He didn’t have many friends, but slowly that’s what they became. Maysilee would ask him about his day and he’d ask about hers. She’d ask him to spend time with her and her friends and he’d refuse because he’d have to work. She didn’t let up, though. Her persistence was enlightening albeit slightly terrifying.

She was the one who introduced him to her circle of friends. Merrilee and Asterid were polite, Burdock and Blair were suspicious but tolerated him, and Haymitch and Lenore Dove were welcoming. He got along fine with most of them, though the only one he would truly consider a friend was Haymitch.

Then Maysilee brought up the topic of living together. She wanted to get away from the Sweet Shop. He agreed because he didn’t mind the idea of getting out from under his Pa’s thumb and away from his brothers’ incessant teasing. 

They found a cozy cottage near the edge of the Seam, it had a certain charm about it. The cottage sat tucked beneath a cluster of pines, their branches swaying in the late summer breeze. The roof was patched in places, the chimney leaning slightly, but smoke curled from it in a way that made the place look lived in rather than neglected. 

After touring it, Maysilee decided it was the one— she called it rustic and he’d have to agree with the way the floorboards creaked. Inside, the air smelled faintly of old wood and pine. Sunlight filtered through the warped windowpanes in soft, uneven stripes, catching on floating motes of dust that drifted lazily through the room.

They had a small housewarming party, where the girls gushed over how beautiful it was and the boys just talked about working. Haymitch also made a few quips to Wyatt whenever Maysilee wasn’t around: “Roommates, huh?”, “How’d she rope you into living with her?”, “Didn’t know she liked your company that much.”

Haymitch. The reason Wyatt’s dressing up nicely. Today is his wedding day. Maysilee came home with the invitation a few months ago, ecstatic and surprised that Haymitch was finally going to get married. Her exact words were “I can’t believe Lenore Dove actually wants to keep him around forever, but good for her.”

Wyatt was merely surprised it’d taken this long for Clerk Carmine to agree to let Haymitch marry Lenore Dove. From the way Haymitch’s friends talked about his and Clerk Carmine’s relationship, it seemed Clerk Carmine would only let them get married over his dead body. Though Wyatt doesn’t spend much time with Lenore Dove, he knows she’s the ultimate cause that had Clerk Carmine relent. Besides, this wedding is more of a formality. Something to make it seem legitimate to the Capitol. Lenore Dove and Haymitch are getting married at the wedding venue in town before they have a more intimate wedding for close friends and family in the meadow.

Wyatt shakes his head and pulls on the suit jacket Maysilee had made for him. She still helps out at the Sweet Shop occasionally, but now she’s moved into the world of handcrafted jewelry and handmade clothing. He’s happy for her— she’s happier than he’s seen her before. She loves her new job, taking commissions and every once in a while selling some of her clothing to the local boutique.

As he’s still adjusting his shirt, trying to fold over the cuffs on his shirt, the door to the cottage opens. The sound of heels being taken off echoes until he hears her walking down the hallway, her fingers brushing along the wall until she stops in the doorway of his room. His eyes meet hers in the reflection of the mirror.

“Hi,” she says, stepping into his room.

“Hi,” he replies. “How’d it go?”

“Great.” She sits on his bed, crossing her legs and observing him. “They agreed to pay me for each design I make and I’m allowed to do an entire collection.”

Wyatt pauses, then turns to look at her. “That’s amazing, Mays. You’re so talented, of course they’d offer you a collection.”

He heart thrums when his words sink into her skin and a beautiful smile blooms across her face. He loves seeing her smile; warmth always spreads through him whenever her face lights up. Wyatt turns back to the mirror, adjusting the suit jacket. Maysilee finally stands and comes up behind him.

“Let me fix this,” she murmurs, her breath warm on his neck as she adjusts his collar.

Then she turns him around before stepping back to see what she’s working with. Wyatt stands in front of her, a little nervous. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to having the weight of her gaze on him. Or to being this close to her, where he can see the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the apples of her cheeks.

“Where’s your tie?” She asks, lifting a brow.

“On the desk,” he says. He tried multiple times to do it himself before she got home, but it looked worse with each attempt so he gave up. It’s one thing he most likely won’t master.

Maysilee grabs the pale lavender tie from the desk and drapes it around Wyatt’s neck. She stiffens his collar before she begins to knot the tie. Wyatt waits patiently, his eyes darting around the room. He’s trying his hardest not to memorize her face, to count the freckles that dot her skin that only the summertime brings out. He doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable, doesn’t want to give her any reason to boot him out.

“Wyatt, you can look at me, you know,” she says lightly as she tightens the tie. Her fingers brush the nape of his neck as she smooths the collar down.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he answers.

“Wyatt.” Her words make him look up. “You don’t make me uncomfortable. If you did, I’d tell you. But you won’t because you aren’t like that. Got it?”

“Yes.” Heat rises to the tips of his ears.

Maysilee steps back, observing her handiwork. Wyatt feels like a mannequin on display at the boutique. A slow grin slides onto her face as she studies him. His gut does another flip. But he pushes it down. She only sees him as a friend. That’s all he’ll ever be.

“You look good, Wyatt. But I can make you look better,” Maysilee informs.

A flush creeps up the back of his neck and onto his face at her words. You look good. He blinks as she steps forward again and fixes his hair, running her fingers through it and smoothing it down. Then her fingers grab the hem of his suit jacket and she tugs it down to straighten it.

“Stay right here,” she orders before disappearing.

Wyatt listens, hardly daring to breathe. The distant sound of drawers opening and closing and rummaging reaches his ears. He wonders what she’s looking for?

“Mays,” he calls. “Do you need help finding something?”

“No! Don’t even think about moving!” Her voice calls back sharply.

He can hear her cursing under her breath in her room until she returns, breathless and eyes lit up with excitement.

“I forgot where I put this,” she tells him, triumphant, like she’s presenting treasure as she opens a square box. The inside is a plush deep red velvet and sitting in the velvet are cufflinks. The gold of the cufflinks catch the light, warm and bright, something that should be worn proudly.

Wyatt inhales sharply when he sees the gold cufflinks shaped as scrip coins. “Mays–”

“Don’t,” she says as she folds over his cuffs. “I commissioned these from Tam Amber. It cost a pretty penny, but it was worth it because it’s for you.” Maysilee won’t look him in the eye as she takes the one cufflink out and pins it to his sleeve before repeating the process with the other sleeve.

He stares at her. Her words echo in his head like usual. Heat pools under his skin, a blush spreading across his face. Maysilee finally raises her eyes and meets his gaze.

“Like them?”

“They’re pretty,” he murmurs, as he brushes a thumb over them. “But Mays, I can’t accept this.”

“Too bad,” she states. “Wyatt, they’re for you. I wanted to do it.”

He nods before letting a small smile grace his face. “Thank you.”

“Always.” Then she does something she’s never done before.

Wyatt stiffens when she hugs him. It’s the first time she’s ever done this. Normally, it’s just a brush on the arm or a tap on the shoulder. But he lets himself relax and hugs her back. The heat under his skin gets worse when they pull away and Maysilee smiles softly. Her fingers brush his hair back,.

Maysilee smirks at the flustered look on Wyatt’s face. His fingers tremble as he drops his gaze to touch the cufflinks. They had cost a lot (not including her pride when she had to ask Tam Amber to do it), but she couldn’t find it in her to care. Wyatt means so much to her and she had hoped that moving in together would open his eyes, but it hadn’t. He’s continued to act the same as before.

“I’m gonna go change,” she says softly. “Then we can head out.”

“Okay,” he replies, his voice rough.

She slips out of his room and across the hall to her room. Maysilee shuts the door behind her. She wants her dress to be a surprise. It’s been a work-in-progress for months— since she got the invitation from Haymitch.

Her dress is a sleeveless A-line silhouette, cut from soft muslin and light linen that drapes gently without losing structure. It’s a shade of wildflower lavender; a color that rebels against the muted color palette of District 12. It’s a bonus that Wyatt’s tie is that shade too. The skirt falls to her knees, swaying softly with each step she takes. The most work she put in it is along the hem: delicate embroidery trace yellow wildflowers that she spent numerous nights staying up late and stitching. A scoop neckline gives her enough space to layer multiple necklaces.

Maysilee slips it on, admiring herself in the mirror. She loves the way it feels against her skin. It’s breathable and lightweight, perfect for a summer wedding. A quick spin to double check there’s nothing wrong with it before she sits at her vanity.

Make up is something she can do in her sleep, so she doesn’t take long to do it. Just a gentle layer of lip gloss, a quick swish of mascara, and some pale blue eyeshadow. She hesitates at doing blush, but decides there’s no point if there’s going to be alcohol there anyway. Then she works on her hair. Maysilee sections her hair and does a braided half-up, half-down hairstyle. She pulls out a few face framing strands before deciding it’s acceptable.

Finally, she adds her necklaces. Corded, beaded, ones with trinkets, and her gold heart necklace from her late grandmother. She adjusts them until she likes the way they’re layered. She takes one last look in the mirror before slipping on her mule heels.

“Mays?” Wyatt calls. “Are you almost done? We should head out soon.”

“Yeah,” she replies after taking a deep breath.

She pulls open the door to her room and feels a flutter in her stomach at the look on Wyatt’s face. He stares at her, his eyes slightly dilated as he looks at her. Maysilee does a slow spin for him, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

“Well,” she says, “how do I look?”

Wyatt opens his mouth then closes it. Then opens it again. “You look… stunning.”

A flush creeps across her face at the reverent tone he uses. “Thank you. You look quite handsome yourself.”

“Maysilee,” he says, “I mean it. You look otherworldly.”

“In a good way?”

“In a good way,” confirms Wyatt.

Maysilee preens. Wyatt drops his gaze to check the time on his watch.

“We should get going,” he says. “We don’t want to be late.”

“Okay.”

The old wedding venue in town is something Maysilee’s been to numerous times before. From her aunt’s wedding to her parent’s acquaintances getting married, it’s something she’s seen before. It’s a two-storey brick building with ivy growing across it. It always looked beautiful to her when she was young, but it looks normal now.

Her and Wyatt walk up the steps, his hands shaking slightly. He’s never been here before. It’s mainly something that the merchants can afford, but Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber wanted the best for Lenore Dove.

Wyatt holds the door open for her and cool air greets them as they step into the long hallway. Sconces line the wall, a hideous shade of beige if she does say so herself. A long red carpet leads them toward the wedding hall. The sound of chatter and laughter guides the two into a high-ceilinged room.

Maysilee spots Burdock and Asterid, him blending in while Asterid sticks out like a sore thumb with her blonde hair and pale skin. Wyatt’s scanning the room, shoulders already turning inward and uncertainty flooding his face. She gently grabs his wrist and drags him over to Burdock and Asterid.

“Hello,” she greets her best friend and her best friend’s boyfriend.

“Hey,” Asterid says with a grin. “You look gorgeous, Mays.”

“Thank you.”

Burdock greets Maysilee and Wyatt with a tight grin. He’s still not a huge fan of them, but Maysilee doesn’t really care. She’s not a huge fan of him either, if she’s being completely honest. And she doubts Wyatt worries about Burdock’s opinions— he’s too busy calculating or observing.

Asterid talks animatedly until Burdock informs them that he has to leave so he can get ready for the wedding procession. Maysilee doesn’t even give him a look as she takes a seat on the wooden benches. Wyatt sits next to her immediately and Asterid sits on her other side, closest to the aisle.

Wyatt’s fingers twitch and Maysilee places a hand over his, giving him a reassuring squeeze. He glances at her and she gives him a soft smile. The tension in his shoulders lessens slightly. When Maysilee turns back, Asterid’s watching them, eyes narrowed and a smirk tugging at her lips.

“Shut it,” Maysilee hisses, leaning over.

“I didn’t say anything,” replies Asterid, a knowing look on her face.

“Uh-huh.” Maysilee ignores the look on Asterid’s face. Merrilee’s already deduced that Maysilee likes Wyatt.

The sound of the doors opening causes everyone to stand and Maysilee turns toward the doors, ready to see Haymitch and Lenore Dove get married.

She’ll admit, she had a lot to drink. The wedding was short and sweet, the two clearly excited to start their life together. The reception was even better. The Covey performed numerous songs and Maysilee danced with Asterid and Wyatt until her feet ached. Then she saw the drinks. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but as she stumbles next to Wyatt, she can’t help but think she made a huge mistake.

“Fuck,” she mutters when she trips over a loose cobblestone.

Wyatt’s hand instinctively presses against her side as they walk. “Careful,” he murmurs.

She can barely hear him over the blood rushing to her head. The warmth from his hand burns her even through the dress. It’s summertime, but the nighttime air has some bite to it. She shivers slightly as the cool breeze caresses the bare skin on her arms and shoulders. She can feel Wyatt’s gaze on her before he slips off his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders. Maysilee clutches it tightly, wrapping herself in the scent of sandalwood. They continue to walk until Maysilee makes them stop. Her feet ache. Wyatt waits patiently as she slips off her heels, quickly rubbing the arches of her feet. He frowns at her, glancing at the ground then at her bare feet.

“Mays?”

“Yeah,” she slurs, blinking at him, trying to rid herself of the haze that has settled around the edges of her vision.

“Get on my back.”

“What?”

“Get on my back,” he repeats. “I don’t want you to step on something that could cut you.”

“If you insist,” she says, not really minding the idea. It seems loads better than walking home barefoot.

Wyatt crouches down and Maysilee throws herself onto his back, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. He stands, his arms tucked underneath her thighs before he begins the walk home again. She presses her cheek against the back of his neck and lets herself relax.

“Wyatt?” She says softly after several minutes.

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re cool.”

She feels the vibration from his chuckle.

“Really?” His voice is laced with mirth.

“Yeah. I like you alot.” Her eyes start to close, drowsiness slowly claiming her body.

“What?” He stiffens underneath her, but she doesn’t even notice, too entranced by the idea of sleep.

“I said, I like you alot,” she mumbles before she slowly drifts off into a deep slumber.

She doesn’t get a chance to say anymore, to clarify that she likes him as more than a friend. She doesn’t see the way Wyatt’s expression crumples— hope flickering, before dimming— as he assumes she meant it platonically.

ATTEMPT FOUR

Wyatt lies in bed, arm tucked beneath his head, staring at the ceiling. The cottage is quiet. The ticking of the clock is the only sound to be heard. Maysilee’s out for a girl’s night with Merrilee and Asterid. His necklace rests on his chest, the loop empty because he’s rolling his scrip coin between his knuckles.

His mind keeps going back to her— how pretty she looked at Haymitch and Lenore Dove’s wedding, the way her eyes shined that night, her finally letting loose. That night she was a picture of beauty. Even when she got drunk and he gave her a piggyback ride home, when she said she liked him. He’s replayed it so many times the memory feels worn thin. He knows she doesn’t mean it romantically. She couldn’t have. She was drunk and tired, she was just being kind.

The memory still makes his stomach twist; the words still echo in his head, filling his gut with something soft and warm and entirely impossible. Is it so bad to want something you know you can’t have? He’s not sure, but the thought of her finding someone else makes him sick. Maysilee was the first person to extend an olive branch to him, the first person to try to get to know him past his occupation. And she still integrates him into her outings, still chooses to be friends with him.

It doesn’t make sense to him. He keeps delving into their interactions. Wonders if there’s something behind them that he’s too blind to see. Deep down, he knows Maysilee isn’t like that, but he can’t fathom why she bothers associating with him. Why she chose to live with him rather than by herself. The odds of her knowing him and wanting to stay friends with him is lower than he’d care to admit, but she stays.

Outside, the late autumn wind howls through the trees behind the property. The sinking sun’s rays hit the trees, casting shadows on his bedroom wall through the window. Wyatt’s eyes follow the movement of the swaying shadows on the wall. 

He’s still wallowing in his thoughts when the door to his room creaks open.

“Wyatt?” Maysilee’s voice is gentle.

He doesn’t look over, can’t find it in himself.

She steps inside anyway, crossing the room until she sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under her weight. Wyatt’s coin slips once between his fingers. A white-hot flash of embarrassment courses through his veins. Why does he always make a fool of himself in front of her?

“You’re too quiet today,” she murmurs. “What’s on your mind?”

Wyatt swallows, his throat is too tight. “Why do you care?”

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. It comes out blunt and rude. He doesn’t mean it to sound harsh, doesn’t mean it to push her away. It’s the confusion swirling in his gut like a chasm of water— confusion over why she keeps choosing him, why she keeps checking on him, why she keeps caring.

Maysilee doesn’t even bat an eye. “You’re my favorite person. Why wouldn’t I care?”

Wyatt pauses,breath catching in his throat, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. Favorite person. His heart pounds in his chest, a sudden burst of warmth that feels almost painful. But then the ugly truth rises up and squashes it like a bug under a boot. 

She just means he's her favorite friend. That has to be it. Maysilee doesn't think of him like that. He's not her type. He's just her best friend— that’s what she said months ago in early June when she introduced him to someone. That’s all he is, all he’ll ever be. 

He stares at the ceiling, coin trembling between his fingers. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Right.”

Maysilee watches him, her brows drawing together. He can feel her gaze burning a hole into the side of his face.

“Wyatt.” Her voice is gentle, she reaches out and places a hand on arm. “Talk to me.”

The words he wants to say rise in his throat. He’s so close to telling her what he thinks, how she can do better than him as a friend, how she confuses him. But, he doesn’t want to ruin anything. Doesn’t want to ruin the friendship they’ve forged in the past two years. So he says nothing.

“Please,” she whispers, “you’re shutting me out.”

Wyatt closes his eyes. “I’m just tired.” The lie tastes bitter on his tongue. Like a poison he’s forced to swallow.

She shifts, hand retracting from his arm. He misses the warmth immediately. She doesn’t believe him. Maysilee’s always been better at picking apart his feelings than he has. But she doesn’t push.

“Wyatt. Look at me.”

Her tone leaves no room for arguments. Wyatt opens his eyes and tilts his head, dark eyes meeting her blue ones. Maysilee’s eyes scour his face, lingering on his eyes like she’s hoping to see into his soul, to see how his mind works.

“Did something happen?” Her voice is quiet, a hint of worry and something else coating her tone. “Did I do something wrong?”

His heart drops. Wyatt sits up quickly, startling her.

“No,” he says, panic seeping into his voice. “It’s not you, Mays. I could never be mad at you.”

“Then what is it?” Frustration tinges her words. Maysilee runs a hand through her hair, hurt lurking in the depths of her eyes. Wyatt’s thoughts go out of his head, wondering how it’d feel to run his hands through her hair. “Wyatt!”

“Sorry,” he says, snapping out of his daze. “I don’t know. I can’t put it into words.”

“Well, will you at least try to?” He sees the hurt on her face. Maysilee continues, “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

“I don’t think you can help me.”

“I want to. I want to try. You’re my best friend, Wyatt.”

He sighs. “I just… I don’t understand why.”

“Why what?”

“Why I’m your best friend. Why you put up with me.” His voice starts strong but slowly trails off. His words are a whisper. “Why you think I’m better than I am.”

Maysilee blinks, then huffs a laugh. “That’s easy.”

“Really?” Wyatt looks at her. His nerves alight.

“Really,” she confirms. “You’re my best friend because you allow me to be myself. I don’t have to censor my thoughts around you. I don’t put up with you, Wyatt. You make me feel comfortable. And you are better than you think. You’re taking the steps to work on yourself, by making conversation with others, by trying to stand up to your Pa.”

The backs of his eyes burn and Wyatt drops his gaze to his scrip coin.

Maysilee’s voice softens. Her fingers brush back a piece of hair from his face. “Wyatt, I think you’re the best. You’re kind and selfless. Why wouldn’t I like you?”

He flinches. Like. That word again. Just friends, he repeats to himself. Stop the inane idea that she’ll ever be anything more. His voice is thick.

“Okay.” He nods.

Maysilee smiles, but something lingers behind her eyes. “We need to work on your confidence, Wyatt.”

His gaze snaps back to hers. “What?”

“Confidence,” she repeats herself slowly, a grin slipping onto her face.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I know what you’re doing.”

She crosses her legs and tilts her head. There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes. It makes his stomach flip.

“And what am I doing exactly?” She asks.

“You’re gonna try to make me stand up to Pa and tell him I don’t want to set odds on the Games,” says Wyatt. 

He remembers the last time he tried that with Maysilee’s encouragement— he chickened out. It’s a good thing he did, his Pa was drunker than Cooter Brown and Wyatt knows exactly how it would’ve ended if he didn’t chicken out: an argument that would make his Ma weep and make him feel guilty for putting her in that situation. He loves his Pa, he does, but they just don’t understand each other. His Pa can’t comprehend how his mind works, but Wyatt knows that his Pa loves him. Jethro just can’t find the words to say it.

“No. I’m gonna make you meet women. More people to practice your social skills.”

“Like a date?” He frowns.

She pauses, something flashing across her face, but it’s gone before he can decipher it.

“No. Like making more female friends. You’re handsome and sweet, women love that.” Maysilee smiles.

“I don’t know, Mays,” he murmurs. “What if one of them likes me?”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” She counters, though her voice betrays her confidence.

“I’m not good at relationships.”

“Have you ever been in one?” Maysilee raises a brow, arms crossed over her chest.

“No.”

“Then you won’t know until you try.”

He hesitates. “I’ll think about it,” he relents. “But it’s not a definitive answer, okay?”

“I won’t push you,” she promises. Then she pauses before a sheepish smile slips onto her face. “I’m hungry. Will you make dinner?”

He laughs, the tension easing from his body. “Yeah. What do you want?”

“Hmm, something warm.”

“Soup?” He pushes himself off the bed.

“That’d be nice. And maybe some garlic bread?” She looks at him hopefully.

It’s a bit of a pain to make because he has to toast the bread before he can add the toppings, but his heart refuses to let Maysilee down.

“Yeah, we can do that,” he agrees.

“You’re the best, Wyatt. Seriously.” She flounces out the door, a wide grin on her face.

Maysilee’s worried. Her eyes keep darting over to Wyatt as he stirs the soup with a wooden spoon. His face is drawn, eyes staring blankly at the swirling soup in the pot. She knows he’s thinking— she can practically hear the gears grinding in his head— but she can’t hazard a guess as to what. Was it something she said? Something she did? She’s unsure, but she’s determined to get to the bottom of it.

She worries her lip with her teeth, formulating a plan to draw him out of his shell. She hates when he gets like this— withdrawn, quiet, contemplating. Wyatt’s quiet sometimes, well most of the time if she’s being completely, but this feels different. The type of quiet he gets when his thoughts are spiraling, when he’s convinced himself of something awful. He’s retreating into that lonely place she’s been trying to pull him out of for two years.

It irks her. Not because she’s mad at his coping mechanism. No, she’s upset because she wants him to be comfortable enough to talk with her about his problems, to trust her enough to loosen up and speak what’s on his mind.

Maysilee wipes her hands on a dish towel and leans against the counter, watching him. His shoulders are tense, jaw tight. His fingers brush his necklace (which she gleefully sees is still hanging around his neck), the pad of his thumb tracing the inscription on the scrip coin. She watches as the tension in his shoulders lessen as his thumb grazes the cool metal.

“Wyatt,” she says softly.

He freezes before speaking. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay? Did I do something to overwhelm you?” Maysilee picks at her cuticles— a nasty habit she picked up when waiting in the office countless times in school for fighting or when waiting for a punishment from her mother.

Her mind flips through everything she’s said and done in the past through month, a scrapbook of memories, the pages turning at a slow pace for her to analyze. She thinks back to the wedding— dancing with him, laughing with him, watching him loosen up more than she expected, the way he carried her home like she weighed next to nothing.

She feels sick, the memory of her words rushing back to her. I like you. Her heart thuds in her chest as she remembers the way he stiffened underneath her. Does he not like me back? Maysilee wonders. Maybe that’s why he’s been so distant. Did she scare him? Embarrass him? Or even worse: did she ruin everything with a drunken comment?

A wave of nausea surges over her and Maysilee closes her eyes and takes a deep breath to push through it. Oh, god, she thinks. I’ve gone and ruined it all.

When she opens her eyes, Wyatt’s staring at her with a worried frown.

“Mays? You okay?”

“I’m sorry,” she blurts. “Forget what I said.”

“What?” Confusion clouds his features.

“The night of Haymitch’s wedding,” she clarifies, picking at her cuticles even harder. “Forget everything I said on the walk home.”

He pauses. “When you said you liked me?”

“Yeah.” She nods her head. Hopefully, he’ll agree to drop it and she can still keep him in her life.

“You don’t want me as a friend anymore?” Hurt undulates his tone, his shoulders tense again. He looks like a cornered animal ready to flee.

“No!” She frowns, before it hits her. He thinks she meant she likes him as a friend, not in the romantic way. “I do, just forget I said anything.” She’s thanking everything she believes in that she didn’t ruin anything.

“From that night?”

“No, just now.”

He blinks. She grimaces at herself. He’s incredibly smart, but so daft when it comes to social cues.

Maysilee reaches out, touching his arm. Wyatt’s eyes flicker to where their skin contacts before back to her. She gives him a reassuring smile.

“Forget I brought up anything, Wyatt. We’re still best friends. And nothing’s changing that.”

“Okay,” he says with a slow nod, his mind still playing catch up. She watches as the tension in the air ebbs away.

He resumes cooking and Maysilee watches him again, relief sweeping over her. He doesn’t hate her, he isn’t weirded out by her comment. He thinks she was just saying they were friends. Which, obviously, she wasn’t, but it makes her feel better that he didn’t take it wrong. But if that isn’t it, then what could it be?

By the time, he’s ladling soup into the ceramic bowls and setting the bowls on the placemats beside the shiny silver cutlery, she still hasn’t figured it out.

She lays awake in bed, hands resting atop her stomach. Dinner had been a quiet affair, both too lost in their thoughts to make any conversation. A sigh escapes her as she flips onto her stomach, shutting her eyes and willing herself to sleep. It doesn’t work. After a few minutes of trying (and failing) to sleep, her eyes pop open again.

This isn’t working, she thinks as she gets up from bed and slips out of her room. Her feet lead her to her work room, overflowing with fabric swatches, beads, jewelry tools, and stencils. Maysilee takes a seat at her desk and lights the candle perched on the left side. The sweet scent of honeysuckle permeates the air. Her thoughts are still running wild with concern over Wyatt, but the calming fragrance of honeysuckle and the repetitive movements of braiding cords and wire help calm her some.

Should she make a bracelet for him to match the necklace? She ponders. A sort of peace offering after whatever the hell went down? Maysilee groans quietly. She doesn’t know what to do. This helpless feeling irritates her to her core.

The door to her room squeaks as it opens. Maysilee turns in her chair and finds Wyatt standing awkwardly in the doorway. He rubs his arm subconsciously and his fingers are grasping the necklace. The soft glow of the candle hides his face in shadows— she can’t see his expression.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” he murmurs. “I heard you leave your room. I wanted to check on you.”

A soft exhale escapes her. Maysilee smiles.

“I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep.”

“Seems your not the only one,” he replies, running a hand through his hair. It flops back down.

“Want to join?” She offers, hope rising in her chest.

He hesitates before giving a brief nod.

Maysilee clears off the chair next to the desk. She normally keeps fabric or supplies on it while doing commissions, but she’d rather have Wyatt close to her instead of sitting on the ground. She finally gestures that he’s fine to sit and Wyatt stiffly takes a seat.

He’s hardly been in here before, always lurking in the doorway when he needs something or wants to ask a question. She bites her lip at the fact that he’s here now, eyes scanning the room. It’s a complete one-eighty to how his office looks. Hers is a tornado of color and fabric, everything scattered but in places she knows. His is very neat, everything pristine and put in a place that makes sense.

“What’s up?” She asks, resuming her plaiting.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes.

She looks up. “For what?”

“For making you uncomfortable. For shutting down.” His fingers pop his coin out of the necklace and he begins to roll it between his knuckles.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” she reassures. “You could never do that to me.”

He nods, but uncertainty lingers in his expression. “Okay. Then just for shutting down.”

“You can talk to me about anything,” she promises. “I won’t judge you, Wyatt. You’re practically my soulmate. We’ve got a lot in common.” She hopes he hears what she’s really saying.

Wyatt pauses, his fingers stopping. Something in his gaze shifts before he nods. Maysilee waits with a bated breath. Did he get the hint?

But he doesn’t acknowledge it at all. Just nods and resumes rolling the coin between his fingers. She suppresses a sigh. She’s been flirting with him constantly for two years and he still hasn’t figured it out. Maybe it’s because she’s subtle about it, but she doesn’t want to say something too brazen and freak him out.

“So we’re okay?” He asks, looking at her with a hopeful face.

“We’re okay,” she confirms with a small smile. “Now, hold out your arm.”

“What?” He blinks at her.

“Arm. Now.”

Wyatt holds out his arm immediately. Maysilee delights in the way he always listens to her. He’s so sweet to her, it’s not at all surprising she’s fallen for him. Maysilee grabs the bracelet she’s been working on and wraps it around his wrist. It’s too small so she takes it back and continues to braid.

“You didn’t work tonight?” She questions, eyes narrowed in concentration and tongue sticking slightly out as she molds the wire over the cord.

“Nah,” he says. She can feel the weight of his gaze. “Pa gave me the night off.”

Maysilee’s eyes widen and she nearly snaps her neck to look at him. “Really?”

He nods, the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Really. I don’t know what got into him.”

“Probably your Ma,” Maysilee says with a snicker.

She’s met Wyatt’s ma, Delilah, and boy, is she a force to be reckoned with. Even with how stubborn Jethro Callow is, he’s nothing against Delilah. She could tell him to do something and he’d do it in a heartbeat. Maysilee adores Delilah.

“Probably,” he agrees with a grin.

Maysilee shakes her head, a soft burst of laughter escaping her. “I love your Ma, Wyatt. She’s brilliant.”

He smiles shyly. Still not used to the compliments she always showers him and his Ma with.

“And so are you,” she continues, returning her focus to the necklace. “You’ve got all her best qualities.”

She doesn’t notice the way Wyatt halts or the way he stops breathing for a moment.

“You think so?” His voice is hushed, unsure.

“I know so,” Maysilee says looking up and grabbing his wrist.

She wraps the bracelet around his wrist and nods, tying it off and cutting the excess wire and cord with lineman’s pliers.

“There!” She leans back, satisfied with her handiwork. “It matches the necklace.”

Wyatt stares at her. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

Maysilee relaxes, now that they’ve hashed out whatever was wrong. A yawn slips past her lips and she rubs her eyes.

“Alright, I’m heading back to bed,” she says, standing.

Wyatt stands with her and they head back to their rooms. Maysilee lingers outside the door to her room, hand resting on the cold knob. Wyatt stops in front of his door. He rubs the back of his neck before speaking.

“Thanks for waiting for me.”

“Anytime,” replies Maysilee with a smile. “Good night, Wyatt.”

“Good night, Maysilee.”

Maysilee opens her door and enters her room, shutting the door softly behind her. She goes to bed with a smile on her face and the burgeoning question of if she should start being bolder in her flirting.

ATTEMPT FIVE

Wyatt sits across from Maysilee.

The Hob is alive the way it always is on a Friday night— loud enough to rattle the glassware on the tables, warm enough that sweat clings to the back of Wyatt’s neck, crowded enough that bodies blur into a single restless mass. The air smells like spilled liquor and coal dust baked into the crevices of the floorboards. The soft orange and yellow glow of the lanterns cast a haze over everything, turning the room into a flickering, uneven glow that makes shadows dance across the walls. It’s a sharp contrast to the amount of noise.

He’s seated at the edge of the booth, the din of the Hob echoing around him in a thunderous discordance. Maysilee’s sipping from her glass, nose scrunching up after every taste. Warmth floods his stomach every time he looks at her. He’s finally being honest with himself. He loves Maysilee. Because every time Maysilee smiles at him, his heart races, gooseflesh raising the hair on his arms.

Someone laughs too loudly near the bar. Two men argue near the door in the presence of a Peacekeeper, nearly coming to a brawl. Another slams their fist on to a table, demanding another round.

He sips his drink, his eyes taking in the usual rowdy crowd. Technically, he’s supposed to be working, but his Pa allowed him to take a fiver. He’s been more lenient these past few months. Wyatt brought it up to his Ma, but she just shook her head and told him not to worry about it.

His gaze rests on Maysilee. She’s observing the place with her bright eyes. A soft pink tint dusting her cheekbones as she sips from her glass. She’s so beautiful, he thinks. He averts his gaze when her head starts to turn to look at him. Wyatt stares at the multiple condensation rings on the table varnish. He takes a chance and darts his gaze back to Maysilee. She’s gone back to watching the crowd.

A small smile slips onto his face. She doesn’t have to be here. She could be at home, enjoying her alone time and working on commissions, but recently she’s been joining him every time he has to set odds. Since a few weeks ago when they went to visit his Ma and he’d been dragged into an argument between his older brothers while Maysilee and his Ma talked. Maysilee doesn’t go near the shed, though. She always stays inside the Hob, where it’s mildly safer and where it’s easier for Wyatt to find her when he gets off.

Maysilee’s eyes meet his and a slow, warm smile appears on her face. She tilts her head and raises her eyebrows and Wyatt can feel the heat rising to the tips of his ears.

“What?” She asks.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice.

“I was just wondering why you’ve been joining me lately,” he admits. It doesn’t take much to give in to her.

“Because I want to,” she says simply with a shrug. “Someone needs to keep an eye on you.”

“I’m perfectly well-behaved,” he retorts.

Maysilee rolls her eyes. “Sure. Because you coming home a month ago with a black eye and cut on your lip proves you’re well-behaved.”

“Hey,” he defends, “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You’re lucky I know how to take care of wounds,” she tells him. “Excluding Asterid, I think you had the best nurse in the district.”

“Yeah, I did,” he agrees. “And I’m very grateful for it, Mays.”

Before she can reply, his Pa appears. “I said a fiver, Wyatt. Stop talking to your lady and get your ass to the shed.”

Wyatt can’t even protest before he’s being dragged away by his Pa. He glances back to see Maysilee covering her mouth as her shoulders shake with laughter.

A pit forms in his gut. Is she laughing at the idea of being his lady? Does she find him that repulsive? Does he really not have a chance with her? In the past two years, nearing on three, she hasn’t said or done anything to suggest she likes him as more than a friend. Maybe she really does just see him as a friend, someone to rely on.

“Well, look who decided to join us,” his eldest brother says, clapping him on the shoulder.

The shed is worse than usual tonight— thick with smoke, thick with shouting. Thick with the kind of desperation that makes Wyatt’s skin crawl. Men crowd along the long table, slamming bills down, arguing over numbers, demanding odds on everything from Peacekeeper rotations to whether the mayor will shut down the market early next week.

Wyatt’s Pa shoves a stack of slips into his hands. “Get to it.”

His mind snaps into place automatically. Calculating, sorting, predicting, but his stomach twists the whole time. Every time someone laughs, he thinks of Maysilee’s laugh at the booth. Every time someone calls him “boy” he thinks of his Pa calling her his lady.

His brothers tease him relentlessly, nudging him, elbowing him, making comments about “his girlfriend waiting for him”. Wyatt tries to ignore them, but each jab lands like a punch to the gut.

By the time his Pa finally lets him go, Wyatt’s head is pounding. A culmination of his spiralling thoughts and the racket from the men in the shed. The shed’s heat clings to his skin, his shirt sticks to his back. The necklace Maysilee made for him rests over his heart, the metal of his scrip coin cool despite the heat.

And the pit in his stomach, the one that formed when she laughed, has only grown.

When his Pa finally lets him go (with a fair amount of teasing that his brothers join in on), Wyatt returns to the Hob. His eyes immediately settle on where Maysilee is— or was. She’s not there anymore. He swallows the panic creeping up on him. Is she okay? Did she get hurt and have to leave? 

But a more repugnant thought rears its ugly head: Did she leave because she hated the thought of dating him?

He knows it’s not sensible— Maysilee Donner’s not like that. She says what she wants when she wants and is as stubborn as a bull. If she really thought that, then she’d wait for him to come back and say it to his face.

However, he can’t help thinking it. He’s always been the weird kid, always talking about odds and math, finding it an easy way to regulate his emotions. Wyatt’s never had friends before so it’s difficult for him to know how they think. Insecurity seeps into his bones and he turns to leave when he spots a flash of golden hair.

Maysilee’s at the bar, waiting for a drink. Wyatt sighs in relief. She didn’t leave, she was just getting a drink. Then his eyes spot the person next to her: Otho Mellark. A petulant feeling rises in Wyatt. What is he doing here? This isn’t his type of scene.

Wyatt hesitates, torn between remaining where he is or walking over. If Maysilee’s having a good time, then he doesn’t want to ruin it by crashing it. But she’s never mentioned that she likes Otho; hell, Maysilee doesn’t even mention anyone in that capacity. Someone slams their elbow into his ribs and Wyatt takes that as a sign to head over to Maysilee.

Even though he’s still hurting from her laughing, he’s not cruel enough to make her walk home alone. His Ma raised him better than that and he’d be in for it if she found out he ever did that to anyone.

He approaches slowly, heart thudding in his chest. Otho’s leaning against the bar, talking animatedly and tossing the occasional flirtatious smile. Maysilee listens politely, but her body language is stiff— shoulders angled away, fingers tapping her glass, eyes flicking toward the crowd like she’s searching for someone. 

For a moment a beautiful thought crosses his mind: She’s searching for him. Then it comes crashing down. She’s probably just searching for an escape from Otho. He steps closer as Otho laughs and says something he can’t hear. Maysilee’s smile is tight, polite. It’s nothing like the ones she gives Wyatt.

Otho notices Wyatt first. “Hey,” he greets.

“Hi.” Wyatt’s voice is flat.

Maysilee brightens when she hears Wyatt’s voice and sees him. “There you are,” she says, “I’ve been waiting.”

Wyatt’s stomach flips. “Sorry,” he says.

“Don’t worry about it,” she soothes.

Otho clears his throat. Maysilee blinks like she’s been shaken from her stupor and rolls her eyes, before setting her drink on the bar.

“Otho, Wyatt. Wyatt, Otho.” She leans closer to Wyatt. He can smell the alcohol on her breath amalgamating with the scent of her lavender perfume. “He’s the one who liked Asterid, but she chose Burdock.”

“Right.” Wyatt nods. He remembers Maysilee mentioning it before, but she’d been smiling at him and he’d lost himself in his thoughts and couldn’t remember much of that conversation.

“Nice to meet you, Wyatt,” Otho says, hand outstretched.

Wyatt shakes it once before dropping his hand and shoving it back into his pocket. “You too.” It’s not, but Maysilee always tells him to play nice and if Maysilee likes Otho then Wyatt will be nice.

“How was it?” Maysilee asks Wyatt, her voice light.

He shrugs. “It was fine.”

Otho glances between the two. “I didn’t realize you two were… close.”

Maysilee snorts. “Otho, please.”

Wyatt’s heart sinks. She really doesn’t like me, he thinks. It hurts him more than it should. But he can’t blame her— he’s never had any claim to her, never had a stake in matters of her heart. Maysilee’s a free spirit, bold and courageous. She’s always going to do whatever she wants and he can’t fault her for that. 

“I was just telling her about my brother’s wedding,” Otho continues, emboldened by Maysilee’s reaction. “And asking if she’d be my date.”

“I’m gonna have to pass,” Maysilee replies with a shake of her head. Her hair moves in a mesmerizing fashion, a fountain of tight ringlets. “I’ve got a big commission I’m working on.”

Otho’s face falls. “Got it. Well, see you later.” Then he disappears into the crowd.

When he’s gone, Maysilee sighs in relief before grinning at Wyatt. Wyatt blinks and returns it with a small smile.

“He asked you out?”

Maysilee nods. “I’m not desperate enough to date Otho Mellark.”

“You know him well?” Wyatt questions.

“Not really,” she replies as they head outside. “I’ve only talked to him a few times because of Asterid back in school.”

“Oh.”

“I can’t believe he asked me to be his date to his brother’s wedding,” complains Maysilee as they start down the gravel path heading toward home.

“Why?” Wyatt lightly kicks a rock as they walk.

“Because he liked Asterid first. Plus, I haven’t spoken to him since school.” She shakes her head. “Besides, if I ever needed a date, you’d be a good option.”

Wyatt freezes. His mind blanks. His heart stutters in his chest. Hopefulness rises in his chest before the insecurity comes crashing down. She means as a friend. She has to. She laughed at the idea of being his lady.

“Right. Yeah. As a friend,” he says, swallowing the lump in his throat. His eyes are on the ground. He doesn’t see the way her smile falters.

“Are you mad at me?” She asks a few moments later.

“No.” Wyatt frowns. “Why would I be?”

“You’re shutting me out.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“Well, I’d like to be included.” She gives him a hopeful smile. “If that’s possible.”

“I’ll try,” he says. He can’t make any promises.

“That’s all I ask,” she says.

They walk home in silence. His mind is a tortuous labyrinth of reasons why she’ll never like him romantically.

Maysilee tilts her head. The sun’s beam strikes the window, a line of pale yellow hitting the lamp in the living room. She’s been up since Wyatt left for the mines, with a murmured “bye” and tired smile. She gnaws on her lip, hard enough to make it bleed.

“Damn it,” she mutters, pushing herself up from the recliner. 

She pads to Wyatt’s office and pushes open the door. Her eyes spot the tissue box, nestled amongst various papers and scattered pens. Maysilee hesitates, not wanting to intrude into his sanctuary, but her lip hurts and she can feel blood dribbling down her chin, the metallic smell of blood flooding her nostrils. Oh, whatever, she thinks, stepping into the room. It’s just some tissues.

Maysilee doesn’t even look at the papers as she snatches the box of tissues and leaves the room, the door shutting behind her with a soft thud. She balls up a few and presses it to her lip to try and stop the bleeding. Retaking her seat, she tucks her feet underneath her and closes her eyes.

The sting from his comment a few nights ago lingers, a festering wound that she needs to address. As a friend. Is that really how he thinks of her? Just a friend, not even a potential romantic interest? At first anger crashes over her, but the longer she sits, the more she thinks it over.

Maybe he thinks she meant it platonically. That has to be it. Maysilee sighs. This man. How many times do I have to flirt with him before he realizes I’m not joking? She pauses, a sharp jolt of guilt slicing through her. How many times has someone played a cruel prank like that on him before? She thinks. Or even worse: maybe he can’t believe she’d ever be interested in him.

That thought freezes her like ice flooding through her veins. Maysilee’s never been one to overthink, more of an act now, think later person, but her mind is racing with thoughts. She thinks over every interaction between them, examining everything she said and his reactions to it. She doesn’t think she’s said anything that would have warranted that thought from him. Is she overthinking too much or not thinking enough?

A dramatic sigh escapes her as she throws her head back. God, Wyatt’s so quiet and expressionless, it’s difficult to get a good read on him. And, god, has she been trying. Maysilee frowns as she starts picking apart that night’s conversation.

She had fun, but only because Wyatt was sitting with her. He dropped her off at their usual table before heading outside to the dingy shed. She was miserable without him, sipping her drink and observing the people around her. Maysilee remembered being excited about the prospect of Wyatt getting a break to spend time with her, she remembers talking to Delilah about being bored out of her mind while waiting for Wyatt, but the loudness of the Hob drowned out loneliness unlike when she waited at home for him to get back.

Then he had appeared, her saving grace, the smell of smoke clinging to his clothes as he took a seat across from her. For a moment, she let herself fantasize about it being a date. And it had sort of seemed like one— they talked, drank, before lapsing into a comfortable silence. She liked being with him. He just doesn’t seem to get it.

They had about seven minutes before Jethro appeared, an annoyed but fond expression on his face when he took in the sight of the two of them. The way his Pa dropped that “lady” comment, that made her cover her mouth with a surprised smile, her shoulders shaking at the way Wyatt’s face turned red. He looked adorable. Then he was gone and she needed another drink to get her through it, hoping that she’s lucky enough Wyatt will get done quickly.

Her luck went down the drain when Otho Mellark appeared beside her. She knew he was upset at Asterid for choosing Burdock over him (Maysilee can’t understand why she would’ve chosen either, but maybe that’s why she’s never had a serious relationship or anyone interested in her). So when he started flirting, she subjected herself to it— she could be nice when she wanted (plus she knows her mother would’ve thrown a fit if she found out Maysilee walked away and ignored him), thoughts constantly wandering back to the shed where Wyatt was.

She was mid-escape plan when Wyatt showed up, face blank. The happiness that flowed through her when she saw him was incomparable. She’d never felt that way with anyone except him. Maysilee had picked up on the way Wyatt moved robotically, his voice one-note and barely interested in any conversation with Otho.

There’s no way, she thinks. Does Wyatt really think Otho Mellark is what I want? How insulting. She even explicitly told him that she’s not desperate enough to date Otho. Was he even paying attention?

No, she needs to remedy this, she decides. She’ll have dinner ready for him when he comes home and talk with him.

The sweet smell of her Papa’s wildberry crisp wafts in the air. Maysilee peers out the window as the sun slowly sets over the horizon. She’s making dinner— something simple that she knows Wyatt will like: bread (from the bakery) warming on the coal stove, stew (from wild turkey and a mix of vegetables), and Wyatt’s favorite dessert. Hopefully, it’ll cheer him up from a dreary day down in the mines and make him more susceptible to hashing out his feelings.

She stirs the stew a couple of times before heading to the front door and opens it. Maysilee glances around, expecting to see Wyatt’s broad figure walking up the path leading to their home. But she doesn’t. She leans inside to check the time. It’s nearing seven in the evening. Wyatt should’ve gotten off an hour ago.

Maysilee had gone into town early to stop by the bakery and get the bread then drop by the Sweet Shop to see her family (and to ask her Papa for his wildberry crisp recipe). She hadn’t heard anything about longer shifts.

So, she waits. And waits and waits. Occasionally, moving the curtains to glance outside, the hope slowly distinguishing from her eyes when she doesn’t spot him. By a quarter to eight, she’s internally freaking out. What if he didn’t want to see her? What if he’s out with someone else, spilling his feelings over a drink?

Maysilee pours herself a drink and downs it, then pours herself another one. This one she nurses for longer, her thoughts running wild with accusations and worry. Maybe he’s just late, she thinks. Not even she believes herself. It does little to soothe the chasm opening in her chest. By eight, she’s worried something happened at the mines.

What if there was an explosion? Is he okay, is he safe? Her stomach churns and she feels sick. Maysilee pulls on her jacket and opens the front door.

It doesn’t take her long to reach the mines with how fast she was going (practically running and she never runs). The coal dust settles on everything, she’s grateful she pulled on a pair of old shoes. She wraps her scarf tighter around her, covering the lower half of her face. It’s a weak effort to stop the coal dust from entering her lungs, but it’s better than purposefully breathing it in.

There’s nobody here. Not even the shift manager. No fragments of rock on the ground, no disturbance in the coal dust. The tension in her shoulders eases as she realizes that there wasn’t an explosion. That Wyatt’s still alive.

Her heart aches at the thought of him dying alone and scared. Heat burns the backs of her eyes as she turns and starts her way back home. But if he’s not at the mines then where is he? Her feet lead her to the Hob.

Wyatt doesn’t work on Wednesdays. The Peacekeepers are much more strict early in the week and the men that frequent the Hob tend to start their weekends on Wednesday.

She steps inside and is immediately accosted by the scent of piss and alcohol. Maysilee scrunches up her nose and scans the room. Not one trace of a paperboy cap, so he’s not inside. Stepping outside again is a breath of fresh air. She inhales deeply, letting it flood her lungs and erase any leftover remnants of coal dust.

Her bright eyes drift down the alleyway, toward the rundown shed hidden slightly behind the Hob. She hesitates. Maybe he’s home already and just took a scenic route? But Maysilee knows better. He wouldn’t do that. He’s always punctual and if he’s gonna do something new, he tells her.

She squares her shoulders and heads down the alleyway, shoes crunching on the pavement littered with broken glass and cigarette butts. Maysilee pauses in front of the door to the shed. She takes another deep breath before pushing the door open.

The shed is worse than she imagined. It’s a cramped, suffocating box of alcohol and sweat and desperation. Men crowd shoulder-to-shoulder around a long, splintered table, slamming bills down, shouting over each other, jostling for space like starving dogs. The air is thick with cigarette smoke, so dense it clings to her hair and stings her eyes.

A single chalkboard leans crookedly against the wall, covered in messy tally marks and half-erased numbers. Someone has scrawled odds in jagged handwriting, the chalk dust smeared by impatient hands. Two bare bulbs sway overhead, casting a dull, sickly yellow light that flickers every time someone bumps the table.

It’s loud. Louder than she expected. The sounds of coins clattering, bills and fists slapping wood, voices rising and falling in a chaotic rhythm— it’s no wonder Wyatt’s quiet. How can anyone be heard over this ruckus?

And in the middle of it all, she sees him.

Wyatt stands near the chalkboard, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, his coin rolling between his fingers like a lifeline. His brothers flank him, laughing, nudging him, teasing him about something she can’t hear. His Pa barks orders over the crowd.

He looks miserable. But relief swells in her chest because he’s safe.

The racket dies down when everyone realizes she’s there. She must stick out like a sore thumb, with her blonde hair and cool-toned blue jacket. Her emerald green scarf chokes her as everyone stares, like a snake slowly constricting the airway of its prey. Maysilee tugs at the scarf, loosening it slightly.

“Well, hello there,” a man purrs, drunkenly. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing here?”

Maysilee takes a step back, a creeping sensation of dread filling her stomach. She shouldn’t be here. She should’ve waited at home for Wyatt and questioned him about why he was late. All of her anger that had been building since six-thirty disappears as she realizes the situation she’s in.

Her eyes land on Wyatt, who’s pushing through the crowd, eyes only on her. He gently grasps her arm and leads her outside, the door slamming shut behind them. She can hear the racket start up again as the cool night’s air washes over her.

They don’t talk until they’re at the bench again, a sliver of moonlight peaking out from behind the clouds. It’s chilly, nearing wintertime, so Maysilee rubs her arms hoping to warm them even with her jacket on.

“What are you doing here?” Wyatt asks, his voice quiet, but there’s an edge to it.

“You scared me,” she replies softly. “You didn’t come home.”

He freezes, his gaze softens. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, the edge gone. “Kennedy and Beau dragged me here after getting off.”

She nods, a lump forming in her throat. “I thought something happened.” Her voice is small. “Like an explosion and I didn’t know.”

“I’m right here,” he promises. “I’m not going anywhere, Mays. Okay?”

“Okay.” The lump doesn’t completely disappear, but she has more pertinent questions to ask. “Wyatt?”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you say ‘as a friend’?”

He frowns. “What?”

“When we were talking to Otho. You said as a friend, why?”

Wyatt shrugs and looks at his scuffed up work boots. “I don’t know.”

Maysilee exhales, frustration and tenderness tangling together in her chest. She shifts closer on the bench, her knee brushing against his.

“Wyatt,” she says quietly, “I wasn’t joking. I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

He goes still. For a heartbeat, she thinks he understands— that he finally sees what she’s been trying to tell him for years. But then his shoulders curl inwards, his gaze dropping even further.

“Right,” he says. “Yeah. I know.”

“Do you really?” She presses, praying to anything that he doesn’t shut down.

Her prayers go unanswered.

“You meant it as a friend,” he states calmly.

Her stomach drops. That’s not what she meant at all. She wants to shake him like a rag doll and yell, but he looks so earnest, so painfully resigned that she already knows he’s closing off. She can’t correct him. He doesn’t listen when he shuts down.

As they sit on the bench, with winter approaching, Maysilee makes the decision to try again, but this time with something he won’t be able to misinterpret.

FINAL ATTEMPT

Maysilee watches him move around the kitchen. A cat eyeing its prey. Wyatt's unsuspecting. He always is. She's been flirting with him for years. Hell, she even convinced him to buy a house with her— one would think he would realize the importance of that. But yet,  he still hasn't grasped the reality of her feelings for him. 

At this point, the only thing that would help him realize it would be telling him to his face bluntly. But where's the fun in that?

The cottage is warm tonight, the coal stove crackling softly in the corner. Outside, the wind howls against the siding, rattling the windowpanes. Snow piles against the porch steps, a soft white glow filtering through the frosted glass. The air inside smells like garlic, basil, and the faint sweetness of the winter candles she insisted on buying at the market— cinnamon, clove, and something vaguely reminiscent of pine. The kind of scent that makes the cottage feel like home.

Wyatt just got home from the mines about thirty minutes ago. And since she’s made dinner the past few nights, it’s his turn. He’s the one who insisted on it and who is she to refuse his chivalry? So here they are. Plus, she ran into town earlier to buy some more spices and some medicine from the apothecary. She knows how the mines are on the body and she’ll be damned if Wyatt comes down with something that could kill him before she’s able to confess properly.

He's making dinner while she sits on the counter, kicking her legs lightly and "helping". Her socked heels tap the cabinet rhythmically, each thud leaving a dull echo of wood behind. She’s jittery. She’s a ball of nerves, excitement, and terror all at once. 

Wyatt reaches past her to grab some basil and Maysilee tilts her head.

"I could've gotten that for you," she says.

"I know," he replies, not looking up from the stove. "But you were busy and I didn't want to bother you."

"Busy?"

"Thinking."

She snorts. "You could never bother me, you know that, right?" Maysilee asks, gently grabbing his wrist to ensure he's looking at her. His dark eyes meet hers. "Never."

"Mays," he says quietly, "I don't think—"

"I mean it," she interrupts. "Wyatt, you're my best friend. You've been my best friend for several years and have I ever said you've bothered me?"

"No." He gulps. "But people's opinions change."

"Not mine." Maysilee grins at him. "Don't you know? I'm always right."

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "That's statistically improbable."

Maysilee ignores the jab and swats his arm. "Get back to work. I'm hungry."

Wyatt shakes his head as he turns back to the stove. "You're always hungry."

"Maybe you're the best chef in the area," she answers, leaning back. "I can't believe I have a gourmet chef living with me."

"I'm not a chef," denies Wyatt, but his voice drips with mirth.

She’s prone to disagree. Wyatt’s the best cook she knows.

The kitchen settles into a comfortable quiet— the kind that only exists between people who know each other deeply. The soft bubbling of the pot, the clink of Wyatt’s spoon against the pan, the faint crackle of the stove. Snow taps against the window in gentle bursts, melting into thin rivulets that slide down the glass. Maysilee watches him, heart thudding in her chest.

She lets herself enjoy the view. The way his sweater (one she made for him, she proudly notices) clings to his frame, the infrequent glimpses of the corded necklace she made for him. His broad shoulders, the way his hair curls at the nape of his neck and behind his ears. She wants to reach out and run her fingers through his hair.

She sighs, biting the inside of her cheek. They work in silence for a bit— well, Wyatt does. Maysilee just stays seated and ruminates over how to tell him that she likes him, but not too bluntly. She doesn't want to scare him off, but she's been playing the long game for what feels like forever and it doesn't seem like Wyatt's interested in anyone.

"Wyatt?" She asks suddenly.

"Yeah?" He answers immediately, looking up.

"Do you like someone?" Maysilee's heart is in her throat. Please say no, please say no, she prays.

He freezes, pondering his answer. "Yes."

Her stomach drops, a feeling of cold water being thrown over her. "Who?"

"I'm not saying."

"Why?" Maysilee demands with a frown. Her mind runs through a list of people he knows, but she can't think of any that he spends time with more than he does with her. Well, except for Kennedy and Beau and his Pa, but she’s met Kennedy and Beau, they’re exhausting. Loud and rowdy and they tease Wyatt too much in her opinion. She doesn’t mind teasing Wyatt, but hers is way different from theirs.

"Because I'm not sure if she likes me back."

She. His words repeat in her mind over and over again, like the tumbling of clothes in the wash basin. Another hint, but the hint doesn't really matter. Maysilee already knows. Her pulse races, palms sweaty, heart in her throat. Maysilee dries her palms on her jeans.

She hops off the counter, landing lightly on her feet. Her feet thud softly against the floorboards.

"What are the odds that you notice if someone likes you?" She asks, holding Wyatt’s gaze as she speaks.

Maysilee can practically see the gears turning in his head as she awaits his response. Wyatt stares at her. Confusion then realization then surprise flicker behind his eyes.

"Thirty percent," he murmurs. "I'd give myself a thirty percent chance."

"You should change that," replies Maysilee, teasingly. "I'd wager maybe a zero percent chance."

"Mays."

"Wyatt."

"Are you flirting with me?" His voice trembles slightly. "Do you like me?"

A small smile graces her face. "I've been flirting with you. Pretty much from the moment we met, actually." Maysilee takes a step closer. "And, no, I don't like you."

"What?" She can see his mind scrambling to piece together her words.

"I don't like you, Wyatt.” She reaches up, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. Her fingers are warm from the stove; his skin is cold from the winter air he walked through earlier. “I love you."

The kitchen goes still, the stove humming while the pot bubbles. Wyatt doesn’t breathe.

It's all she can do to wait for her words to sink in for him. For him to realize what she’s been hinting at since the first day they met.

She watches the realization ripple through him slowly, like frost spreading across a window. His eyes widen, then soften, then dart away as if the truth is too bright to look at directly. Wyatt’s breath stutters, his fingers tighten around the wooden spoon he’s still holding.

Maysilee steps even closer, closing the last inch of space between them. She can feel the heat of the stove against her side, the cold draft from the window on her ankles, and Wyatt’s uneven breathing in front of her. Her eyes land on his mouth and she gets the sudden urge to kiss him until she can’t breathe, but she stops herself.

She needs him to realize she’s not joking, that she means every word she’s ever said to him.

“Wyatt,” she murmurs, “I meant it.”

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His eyes flit to hers, then away, then back again. Like he can’t believe it and is double-checking she’s still there. That this is real.

“I don’t…” His voice is rough. “I don’t understand why.”

Her heart breaks at that. At how genuinely confused he looks, at how deeply he believes he’s unworthy of being chosen. She wishes he could see himself through her eyes— see how amazing and selfless and kind he is. How he makes her feel safe and warm and at home whenever they’re together.

Maysilee lifts her hand and cups his cheek. His skin warms under her touch and she can see the dark red coloring the tips of his ears.

“Because you’re kind,” she says. “Because you’re good. You’re selfless and smart and handsome and you make me feel safe, Wyatt. You make this place feel like home.”

His breath catches, she hears it.

“And I love you,” Maysilee admits again, a slow warm hopeful smile spreading across her face. “I’ve been in love with you for so long.”

She doesn’t push him for a response or demand anything. She just stands there, her hand on his cheek, heart in her throat, her confession hanging in the air between them. 

A few more moments pass. She’s growing restless, but he hasn’t pulled away so that’s progress. She slides her hand to his jaw. His eyes flicker to her mouth before he looks away. Then he glances at it again.

“Mays…” His voice is a hoarse whisper, barely audible.

“Wyatt.”

The urge to kiss him is practically suffocating. She thinks she’s gonna go insane. She rubs the pad of her thumb against his cheek, the smattering of stubble along his jaw prickling her finger. Wyatt’s eyes meet hers and he gives a slight nod, an acceptance to her most fantasized thought.

Maysilee leans up, slowly, giving him time to pull away. He doesn’t. Their lips meet gently and she tangles her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. Wyatt’s hands hover over her waist before they finally settle there.

It’s sweet and soft and Maysilee can’t believe this is the first time they’re doing this. They pull apart slowly, both in disbelief, Wyatt taking a step back. She swallows, wondering what he’ll say if he says anything at all.

Wyatt stares at her. His mind is completely blank. She’d just admitted she loved him and has been flirting with him for years and he never noticed. And then they kissed. It’s something he’s always dreamt about, certain that it would be something that only lived in the deep recesses of his mind rather than an actual chance at anything.

His gaze lingers on her lips. Her face is flushed, whether it’s from the kiss or the heat of the stove he doesn’t know. What he does know is he wants to kiss her again.

He takes a step forward, closing the small distance between them again. Maysilee looks up at him, her eyes wide with anticipation and a hint of vulnerability. He can see the rapid pulse beating at the base of her throat, matching his own frantic heartbeat.

Without another word, he cups her face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking the soft skin of her cheeks. He leans in slowly, a chance for her to pull away just in case she really doesn’t want him to kiss her again, in case she doesn’t actually like him and the kiss made her realize that. Maysilee doesn’t pull away. In fact, she rises onto her toes to meet him halfway.

This kiss is nothing like the first. Where the first was gentle and sweet and full of discovering, this one is desperate, years of unacknowledged longing finally breaking free. Wyatt’s lips move against hers with surprising urgency, and Maysilee meets it with equal fervor, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. Their bodies pressed against each other without even a sliver of space.

The kitchen fades away, the bubbling pot and crackling of the coal stove fading to a distant hum. She tastes of wine and something sweet, a mixture of sugar and berries. All he can focus on is the feeling of her body pressed against his, the intoxicating taste of her mouth, the soft sounds she makes as she deepens the kiss.

When they finally break apart, both are breathless. Maysilee’s lips are swollen and glistening, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. Wyatt rests his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling, his eyes closed trying to capture this moment forever.

His heart feels too big for his chest. He never thought he’d get this, never thought she’d choose him. He pulls back just enough to see her face. Her cheeks are flushed, lips swollen, her eyes bright in the dim winter light filtering into the kitchen. 

“Maysilee,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “I–”

He stops, the words choking him. He’s worried that it’s gonna come out wrong. He’s never been able to accurately express his feelings, but he doesn’t want to say something that would ruin everything. His words are rocks and this newfound realization is a castle of glass. One wrong comment and he could shatter everything before it even gets off the ground.

She touches his jaw gently, her thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “Wyatt,” she whispers, “you can tell me.”

He swallows hard, chest tightening at how sweet she sounds. His fingers curl around her waist, grounding himself in the warmth of her body, the reality of her presence.

“I didn’t think…” His voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. “I didn’t think someone like you could ever feel that way about me.”

Her brows knit, soft and pained.

Wyatt shakes his head. “I’ve wanted you for so long, Mays. I tried not to, I tried to ignore it. Every time you said something, I let myself hope, before I realized there’s just not a chance in hell for me.” He lets out a soft laugh. “But every time I’m near you, I can’t stop thinking about you. You light up my world, Mays.”

She smiles, eyes shining.

“I love you,” he whispers. It feels right, coming out of his mouth. “I love you.”

Maysilee laughs softly. “I love you too.” She slides her hands up his neck to cup his face. “You’re mine now.”

Then she kisses him again, tenderly and reverently. He melts into her. His hands slide down her back, pulling her closer. When they part again, they’re both grinning, her face flushed and his ears burning.

“Now,” she says lightly. “How about dinner?”

Wyatt laughs before nodding. “Sounds good.”

It’s late January, deep into winter. The air outside is sharp enough to prick the skin, no matter how many layers one wears.

Wyatt’s been carrying the ring for days. He keeps it in the pocket of his coat, tucked into the lining where he knows it won’t fall out. Every time he touches it, his stomach flips. Whenever Maysilee smiles at him, he thinks about it. Every time she brushes past him in the hallway or kisses him good morning or curls up beside him on the couch, he feels the weight of it like a secret burning a hole through the fabric.

Tonight, the cottage is quiet.

Snow falls in thick, lazy flakes outside, gathering on the windowsill in soft mounds. The fireplace crackles, filling the room with a soft warm glow. Maysilee is curled on the couch under a blanket, her legs tucked beneath her, sketchbook balanced on her legs. She’s drawing something— he doesn’t know what— but her brow is furrowed in concentration, lips pursed slightly.

Wyatt stands in the doorway, watching her.

She looks up when she feels his gaze. “You okay?” She asks.

He nods, throat tight and hands trembling. He walks toward her slowly, each step heavier than the last like a weight is tied around his ankles. She sets her sketchbook aside, eyes softening as she studies his face.

“Wyatt? What’s wrong?”

He kneels. Everything that he planned goes out of his head. All he can think about is her and what she’ll say and how she’ll react. 

Maysilee’s eyes widen as he fumbles to pull out the small box. He had asked Merrilee for Maysilee’s ring size and was surprised that she managed to keep mum about it, even though she had been bursting at the seams.

His fingers tremble as he opens it, revealing a simple gold band inside. It’s not extravagant or flashy, but something he chose because he knows Maysilee doesn’t like gaudy things.

“I don’t have a speech,” he says, voice shaking. “Well, I did, but I can’t remember it now. I love you so much, Maysilee. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you–?”

He’s cut off by her tackling him. They fall onto the rug in a tangle of limbs and laughter, her blanket slipping off the couch and landing on top of them. She kisses him— his jaw, his cheeks, his mouth— over and over again, breathless and laughing and crying all at once.

“Yes,” she murmurs against his mouth, between kisses. “I want to marry you too.”

Wyatt laughs, overwhelmed but relieved by her response. He didn’t misread the moment. He wraps his arms around her, holding her close as they kiss softly.

She pulls back just enough to look at him, her face flushed, and eyes shining. “Put it on,” she orders breathlessly.

He does. His hands tremble as he slides the ring onto her finger. It fits perfectly.

“I can’t wait,” she murmurs before kissing him again. “Papa will be so happy and Merrilee will be excited too.”

“Ma will be happy,” he says, as they sit on the couch, Maysilee curling into his side. “She’s been telling me to do it for months.”

“And you just now listened?” Maysilee asks, raising a brow.

“No, I’ve had it for months, but I’ve been trying to figure out the right time,” he admits. “I didn’t want to ruin anything.”

“I love you, Wyatt,” she says, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “And now you’re stuck with me for life.”

“I can live with that,” he replies.

He’s nervous, scared of looking like a fool or making a fool of himself. His tie feels constricting around the collar of his button-up. He adjusts the cufflinks on his cuffs as his Ma fusses over how he looks. She’s over to help him get ready since Maysilee said she needed to focus on herself instead of him.

She sighs, as she tries to smooth down his hair. “Maysilee should cut your hair.”

“I’ve already tried, it just grows like that,” Maysilee says from the doorway.

His breath catches in his throat. She looks exquisite, like something out of a painting from the history books back in school.

“Oh, my dear, you look beautiful,” his Ma says, walking over and holding out Maysilee’s arms. “As pretty as a daisy.”

“Thank you, Delilah,” Maysilee says with a grin. Her gaze slides over to Wyatt. “Anything to add?”

“You’re breathtaking,” he replies with a small smile. His eyes fall to the gold band on her left hand.

“And you look pretty handsome yourself,” she answers, teasingly.

“I’ve done all I can,” his Ma informs her. “Hopefully, he stays this way the whole night.”

“It’s fine, Delilah,” she promises. “I doubt Merrilee cares how he’ll look at the reception.”

“I’ll get going now,” his Ma says, giving Wyatt a quick peck on the cheek and her future daughter-in-law a hug.

“Bye, Ma,” he says.

Then she’s gone, leaving just him and Maysilee.

Maysilee’s studying him, her eyes roaming over him. She steps closer and adjusts his tie before resting her hands on his chest.

“I can’t believe your sister’s getting married,” he murmurs, thumb brushing her jaw.

“I can’t either,” she says with a sigh. “I’m happy for her though.”

“Are you excited?” He asks. “To get married?”

“I can’t wait for our wedding day,” responds Maysilee, the corners of her eyes crinkling with happiness. “I can’t wait for the day that you will be my husband. You won't ever be able to leave me.”

“I don’t plan on it,” he promises.

They share a sweet kiss. Maysilee tugs him closer by his tie, deepening the kiss until she breaks it.

“We should go before you ruin my makeup,” she says.

“You’re the one who kissed me,” he points out as they step outside, and turn to lock the front door.

“What difference does it make?” She asks with a cheeky grin. “You can ruin my makeup after the ceremony.”

Wyatt shakes his head, the tips of his ears turning red. They’ve been dating for three years and a few weeks ago he finally gathered the courage to propose. He’d barely gotten the question out before she tackled him and told him yes. His cheeks were sore for days from smiling too hard.

“Ready to go?” He asks.

Maysilee takes his hand and squeezes. “I’m ready to do anything with you by my side.”