The First Time It's Safe - Soft Things Survive

The First Time It's Safe - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

umm mdni please

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 5.89k

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It’s early.

The kind of early where the whole world feels like it’s holding its breath—no light through the window yet, no birdsong, just that quiet, weightless stillness that only exists in the hours before morning fully arrives.

You’re curled against Haymitch, tucked beneath the blankets, the warmth between you slow and steady. One of his arms is draped around your waist, heavy in a way that feels grounding. Protective. His chest rises and falls behind you, breaths deep and even, but not quite asleep.

You’re not sure who moved first, but at some point in the night, you ended up like this. Close. Comfortable. Familiar in a way that scares you if you think too hard about it.

His voice breaks the silence, low and rough with sleep. “You ever think about it?”

You blink slowly, not turning. “Think about what?”

A pause. Then, “What it looks like. After all this.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “Sometimes.”

He shifts behind you, nose brushing the back of your neck like he might be trying to hide in the space between your skin and your spine.

“What do you see?” he asks, quieter this time.

You exhale, not quite sure how to answer. “Not much. Nothing solid. I think it’s more about how it feels than what it is.”

He hums like he understands.

“I think about waking up slow. The kind of slow that doesn’t come with guilt. A place where the air doesn’t taste like ash. Just… peace. A little bit of green outside the window. A kitchen that smells like home cooked meals. Maybe someone humming off key.”

You feel him smile into your shoulder.

“I could live with that,” he says.

You nod, just once. “I don’t need anything big. I just want something that doesn’t hurt.”

His fingers twitch against your stomach. “You deserve that.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not without saying more than you’re ready to.

So instead, you settle deeper into the warmth between you. Let his arm tighten around your waist. Let the silence stretch.

Eventually, he murmurs, “If we had all that… what would you grow?”

You smile into the pillow.

“Mint. Maybe violets. Something soft.”

He breathes out a quiet laugh, something that settles in your bones like safety.

The quiet settles again, but it isn’t heavy. Just soft. Breathing. Like the world is still deciding what it wants to be this morning.

Your fingers trace slow lines along the arm he’s wrapped around your middle. It feels safe. And that—that—is the strangest part. Safety’s always been something you survived around, not something you sank into.

And yet—here you are. Pressed to Haymitch Abernathy like he won’t let the sun touch you wrong.

You shift just enough to glance at him over your shoulder.

“What about you?”

His brows twitch like you’ve tugged him out of a thought.

“What do you see?” you ask. “In the future. Not in general. Just… for us.”

He stares at you for a moment. Not startled, not annoyed—just watching. Measuring the weight of the question, maybe. Or wondering how honest he’s allowed to be.

“For us?” he repeats.

You nod.

He looks up at the ceiling, his breath pulling in deep. You can feel the slow exhale against your back.

“I see mornings,” he says eventually. “Ones that don’t feel like punishment.”

Your throat tightens.

“I see you. Sitting on my porch. Complainin’ about the neighbors. Even if there aren’t any.”

You laugh once—small and a little shaky.

“I see you in the kitchen,” he adds, voice a little quieter. “Not cooking. Just there. Always there.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says the next part.

“And I see myself… still waking up scared. But less often.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Not when your heart is beating so loud in your chest it feels like it might give you away.

Haymitch shifts then, just slightly, his thumb brushing along your hipbone under the blanket. “That too much?” he asks, like he’s already bracing for the answer.

You turn toward him, slow and careful, so you’re facing each other. You tuck your hand between your chest and his and whisper, “No.”

He looks at you then.

And for the first time, he doesn’t look away.

You don’t look away either.

Not when he holds your gaze. Not when you see all the fear he tries to tuck beneath his mouth, his silence, his sarcasm. You just… stay there. Letting the moment stretch between you. Letting it be real.

Your fingers shift over his chest—gentle, aimless. He doesn’t flinch.

And then, almost without thinking, almost like it slips out of the place you’ve been holding it too long, you whisper, “I love you.”

His breath stutters.

You keep your eyes on his.

“You know that, right?”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. But he’s listening.

You press your hand flat against his chest, right over the place where you can feel the heartbeat you’re pretty sure you’d die to protect.

“I love all of it,” you say, voice trembling now, but sure. “Even the parts you think are too much. The mess. The quiet. The sharp edges and the soft ones. I want all of it. I want you.”

Haymitch swallows, his jaw tight.

“I don’t care if it’s messy or loud or complicated. I don’t care if you have bad days or if your past still fucks with your head or if you wake up needing silence more than my voice. I just—” You inhale sharply. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide any of it from me.”

His hand comes up to your cheek—slow, shaking, unsure.

You lean into it.

“I don’t need you to say it back,” you say softly. “Not if you’re not ready. That’s not what this is. I just…” Your voice drops. “I want you to know. That you’re loved. That you don’t have to earn it. You already have it.”

And then you stop talking, because your throat’s too tight and your chest aches and you’ve said all the words that matter.

Haymitch is still watching you.

Still silent.

Still holding your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

He doesn’t speak right away.

Just keeps looking at you like he’s seeing something he never thought he was allowed to touch.

His thumb strokes along your cheekbone once, and you swear you feel the tremble in it. His breath is shallow, and his eyes are too bright, like he’s fighting something—maybe himself, maybe the version of him that’s always whispered it was safer not to feel anything at all.

“I don’t…” he starts, then swallows hard. “I’m not good at this.”

You don’t move. Don’t speak. Just press your hand over the one on your cheek and wait. No pressure. No fear. Just there.

“I’ve only ever said it to one person,” he says, voice low and raw. “And I watched her die.”

You nod slowly, eyes stinging. “I know.”

“And for a long time, I thought… if I said it again, it’d mean I let go of her. That I—” His voice cracks. “That I didn’t mean it the first time.”

He’s silent for a long moment, his fingers slipping from your cheek to your jaw, to your throat, to your collarbone—like he’s grounding himself in the feeling of you being here.

“But I didn’t let go of her,” he says finally. “And you didn’t make me.”

You breathe out, slow. Careful.

His voice is barely audible now. “You just… gave me something I didn’t think I could have again.”

You whisper, “Haymitch—”

He leans forward before you can finish, presses his forehead to yours, and exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

“I love you,” he says, voice quiet and fierce. “I love you like all-fire.”

You inhale sharply—because you know what that means. You know what those words cost him. What they carry.

Your fingers curl into the back of his neck, and he keeps going, his voice a little steadier now, “I love you when I’m sober. I love you when I’m not. I love you when you talk too much and when you won’t talk at all. I love you when I don’t know how to say it. I love you when I do.”

Your chest shudders, tears sliding down your cheeks as you whisper, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes, arms wrapping around you as he pulls you close, burying his face in your neck.

And for the first time, you both believe it.

You don’t say anything when he pulls away from your neck to look at you.

You just look at him. Let the quiet hold between you, let his words settle somewhere under your ribs, where they feel too big to hold and too precious to drop.

Haymitch’s gaze flicks down to your mouth. Then back up.

He shifts forward like he’s not entirely sure if he’s allowed—like if he moves too fast, you might vanish. But you don’t.

You stay.

And then you lean in first.

The kiss is slow.

No pull. No push. Just lips brushing. His nose nudging yours. Your hand sliding up to his jaw, thumb resting near the corner of his mouth.

His hand finds your waist, fingers curling there like he’s not just holding you—he’s bracing himself.

You kiss again, and this time he lingers.

His mouth parts slightly against yours, breath warm and unsteady. Not from want—at least not only from want—but from how much this is. How much it means.

You shift closer without thinking, until your chest brushes his, until there’s no space between your knees and his thigh. His arm wraps a little tighter around your back.

And still, the kiss stays sweet.

Like the first inhale after holding your breath too long. Like morning light through a half-open window. Like home.

When you pull back just far enough to look at him, his eyes are heavy-lidded and soft in a way you’ve never seen before.

You don’t say anything.

You just touch his face—thumb across his cheekbone, palm over his jaw—and let yourself look at him. Really look.

He leans into your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

And then he kisses you again.

Slower. Deeper. No pressure behind it, just more of him.

You press your forehead to his when it ends, both of you breathing a little harder now, hearts thudding quietly between your ribs.

No urgency.

Just this.

You lose count of the kisses.

They blur together—slow, open-mouthed, quiet. Not desperate. Not performative. Just his breath and yours, lips brushing in steady rhythm like the world outside the bed has stopped spinning.

Haymitch shifts slightly, and the mattress creaks beneath you as his weight starts to come forward. He kisses you again—deeper this time, one hand sliding from your waist to your back, guiding you gently down until your spine sinks into the mattress.

His body follows. Careful. Slow. He braces himself with one arm beside your head, the other still wrapped around your side. He’s not heavy, not pressing down—but he’s there, and he’s close, and your body freezes.

Just for a second.

He feels it.

His lips still, just a breath away from yours, and he pulls back just enough to see your face.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and steady, nothing but warmth in it. No shame. No accusation. Just a gentle check-in.

You nod quickly. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

But he stays still. Watching you.

You take a slow breath. “I’m okay,” you repeat, softer. “Just—just not used to the softness.”

His brows twitch. “Too much?”

“No,” you say instantly, hand reaching for him, fingertips curling against his ribs like you’re afraid he’ll pull away. “It’s not too much. That’s what I mean. I’m just not used to it not being too much.”

His gaze softens.

You swallow. “It’s never felt… like this.”

Haymitch shifts his weight just enough to free the hand between you and cradles the side of your face with it, thumb brushing along your jaw.

“Then we do this slow,” he says. “And we stop whenever you need. And you don’t have to be anything you’re not.”

You nod. Your throat is tight.

He kisses you again. Slower this time. Even more careful. Not because he doubts you—but because he wants you to feel safe.

And somehow, that undoing is the most overwhelming thing of all.

You whisper against his mouth, “Thank you.”

He kisses the corner of your lips.

“For what?”

You smile—small, wobbly. “Not rushing.”

His lips twitch like he wants to smile too, but all he does is kiss you again. And again. Until you melt back into the mattress, your legs parting to cradle him without even thinking.

His hand stays on your cheek the whole time.

Like an anchor. Like a promise.

His mouth never strays far from yours.

Even when the kisses shift—deeper now, slower still—he keeps coming back. Brushing your lips like they’re something sacred. Like he’s checking in every time.

Your fingers slide along his ribs, up the curve of his back, fingertips catching on the faint ridges of old scars. He shudders under your touch, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.

“Still okay?” he murmurs against your mouth, his hand cupping your jaw.

You nod, breath warm against his lips. “Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Just makin’ sure.”

His hand dips down then—just to the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t push. Just rests there, palm flat, waiting.

“Can I…?”

You nod again. But he doesn’t move.

He waits until you say it.

“Yes,” you whisper. “You can.”

He lifts it slowly, careful not to rush, watching your face the entire time. And when he pulls it over your head and tosses it gently aside, he doesn’t look right away—not at your body. His eyes stay on yours, like he’s making sure you’re still here. Still with him.

You lie back against the pillow, half-naked now, chest rising and falling a little faster.

He swallows.

“Still good?”

You nod, eyes shining. “Yeah. Just…”

“I know,” he says. “We go slow.”

His hand slides along your side, warm and wide, not squeezing—just holding. You arch slightly into his touch, and he kisses the hollow beneath your jaw. Then your collarbone. Then just above your heart.

He lingers there.

You whisper, “You can touch me.”

His breath stutters.

He shifts above you, brushing your hair back with both hands like he wants to see everything—but only if you let him. His palms settle just beneath your shoulder blades as he leans down and kisses you again—mouth soft and open, a little messier now, like the carefulness is starting to melt into comfort.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, fingers slipping through his hair, and he groans quietly into your mouth like the weight of your touch undoes something deep in him.

You part your legs a little more—not rushed, not inviting more than you’re ready for. Just letting him in. Letting him settle.

And he does. Laying over you like you’re something he’s allowed to rest on.

He kisses you again.

“Still good?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Are you?”

“I’ve never been this good,” he says.

Your shirt is gone, but the rest of you is still clothed—your soft sleep shorts clinging to your hips, warm and slightly rumpled. Haymitch is still in his sweats, the fabric dragging low on his hips, bare chest pressed to yours like something holy.

He’s kissing you again—slow and deep, but not greedy. Just full. Full of everything he hasn’t said in words. Full of the way his body trembles a little when your hands roam down his back, fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of those old, worn sweats.

His hips shift gently between your legs, the cotton of your shorts and his waistband the only thing keeping him from pressing fully against you. It makes you gasp—that closeness, even through clothes, even with space left to cross.

He pulls back immediately.

“You okay?” he asks, already still, his voice low and careful. “Too much?”

You shake your head, breath catching. “No. I just… it feels real.”

He nods slowly, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

“Can I take these off?” he asks, fingers gently toying with the hem of your shorts.

You nod again—but then stop yourself. “Yes. Please.”

He leans in and kisses you once more, then shifts down slowly, sliding the fabric down over your hips, his hands steady and unhurried. He kisses your thigh when he gets them past your knees, then again when he pulls them free completely and drops them off the side of the bed.

You’re left in nothing but your underwear, the air cool against your skin but your body warm—flushed from the closeness, the way he looks at you.

Haymitch pauses, still kneeling between your legs.

“You still with me?”

You nod, eyes glassy.

He presses a kiss just above your knee. “Tell me if that changes.”

Then he leans back just enough to shove his sweats down—slow, one hand on your leg to steady himself. He drops them off the bed, not making a show of it, just removing distance.

Now it’s just you and him. Skin and breath and cotton between your thighs.

He comes back over you, settling carefully between your legs again, the press of his boxers against your underwear making both of you gasp.

You arch into him, instinctive, chasing the pressure. He groans softly against your neck, his hips stuttering just a little.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel… you feel like everything.”

You press your cheek to his, fingers sliding into his hair.

His arms wrap around you fully, pressing you chest-to-chest, his hips moving again—slow, tender, grinding gently against the throb between your legs. The fabric catches just right, just enough, and your mouth parts in a breathless moan.

“Still okay?” he whispers.

You nod, voice gone soft. “Still okay.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your mouth again—longer this time.

And the way he moves against you—not fast, not hard, just present—makes your whole body hum.

The friction is steady now.

Haymitch’s hips roll against yours—slow, deep enough to make your breath catch, but still clothed, still soft. The heat between you simmers just under the surface. It isn’t frantic. It isn’t even needy. It’s devotional.

You moan quietly when he presses down just right, your underwear damp and clinging now, the front of his boxers warm and soaked with it.

He kisses you again—this time slower, deeper. He kisses you like he means it. Like he’s trying to learn what your mouth is like when you sigh, when you whisper his name, when you forget to be afraid.

His hands are moving now—down your sides, across your waist, up your ribs. Exploring. Not groping. Just touching.

His palms splay over your stomach, your sternum, the soft swell of your breasts. Careful and curious, like he’s never been allowed to touch anything this soft.

“Still good?” he murmurs, mouth brushing the edge of your jaw.

“Yeah,” you whisper, voice breathless. “It’s good. You’re good.”

You run your fingers along his back, over the strong curve of his shoulder blades, down to the dip of his spine. He shudders when your nails graze gently over his skin.

You whisper, “Can I touch you more?”

He nods against your skin. “Please.”

You roll your hips slowly, letting him feel the way you pulse under him, and his body jerks—just slightly, just enough to let you know he feels it all.

His hand comes to rest between your breasts, not pressing, just lying there—warm and steady.

“Never thought I’d get this,” he says quietly.

You lean up and kiss his throat.

“You have it.”

He cups one of your breasts fully then—warm palm against bare skin, his thumb brushing slow over your nipple. You gasp, arching into the touch, and he pulls back just enough to watch your face.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, lips parted. “That feels… really nice.”

His mouth quirks. “Nice?”

You huff a laugh, cheeks hot. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You kiss him again, smiling against his mouth as his hand keeps moving—down your side, over your hip, sliding between your thighs where your underwear is damp and soaked through.

His fingers brush over you there—gentle, not pressing, just feeling how wet you are for him.

“Jesus,” he breathes.

You gasp again as his finger grazes your clit through the thin fabric, hips jerking.

“Still good?” he asks, still checking, still watching.

“Yes,” you moan.

His forehead rests against yours as he keeps touching you, slowly, like he’s learning how to love you. Not just where—but how.

And it’s not until your legs fall wider around his hips that he whispers, “Can I take these off?”

Your breath is already shaky when you nod.

Haymitch kisses you once more, deep and slow, then starts to slide down your body—pressing kisses to your chest, your ribs, your stomach. You go still beneath him, not tense, but not loose either.

Your thighs twitch as he settles between them, his hands resting gently at your hips.

He doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t touch you yet.

Just waits.

You try to speak, but your voice comes out thin. “You don’t have to…”

He looks up at you immediately, his hands still steady on your hips. “Don’t want to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You bite your lip, heat rushing up your throat. “It’s not that. I just…” Your eyes flick away. “I’ve never had anyone do that without it being—”

You stop.

But he already knows.

His thumb strokes over your hipbone, warm and patient. “Without it being about them?”

You nod, barely.

His eyes soften. “This isn’t about me, honey.”

Your throat tightens.

“It’s about you.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off gently—his voice warm and sure as his hands start sliding your underwear down.

“Let me take care of you.”

He kisses the inside of your thigh as he says it, like a vow.

“Okay?” he asks, waiting with your underwear halfway down your legs, not moving until you nod.

You do.

“Okay.”

He finishes pulling them off, slow and reverent, and then he’s back between your thighs—settled and steady, his hands running soothing strokes along the backs of your legs as you tremble just slightly beneath him.

You cover your face with one hand, overwhelmed.

He presses a kiss to the top of your knee. “Hey.”

You peek down at him, heart thudding.

His voice is soft. “I want you to feel good. That’s it.”

You nod again.

He kisses your inner thigh—once. Then again. And then his tongue finally drags over you, slow and warm, and your whole body shudders.

You cry out softly, your hand flying from your face to grip the sheets instead.

Haymitch groans into you, low and wrecked, his hands holding your hips steady as he licks again—deep, slow, deliberate—like he’s savoring every inch of you.

He murmurs something against you that you can’t make out, but you feel it in your bones. In the way your legs fall wider. In the way your breath catches every time his tongue flattens just right.

You sob his name once, and he answers by sucking gently at your clit, just once, just enough to make you whine and arch off the bed.

“Still okay?” he whispers, voice rough, lips brushing your skin.

“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t.

He keeps licking like he’s been waiting a lifetime to show you what it’s supposed to feel like.

And for the first time, you believe it’s okay to fall apart.

He keeps his mouth on you like it’s the only place he’s ever belonged.

No rush. No show. Just slow, reverent worship—his tongue dragging steady over you, his hands strong and gentle as they hold you open like you’re something sacred.

You can’t breathe right.

Not because it’s overwhelming, though it is—but because he’s the one doing it. Haymitch. The man who doesn’t let anyone close. The man who looks at you like softness is allowed to survive in his arms.

You sob his name again, hips lifting into his mouth, thighs trembling as he flattens his tongue and presses, circling exactly where you need him, slow and devastating.

He groans into you when you grind against his mouth, like your pleasure alone is enough to wreck him.

“H-Haymitch—” you gasp, voice breaking. “I think—I think I’m gonna—”

He pulls you closer.

“Let go, honey.”

And you do.

It hits all at once—sharp and hot and so full, your body locking up with a cry that punches out of your lungs. You writhe under his hands, thighs clenching around his shoulders, hips jerking as your orgasm takes you.

He doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking through it, swallowing every sound, every twitch, every sobbed-out breath until you’re squirming from the overstimulation and trying to push him away, your fingers weak where they find his hair.

Only then does he pull back.

He kisses your inner thigh once, then once more, and rests his cheek against it like he’s not quite ready to let go.

You’re still shaking, your chest rising and falling fast, your whole body wrecked in the best way.

He kisses your leg again, murmurs, “Still good?”

You nod, breathless. “Better than.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes, the look on his face somewhere between awe and ache.

And then he says, “You want more?”

Not greedy. Not expecting. Just offering.

You reach for him, still dazed, voice barely steady.

“I want you.”

You say it with your fingers curled around the back of his neck, your thighs still trembling, your chest flushed and bare. And Haymitch doesn’t move right away—doesn’t pounce, doesn’t rush.

He just stares at you like the whole world has narrowed to this bed, this breath, this choice.

Then he leans up, slow and quiet, and kisses you like he’s telling you thank you without words.

You pull him into you. Chest to chest, skin to skin, slick heat where your body’s still pulsing, still open from his mouth. He settles gently between your legs again, resting some of his weight on his elbows so you can feel him everywhere—his breath, his heartbeat, the shaky tension in his muscles from holding back.

His cock is thick against your thigh, still trapped in his boxers, and when you roll your hips just a little, he groans into your mouth.

But he still doesn’t move.

Not until he whispers, “Last one. You sure?”

You nod. “I’m sure.”

He brushes his nose against yours. “Say it, honey.”

Your voice is soft, steady. “I want you to make love to me.”

He exhales shakily then presses one more kiss to your lips before shifting back to slide his boxers off.

You follow, eyes wide, breath catching as he settles over you again—bare now, and so beautiful in the early morning light you almost forget to be afraid.

His hand finds yours between your bodies, fingers tangling like he needs the anchor.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You nod. “More than.”

He reaches down, slow and careful, guiding himself to you. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance—hot, heavy, slick with your arousal—and you gasp as he starts to press in.

It’s a stretch. Not painful. Just real.

You suck in a breath, thighs tensing.

He freezes. “Too much?”

You shake your head, clutching his hand tighter. “No. Just… I’ve never done this and felt safe before.”

His whole body softens above you.

“Then we do it right,” he murmurs. “Slow. Steady. You tell me the second you need anything.”

You nod, eyes locked on his.

And then he pushes forward—inch by inch, giving you time to feel every part of it, every place where your body opens for him. You gasp once, then moan, then arch into him as he finally bottoms out, chest pressing to yours, both of you shaking.

He holds still, forehead against yours, your breath mingling.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You feel like home.”

And for the first time in your life, it does.

The first movement is slow.

Just his hips rocking gently, barely pulling back before easing forward again. It’s not deep yet—not really—but it’s enough to make you breathe harder, to make you clutch his back and gasp into his shoulder like it’s the only way to stay grounded.

Haymitch groans softly, like even that much undoes him.

“Still okay?” he whispers against your cheek, voice frayed at the edges.

You nod, whispering back, “Yeah. It’s so good.”

So good doesn’t even cover it. Because it isn’t just about how he feels inside you—though he fills you perfectly, thick and slow and warm—it’s the way he moves.

Like he has nothing to prove.

Like there’s no rush, no point in fucking you fast when he can stay here, when he can press his chest to yours and feel your heart race with every gentle thrust.

“Let me know if anything changes,” he murmurs. “You just say the word and I stop.”

You shake your head, holding him tighter. “Don’t stop. Just… keep doing it like this.”

He kisses you. Tender. Messy. His hips begin to move more fully now, the strokes deeper, still unhurried—but enough to make your body melt under him, your thighs falling further open, your breath turning into quiet whimpers with each press of his cock.

“You’re so soft,” he says against your mouth, like he can’t believe it. “So fuckin’ warm.”

You moan, breathless. “You feel so good inside me.”

His rhythm falters, just for a second. Then he picks it back up—still that steady, loving pace, but now with a little more weight behind it. Like every slow thrust is driving the truth in deeper.

You reach up and cradle his face, pulling his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” you whisper again. Not because you expect it back. Just because it’s real. Because it lives in your bones now.

He thrusts deeper, his breath catching.

“Love you too, honey.”

He presses in again, and you sob out a moan as his hips grind perfectly at the end.

“Oh, god—” you gasp.

“That feel good?” he asks, voice rough, low, tender.

You nod, body arching, and he does it again. Slow, deep, circling his hips just right.

Your legs tighten around him as your body starts to tremble.

“You’re close,” he murmurs, “aren’t you?”

“Yes—please—Haymitch—”

He kisses you again, one hand sliding between your bodies to gently rub your clit as he keeps thrusting, slow and perfect.

“Come for me, honey. Right here. Let me feel it.”

Your whole body pulls tight.

His thumb circles your clit with gentle pressure, just enough, just right, and his cock keeps moving slow and deep inside you, hitting that place that makes your breath stutter and your fingers claw gently down his back.

You whisper his name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only thing keeping you here.

And then—you break.

Your body arches, thighs trembling, mouth falling open as the orgasm hits you—hot and slow and endless. You feel yourself pulse around him, your body clenching so tightly around his cock that he gasps, the sound punched right out of his chest.

“Fuck, honey,” he groans, voice ragged, lips dragging over your cheek. “That’s it. God, that’s it. Just like that—just like that.”

He doesn’t pull out.

He stays deep. Still moving, still holding you, his thrusts rougher now—still slow, but not calm anymore. Not careful. Like your body unraveling around him has undone whatever control he had left.

You’re still shaking, your body wet and sensitive, but you keep whispering, “Yes—please, Haymitch—”

He lets out a sound you’ve never heard from him before—half-strangled, half-helpless—and slams into you once, twice, then stays there, buried as deep as he can go.

And he comes.

Hard.

His body seizes over yours, one hand gripping the pillow near your head, the other cradling your thigh as he shudders through it—long and slow. You feel him twitch inside you, feel the heat of him spilling deep, and your body clenches again like it wants to keep every bit of him.

He collapses into you—not heavy, just close, forehead against your neck, breath shaking.

You wrap your arms around him and hold him there.

Neither of you speaks.

Not yet.

There’s only the sound of your breaths tangled together, your hearts still racing, your bodies still joined.

After a minute, he shifts slightly—just enough to lift his head and look at you.

“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse, almost reverent.

You nod, smiling, your eyes glassy. “More than okay.”

He doesn’t move to pull out. Doesn’t even ask.

He just presses his lips to your cheek and whispers, “Stay with me.”

You curl your fingers into his hair and whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Haymitch’s body is warm and heavy over yours, his breath brushing your collarbone, your fingers tangled in his hair. Neither of you moves—not because you can’t, but because there’s nowhere else to be.

The sky outside has started to shift, that pre-dawn blue softening toward something gentler. A little gold peeks through the window, painting your skin in morning.

He’s the first to speak after a while, his voice low, rough from sleep and sex and something softer.

“You sure you’re okay?”

You nod slowly, nose brushing his temple. “I’ve never felt safer.”

His body eases even further into yours, like he didn’t know how much tension he was holding until you said it out loud.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, kissing the curve of your neck. “You don’t have to be anything but yourself.”

“I meant it too,” you whisper. “I want all of you. Even the hard parts. Especially the hard parts.”

You feel him smile against your skin—crooked and quiet and real.

Eventually, he does shift, just enough to slip out of you. You wince at the emptiness, at the sudden cool air between your legs, but then he’s right back, curling around you, pulling the blanket up over both of you like he needs you covered, held, his.

He kisses your shoulder. Then the crook of your neck. Then the spot behind your ear that makes you hum.

You murmur, “I think I’m in love with you.”

He grumbles against your skin, “I already told you I love you. Stop trying to win.”

You laugh, turning in his arms to face him. “I just like saying it.”

He runs a hand over your hair, down your spine. “Then say it again in a few hours. After we’ve slept for a decade.”

You rest your forehead against his, letting your nose brush his, letting your whole body sink into his warmth.

“Okay.”

He kisses you one more time, slow and sleep-soft, and then you both let yourselves drift.

Wrapped up in the sheets. Wrapped up in each other.

By the time the sun crests over the hills, you’re already dreaming.

And for the first time in a long time, it’s good.

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