Chapter Text
Effie could ignore a great many things.
She could ignore the murmurs behind manicured Capitol hands, dismissing her as frivolous and ridiculous.
She could ignore the District 12 tributes’ cold indifference toward her, the way they looked at her as if she were part of the problem.
She could ignore the constant ache in her feet after standing in impossibly high heels for hours on end.
But ignoring him?
That was proving to be a challenge.
She should have expected it, really. Haymitch Abernathy had an infuriating ability to get under her skin, to press just the right buttons, to make her aware of him in ways she absolutely did not want to be.
And now, as the train sped toward the Capitol, as the tributes finished their meal in tense silence, she could feel him watching her again.
Not outright staring. No, he was far too skilled for that.
But every time she shifted, every time she reached for her teacup or smoothed her skirts, she could sense it. The weight of his attention. The laziness of it, the slow, deliberate way he studied her, like he was waiting for something.
Effie refused to look at him.
Instead, she focused on the task at hand—presentation, preparation, training. She went through the motions, guiding Katniss and Peeta through the basics of Capitol etiquette, all while pointedly ignoring the way Haymitch’s gaze burned into her skin.
But then—
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
His voice cut through the conversation like a blade, rough and exasperated.
Effie’s jaw clenched before she turned toward him. “Excuse me?”
Haymitch took a slow sip of his drink, watching her over the rim of his glass. “You really think manners are gonna save their lives?”
Effie inhaled sharply. “I think it might give them a fighting chance.”
Haymitch let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, we’re sending them into a bloodbath, not a tea party.”
Effie’s composure cracked, just a little. “And what exactly would you have me do, Haymitch?”
His lips curled at the edges, something sharp flashing behind his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know,” he drawled. “Maybe something useful.”
Effie’s pulse spiked.
Oh, she wanted to slap him.
Not because he was wrong—but because he wasn’t entirely right either.
“Not all of us get to sit back and drink our problems away,” she said, her voice deceptively sweet. “Some of us actually work for a living.”
Haymitch tilted his head slightly, like she’d just done something interesting.
And then, instead of arguing, instead of throwing something equally sharp back at her—
He grinned.
Something slow. Something wicked. Something that sent a very unwelcome heat curling up her spine.
Effie did not like that look.
“You really don’t like me, do you?” he murmured, voice lower now.
Effie lifted her chin. “You make that remarkably easy.”
Haymitch hummed, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Funny thing, though.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What?”
His smirk deepened. “You keep looking at me like you wish you did.”
Effie’s stomach dropped.
The air in the room shifted—thicker, heavier, charged with something neither of them wanted to name.
Katniss, looking vaguely disgusted, pushed her plate away. “I think I’m done here.”
Peeta, who had been silently watching the exchange like it was the most fascinating thing in the world, stifled a laugh as he followed her out.
Effie barely noticed them leave.
Because Haymitch was still looking at her like that.
Like he knew something she didn’t.
Like he was enjoying this.
Effie swallowed, forcing her expression back into polite indifference. “I have better things to do than entertain your delusions, Mr. Abernathy.”
Haymitch leaned forward just slightly, just enough to invade her space, and suddenly the table between them felt like it wasn’t enough.
“Do you?” he murmured.
Her breath hitched.
Effie hated the way her body reacted, the way her skin prickled, the way her heart slammed against her ribs like it was trying to tell her something she refused to hear.
She did the only thing she could do.
She stood, collected herself, and turned toward the door with perfect poise.
But before she stepped out, she heard it—
Low. Amused. Infuriating.
“I do love riling you up, sweetheart.”
Effie did not slam the door behind her.
But oh, she wanted to.