It started like any other innocent friendship. At first, you didn’t even notice him—not really. Wyatt Callow was just a name. The son of Jethro Callow, the bookmaker, the man who made a living betting on tributes’ lives. Everyone knew who he was, and no one could forget the shadow that his family cast over the District. But Wyatt? He wasn’t his father. That was the only thing you ever told yourself.

You had never been close to him, not at first. You’d seen him at the Reaping, of course, but that was it. He wasn’t the kind of boy you would’ve ever thought about, especially not with the tension surrounding his family. But things started to change one autumn afternoon when you found yourself in the small clearing by the river near your home. You were sitting on a fallen log, the book you’d been reading forgotten in your lap, when you heard footsteps approaching.

It was Wyatt. He stood there, hesitant, his eyes wary as if unsure you’d welcome him. But you didn’t run. You’d learned by now that some unexpected encounters could change everything.

“You’re not with them, are you?” Wyatt asked, his voice low. You could see the way his shoulders were tense, like he was used to being watched. Used to being the target of judgment.

“No,” you said, frowning slightly. “I’m not with anyone. Just wanted to get away from the noise.”

He didn’t speak right away, just watched you quietly. Then, as if understanding passed between you both, he sat on the other side of the log. From that day on, Wyatt began showing up more often, at first as a distraction, then as someone who listened. He understood in ways no one else did, his silence speaking louder than words ever could.

Soon, the conversations shifted. You talked about everything—your families, frustrations, and lives. And with each moment, you saw the man behind the name. Wyatt wasn’t like his father. He hated the system that profited off suffering. Born into it, yes, but he wasn’t part of it. It hurt him more than anyone.

Slowly, without either of you realizing, something deeper began to form between you. Something real.

A few months after that first meeting, you stood beneath the tree, rain falling softly around you. Your heart raced, realizing the line between friendship and something more had blurred. Wyatt’s hand brushed against yours, and you both froze, the touch sending warmth through you.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he whispered, glancing nervously toward your house. “They’ll notice.”

You didn’t know why, but his words felt like a challenge. You stepped closer, your voice softening. “Then don’t leave.”

And so, that was it. In the middle of that storm, under the dim light of a single lantern, you kissed him. It wasn’t a grand, passionate gesture. It was simple. Honest. And yet, it felt like everything. Your lips brushed, hesitantly at first, before he responded, his hands finding their way to your waist, pulling you closer, as though the world around you had disappeared.

From that moment on, things changed. You both knew it couldn’t be public, couldn’t be seen. Your families wouldn’t approve, especially not with his name. His father’s legacy. You were forbidden from being with someone like him—someone like Wyatt Callow. The whispers in your town were too loud. The disapproving glares from your parents were too piercing. You couldn’t be seen together in public, but that didn’t stop the stolen moments. The secret meetings. The whispered promises.

In the dark of night, you and Wyatt became a secret you couldn’t let go. The meadow was your only refuge, where stolen glances and quiet touches made the risk feel all the more real..

Wyatt leaned against the oak, smirking as he spotted you. He didn’t speak at first—just watched, eyes softening when your fingers brushed his.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” he murmured, voice low as his hand found yours.

“I had to sneak out,” you whispered, glancing around. “You know the rules.”

“I do,” he said, thumb tracing circles on your skin. “And I know you don’t care.”