The sun had begun its slow crawl across the sky when you and Burdock reached the lake. It was far enough from the heart of District 12 that no one would bother looking for you—especially not with the market still buzzing and your father expecting you to help count change. But skipping out for a day with Burdock Everdeen didn’t feel like a sin. It felt like breathing.

You’d fallen first. That much was obvious, even if no one else could see it. It was in the way your eyes always found him in a crowd. In the way you’d make excuses to stay longer at his stall, pretending to be interested in dried herbs you’d seen a hundred times before. He made things feel… slower, quieter, safer. Like even in a place like this—hard and grey and hungry—you could carve out something soft if you tried.

Now the two of you laid side by side on sun-bleached dock planks, your legs half-dangling into the cool water. You had thrown yourselves in earlier, the kind of reckless swim that left you grinning and gasping for breath, laughing at nothing. Your hair was still wet, your shirt clinging damp against your spine. You shifted slightly to face him.

You turned your head and caught him looking at you.

Not looking, staring.

He didn’t flinch when you met his eyes. If anything, his gaze deepened. He was laying on his side, propped on one elbow, chest rising and falling slow like he didn’t want to disturb the moment. The sun kissed his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, and there was something tender in the way he looked at you—like he’d been studying your face long before you noticed.

“What?” you asked, voice soft.

He blinked once, like he’d only just realized he was staring. “Nothing.”

You raised a brow. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

Burdock’s lips twitched, like he was trying not to smile. “You’ve got something in your hair,” he said, reaching out, brushing a small blade of grass from behind your ear. But his fingers lingered just a moment too long.