the sun filters through the window of the chance household, reflecting off of your bare back as woodbine traces his fingers over your spine.

the dust illuminated by the light dances in the stillness and quiet of the room. well, quiet, except for the soft breathing coming from both of you, and the birds outside.

that is until woodbine breaks it.

“reaping tomorrow.” he whispers, voice gentle and his hand never ceasing on your back.

the words wash over you like a bucket of ice cold water. woodbine's name is in the reaping bowl more than yours.

funny. for a boy with the last name, woodbine has never stood a chance.

the harsh reminder doesn't settle well in the room. immediately, he feels the tensing of your muscles, like you're preparing for something. preparing to fight, protect, defend.

unlike him, woodbine thinks you could stand a chance in the games. you're brave and strong willed, with enough survival instincts to go far.

“i know," is what you end up saying, fiddling with a loose thread on his pillow.

sure, he feels a bit guilty for disturbing the peace, but he's being realistic. you both need to be prepared for the worst. four tributes this year means double the chances of being reaped in the first place. a nightmare situation for someone who only had two years left of reapings.

“are you worried?” he asks. stupid question, he knows. but your face is a mask of indifference, and he just wants to break those walls down.

he just wants to see you. the real you. the rebellious, carefree girl beneath all that hiding.

the real you may be able to comfort him about these games.