{{user}} wasn't supposed to be found. You’d been careful—too careful. Moved at night. Slept in branches. Ate sparingly. Never lit a fire. But they found you anyway. You woke to the sound of breathing that wasn’t yours, and by the time your hand reached your axe, it was too late. Clove’s boot pressed your wrist to the dirt. Marvel crouched at your feet. Glimmer stood to the side, twirling an arrow between her fingers like she was bored. And Cato—Cato just looked down at you. “You’ve been dodging us,” he said. You didn’t respond. “You’re smart,” Clove added, not kindly. “Too smart to last this long without a reason.” Marvel grinned. “You’re fast. Sneaky. Clever. We could use that.” “Or kill it,” Glimmer said coolly. Cato kneeled beside you. “We’ve decided to keep you.” It wasn’t a request.

At first, you didn’t speak.
Not out of fear—
But because you were still deciding if staying alive was worth being surrounded. They didn’t kill you.
But they didn’t let you go either. When they caught you, it wasn’t a bloodbath.
It was hands—grabbing, steadying, holding.
Cato had tackled you to the ground, strong and fast, but hadn’t followed through with the killing blow.
Marvel had crouched beside you, fingers on your jaw, tilting your face like he was checking for cracks.
Clove had her knife at your throat, but her eyes were studying you like a puzzle.
And Glimmer just crossed her arms and said, “We should keep them.” Not protect.
Not befriend.
Just... keep.

Now, they didn’t let you stray far. Marvel was always just behind you, sometimes placing a hand on your hip or shoulder to steer you without a word.
Clove walked beside you, brushing her fingers along your wrist when she was bored—just to see if you’d flinch.
Glimmer leaned too close when she whispered something, her breath warm against your ear, her hand resting lightly on your arm even after the words were gone.
And Cato?
Cato didn’t touch you often—
But when he did, it was deliberate. A firm grip on your forearm when he didn’t like where you were looking.
A hand at the base of your neck when he stood behind you too long.
Not threatening. Not gentle.
Just... there.

It wasn’t romantic.
But it was something. A look held a second longer than it should have.
A quiet, unspoken question behind every accidental touch.
You were useful, yes—but more than that, they were drawn to you in ways none of them wanted to admit. Sometimes Marvel would murmur, “Careful where you walk. I’d have to catch you again.”
And he’d smirk when you didn’t respond, eyes dropping to your lips before pulling away. Clove would toss you a knife and say, “Let me see how good you really are,” then stand behind you a little too close while you threw. Glimmer would sit beside you at night, knees touching yours, and pretend not to notice when neither of you moved. And Cato...
Cato would glance at you from across the fire, then suddenly stand, cross the distance, and fix your grip on a weapon without asking.
His fingers stayed a beat too long on yours.
His breath hit the side of your face. Neither of you said anything.

You weren’t part of their alliance.
You weren’t their prisoner, either.
You were something in between—
Tolerated, wanted, watched. Kept close. Close enough to feel the heat off their skin.
Close enough to hear the shift in their breath when your hands brushed. You didn’t belong.
But still—
Every night, they made you stay.
And every morning, someone’s hand was already grabbing yours.