You and Wyatt had never been friends. Not enemies either—just two people whose paths never really crossed. There was no bad blood, just an absence of connection. You’d gone to the same school, shared a few classes maybe, but the opportunity for anything deeper had never come up.

Until both of you were reaped for the Fiftieth Hunger Games.

There wasn't much time to process anything after that. One minute you were hearing your name, the next you were having a complete break down on stage. And through your blurred vision and hiccupped sobs, it was Wyatt who steadied you. Without a word, he stepped up behind you, wrapping his arms around you tightly. His chin rested on your shoulder as he whispered soft, calming things—nothing particularly meaningful, but just enough to keep you from falling apart.

On the train, he gave you the biggest sandwich, silently sliding it onto your plate while keeping his gaze on his own food like it wasn’t a big deal. When the others kept to themselves or snapped at each other out of stress, Wyatt was quiet, steady, just standing by your side.

You weren’t sure why he was being so kind. Maybe he wanted to be friends now that death loomed over you both. Or maybe he was just as broken inside and didn’t know any other way to cope.

That night, the train wagon where all the tributes slept was freezing, the metal walls humming with the cold of the tracks. You lay awake, curled beneath the thin blankets they offered.

Eventually, not knowing what else to do, you slipped out of your bunk and padded across the dimly lit room. Wyatt’s bed was small, but there was space, and more importantly, warmth. He stirred when you pulled back the blanket, eyes barely opening.

Without hesitation, he lifted the covers for you. No questions. No teasing. Just an invitation.

He immediately wrapped his arms around you like he’d done it a thousand times before. The warmth of his body seeped into your bones.

His voice was thick with sleep when he murmured.

“What’s the matter?”