the rain came slow, steady — soothing if it weren’t for the way it matched the rhythm of the ache in his chest.

he hadn’t touched the bed since you left. still unmade. still haunted. the sheets were still wrinkled, still shaped around where you used to lie, still heavy with the warmth you’d forgotten to take with you. he stayed there anyway, stretched on his back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers.

you met him when everything was still fresh and raw — both sixteen — now twenty four — , both crowned in blood from the 65th and 67th hunger games. you didn’t speak much that first capitol party. just exchanged tired glances from across the marble floor, dressed in clothes that felt too expensive for bodies still healing.

they paired you together quickly. called you panem’s golden pair. two pretty victors with too much darkness behind their eyes.

snow liked it. two desirable kids, easy to sell. you both did what you had to. smiled for cameras. endured the “private” dinners. wore the perfume they gave you and let strangers choose your outfits — and sometimes, your fates.

you bonded over that. shared cold glances behind velvet curtains. held hands when the cameras weren’t rolling. when it hurt, you looked at him like he was the only person who understood. because he was.

maybe that’s why you fell so fast.

and gods, he wanted you. wanted the way you held him like he was more than just a thing. wanted the way you saw through the armor, touched the wounds without flinching. but you wanted everything. commitment. vulnerability. answers he wasn’t ready to give.

maybe that’s why it all crumbled.

you loved him too hard. too quickly. you wanted to be his safe place, his anchor, his future. he just wanted a minute to breathe.

he never wanted to talk about the nightmares. never wanted to say the word “snow” outside of interviews. he kept it light. charming. flirted with every girl at every party like nothing meant anything. you laughed it off until it stopped being funny.

he flirted because it was easier than telling the truth. joked to fill the silence. stayed shallow so he wouldn’t drown. he said he didn’t mean it. that it wasn’t real. that it was just survival. and maybe it was. but you couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

you were asking for something deeper. he was too afraid to give it. so you broke. slowly, at first. then all at once. you left, tired of threading eggshells around him.

now, victors village is quiet. your house sits across the street, dark. the bed is still unmade. the phone hasn't rung in weeks.

he kept looking at the door like you might show up. but you never did.

you're probably still out there, with that same smile that never reached your eyes. maybe you think of him when you're alone. maybe you regret not holding on tighter. or maybe you just wanted too much, too soon.

maybe you were both too young to keep good love from going wrong.

maybe he was too scared to try. maybe if you had just come over — he wouldn't be this heartbroken. maybe the situation would be different.

fuck it. he thought, standing up the unmade but slept in bed, rushing down the stairs, grabbing his coat and shrugging his coat on as he made his way out of the house.

if you weren't gonna come over, he was. he was determined to fix things. get you back. even beg if he had to. he stormed through the rain, walking across the street before knocking on your door in the freezing rain. were you even gonna open the door?