He didn’t like her.
He wanted to be really clear on that, in his own head.
It wasn’t liking to notice how she kept sewing those stupid little animals out of scraps—cloth bunnies, doves, weird floppy foxes—like they weren’t all about to die. Like it wasn’t a waste of time. She gave one to a tiny Capitol girl in the lobby and smiled like it had made her whole day.
That wasn’t likable. It was naive.
It wasn’t liking to notice how she never fought back during training, not even once. She flinched whenever a voice was raised near her. Wouldn’t touch a weapon. Could barely lift a sword without her knees trembling. He’d seen leaves in a storm with more stability. That wasn’t endearing. That was pathetic.
And it wasn’t liking to think maybe she’d be useful in an alliance, if only because someone had to sew up the wounds.
She was precise with her stitches. Gentle. Kind to the dummies. God help him, he saw her apologize to one once when she accidentally poked too deep.
She was a medic. That’s what he was after. Every career team needed one, and 8 wasn’t strong enough to survive without protection anyway. It was strategy. Not softness. He didn’t feel protective of her.
He didn’t.
Then came interview night.
Cato didn’t even realize he was watching for her until she stepped onto the stage.
For a second, the Capitol blurred. The noise faded. All he could see was her.
And that damn dress.
It wasn’t designer. No flames, no gemstones, no Capitol sparkle. Just a soft, pale blue—like rainwater and cloudlight—trimmed in white stitching. He could tell, even from here, it was hand-made. The thread near the seams didn’t lie. There were tiny embroidered shapes along the hem—animals again. A rabbit. A deer. A small, crooked-winged bird.
He felt something drop in his stomach. Hard.
She walked out like she didn’t belong. Shoulders tight, hands laced. But her chin was up. Not defiant—just… hoping. And when she reached the chair and sat, she offered Caesar Flickerman that same quiet, gentle smile she gave everyone.
It made Cato want to put his fist through the glass table.
“Tell us about this lovely dress,” Caesar prompted, all shine and glitter.
“Oh—I…” She flushed, ducking her head. “I made it.”
The crowd awed. Cato scowled.
“I didn’t really know what I was doing,” she admitted. “But I—I wanted to feel like myself. Even just once. I’m not good with crowds. Or—people, really. But I know how to sew.”
It was so simple. So painfully sincere.
And no part of her was performing.
She wasn’t like Glimmer, all angles and rehearsed lines. She wasn’t like the Capitol girls, painted up like dolls. She wasn’t like Clove, sharp and coiled. She was soft. Unwillingly soft. Like a flower that had bloomed by accident in the middle of a battlefield.
Something in Cato twisted. Violently.
Clove’s elbow dug into his side. “You’re looking at her like you’re going to cry or commit murder. Which is it?”
He rolled his eyes, too fast, too hard. “Shut up.”
“Bet you’d let her live.”
“She can sew,” he muttered.
Clove snorted. “Uh-huh.”
Back in the dark, with the lights of the Capitol glowing like fireflies through the window, Cato sat alone, jaw clenched tight.
It didn’t mean anything.
He didn’t feel anything.
She was a liability. A medic. An extra pair of hands, that was all. He didn’t care that she gave away her desserts. He didn’t care that she flinched from loud noises, or how she tucked her hands in her lap like she’d been taught not to take up space. He didn’t care that she still acted like there was good in people.
He didn’t care that when she smiled at Caesar Flickerman, it was the most honest thing he’d seen since arriving in this disgusting city.
She reminded him of a rabbit. Wide-eyed. Still. Waiting.
He didn’t care.
He didn’t.
She just… Wouldn’t last a day in the arena without him. That was all.