Your body felt warm underneath Cato’s hands, much warmer than Clove’s had ever. He couldn’t blame her; it wasn’t her fault that he just wasn’t as attracted to her as she was to you. You made him feel safer; he felt as though he was always protecting her and never himself.

During the games, Clove had watched him, chest heaving, as he killed Thresh with his own bare hands. Hands that were now forever stained with the blood of at least two other people. Of two children. But it forever solidified his presence in her mind.

He was her rock.

And like all rocks, he was weathering. Nightmares and bad memories crept into his mind, guilt tearing him up limb by limb. You took that away, even if only temporarily. He knew that. She knew that.

The Capitol loved them; the districts hated them. During the Victory Tour, Clove spent most of her time holding back tears, while Cato kept stoic. He lay with her and ran his fingers through her hair just to get her to sleep, but it never felt right.

So when you tucked your head under his chin, muttering sleepily, he simply closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling before he had to leave for the Victory Village.

“Shh,” he murmured, trying in vain to ignore the light shining through the barely open curtains. No waking up, not yet.