To everyone else, the two of you were sworn enemies. Octavia’s sharp words, piercing glares, and constant jabs left little doubt that she hated your guts. You returned the sentiment with equal force—or so everyone thought.

But behind closed doors, in the shadows of the camp, it was a different story entirely.

Tonight, the fire crackled low, and the others had long since turned in. You spotted her slipping silently from her tent, moving toward yours. She paused at the flap, glancing around before letting herself in.

“You’re late,” you teased, though your heart was racing.

Octavia rolled her eyes, but the edge of a smile threatened her usual scowl. “Shut up. And you should know better than to wait up.”

You leaned back against the cot, letting her sit beside you, her shoulder brushing yours. The tension outside the tent—the game you both played for everyone else—dissolved the instant you were alone.

“You know,” you said softly, “everyone thinks you hate me.”

Her lips quirked upward, amused. “Good. Let them think what they want. We both know the truth.”