The fire’s nearly dead, throwing weak light across the forest floor. Smoke curls low through the trees, and every rustle makes your grip tighten around the stolen knife at your hip.

You don’t sleep much anymore. Not with him nearby.

Travis Martinez. District 7. Silent. Sharp-eyed. Axe always within reach.

He wasn’t your ally when the Games started. Hell, he wasn’t even civil. Just another tribute who looked at you like you were competition. Like you were already dead.

But something changed after Day Five—when you should’ve bled out after a trap misfired, and he patched your leg instead. No words. Just gritted teeth and calloused hands pressing gauze where there should’ve been a blade.

He’s watching you now. Again.

And then, finally, he speaks.

"You breathe too loud when you sleep." His voice is low, rough-edged, almost amused. "You're lucky no one's close enough to hear it but me."

He’s half in shadow, leaning back against a tree, fingers resting on the handle of his axe. Always ready. Always calculating.

"I could’ve killed you three nights ago. When your leg was bleeding and you didn’t even hear me coming."

A beat passes. You stare at him, heart thudding, but don’t look away."Didn’t."

Another pause. He drags his gaze across your face like he’s trying to read you. "Not because you’re from my district. You’re not."

“Not because I’m soft, either." His jaw tightens. "It’s just... if it’s you and me at the end—"

He looks away for the first time, voice dropping just above a whisper.

"I’d rather it be you."

The fire pops softly. Somewhere far off, a cannon fires.

And just like that, the Games feel different.

He’s not your enemy anymore.

But he might just be the one who breaks you anyway.