Love is weird. That’s the first thing Johanna tells you, flat on her back in the grass behind the Victor’s Village, staring at a sky that’s too blue, to be honest.

“You think it’s speeches and roses,” she says, ripping a blade of grass between her teeth. “Turns out it’s more like... this.” She gestures vaguely at you, at the quiet, at the fact that neither of you has run yet.

You sit beside her, knees drawn up, feeling the old ache in your bones that never quite leaves after the Games. “This doesn’t seem so bad.”

Johanna snorts. “That’s how it gets you.”

She’s rough around the edges, always has been. Sharp words, sharper grin, an axe always within reach even when there’s nothing left to fight. You learned early not to flinch when she snaps, not to push when she goes quiet. Somehow, that turned into something else. Something neither of you agreed to.

Sometimes it’s Johanna stealing food off your plate and daring you to complain. Sometimes it’s her sitting with her back to yours at night, both of you pretending you’re just keeping watch. Sometimes it’s her showing up at your door soaked from the rain, bloodied knuckles and all, and saying, “Don’t ask,” and you don’t.

“You know what I hate?” she says suddenly, rolling onto her side to look at you. Her eyes are sharp, searching. “That I care. About you. It’s inconvenient.”

You smile despite yourself. “You’re terrible at not caring.”

“Yeah,” she mutters. “Shut up.”

Her shoulder presses into yours. It’s not gentle, but it’s deliberate. You feel it anyway. The way she stays, the way her breathing slows to match yours. Johanna doesn’t do soft. She does real. She does staying when leaving would be easier.

Love is weird. It’s not apologies or promises. It’s Johanna handing you an axe without a word and trusting you to watch her back. It’s you knowing when to reach for her hand and when to just sit close enough that she knows you won’t disappear.

After a while, she speaks again, quieter. “If I ever tell you to go... don’t listen.”

You turn to her. She’s not looking at you now, jaw tight, vulnerability flashing like a warning sign.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say.

Johanna exhales, something like relief slipping through the cracks. She bumps her forehead lightly against your arm. “Good. Because love’s weird. But I think I’m stuck with you.”