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webslingingslasher · 2 years ago

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thinking about frat!peter leaving a conversation with someone or a group to take you upstairs because you looked at him with “fuck me” eyes

god i fucking LOVE frat!peter

You were Peter's girl.

He’s made that clear, every party he has has his arm thrown around your neck. He’ll press his lips to your temple or cheek when you walk away for a moment and return. He talks to you during beer pong games, ignoring his teammate entirely. He always comes to find you when you’re supposed to arrive and he always, always kisses you hello.

It was odd when you didn’t have him all over you when you walked in, even weirder when he wasn’t in the kitchen or garage. You texted him but was left on delivered, you wonder if he had made a run to the liquor store and forgot to tell you, you wouldn’t dare entertain the idea of him hooking up with another girl.

No, you were his girl. He made it clear.

Unless…

You stomped up the staircase off from the kitchen, upstairs was mostly off limits during parties. The only exception being the first bathroom on the right of the stairs, Peter’s room was to the left off the side. Without even glancing at the line you took a sharp left and paused at his door.

You took in a breath and pressed your ear against his door, you heard nothing but his standing fan running. Still not convinced you knocked lightly and pushed the door open, you blinked at the dark doom and flicked the lights on. His room was empty and his bed made, you grinned, at least he listened to one thing you told him.

In defeat you shut the door and head back downstairs, you check your phone for a response and frown. Peter’s never ditched you at a party before, and it especially hurt because you hadn’t seen him in a week since he’s been so busy with school and the frat.

“Have you seen Peter?” You tugged at the arm of a fraternity brother, he pulled a thinking face then nodded. “I think he was with Mallory, he said to let him know when you were here.” Your face screwed up, “who’s Mallory?” His friend smiled, “Trent’s friend! Parker’s been chattin’ ‘em up, they seem to be getting along pretty cool.”

So much for being ‘his girl’.

“Oh. Well, if you see him let him know I went home.”

His friend grabbed you when you turned to leave, “naw, don’t leave! Parker had specific instructions to let him know when you get here.” You scoff, “I don’t want to bother him and Mallory.” In an instant his friend slapped his forehead, you winced at the clap.

“Aw shit, you think Mallory’s a chick. It’s Chuck Mallory, Trent’s friend from back home.”

Oh. Well, that makes things better. But, still. Why isn’t he finding you himself? You were his girl!

“Where is he?”

Jarred shoves you towards the living room with an elbow, “outside, I think Mallory got him to smoke some weed.” You oo and thank him before walking away, high Peter was your favorite. When Peter was drunk he was loose and lovey, when he was high he was giddy and cuddly.

And cuddly Peter was exactly what you needed, you haven’t seen him in a whole week! You were itching to have him in your hold, let alone feel his lips on yours or have his body on yours in his bed.

Your legs felt light when you reached the back patio, you saw him across the yard hovering near the jungle gym, a small playhouse and swings crawling with drunk friend groups. His arms covered in a white and black flannel, his right arm was across his chest as he scratched at his left shoulder, the hand dangled the neck of a beer bottle.

You walk down the three steps and bumped shoulders with another guy, Adam, you share an astronomy class. “Hey!” His hands balance your shoulders, you wobble and hold on to his wrists, you laugh at the small adrenaline rush and smile, “hey!”

“You’re walking how I felt after that test wednesday.” You laugh and put your weight on one hip, Adam’s hand dropped to grab his drink, the other fell to a casual hold on your elbow. There was no inkling of attraction, just a friendly gesture.

“If you don’t feel confident I don’t have a chance.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t sweat it. I’d put four bucks on the line you got higher than me.”

You look over his face and hold out the hand he was grabbing, “I’ll take you up on that,” he grins and shakes your hand hard, “bet it is.” Adam looks to his side before holding tighter and pulling you in, “I’ve got a frat boy on my ten about to burn my head off.” You turn to look but Adam’s hand cups your face to keep you looking at him, “make him jealous, c’mon. It’ll be fun.”

You grab his hand off your face and grin, “for you or for me?” Your classmate shrugs, “my date bailed, entertain me.” You rolled your eyes but brought him in for an exaggerated hug, “mine made me come find him, all because his friend brought some new, cooler than me, guy over.”

When you pulled back you peeked a glance at Peter, his eyes narrowed in on the side of Adam’s face like you weren’t even there. He’s made it clear you were his girl and this guy doesn’t get it. You tapped your hand on Adam’s chest, “my guess is when I walk over there he’s going to make a big gesture of grabbing me and kissing me, making sure you watch.”

The blonde steps away, “I’ll be watching, and waiting on my four bucks!” You turn with a gasp, your hand over your heart, “you said I’d win!” Adam waves you off, “that’s before it was a real bet!”

You smirk and turn back around to your boy, his lips pulled into a neutral state. Peter’s pulled from the pack, standing on the outskirts facing you two perfectly, his eyes flash between the guy on the porch and you sauntering closer on the grass.

You approach him with a wide smile and wrap your arms around him, his arms stay glued to his side, he’s trying to be upset but you hum and tilt him side to side. “Careful, if you don’t hug me back he may think I’m free game.” Immediately he tugs his arms from under you and presses you tight against him, his lips pressing tiny kisses to your head. “Who’s our new friend?”

You snort and squeeze tight before stepping back, Peter wraps his arm around your neck. “Adam, we share astronomy.”

Your boy drops a breath dramatically, “thank god it’s not chemistry.” You grip at his love handles and he pushes you away, “you’re lucky I even came to find you! Jarred told me all about you and Mallory.” The exaggeration of the name lets Peter know you thought it was a girl he tsks and shakes his head.

“C’mon, trouble. You know you’re my girl.”

“Do I?” The not so subtle quip made Peter give you a faulty smile, more and more you’ve been dropping hints that the lack of a label but the implication of one was bothering you.

“I’d hope so, here. Trouble, meet Mallory, he’s staying with us for a few days. His dad is a web developer.”

Suddenly you understood why he ditched you, his two most favorite things in one room. Nerding out and networking.

Mallory, with shaggy brown hair and green eyes stretched out a hand. He shamelessly looked you up and down, a cocky smirk spread, “oh, hello, trouble.”

Before you could respond Peter pulled your back into his chest and wrapped his arms around you, “oh no, this one’s my girl. My trouble, not yours.” You relaxed in his hold, his possessiveness made you feel jittery.

“Easy up, Parker. I’ve got my eye on the blonde.” You followed his eyesight to the window, a group of blondes hovered. “Which one?” His smile made you happy to be in Peter’s arms, you snuggled in further with the answer. “Yes.”

You blink submissively and plaster on a dumb smile, “it’s honestly so nice of you to have such an unspecified type. You’ll give anyone a shot, huh?” Peter gripped your hip but didn’t say anything, his new friend had an amused grin, he wasn’t used to a girl challenging him.

“Some of the girls I’ve fucked could be concidered charity work, maybe I could collect one more?”

Trent shoved on Mallory’s chest, “cool it, prick. Parker’s girl is good to have around, apologize.”

You could feel how stiff Peter’s chest was at his comment, the boy apologized and you nodded but Peter still felt seized up, until Mallory broke the silence.

“Yo, Parker. Did I tell you about the internship program?” And you could feel Peter’s indecisiveness, he wanted to bark back at him but he also could use an internship, you pulled away from him and nodded at the shaggy hair.

“Pete, you were just talking about that like, two weeks ago.”

And the conversation flowed, the group talked back and forth and even with the jab, Mallory included you in the conversation and you could see the charismatic side of him, as much as you didn’t want to. After twenty minutes the group walked to an empty picnic table, Mallory sat on the top of the table, pausing mid conversation to lick his wrapped blunt, pressing the seal.

Ethan, Chris and Trent sat on the left side of the table, you, Peter and Dylan sat on the right. Dylan was also perched on the top of the table, his feet on the bench. Peter sat with his back to the table, his neck turned to the left to look at his new friend, your right shoulder rested on the side of the table, your legs thrown over Peter’s lap as he ran his hands up and down your shins. You rested your head on your fist, your elbow on the table as well.

You stared at Peter’s face as he made conversation in the group and laughed, you weren’t paying much attention but felt your heart lurch at every grin he casted and you laughed when he did.

Peter felt eyes burning a hole through him, he looked at you and grinned. ‘What?’ he mouthed, ‘nothing,’ you replied. He gave you a look that said ‘you’re being weird,’ you leaned in closer and tapped his cheek. As if you’d have to ask, he met you and pressed his bottom lip against your top, his hand holding onto your knee. You smiled against his lips, then pressed another kiss, “I missed you,” Peter hums, “missed you too.”

“Oi! You helped Trent cheat?” You shook your head when you pulled from Peter, Mallory smacked against your arm. Peter looked at you surprised, “no! Don’t- Don’t say it like that!” You looked around and hissed, “I just helped him understand a few questions better. During a test. For a final. By passing notes. But absolutely no cheating!”

“Trouble, what?” You grinned back at your boy nervously and looked at Trent as if you’ve been betrayed. Peter patted the side of your thigh, you ignored his call and Trent grinned with his hands up, “you won cool points forever, sorry babe.”

You groan and point around the table, “that never happened, okay!”

Mallory lit the blunt and passed it down the line, Ethan laughed at the quick silence. “If you guys think that’s funny I should tell you about the time she helped Parker study for an anatomy quiz.”

“Peter!” You gesture to his friend at the far side of the table, the others getting a laugh at your reaction. You sputter and shove at his arm, you can’t help but smile yourself. Peter jolts when you attack his side, you’re letting his friends see his ‘boyfriend side’, the one that giggles when you tickle him and leans into your touch, breathless and smiley when you end the attack.

“Stop making fun of my girl, she takes it out on me!” You prove his point and tickle his side again, he pulls your hips and throws you to straddle him. You can’t help but yelp at the sudden movement, you oof when you slam against his hips, his hands bolt your own down on your thighs.

If you could’ve clenched your thighs you would’ve, you forgot how quick he could throw you around. It’s been the longest week of your life since you met him. Dylan whistles and his gang claps, you roll your eyes, “Parker just earned top dog of the week!”

Dylan noogies Peter’s hat, you smack his hand away and place a protective hand, “leave my baby alone.” Ethan holds his hand across the table, “tell your baby to take a hit,” you extend your own, Peter takes the time to wrap his arm around your back, you return with a smile, you raise the blunt to his mouth, “take a hit.”

You watch Peter lean his head forward and take a hit, your look down and your warm smile melted into one of admiration. The lit end engulfed in red and orange, a single stream of smoke raised, his eyebrows furrowed as he took a longer hit, his eyes flashed up and saw the ardor in your eyes.

His fingers pushed into your thigh and you pulled away, you watched him blow out the smoke slowly while you took your own inhale, your only thoughts on Peter, no interest in the other conversations. You held the tobacco back up and bit your lip when his fingers brushed yours for another toke, “you’re looking at me funny,” he spoke between his inhale, you took the hat off his head, his head tilted at first, pausing to stop you but letting you do it when you flashed a frown.

You set the cap on the bench next to you, your fingers immediately fixing his curls and adjusting his hat hair. “You’re smokin’ babe.” You shook out his curls, you curled your fingers into them, his lips shot up to kiss your wrist, “thanks, honey.”

Your heart clenched, more and more he’s like your boyfriend. He’s laying it on thick tonight, you press a kiss to his lips, neither one of you a fan of heavy pda, him more than you, especially in front of his brothers. Peter holds the blunt behind your back and tugs you closer, he breaks away and his glazed eyes peered at your lips and to your eyes, “I love…” You listen closer and tug his shirt, he stops himself, “I love kissing you,”

You press a soft kiss to his cheek, your lips graze to his ear, “that all?” You looked back at his face but he cleared his throat and looked behind you to hand the blunt off to Dylan. You’re teasing, that’s all. You poke at his cheeks, “don’t get all freaked out, I’m kidding, petey.”

You humph when his hand covers your mouth, his eyes shoot to his friends. He’s in the clear, no one heard. If any one of his friends heard the pet name they’d bully him to death, simp him to shame. He’d never ever hear the end of it.

Peter’s eyes burrowed into yours, “absolutely not.”

“Petey.” You mumbled it into his hand, he pressed against your mouth harder. He gave you a death stare, you giggled and pulled at his wrist, he gave you a warning glance but let it fall away.

You took a deep breath and leaned to whisper in his ear, your hands cupped around your mouth. “petey, petey, petey.” His fingers dig into your sides, as you curl into him he pushes your hips away.

“You’re being a menace tonight, trouble.”

You wheezed against him and pushed his hand away, “I’m sorry!”

And the moment you looked back up at him he understood, you had a look on your face only he was lucky enough to see. It was the same look you gave him when he was pushing into you, as you dug your nails into his shoulder blades and cried out his name. The same look when you lay breathless, your fingers tangled in his hair pulling as tight as you could grinding your hips against his face.

“I just missed you this week,” you whispered the words and fixed his collar, he missed you too.

Peter grabbed your fingers and kissed them, “okay, then go pee, baby.” He spoke loudly and laughed, catching the attention of his friends but they continued with the conversation. You furrowed your brow, you went to speak but he continued, “okay, then let’s go.” He patted your thighs and you scrambled to get off them, he stood up and grabbed your hand to tug you up.

Peter gave a salute to his friend group, “be right back,” you nodded and followed his path inside. Your boy tugged you up the stairs and to his room, his hat was tossed to his dresser and he ripped his flannel off.

You smiled when you realized what he did, you told him you hated how his friends jeered him on when it was assumed you were about to have sex. It makes you feel icky. You give him a sudden hug, he stills but wraps his own arm around you.

“You okay?”

“You did that for me?”

Peter kisses the top of your head, “you give me the look, I make the excuse.”

Then smacks your backside, “now get naked, if we take longer than thirty minutes they’ll ask questions.”

You pull your shirt off and flop on the center of his bed, “yes, sir.”

#peter parker x reader #peter parker blurb #tasm!peter x reader #tasm! peter parker x reader #peter parker fluff #peter parker smut #frat!peter #my writing

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lupinqs · 22 days ago

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SAFE AND SOUND (2/3) ━━ pazzi

☆ ━ summary: in which azzi fudd forms an unexpected alliance with paige bueckers as they fight for survival in the hunger games.

☆ ━ word count: 13.2K

☆ ━ warnings: violence, death, angst

☆ ━ links: part one, my masterlist, ao3 link

☆ ━ author’s note: hiiii guys i’m so so sorry this took me so long to update but it’s here!! this was supposed to be only two parts and the next one and this were just gonna be combined but it was way too long so i split it. the next one’s not done so i think probably expect it within the next week or two ish. i love you all very much, sorry the wait 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

THE MOMENT the gong sounds, Azzi dives straight into the water, warm against her skin. The lake swallows her, and she kicks with everything she has, propelling herself toward the Cornucopia. Her strokes are powerful, but the distance is unforgiving, and already, she can sense that others are faster. The Careers are already ahead, closing in on the Cornucopia with quickly. Still, Azzi doesn’t stop; she has to get there, has to grab something. Anything.

As she reaches the edge of the rock path leading to the Cornucopia, she pulls herself out of the water, breathing hard. Just ahead, she catches a glimpse of the chaos already unfolding. The boy from District Two, already armed with a spear, drives it mercilessly into one of the smaller tributes—a younger boy, barely a teenager. The sight is jarring, but Azzi pushes down the rising bile in her throat. She can’t afford to care right now. Caring won’t keep her alive.

Her gaze darts to the girl from Four, who’s snatched up a pair of gleaming daggers��daggers Azzi had trained with, daggers she knows like the back of her hand. Cursing under her breath, she realizes getting those now is out of the question. The girl from Four is already twirling them with through her fingers, her sharp eyes scanning the scene for her next target.

Azzi whips her head back, weighing her options. It’s too dangerous to stay here, especially without a weapon. She makes a split-second decision and sprints across the slick rocks, her feet pounding against the stone as she veers toward the sandbank just beyond the Cornucopia’s reach.

There, half-buried in the sand, is a bag. She snatches it up, hoping it has at least a water canister, maybe something small she can use for defense. She pulls it onto her shoulder and glances around, her senses sharp, her body wired with tension.

And that’s when she spots Paige.

Just a dozen feet away, Paige stands on the sand, her face set in a fierce, determined expression. In her hand is a long, gleaming sword—a weapon Azzi has seen her handle in training. For a split second, their eyes meet, and Azzi feels her breath hitch. She expects Paige to charge at her, sword raised, like any tribute with a weapon would in this bloodbath. But Paige’s gaze doesn’t hold malice. Instead, it flickers with a strange intensity, almost as if she’s thinking.

Before Azzi can process it, Paige turns and bolts in the opposite direction, toward one of the jungle’s shadowed openings. She’s gone before Azzi can think twice, disappearing into the dense foliage with a swiftness that surprises her. Paige had every opportunity to attack, to strike her down in those tense seconds—but she didn’t.

Shoving that thought away, Azzi tightens her grip on the bag and bolts toward the jungle as well, but in the opposite direction, breaking away from the madness of the bloodbath. Behind her, the cries and screams of the other tributes echo through the arena, mingling with the blast of cannons signaling deaths. She pushes forward, her lungs burning as she sprints deeper into the undergrowth, her eyes sharp and her every sense alert.

The forest closes around her, humid and dark, each shadow concealing possible threats. As the sounds of the bloodbath fade into the distance, she feels her pulse slow just a fraction. Her body tingles with exhaustion and relief, but she can’t stop. Not yet. She glances around, trying to gauge her surroundings—massive, twisted trees tower above her, and the ground is a tangle of roots, ferns, and thick moss. Everything about this place feels alive, watching her.

She can’t shake the image of Paige, sword in hand, standing just close enough to strike yet choosing to walk away.

Azzi trudges deeper into the jungle, her feet dragging through the thick, damp undergrowth. The humid air clings to her, and sweat beads on her forehead, trickling down her neck. Every step feels heavier than the last, her muscles beginning to ache as she pushes forward. She slaps at bugs that swarm around her face, their buzzing grating on her nerves. The jungle is loud—chirps, rustles, calls of strange birds echo around her, each sound making her flinch, alert for any sign of movement nearby. It’s overwhelming, but she’s not going to stop. She has to keep moving, put as much distance between herself and the Cornucopia as possible.

As she walks, her mind begins to drift, unbidden, to thoughts of home. She thinks about her family—her mom, her dad, her brothers. She wonders if they’re watching, whether they can bear to. If it were her Jon or Jose out here instead of her, she knows she wouldn’t be able to stand it, the anxiety gnawing away at her, knowing they could be killed any second. She wonders if her parents are clinging to hope, desperately, like she is. She imagines them sitting together on the couch, her mom gripping her dad’s hand so tightly, eyes glued to the screen, barely able to breathe. She swallows, her throat dry. Her family’s belief in her is part of what’s gotten her this far, but in this place, the hope feels fragile, a thread barely holding her together.

The jungle around her begins to darken, the sun slipping behind the canopy of leaves, casting long shadows that twist and shift across the ground. She doesn’t want to push herself any further tonight. It’ll be dangerous enough to try to survive on her own without tiring herself out before it’s even necessary. She scans the area around her, searching for a suitable spot to hide, somewhere she can rest without being exposed. Her eyes land on a small patch of ground where thick leaves drape down from above, forming a kind of natural canopy. She ducks underneath it, assessing. The foliage is dense, and when she sits down, she realizes it’s actually a decent hiding spot. She’d blend in here easily—maybe even well enough to avoid detection from passing tributes.

Her throat feels parched, and she swallows, but it’s a dry, desperate motion, her mouth almost painfully empty. She tries to ignore it, breathing steadily, as she takes the bag from her shoulder and pulls it into her lap. She unzips it, peering inside, her heart beating a little faster as she rifles through the contents. There’s not much, but she wasn’t expecting a miracle.

Her fingers close around a few items: a small pouch of dried fruit, a nearly-empty canister of water, a thin roll of gauze for minor injuries, a length of rope, and, most importantly, a dagger. It’s smaller than what she’s trained with, its blade not much longer than her hand, but it’s sharp enough to get the job done if she needs it for self-defense. She lifts it, testing the weight in her hand, relieved to have something, anything, that could help her. The handle is sturdy, wrapped in a grip that feels almost familiar. It’s a strange sort of comfort—small but real.

Azzi allows herself to eat a pieces or two of the dried fruit, savoring the slight sweetness on her tongue. She takes a cautious sip from the water canister, careful not to drink too much. She doesn’t know when she’ll be able to refill it, and the taste of the water only makes her thirst worse. After another small sip, she caps it tightly and tucks it back into her bag, pressing her lips together, trying to ignore the dryness that still lingers.

The quiet of the jungle settles around her, the distant sounds of birds and rustling leaves becoming her only company. She leans back, the dagger held close to her side, her fingers lightly wrapped around its hilt. She’ll need sleep soon, even if it’s just a few restless hours.

But for now, she just sits there in the dimness, her breathing slowing as she listens to the jungle and feels the weight of everything she has to face in the days to come.

And then she hears it. Faint rustling, faint footsteps. The sounds break through the jungle, and she can tell they’re near her.

Azzi’s heart drops as the rustling grows closer. She freezes, holding her breath, her muscles tensed as she listens. Someone’s approaching—it has to be another tribute. The thought alone sends a jolt of adrenaline through her veins. Her fingers fumble for the dagger in her bag, the small blade she’d found earlier now her only defense. She grips it tightly, her knuckles white as the sound of movement grows louder, just on the other side of her leafy hiding spot.

The foliage shifts, and a figure ducks beneath the canopy. For a split second, Azzi considers lunging, striking first before the intruder can spot her. But then she sees who it is.

It’s the girl from District Four—Leah, if Azzi’s memory serves her correctly. She’s smaller than Azzi imagined up close, her sun-kissed hair pulled back in a loose braid, her face pale and glistening with sweat. Leah looks startled, her eyes wide as she spots Azzi crouched under the leaves. Her reaction isn’t what Azzi expects. Instead of reaching for a weapon, Leah freezes, her hands flying up in an immediate gesture of surrender.

“Shit—sorry—fuck—” Leah stammers, her voice shaking as much as her hands. She looks terrified, almost as if Azzi is the bigger threat here.

Azzi narrows her eyes, her grip on the dagger tightening as she crouches lower, keeping her back pressed against the rough bark of the tree behind her. She doesn’t say anything, her mind racing as she sizes Leah up. If this was a trap, Leah was doing a decent job of acting harmless.

Leah seems to notice Azzi’s skepticism, her expression softening as she stammers, “I—I didn’t realize someone was in here.” She swallows hard, licking her lips nervously before adding, “Azzi, right? From Nine?”

Azzi nods stiffly, not letting go of her weapon.

Leah exhales, almost as if relieved by the confirmation, and nods back. “Okay,” she says, though her voice trembles. She looks around briefly, as if making sure no one else is nearby, before continuing. “I lost my district partner—I don’t know where he went. I don’t even know if he’s still alive. I—fuck, this is all insane. I wanna go home. That fucking blood bath today—Jesus Christ—”

Azzi’s eyes flicker over Leah, taking in the way her shoulders tremble and her chest heaves with shallow breaths. She looks a lot less intimidating than she did during the bloodbath. But Azzi doesn’t let herself relax, not yet. Her mind flashes back to the memory of Leah standing at the Cornucopia earlier that day, her hands slick with blood as she drove a knife into another tribute’s chest. She thinks that might be what’s going through Leah’s mind right now, too, her eyes haunted.

For the first time, Azzi feels something besides suspicion—pity. She doesn’t want to feel it, but it creeps in anyway, worming its way into her chest. She knows what Leah’s feeling, even if she doesn’t want to admit it. Azzi hadn’t killed anyone in the bloodbath, but she’d seen the first death. She remembers the way the spear pierced the boy’s chest, the way his body crumpled like a doll. She remembers the blood, bright and pooling on the rocks, and how she’d forced herself to look away.

Leah’s voice breaks the silence. “And clearly your district partner isn’t here either,” she says, glancing around the small clearing. “So, do you wanna, like, do this together? I don’t wanna be alone, and I know you’re not stupid. You actually scored really high, and you kinda scare me, but this whole place scares me more, so…”

Azzi stares at her, her expression unreadable. Her instincts scream at her not to trust anyone, but she knows that being alone in the arena is just as dangerous. Leah isn’t wrong—Azzi’s district partner, Kellan, is gone, probably dead. And even if Leah’s offer is genuine, she has those daggers. She’s dangerous, whether she’s scared or not.

“How do I know this isn’t just a ruse to kill me?” Azzi finally asks, her voice low and guarded. “I know you have all those daggers.”

Leah flinches at the accusation, her face twisting with something close to desperation. “It’s not, I swear,” she says quickly. “I can prove it to you—”

She moves slowly, pulling her backpack from her shoulder and setting it on the ground in front of her. Azzi tenses, her muscles coiling like a spring as she watches Leah unzip the bag. Her hand tightens around her dagger, ready to strike if Leah tries anything.

But Leah doesn’t attack. Instead, she reaches into the bag and pulls out one of the daggers. Azzi stiffens, her grip on her weapon tightening.

Leah holds the dagger out, hilt first, toward Azzi. Her hand shakes slightly, but her eyes are steady as she says, “You’re good with these, right? Can we call a truce? ‘Cause now you can kill me just as easily as I could kill you.”

Azzi stares at the dagger, her mind reeling. The offer feels surreal, too good to be true. But Leah’s trembling hand doesn’t waver, and for the first time, Azzi wonders if the girl in front of her is more scared than dangerous.

Slowly, cautiously, Azzi reaches out and takes the dagger. The hilt is cool in her hand, perfectly balanced. She weighs it for a moment before looking back at Leah.

“Truce,” Azzi says, her voice firm but cautious.

Leah exhales a shaky breath of relief and nods. For now, they’ve bought themselves a fragile peace, though Azzi knows it could shatter at any moment.

THE SUN rises sluggishly over the jungle, casting long shadows through the tangled branches. Azzi trudges through the humid undergrowth, her body aching with exhaustion. She hadn’t slept last night, her eyes darting between Leah and the jungle’s shifting darkness, her hand gripping the dagger Leah had given her. Trusting Leah felt foolish, even after their uneasy truce. Now, Azzi feels the toll of the sleepless night, the weight of every sound and shadow pressing on her chest.

Leah hadn’t slept either—not that Azzi saw. The girl had spent the night leaning against the rough bark of the tree, her knees drawn to her chest, her gaze fixed on the ground. Azzi isn’t sure how she feels about Leah. She doesn’t think she likes her, not in the way you’re supposed to like allies, but pity for her gnaws at the edges of her resolve.

More than that, Azzi feels something she hadn’t expected—relief. For better or worse, she isn’t alone.

Last night’s anthem confirmed what Azzi had already suspected. Kellan, her district partner, is gone. The Capitol’s cold, detached display of his face in the sky had solidified the hollow ache in her chest. She didn’t know Kellan well, but he’d been hers. Someone from her district, someone who shared a piece of her life before all of this. And he was so young. Now he’s gone.

Across from her, Leah had sighed in relief when the boy from District Four wasn’t among the dead. Azzi wondered then and wonders now how the two of them got separated in the first place.

Now, as the heat rises, the two girls trudge side by side through the suffocating jungle. The air is thick, sticky against their skin, and Azzi wipes a layer of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. Hunger gnaws at her stomach, but she doesn’t say anything. The dried fruit in her bag is a precious secret she has no intention of sharing. She knows she can’t survive on it forever, but it’s all she has.

“You’re quiet,” Leah says after a long silence, her voice cracking—probably from the thirst.

Azzi shrugs. “I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“Food,” Azzi admits. “And water.”

Leah laughs dryly, though there’s no humor in it. “Aren’t we all?”

They keep walking, the jungle pressing in closer. Azzi’s ears strain against the sounds of birds and the occasional rustle of leaves. Her dagger swings lightly in her hand, the cool metal reassuring against her clammy skin.

Then she hears it—a faint crack, like a branch snapping. Azzi freezes, holding out an arm to stop Leah.

“Did you hear that?” she whispers.

Leah glances around, frowning. “Uh… no?”

Azzi keeps scanning the area, her instincts prickling. But Leah shrugs and starts walking again, brushing past a tangle of vines.

Azzi follows, her heart hammering in her chest, when suddenly a shout cuts through the thick air. It’s a boy’s voice, shrill with pain and desperation. Azzi’s stomach twists. A moment later, a cannon booms overhead, its echo vibrating through the trees.

Azzi gulps, gripping her dagger tighter. “Stay alert,” she mutters to Leah, her voice steady despite the unease sifting in her gut.

Leah nods, her face pale as she pulls one of her own dagger from her bag. The two of them pick up the pace, their steps lighter now, every noise setting their nerves on edge.

They’ve barely gone another few yards when Leah stops abruptly, her eyes widening. “Holy shit,” she says, pointing ahead. “Is that fruit?”

Azzi follows her gaze to a cluster of low-hanging bushes. Tangled among the leaves are round, green fruits, something similar to watermelons but smaller. Azzi’s stomach clenches at the sight, hunger sharpening her senses.

“Looks like it,” Azzi says cautiously, scanning the area for any sign of danger.

Leah’s already moving toward the bushes, her dagger still clutched in one hand. Azzi follows more slowly, her eyes darting to the treetops and the undergrowth around them. She doesn’t trust anything about this arena—not the stillness, not the fruit, and certainly not the idea that they’re alone.

But hunger wins out over hesitation. Leah’s already grabbing one of the fruits at a bush as Azzi kneels beside a different one to inspect the fruit herself. Cautiously, she cuts into the fruit with her dagger, watching as what appears to be water spills out. She opens it further, not seeing any suspicious warning signs that they’d been taught in training. It really might just be fruit.

Deciding that she’s going out to take her chances on it, Azzi takes her dagger, her hands steady as she works to free the thick-skinned fruit from its vine. The knife slices cleanly through the stem, and she lets the fruit drop into her hand. It’s heavier than she expects, a weight that promises nourishment. She turns it over once, twice, and then slips it into her bag and moves to cut another.

Her body aches—muscles tight from dehydration and exhaustion—and the heat of the jungle presses against her like a smothering blanket. Sweat trickles down her back, and the persistent thirst gnaws at her focus. But she keeps her hands moving, the rhythmic task of cutting the fruit offering a brief reprieve from the overwhelming anxiety that’s been settled in her chest since the Games began.

Behind her, she hears Leah rustling through her own bush, likely doing the same thing. Azzi doesn’t look back to see.

Another fruit hits the bottom of her bag with a satisfying thud, and Azzi reaches for the next one, her movements quick and precise. She’s already calculating how much her bag can hold, how far this food can stretch her survival.

Then, it happens.

A faint whistling sound cuts through the air beside her, too quick to process. Azzi feels a sudden sting along her cheekbone, sharp and hot, followed by a gasp of pain—not her own. She freezes, her hand flying to her face. When she pulls it away, her palm is smeared with blood. Her cheek throbs, the cut deeper than she first thought.

Her head whips around, mind on overdrive, eyes scanning the ground until they land on a dagger embedded in the dirt, its blade glinting under the dappled sunlight. A few feet from where she’d been crouched.

One of Leah’s daggers.

Azzi’s pulse thunders in her ears as the realization sinks in. Leah had thrown it. She had tried to kill her.

Azzi spins on her heel, her own dagger clenched tight in her fist. She doesn’t hesitate. She’ll fight if she has to, kill if she has to, would strike first if necessary. Leah’s already made her move, and Azzi isn’t about to give her a second chance.

But the sight that greets her isn’t what she expects.

Leah’s there, facing Azzi, but her mouth is wide open, almost as if she’s in shock. Her eyes are clouded as they lock on Azzi, her hands hovering over her stomach—where the Fudd girl can see crimson beginning to spill out of. Leah’s breaths come in ragged gasps, each one more shallow than the last.

Behind the District Four girl stands Paige, yanking her sword free from Leah’s back with a sickening squelch. Blood drips from the blade, pooling at Paige’s feet. Her expression ks grim, her lips pressed into a thin line of disgust as she watches Leah collapse fully to the ground.

Azzi’s grip tightened on her dagger, her thoughts racing too fast to catch hold of any one of them. She takes an involuntary step back, her instincts screaming at her to run, to fight, to do something.

Paige turns, her gaze locking onto Azzi. Her eyes scan Azzi quickly, lingering on the blood still dripping from her cheek. “Are you alright?” she asks, her voice calm, almost indifferent, as if she didn’t just impale someone.

Azzi furrows her brows, her confusion mounting. She doesn’t say anything, her silence a shield.

Paige tilts her head, her focus narrowing in on Azzi’s cheek. “Your face,” she says, pointing. “She hit you. You’re bleeding.”

Azzi touches her cheek again, feeling the sting that seems sharper now that she‘a aware of it. She mutters, “Yes,” her voice cautious.

Paige takes a step forward, but Azzi immediately steps back, keeping her distance. Paige raises her hands slightly, a small gesture of peace. “Relax,” she says. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Azzi isn’t so sure. “Then what are you here for?” she asks.

Paige sighs, wiping the blood from her sword onto a plant. “Leah and her district partner, Chris,” she begin, gesturing to the girl still writhing on the ground. “I think they must’ve been working together. Pretending to split up, making allies, then stabbing them in the back. Chris tried it with me. Clearly, he didn’t make it.”

Azzi’s mind flashes to the cannon they’d heard earlier, the scream that had preceded it. It makes sense now—it was from Chris. Paige killing Chris.

Paige gestures toward Leah’s bag, which she yanks off the girl’s shaking shoulder and slings onto her own. “She would’ve killed you if I hadn’t shown up. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Azzi frowns, her grip on her dagger loosening but not by much. She doesn’t know what to make of Paige, the girl’s casual demeanor both unsettling and oddly reassuring. “We should probably go,” the blonde says matter-of-factly.

“Why?” Azzi asks, voice sharper than she intended.

Paige looks at her, genuinely confused. “Why what?”

“Why would we go together?” Azzi clarifies, her voice edged with suspicion.

Paige raises an eyebrow, looking at Azzi like she’s just asked the dumbest question in the world. “Because we’re allies now.”

“Says who?” Azzi shoots back quickly. “I can’t trust you.”

Paige smirks faintly, a flicker of amusement crossing her face. “Well, I did just save your life, princess. The least you could do is say thank you.”

Azzi hesitates, torn between anger and begrudging gratitude. “Thank you,” she mutters eventually, her tone icy.

Paige shrugs, unbothered.

“Why’d you do it?” Azzi asks after a pause, voice quieter this time. “Save my life?”

Paige’s smirk softens just slightly, her expression unreadable. “I like you,” she says simply, meeting Azzi’s eyes. “Think I’d prefer you alive.”

The words send a strange jolt through Azzi, a mix of confusion and something else she can’t quite name. Paige doesn’t give her time to dwell on it.

She bends to pick up Azzi’s bag, now filled with fruit, and hands it to her. “C’mon,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Azzi stares at her for a moment before taking the bag, their fingers brushing briefly. Without another word, she bends to retrieve Leah’s dagger—the one that nearly killed her—and follows Paige into the jungle, her thoughts swirling with questions she isn’t sure she even wants answers to.

THE ALLIANCE between Azzi and Paige begins tentatively, held together by necessity and a threadbare sense of mutual benefit. Azzi doesn’t trust Paige—how could she?—but she follows her lead anyway, dagger in hand and mind constantly calculating the odds of betrayal. Paige doesn’t seem fazed by Azzi’s obvious suspicion. If anything, she seems entertained by it.

On the first night, the heat and humidity of the jungle drops drastically, as if it was never there in the first place. It’s chilly—too chilly for them to get by with just their suits provided to them—and so, despite the obvious risk of other tributes seeing the smoke, Paige starts a fire. Azzi watches her do it, arms crossed, one foot ready to bolt if need be. Paige doesn’t say anything, just works, gathering the driest leaves she can find and other little twigs, her movements swift and practiced. When the fire finally sparks to life, Paige leans back, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

“There,” she says, brushing her hands off. “Warmth. You’re welcome.”

Azzi doesn’t thank her this time, just sits down across from the flames, her bag clutched tightly in her lap. The warmth is welcome, but her grip on the bag doesn’t loosen. The firelight casts shadows across Paige’s face, drawing out the lines of her cheekbones and jaw, making her look older, harsher. Azzi doesn’t know how much of that is real and how much is her own paranoia.

Paige sets Leah’s pack down between them, beginning to rummage through it. She pulls out a handful of berries, some kind of dried meat, and a canteen of water. She tosses the berries in Azzi’s direction. “Split these,” she says, her tone casual, like they’re sharing snacks at home and not in the middle of the Hunger Games.

Azzi hesitates. The gesture feels… too friendly. Too easy. But she’s starving, and the berries are already in her lap. She picks out a few and eats them cautiously, her eyes never leaving Paige as the other girl tears into the dried meat.

By the second day, they’ve settled into an uneasy rhythm. Paige takes the lead, her sword strapped to her back, her eyes scanning the dense jungle for threats. Azzi lingers a few paces behind, a dagger at the ready. They don’t talk about what they’re doing or where they’re going. They just move, staying quiet, their footsteps muffled by the thick underbrush.

It’s strange, how well they work together. Paige has a hunter’s instinct, sharp and efficient. She knows how to find food, how to avoid the areas where other tributes might be lurking. Azzi’s no slouch, either. She’s quick and observant, spotting details Paige sometimes misses—a broken branch, a faint footprint in the mud.

They come across a stream in the early afternoon, the water clear and cold. Paige crouches by the edge, refilling their canteens while Azzi stands nearby, her dagger still in hand. She watches as Paige splashes her face with water, the sunlight catching on her cheekbones.

“You’re wasting it,” Azzi says sharply.

Paige looks up, water dripping from her face. She grins. “Relax, princess. There’s plenty.”

Azzi bristles at the nickname but doesn’t respond. She turns her attention back to the jungle, scanning for movement.

Despite everything, she can’t shake the feeling that Paige might turn on her at any moment. But the thing is—she doesn’t. She doesn’t even try. She doesn’t make any sudden moves, doesn’t say anything suspicious. She just… exists. And she’s good at this, Azzi realizes—surviving. It’s almost unsettling how calm she seems, as if the chaos of the Games hasn’t touched her.

That night, they set up camp under a large tree with low-hanging branches. Paige climbs up first, testing the sturdiness of the limbs, then gestures for Azzi to follow. They settle on opposite sides of the branch, Paige leans back against hers, one leg dangling, while Azzi stays perched, her back straight and her dagger balanced on her knee.

For a while, they sit in silence, the only sound that of crickets and their own heavy breathing. It’s hot and humid tonight, enough to make them both sweat, Azzi continuously wiping moisture from her forehead. The Gamemakers are very bipolar about the weather here, especially at night. They either freeze or burn—it’s very frustrating.

“Do you think anyone’s watching us right now?” Paige says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

Azzi frowns, looking over at her. “I mean, yeah. The cameras are everywhere.”

“I know, but d’you think they’re focused on us? Like, on the broadcast?”

“Why does it matter?” Azzi asks.

Paige shrugs. “It doesn’t. I’m just curious. And bored.” She sighs, twisting a lead in her hand. “I bet the Capitol loves you. All broody and mysterious. You’re probably a fan favorite.”

Azzi glares at her. “Probably the opposite, actually,” she corrects. “They prefer the happier, flashier tributes. Like you.”

Paige smirks but doesn’t say anything.

Over the next few days, Azzi finds herself watching Paige more closely. Not out of suspicion, though that’s part of it, but out of something else. Curiosity, maybe. Paige is hard to pin down. She’s unpredictable in a way that doesn’t feel dangerous—at least, not to Azzi.

They split everything now—food, water, even weapons when necessary. Azzi is surprised by how natural it feels, like they’ve always been a team. Paige doesn’t seem to expect anything in return, doesn’t try to take more than her share. It’s unsettling, the way she treats Azzi like an equal, like she genuinely wants her around.

Azzi still doesn’t trust her, but she wants to. And that wanting feels dangerous in its own way.

And, despite herself, Azzi starts to notice small things about Paige. Like how she hums under her breath when they’re walking, or how she always keeps her sword within reach, even when they’re resting. Paige has a way of making everything seem lighter, less oppressive. She cracks jokes sometimes—dry, sarcastic quips that catch Azzi off guard.

“You’re really bad at this whole ‘trust no one’ thing,” Paige says one afternoon as they’re eating a small meal by the stream.

Azzi frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Paige gestures vaguely. “The way you keep looking at me, like I’m about to stab you in the back. If I wanted to, I would’ve done it by now.”

Azzi doesn’t laugh, but she bites back a smile. Paige notices, though, and her smirk widens.

“See? You think I’m funny,” Paige teases.

“I don’t,” Azzi says flatly, though the corners of her mouth betray her.

It’s strange, the dynamic between them. Despite the obvious distrust, Azzi’s oddly grateful for when Paige tries to make her smile. In a place like this, where death feels like it’s waiting around every corner, those moments feel… important.

On the fourth day, they come across another tribute—a boy from District Five. He doesn’t see them, and Azzi tenses, waiting for Paige to make a move. Paige’s hand goes to her sword, but she hesitates, her eyes flicking to Azzi.

“What do you want to do?” Paige whispers.

The question catches Azzi off guard. Paige is deferring to her? She swallows hard, mind racing. She knows what they should do, knows the rules of the Games, but the boy doesn’t look like a threat. He looks scared, lost.

“Let him go,” Azzi says finally, her voice barely audible.

Paige studies her for a moment, then nods. She relaxes her grip on her sword, stepping back into the shadows. They watch as the boy disappears into the jungle, oblivious to how close he came to death.

Azzi doesn’t say anything, but something shifts in her chest. Paige listened to her. She could’ve ignored her, could’ve killed the boy and taken his supplies without a second thought, but she didn’t.

That night, as they sit in the dark, Azzi catches herself glancing at Paige, studying the way the firelight dances across her features. She’s still wary, still ready to run if she has to, but for the first time, she wonders if maybe—just maybe—Paige isn’t the monster she’s been bracing herself for.

THE NEXT DAY brings the worst heat Azzi’s ever felt in the arena. The air is thick and oppressive, a humid weight pressing down on everything. It’s as if the jungle is trying to choke them. Sweat clings to her skin, dripping down her back and soaking the fabric of her clothes until it feels like a second layer of skin. Her lungs fight for air that seems almost too hot to breathe. Paige trudges ahead, silent and focused, her sword bouncing slightly against her back with each step.

Azzi stays a few paces behind, a dagger loose in her hand, though her grip is slippery with sweat. She tries to keep her head clear, her eyes alert, but the dryness in her mouth is impossible to ignore. Every thought is punctuated by the same need: water. They’ve been out since yesterday afternoon, their canteens drained, their bodies aching for hydration.

The jungle shifts slightly as they move, the terrain growing rockier. Paige pressed forward without hesitation, her movements confident even in the uneven ground. Azzi tries to match her pace but finds her attention wandering. Her throat feels like sandpaper, and her head throbs faintly with every step.

She doesn’t hear the snap of a twig to her right. Not until it’s too late.

Something hard slams into the side of her face, and Azzi is on the ground before she realizes what’s happening. Pain explodes across her cheek, sharp and hot, and she instinctively presses her hand to it. When she pulls her fingers away, they’re slick with blood. Her stomach churns as she recognizes the dark red streaks, her mind sluggishly registering that Leah’s cut has reopened.

Her head spins, the light filtering through the canopy almost blinding. For a few seconds, all she can do is lie there, her breath shallow and rapid, her fingers digging into the dirt beneath her. Somewhere to her left, she hears movement—a grunt, the rustle of leaves, and then a muffled whimper.

Azzi forces her eyes open, squinting against the brightness. Her vision swims, the jungle tilting unnaturally, but she manages to focus just enough to see them: Paige, pinned to the ground beneath a boy. His face is twisted in a snarl, his muscles straining as he fights to keep her down.

It takes a moment for Azzi to recognize him: the boy from District Eleven. He’s big, muscular, and holding a machete that glints menacingly in the dappled light. Paige is fighting him, her hands pushing against his shoulders, her legs kicking out, muscles flexing. Against anyone else, she probably could’ve stopped them—she doesn’t look it, but she’s strong. Tall and strong. But it doesn’t matter now—it’s not enough. He’s got the bulk advantage over her, his weight pressing her into the ground.

“Fuck—get off!” Paige yells, her voice breaking with frustration and unmistakeable fear. She twists beneath him, trying to buck him off, but he grabs her throat, cutting off her words.

Azzi’s breath catches, her heart pounding in her chest. Paige’s face is flushed, her eyes wide, her hands scrabbling at his wrist as he chokes her.

For a moment, all she can think is that Paige is going to die. She can see it happening—the machete coming down, the boy choking the life out of her, Paige’s face going slack—and the thought fills her with something fierce and unrelenting.

She doesn’t want Paige to die. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

Her hands fumble at her side, searching for her dagger. Her head spins as she moves, her fingers brushing the hilt. She grabs it, tightens her grip, and throws it with a sharp flick of her wrist.

Catch and shoot. Just like basketball.

It’s not a perfect throw—her head is pounding too much for that—but it’s good enough. The blade buries itself in the boy’s neck, and he jerks back, his hands flying to the wound as blood spurts out in thick, dark streams. He falls to the side, his body hitting the ground with a dull thud. The machete slips from his grasp, clattering onto the rocks.

A cannon fires, the sound echoing through the jungle.

Azzi exhales shakily, her chest tight, her hands trembling. She pushes herself to her feet, swaying slightly as her head protests the movement. The world tilts dangerously, but she forces herself to move, stumbling toward Paige.

Paige is still lying on the ground, gasping for air. One hand hovers near her throat, where the boy’s grip has left an angry red imprint. Her other arm is pressed against her chest, blood dripping steadily from a gash that runs along her forearm.

“Are you okay?” Azzi asks, her voice hoarse. She’s not sure if it’s from the heat, the dehydration, or the raw surge of adrenaline.

Paige looks up at her, her chest heaving. For a moment, she doesn’t say anything, just stares at Azzi with wide, stunned, crystal blue eyes. Then she murmurs, almost incredulously, “You saved my life.”

Azzi shakes her head, though the movement makes her vision blur. “Just returning the favor.”

She holds out a hand, and Paige hesitates for a fraction of a second before taking it. Her grip is warm and solid despite the faint tremor in her fingers as Azzi pulls her to her feet. Paige sways slightly, her balance off, and the younger girl steadies her instinctively. They end up leaning into each other, both unsteady and aching.

Paige stares at her for another long second as they don’t speak, just breathe heavily. There’s something in her clear eyes that makes Azzi anxious, some sort of soft, yet scared emotion that seems to be threading through both of them. And then, without warning, Paige lifts her hand and brushes Azzi’s cheek, featherlight yet still startling. The touch is soft, almost hesitant, and when Azzi glances at her, Paige is frowning faintly, her fingers coming away stained with blood.

“You’re bleeding,” Paige says, her voice almost stupidly soft.

“I’m good,” Azzi replies, even though her head is pounding so hard she can barely think. Azzi does her best to ignore the ache, her eyes sliding across Paige’s figure, giving her another once-over. The imprint on her neck, her bloodied up arm. “Are you sure you’re good?” she asks slowly, trying to mask the sudden, obvious concern that wants to lace its way into her tone.

Paige’s eyes linger on her for a moment longer before she seems to snap out of it. She pulls her hand back, clutching at the wound on her arm, which continues to pool with blood. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she says, though her voice is strained.

Azzi doesn’t believe her, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she mutters, “We gotta find water.”

Paige nods, her expression sobering some, though it’s still slightly dazed. And then they begin walking.

THE JUNGLE swallows them whole as they move forward, side by side now instead of their usual formation. Paige is no longer leading, and Azzi is no longer trailing behind, watching the girl’s back like some unwilling shadow. Instead, they lean into each other, a pair of battered survivors held up by sheer willpower and the fragile balance of their shared weight.

Azzi keeps one hand on her dagger, just in case, though the other grips Paige’s shoulder like a lifeline. Her legs ache, her skull throbs, and her throat is dry enough that every swallow feels like it’s scraping raw. The heat is unbearable, pressing down on her like an iron hand, and every step feels like wading through wet cement. She keeps going anyway. She doesn’t have a choice.

Her head pounds in relentless waves, and for the first time, a new kind of fear creeps in. She wonders if it’s more than just the heat and exhaustion. The boy had hit her hard—harder than she’d let herself admit at the time—and now her thoughts are sluggish, her balance unsteady. It could be something serious—an actual brain injury.

She shakes the thought away quickly, but it lingers in the edges of her mind, a shadow she can’t quite dispel. She focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, on the sound of Paige’s uneven breaths beside her, and on the way the jungle seems to stretch endlessly before them.

Paige hasn’t said a word.

It unnerves Azzi more than she wants to admit. Paige, for all her flaws and quirks, has been a constant stream of chatter since the two of them reluctantly teamed up. Whether it was dry sarcasm, idle complaints, or even rambling anecdotes about her life back in District Five, she’d filled the silence with words that Azzi didn’t always want but had grown used to. Now, there’s nothing. Just the sound of their labored breathing and the occasional crunch of leaves beneath their feet.

Azzi glances sideways at her. Paige is pale, her face slick with sweat, the blonde hair of her ponytail sticking to her neck in damp strands. Her forearm is still pressed tightly to her chest, blood seeping through the makeshift leaf bandage Azzi had tied around it earlier. It isn’t enough; Azzi knows that. But it’s all they have.

Her lips are cracked and dry, and every time she stumbles slightly, Azzi feels a jolt of worry she can’t suppress.

When had that started?

She doesn’t know when Paige stopped being just another competitor and started being something more. Something she’s not sure she can name. It’s terrifying, in its own way, the realization that she cares. If Paige had died back there—beneath that boy’s hands, choking on her own breath—Azzi doesn’t know what she would have done. The thought of it is enough to make her stomach churn.

Paige is a light here, Azzi realizes, her chest tightening. A bright, defiant force in a world that’s trying its hardest to crush them both. Azzi doesn’t know how someone like Paige exists in a place like this, but she’s glad she does. Even if she doesn’t want to be. Even if it’s dangerous to feel this way.

Cyrus would kill her if he knew.

The thought of her mentor brings a bitter taste to her mouth, though it’s hard to tell if that’s from the memory or just the dryness of her throat. He’d warned her against this—against forming attachments, against letting feelings get in the way of survival. “Emotions will get you killed,” he’d said, his voice sharp and unyielding. “You can’t afford to care about anyone but yourself.”

Azzi had nodded, agreed, and believed him. Until now.

The boy’s face flashes in her mind.

It’s quick, like the strike of a match, but it burns just the same. His body crumpling to the ground, the blood pooling beneath him, the light fading from his eyes. She’d killed him. Ended his life with a single throw of her dagger.

She tells herself it was necessary. That he was going to kill Paige, that it was him or them. She tells herself that this is what the Games are. That everyone here is fighting for the same thing: to survive. But the words feel hollow, even in her own mind.

He was just a kid. Hardly older than her.

Her grip on Paige’s shoulder tightens slightly, as if to anchor herself. Paige doesn’t react, her gaze fixed on the path ahead, but Azzi wonders if she notices.

The boy had wanted to live, just like they do. He’d fought for it, just like they’re fighting now. Azzi doesn’t blame him for that. She can’t. But she hates him for putting his hands on Paige. For pinning her down, for cutting her up, for choking her, for making Azzi do what she did.

Her thoughts circle back to Paige, as they often seem to recently. She glances at her again, taking in the shallow rise and fall of her chest, the sweat dripping down her temples, the way her lips are pressed into a thin, determined line. She wonders if Paige is thinking about the boy too, or if her mind is somewhere else entirely.

Azzi doesn’t ask. She doesn’t want to know.

Instead, she keeps walking, her feet dragging over the uneven ground, her thoughts a chaotic swirl of exhaustion, fear, and something else she can’t quite name. The jungle presses in around them, thick and suffocating, and the heat feels like it’s going to swallow her whole.

She needs water. She needs to sit down. She needs—

Paige stumbles, and Azzi’s hand shoots out instinctively to steady her. Paige mutters something under her breath, a faint “Thanks,” but her voice is weak, almost broken.

Azzi doesn’t respond. She just tightens her grip on Paige’s arm and keeps moving. They’re both too busted to trust themselves entirely, but they don’t have a choice. They can’t stop.

It feels like they’ve been walking for hours. Maybe they have. Azzi doesn’t know anymore. She’s too tired to care, her thoughts muddled by dehydration and pain.

And then, as if the universe finally takes pity on them, she hears it: the soft, unmistakable trickle of running water.

At first, she thinks she’s imagining it, a cruel trick of her exhausted mind. But then she catches sight of it—a narrow stream cutting through the dense foliage ahead, the sunlight glinting off its surface like a beacon. Relief washes over her so strongly that her knees almost give out.

“Water,” she croaks, barely recognizing her own voice.

Paige’s head snaps up, her eyes following Azzi’s gaze. She doesn’t say anything, just stumbles forward, almost tripping over her own feet in her haste. Azzi grabs her arm to steady her, and together they half-walk, half-fall toward the stream.

When they reach the edge, Azzi doesn’t even pause to take in the sight. She shrugs Paige’s bag off her back with shaking hands, digging through it until she finds their canteens. Her fingers fumble with the caps as she kneels by the water, filling both containers to the brim.

She shoves one into Paige’s hand, not waiting for a thank you before tipping the other to her lips. The water is cool, crisp, and it burns going down her dry throat, but she doesn’t care. She drinks until she’s out of breath, pulling the canteen away only to gasp for air before taking another gulp.

When she finally stops, her chest heaving, she glances over at Paige. The blonde is sitting, leant against a tree now, her back pressed to the rough bark, the canteen dangling limply in her hand. She looks awful—worse than awful. Her eyes are glassy, her lips cracked, and the blood on her arm hasn’t slowed. Azzi doesn’t know how she managed to get this far, if she’s honest.

Azzi sighs, hauling herself to her feet. Her legs tremble beneath her, but she pushes through it, crossing the short distance to Paige. “Let me see it,” she says, gesturing toward the arm Paige is still cradling.

Paige shakes her head, her lips curving into the ghost of a defiant smile. “I’m good,” she says, but her voice is weak, barely more than a whisper.

“No, you’re not,” Azzi counters, her tone sharper than she intends. She crouches in front of Paige, looking up at her with an intensity that makes the other girl falter. “Let me see.”

Paige hesitates, her gaze darting away as if she can avoid Azzi’s stare. But when she glances back, Azzi is still watching her, her expression unyielding. Slowly, reluctantly, Paige moves her arm, holding it out to Azzi.

Azzi takes her wrist gently, her fingers wrapping around the uninjured part of Paige’s arm. She can feel Paige’s eyes on her, burning into her face, but she doesn’t look up. She focuses on the makeshift bandage, peeling it back carefully.

The leaves come away slick with blood, and Azzi has to swallow hard to keep her stomach from turning. The cut beneath is worse than she thought—deep and jagged, the edges swollen and angry. Blood is still seeping from it, slow but steady, staining Paige’s pale skin a vivid red.

“Paige,” Azzi says quietly, the name heavy on her tongue. She doesn’t know what else to say.

Paige shakes her head again, biting her lip so hard that Azzi half-expects to see blood there too. “It’s fine,” she says, but her voice cracks on the last word, betraying her.

“It’s not fine,” Azzi says, her grip on Paige’s wrist tightening slightly. “He might’ve nicked a vein.”

“He didn’t,” Paige insists, but her voice is thin, almost desperate.

“Paige,” Azzi says again, her tone firmer this time.

She doesn’t wait for a response. She grabs her canteen, unscrewing the cap. “We need to clean it,” she says, not waiting for Paige’s agreement. “Hold still.”

Paige nods reluctantly, but Azzi catches the flicker of fear in her eyes. It makes something twist uncomfortably in her chest. She doesn’t want Paige to be scared. She doesn’t want her to be in pain. (She doesn’t know why.)

“Hey,” Azzi says softly, trying for a reassuring smile. It feels strange on her face, unfamiliar, but she hopes it works. “It’s okay.”

Paige doesn’t say anything, just watches Azzi with wide, wary eyes.

Azzi pours a small stream of water over the cut, wincing as Paige flinches. A soft whimper escapes the blonde’s lips, but she doesn’t pull away. Azzi works quickly, washing away the blood and dirt as carefully as she can, her movements slow and deliberate.

When she’s done, she sits back on her heels, surveying her work. The bleeding has slowed, but the cut still looks bad—too bad for her to handle with the limited supplies they have.

“We need to bandage it again,” Azzi says, her voice quieter now. She reaches into her own pack, pulling out a strip of fabric she tore from her shirt earlier. “This’ll have to do for now.”

Paige nods, her eyes glassy, and Azzi wraps the fabric around her arm as tightly as she dares. Her fingers brush against Paige’s skin as she ties the knot, and she can feel the faint tremor running through her.

“There,” she says, sitting back and meeting Paige’s gaze for the first time. “That should hold for now.”

Paige doesn’t respond right away. She just looks at Azzi, her expression unreadable. Then, finally, she mutters, “Thanks.”

Azzi nods, her throat too tight to speak. She doesn’t know why this moment feels so heavy, why the look in Paige’s eyes makes her chest ache. She just knows that, despite everything, she’s glad they’re both still here.

And she’s going to do whatever it takes to keep it that way.

THE SKY above them is painted in deep oranges and purples now, the last vestiges of sunlight breaking through the canopy. It’s beautiful in a way that mocks Azzi—the world doesn’t care that they’re here, bleeding and broken. The stream continues its soft trickle nearby, an unrelenting reminder of their vulnerability. Water is the most sought for thing in this arena—and she and Paige are right next to a steady stream of it.

Azzi’s head pounds, a rhythmic throb that matches her heartbeat, and her vision swims if she turns too fast. She presses a palm to her temple, trying to will it away, but nothing helps. She glances at Paige again—her breathing is shallow, her skin pale and waxy, the freckles dotting her nose stark against the pallor. Azzi doesn’t know much about medicine, but she knows blood loss when she sees it, and Paige is in trouble.

The bandage she’d rigged up is doing its best, but blood still seeps through the edges. It’s not enough to stop the bleeding, and Azzi feels a wave of helplessness crash over her. She’s supposed to be strong. She’s supposed to survive. But how can she survive when Paige is dying right next to her?

Their shoulders press together, grounding Azzi just enough to keep her panic at bay. Paige shifts slightly, her head lolling to the side, her eyes fluttering closed. Azzi doesn’t think—she just reacts, shaking Paige’s shoulder.

“Don’t,” Azzi says quickly. “Don’t fall asleep.”

Paige groans softly, a broken sound, but her eyes stay closed. “‘M tired,” she murmurs, her voice slurring. “Just… let me rest a minute.”

“No,” Azzi says, louder this time. Her chest tightens, her breath coming faster. She’s afraid, and it shows in her voice. “You can’t. If you fall sleep, you might…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, but the both know what she means. If Paige falls asleep, there’s a good chance she might not wake up.

Paige doesn’t respond right away, her head tipping back against the tree. Her neck stretches, her throat exposed, her brows furrowing, and for a fleeting moment, Azzi catches herself staring. It’s a small, stupid thing to notice in the middle of all this, but Azzi can’t help it. Paige, even like this—especially like this—makes her heart stutter in ways she doesn’t fully understand. She shoves the thought away, disgusted with herself. Now is not the time.

“Talk to me,” Paige says suddenly, her voice soft and pleading. It takes Azzi a moment to realize Paige is serious. “About anything. I gotta stay awake, so just… say something.”

Azzi hesitates. She has no idea what to talk about. But Paige’s eyes are on her now, hazy but expectant, and Azzi doesn’t want to let her down. “Uh,” she starts awkwardly, her voice hoarse. “I like basketball. It’s my favorite thing to do. It’s, like, how I escape stuff. I guess I love it.”

Paige’s eyes open a little wider, a spark of recognition flickering there. A small, broken smile tugs at her lips, and it hits Azzi harder than it should. “You like basketball?” Paige asks, her voice faint but teasing.

Azzi nods, feeling her chest loosen just a little. “Yeah. It’s everything to me.”

Paige’s smile grows, just barely. “Me too,” she whispers. “It’s my whole life.”

The admission surprises Azzi. She’d known Paige was athletic, but this feels… different. Personal. “Really?” Azzi asks, leaning in slightly despite herself.

Paige nods, though the motion looks like it takes effort. “I was kinda hoping—stupidly, maybe—that if I won this thing, they’d let me play in the Capitol. Like, with the pros.”

The idea is so absurd, so painfully hopeful, that Azzi feels a pang of something sharp in her chest. She stares at Paige, her throat tightening. “I thought the same thing,” she admits quietly. “I mean, it’s a dream, right? But they’d never let us.”

Paige shakes her head slowly, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Probably not.” She’s quiet for a moment, her gaze unfocused. Then, she says, almost wistfully, “You and me, we could’ve—”

She doesn’t finish. A sharp breath hisses through her teeth, her hand twitching toward her injured arm. Azzi watches in concern, brown eyes softening, and then reacts without thinking, gently taking Paige’s arm and resting it in her lap. She presses down on the bandage, trying to slow the bleeding, her movements careful but firm. Paige winces, a soft whimper escaping her, but she doesn’t pull away.

“Keep talking,” Azzi says, her voice steady despite the turmoil churning inside her. She doesn’t know why it matters so much, but it does. She needs Paige to keep her eyes open, to keep responding, to stay here with her.

Paige nods faintly, her eyes searching for something to focus on. They land on Azzi’s face, and Azzi feels her stomach flip under the intensity of that gaze. “We could’ve been teammates,” Paige murmurs, her voice barely audible. “It would’ve been fun.”

Azzi’s heart twists, a dull ache settling in her chest. She forces herself to smile, though it feels like it might crack her face. “Yeah,” she whispers. “It could’ve.”

Silence stretches between them, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant gurgle of the stream. Azzi doesn’t let go of Paige’s arm, her thumb brushing lightly against the skin just above the bandage. She doesn’t know if it’s for Paige’s comfort or her own.

The night creeps closer, the colors in the sky fading to deep purples and blues. And as they do, things just continue to get worse. Paige’s shoulder is warm and sweaty against Azzi’s, but her weight is starting to sag, her head lolling more with each passing moment. Azzi feels every shift, every shallow breath, and it’s like a countdown ticking in her ear. Paige’s ponytail brushes against the side of her face every now and then, soft and teasing, and for a second Azzi’s brain latches onto it—onto how bizarrely comforting such a small, stupid thing can feel in a moment like this. But it’s fleeting. The ache in her head won’t let her hold onto anything for long.

It’s getting worse. The dull throb that started hours ago has grown into something monstrous, a pressure building behind her eyes and pushing at her temples like her skull might split open. The jungle spins when she glances to the side, her vision streaked with dark spots that pulse in time with the pain. She can barely focus on anything, but she forces herself to keep her eyes on Paige. Paige, who’s somehow still upright, even as her arm hangs limp in Azzi’s lap, her blood staining Azzi’s hand through the makeshift bandage. The bleeding has slowed, but still not stopped entirely, and Azzi knows that’s not good enough. She doesn’t know how much blood Paige has left to lose, and the thought tightens around her chest like a vice.

Azzi reaches her free hand up, and it shakes slightly as she moves it to rub circles at her temple. The pounding in her cerebrum is unbearable, each throb sending a wave of nausea and dizziness through her. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to focus, but the spinning in her peripheral only gets worse.

She feels Paige stir beside her, hears the faint hitch in Paige’s breath before the blonde whispers, “Does your head hurt?”

Azzi’s eyes flutter open, and she turns her head just enough to meet Paige’s gaze. Those blue eyes—crystal clear even in the fading light—are wide and worried, and for a moment, Azzi forgets how to breathe. It’s startling, how much concern Paige holds there, as if the pain in Azzi’s skull is more important than the gaping wound in her own arm. Azzi swallows hard, pushing down the lump forming in her throat, and forces a small, shaky smile. “Yeah, um, a little,” she lies, her voice cracking slightly on the words.

It’s a terrible lie, and Paige sees right through it. Before Azzi can pull away or deflect, Paige’s uninjured arm moves, her hand coming up to gently cup Azzi’s jaw. The touch is featherlight, hesitant but somehow steady, and it sends a shiver down Azzi’s spine. Her breath catches in her throat, and she freezes, unsure whether to lean into it or pull away. Her body decides for her, staying perfectly still, as if moving might break whatever fragile thing this moment has become.

Paige tilts Azzi’s head slightly, her fingers careful as they guide her. Azzi’s cheek tingles where Paige’s skin brushes hers, and she wonders, distantly, if Paige can feel the heat rising there. Paige’s thumb hovers near the bruise on the side of Azzi’s face, and Azzi feels her breath hitch again as Paige murmurs, “He hit you hard. God—your cheek is almost purple.”

Azzi blinks, her brain struggling to catch up. She hadn’t realized how bad it looked; the ache had been drowned out by everything else—the adrenaline, the fear, the focus on keeping Paige alive. Paige’s voice pulls her back, soft and hoarse, but heavy with something Azzi can’t quite make. Her fingers brush over the bruise, trailing so gently it almost feels like a ghost of a touch, and then they skim over the cut on Azzi’s cheekbone.

The sting catches her off guard, and she flinches, a sharp hiss slipping out before she can stop it. Paige jerks her hand back immediately, her brows knitting together in regret. “Sorry,” she says quickly, voice breaking slightly. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Azzi cuts her off softly. “Really. It’s fine.”

But it’s not fine. Not the pain in her brain, not the blood still trickling out of Paige, not the way Azzi’s heart stutters every time Paige so much as looks at her. None of it is fine. And yet, in this tiny, horrible moment, with death lurking in the shadows and exhaustion pulling at every fiber of her being, Azzi feels a flicker of something she hasn’t felt since she left home. Warmth. Connection.

It’s stupid. It’s dangerous. And it’s exactly what she can’t afford right now.

Paige settles back against the tree, her head lolling slightly, but her gaze stays fixed on Azzi. “You’re a bad liar,” she says after a moment, her lips twitching into a faint, teasing smile.

Azzi snorts softly, the sound dry and humorless. “Yeah, well… you’re stubborn.”

Paige’s smile falters, her eyes drifting closed for a second too long before she forces them open again. “Guess that makes us a good team,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible now.

Azzi’s chest tightens, the weight of those words settling heavily in her heart. She glances down at Paige’s arm, her vision blurry but still enough to make out the blood-soaked bandage that seems to mock her efforts, and then back up at Paige’s face. She looks fragile, too pale and too still, her breathing shallow and uneven. Azzi swallows hard, fighting back the wave of helplessness threatening to drown her, and shifts slightly, leaning more of her weight into Paige’s side.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Azzi says quietly, her voice firmer than she feels. “Stay with me, okay?”

Paige hums faintly, her head tipping to rest lightly against Azzi’s. “I’ll try,” she whispers.

It could be a minute or an hour between that and the start of the ticking. It’s faint, barely there, a soft, irregular beat that worms it’s way into Azzi’s consciousness through the relentless pounding in her skull. At first, she thinks it might be her own pulse, amplified by the migraine that’s been eating at her focus all day, but then it grows louder, unmistakably external. Her head tilts, almost unconsciously, toward the sound, the motion sending a fresh wave of nausea spiraling through her.

It takes a second for her to pinpoint it, her vision hazy and the world dimming in the creeping twilight, but then she sees it. A small box, dangling precariously from a flimsy parachute, drifting slowly through the humid, stagnant air until it lands in the underbrush just a few feet away. The silver fabric of the parachute glimmers faintly in the dwindling light, and for a moment, Azzi wonders if she’s hallucinating.

She blinks hard, her dry, stinging eyes struggling to focus. No, it’s real. It has to be.

“What is that?” Paige’s voice is groggy, slurred with exhaustion and pain. She doesn’t move, just tilts her head a fraction toward the clearing, her expression half-curious, half-disoriented.

Azzi doesn’t answer. She can’t. The words are lodged in her throat, tangled up with the sudden, desperate burst of hope that’s surging through her chest. Instead, she shifts carefully, so slowly it feels like her joints might creak from the effort. Paige’s arm is still draped across her lap, and Azzi tilts it gently, settling it back in Paige’s lap as if it’s something fragile and precious. “Stay here,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

Paige gives her a bleary nod, her head falling back against the tree trunk, and Azzi takes a shaky breath as she pulls herself to her feet. Her legs feel like rubber beneath her, unsteady and unreliable, and the moment she straightens, the world tilts alarmingly. Her vision blurs, the dark shapes of the trees around them smearing together into a dizzying kaleidoscope, and her head pounds so viciously she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.

She stumbles but manages to catch herself on the rough bark of the tree. Her palm scrapes against it, a sharp sting that grounds her just enough to push forward. Each step is an act of will, her body screaming at her to stop, to sit, to let go. But she doesn’t. She can’t. Not when there’s a chance—no matter how slim—that what’s in that box might save them.

The small package sits nestled in the underbrush, it’s parachute caught on a low-hanging branch. Azzi crouches slowly, her balance wavering, and pulls it down with trembling hands. The rough fabric catches slightly on her fingers, and her head spins so violently she nearly collapses right there. Somehow, she makes it back to where Paige sits slumped against the tree, her eyes half-closed but still tracking Azzi’s movements.

Azzi drops to her knees in front of her, cradling the box in her lap like it’s something sacred. Her hands shake as she fumbles with the lid, her pulse pounding in her ears so loudly she can barely hear anything else. It takes a moment—too long, in her opinion—but eventually, the lid pops off, revealing the contents inside.

A tub of ointment, labeled in neat, blocky letters: for open wounds. Two small pills in a clear, sealed pouch, labeled simply: for the pain. And tucked into the corner, a folded piece of paper. Azzi snatches up the note first, her heart hammering as she unfolds it.

Keep it up. The Capitol loves you.

It’s signed by both Azzi and Paige’s mentors—a joint act.

Azzi’s chest tightens. Relief crashes over her, sharp and almost painful in its intensity, but it’s laced with something darker, something bitter. She’s grateful, of course she is, but the note is a cruel reminder of the game they’re playing—the performance they’re expected to give. Their survival isn’t just dependent on their own skill or willpower; it’s a spectacle, a source of entertainment for people who will never know what it feels like to bleed in the dirt, to fight for every breath, to endure the kind of pain that makes you wonder if it’s been worth it.

Azzi swallows hard, her throat tight, and turns the note toward Paige. Paige blinks at it, her eyes squinting as she tries to focus on the words. When she finally makes them out, a small, breathy laugh escapes her, soft and incredulous. She lets her head fall back against the tree, a faint, almost dazed smile tugging at her lips. “Oh my God,” she murmurs, her voice trembling slightly. It��s unclear whether she’s laughing out of relief or disbelief—or both.

The sound of Paige’s laugh, faint as it is, warms something deep in Azzi’s chest. It’s a reminder that they’re still here, still alive, still capable of finding something—anything—to hold on to. Before she can stop herself, she feels her own lips curve upward, the faintest ghost of a smile breaking through the exhaustion and pain that’s been weighing down on her for what feels like forever.

It’s small at first, tentative, but it grows, soft and real, until her dimples poke out—a feature that hasn’t seen light since she left home. The warmth of the grin spreads across her face like a sunrise breaking through the clouds. It feels strange to smile like this here, in the arena, in the state they’re in, but it’s genuine, and it’s hers.

When she looks back at Paige, she finds the older girl staring at her. Paige’s blue eyes are hazy, rimmed with near agony, but there’s something else in them, something unspoken and undeniable as they trace over Azzi’s face. It’s a look that sends a flicker of warmth rushing through the brunette’s chest, even as her headache rages on.

And then, despite everything, Paige grins back. It’s slower, lazier, and nowhere near as bright as it would be if they weren’t half-dead in a jungle, but it’s real. And for a moment, just a moment, it feels like they’ve won something far more important than a sponsor’s gift.

But then Azzi snaps out of it, knowing they don’t have the luxury of wasting time. Every second feels stolen, borrowed against a future that’s far from guaranteed, and Paige is the priority right now. The thought flickers briefly in her mind—how strange it is to think of Paige as anything but her competition, how utterly backwards it is to put someone else before herself in a place like this. But the logic doesn’t stick. The part of her that knows better is drowned out by something deeper, something she can’t quite—or maybe just doesn’t want to—name. She shoves the thought away, as she has with so many others.

Her head throbs mercilessly, the ache radiating from her temple down to her jaw, making it hard to focus. The pills are calling to her, the promise of relief so tempting it makes her fingers twitch. But Azzi forces herself to look away, to lock in on Paige instead. Paige is the most pressing issue. Azzi can deal with her own head later, once the blonde isn’t bleeding anymore.

Azzi reaches for Paige’s arm carefully, the older girl watching her intensely as she does so. Those blue eyes, always so sharp and steady, are dulled, but they don’t wager as they track Azzi’s every move, as if she’s the exception to her exhaustion. It’s unnerving, almost too much, but Azzi doesn’t pull back.

Her fingers brush against Paige’s skin as she takes her injured arm, and she notices immediately how clammy it feels, how fragile. Paige doesn’t flinch, though, letting Azzi take the weight of it as she carefully unwraps the so-called bandage they’d thrown together earlier. The blood-soaked fabric peels away slowly, sticking in places, and Azzi’s stomach once again twists at the sight of the wound.

It’s still red and angry and oozing blood. The metallic tan got it fills the air, sharp and overwhelming. Azzi has to take a deep breath, steadying herself.

And then she’s dipping her fingers into the ointment, it’s texture slick and slightly sticky. Carefully, she begins to spread it over the gash. The instant it touches the raw skin, Paige hisses through her teeth, her body tensing beneath Azzi’s hands. Azzi freezes, her heart skipping a beat. “Sorry,” she murmurs, her voice low and soft, almost inaudible. She doesn’t want to hurt Paige, even if it’s necessary.

Paige’s lips press into a thin line, and after a moment, she nods. Her free hand gestures weakly for Azzi to continue. Azzi does, her fingers moving as gently as they can. She focuses on covering every inch of the wound, making sure the ointment is evenly spread, all the while hyper-aware of how close they are. She can feel Paige’s shallow breaths, can hear the faint catch in them every time her touch hits a particularly sensitive spot. It’s distracting, but Azzi forces herself to keep going.

When she finally finishes, she sits back slightly, her hands hovering uncertainty over Paige’s arm. Her fingers are smeared with leftover ointment and stained crimson, and the sight of the blood—Paige’s blood—sends a jolt of something sharp and unpleasant through her chest. She doesn’t let herself dwell on it.

Azzi reaches into the box, pulling out one of the pain relief pills from the small pouch. She hands it to Paige, her fingers brushing briefly against Paige’s palm as she passes it over. The contact is fleeting, but it feels significant somehow, like it leaves a mark.

“Take this,” Azzi says, her voice firmer now, though still edged with exhaustion. She grabs one of their canteens, unscrewing the cap and holding it out to Paige. Paige takes both the pill and the canteen without question, ripping her head back to swallow them. Azzi watches, relief flickering briefly in her chest as Paige’s throat bobs with the effort.

Once Paige finishes, Azzi moves to craft another makeshift bandage. She tears a strip of leaves, careful to pick ones she recognizes as cleaner, and secures them around Paige’s arm, tying them tightly enough to hold but not so tight that they’ll cut off circulation. The leaves feel flimsy, inadequate, but it’s better than leaving the wound exposed. The Capitol’s ointment might be effective, but Azzi isn’t willing to risk it.

Now that Paige is taken care of, Azzi finally lets herself acknowledge what her body has been screaming at her all along. She needs relief. Her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches for the second pain pill, plucking it out of the pouch. Her throat is dry and the motion of swallowing feels sharp, but she forces the pill down quickly, chasing it with a swig of water from the canteen. The hope that it might take the edge off her pounding skull is the only thing keeping her upright right now.

She picks up the tub of ointment, planning to stow it away safely in one of their bags, when Paige’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Wait.”

Azzi looks over, confused, brows furrowing as her gaze lands on Paige. “What?”

Paige gestures toward the ointment with a tired flick of her fingers. “Can I see it?”

The request doesn’t make much sense. Paige doesn’t need more of it, and her wound’s already been ‘bandaged’ back up. But Azzi doesn’t ask. She’s too drained to question it, and maybe, in the back of her mind, there’s a tiny piece of her that would hand over almost anything Paige asked for without hesitation (yes, she knows how bad it is). Wordlessly, she holds the tub out to the blonde, who takes it with a quiet look of determination.

Azzi watches as Paige unscrews the lid, dipping her thumb into the cool salve and scooping up a small amount. Then Paige’s eyes lift to meet Azzi’s, her gaze steady despite the exhaustion weighing her down. “C’mere,” Paige says softly.

Azzi hesitates, blinking at her. “Why? What—”

Paige rolls her eyes, exasperation creeping into her voice. “Your cheekbone, Azzi.”

Azzi blinks again, then lifts a hand to her face, fingertips brushing against the gash just below her eye. She’s half-forgotten about it, the pain of her pounding head and the worry over Paige drowning out the sharp sting of the cut. Her cheeks flush faintly, but she nods, leaning forward just enough to close the gap between them.

As Paige’s fingers reach for her jaw, Azzi stiffens slightly. The touch is careful, light, and steady, but it sends a ripple of tension through her that she struggles to suppress. Paige tilts her chin up, her thumb brushing the salve gently across the cut. Azzi can feel the coolness of it on her skin, a faint relief that’s overshadowed by the warmth radiating from Paige’s touch.

Paige is so close. Too close. Azzi can see every little mark, every faint line of exhaustion etched into Paige’s face. Azzi’s heart seems to be pounding harder than her head now, and she forces her gaze to dart away, focusing on the rough bark of the tree behind Paige instead of the curve of her lips or the cerulean of her eyes.

The moment drags out longer than it should, Paige’s hand lingering against Azzi’s cheek even after she’s finished. Then, finally, she leans back, handing the tub of ointment back to Azzi. “There. Now you can put it away,” she murmurs, her voice quiet, her lips curving faintly into something soft and fleeting.

Azzi swallows hard, taking the tub and stuffing it into one of the bags with more force than necessary, as though sealing it away might also lock up the strange swirl of feelings tightening in her chest.

When she finally settles back against the tree beside Paige, she sighs deeply, the weight of the day pressing down on her. The pain in her head still hasn’t faded, and she closes her eyes for a moment, leaning back against the rough bark, trying to center herself. But then Paige’s voice breaks the quiet again, soft but firm.

“You should actually lay down,” Paige says. “Your head definitely needs it.”

Azzi shakes her head without even opening her eyes. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“No, Azzi.” Paige’s voice is sharper now, another flash of concern cutting through her exhaustion. “You need to lay down.”

Azzi turns her head, meeting Paige’s gaze. There’s something there, something in the way Paige is looking at her—equal parts frustration and care and just pure fatigue—that makes Azzi’s stomach tumble. Paige doesn’t have to say anything else. Azzi knows exactly what she’s suggesting. Her face flushes hot, and she rubs her temple again, trying to come up with an excuse whilst simultaneously trying to ease the pain. “Paige…”

“Azzi,” the blonde interrupts, her voice matching Azzi’s tired tone with an almost perfect mimicry.

Azzi exhales heavily, the tension draining from her shoulders. She knows she should argue, but she doesn’t. Maybe it’s because the pain in her skull is still unrelenting, or maybe it’s because, deep down, she wants to be closer to Paige. Either way, she gives in, shifting her wright and carefully lowering herself until her head is resting on Paige’s lap.

The moment she settles against the older girl’s thighs, she feels relief. The position takes some of the pressure off her pounding head, and the warmth of Paige beneath her is oddly soothing. She exhales slowly, letting her body relax for the first time in hours.

Paige doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t need to. Her fingers move slowly, hesitating for a moment before they come to rest against Azzi’s hair. And then, as if testing the motion, she begins to rub small, smooth circles against Azzi’s scalp. The gentle pressure eases some of the ache in Azzi’s skull, and her eyelids grow heavier with each passing second.

Azzi’s hand, lying limply at her side, brushes agajnst Paige’s. It’s not intentional at first, just the natural shift of her body, but then her pinky moves, deliberately sliding closer until it touches Paige’s. She doesn’t interlock them, instead keeping the touch featherlight, just the barest connection. But it’s enough. It’s grounding. It’s more than she thought she’d ever have here.

Azzi lets her eyes fall shut, the ache in her head dulling slightly, and for the first time all day, she allows herself to truly breathe.

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