"What happens next?"
The grass tickles her cheek when she turns to face Cato.
The sun twinkles in his eye, blinds her.
Time rewinds when she takes his hand, pretending that she's not afraid.
Twelve late nights, snuck out of the training center, smothered giggles.
Two hands sneaking under her shirt, trembling.
Six kisses stolen under a mulberry tree.
At least seven hundred conversations held in the dead of night, whispered, frantic.
Countless times she's held a knife under his throat, squinting at the glint of the blade. Countless times he's killed her. What's one more?
"What happens." He grimaces.
