Heaving shallow and quick breaths, you speed through the forest, your steel double-headed axe in your hand and your loaded backpack bumping against your back.

You had managed to escape the Cornucopia, but those Careers had followed you. Cato, Clove and Glimmer to be exact.

District 7 is your home. You're fifteen. A small chunk of your heel had been ripped off by some kid from 6.

Behind you, you are vaguely aware of Cato shouting commands at Clove and Glimmer.

Eventually, your legs feel like jelly. Back home, you don't normally run this far or fast. Soon, you collapse and Cato is leaning over you. Your breaths come out in hoarse rasps.

Slowly, you push your (h/c) hair out of your eyes so you're staring straight at Cato. The boy from District 2 tilts his head at your expression. He crouches down right over you, so close you can feel his warm breath. His fingers close around his spear as he prepares to stab.

But something stops him.

Maybe it's your glittery (e/c) eyes?

Or the way your (h/l) locks frame your face perfectly?

Perhaps your flawless, (s/c) skin?

Whatever it was, he backs up, his face crumpling into one of . . . you can't make out what. Then, he's speeding off.

Your jaw drops. He could have effortlessly finished you! But he didn't. Why?

Quickly, you heave yourself up and brush yourself down. You check over your heel, which has stopped bleeding.

You ponder Cato's behaviour as you trudge through the thick forest.

Eventually, you, some archer girl from District 12, a baker also from 12, a girl from District 8, a fox-faced girl from 5, a boy from District 1 and Cato are left. While you're trekking the area to find another clean source of water, you halt in your tracks.

A few meters away, Cato is leaning down and scrubbing off stains from his spear. Silently, you step backwards. Unsilently, a twig decided to be a bastard.

Immediately, he looks up. An expression of surprise crosses his face. Then it's replaced by fear. He hops up and rushes away into the mangrove.

What is up with him? you wonder to yourself.

"C-Cato . . ." you huff, once again under his grip. This time, he looks like he'll kill you for sure.

Except . . . he leans his head down and presses his lips against yours. It's a hasty, rough kiss, but a liplock all the same.

Now, his blue eyes widen drastically and he pushes himself off you.

And he is running off again.

"He has commitment issues," you mutter to yourself, to brighten your own mood.