"Don't you dare get attached," she tells herself. But she already is, the first time, when he shreds her Capitol outfit and smears her make-up. They are both drunk, she had more than she is used to, he had less than he usually does.
She still believes herself the third time when she says, "It' just casual," when he opens button after button of her delicate dress and kisses each inch of skin that is revealed.
The 15th time - or is it the 17th time? - it has all become such a blur, a swirl of skin and sighs - her hair is spread out like a beautiful painted fan on his pillow, he traces her shape with his hands and whispers, "You're beautiful" against her neck. She thinks of the victor she saw on TV, the young boy so many years ago, the drunk who should have met her at the train station, but didn't, and the mentor, who broke his glass in frustration when yet another kid died under his watch.
She turns to him, his arms sliding around her frame, and whispers against his chest, "Never let me go."