A/N: For Che.
When Clove snarls out a threat before she's even halfway out of the dressing room, Cato knows he's in for a treat. He's right.
"Cute dress," he manages to say without snickering. It is cute. Ruffles and bows and sparkles and so sweet he almost feels sick just looking at it. He thinks he saw a similar one on one of the Capitolites who raced beside their train on the way in. Then again, that girl was no more than eight.
"Fuck you," she spits, stalking past him, then pauses and smirks at him. "Actually, you wish."