I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.

- Mother Teresa

Clove was the first to wake the next day.

Cato had nearly tumbled off the bed, his muscular arms wrapped around an over-sized pillow. While at rest, his features weren't marred by stress, anxiety, or anger. Despite this, the blond's face remained angular and pointed. It wasn't the features on his face that made him look more vulnerable, though.

It was the flat, unkempt hair that did her in. At ten or eleven, he'd finally begun to style his hair. Before that, his hair had laid flat against his features, as it did now. Leaning in closer, Clove brushed a few strands out of his face and gently stroked his hair. The boy mumbled something in his sleep, before nuzzling closer to the pillow.

She hadn't forgiven him yet.

She didn't know if she had the capacity to.

Instead, Clove had temporarily purged the foul memory from her conscience. It had been difficult to say the least. Still, she was tired of playing these mind games.

The sixteen year old girl wasn't sure what the next step was.

How would she know if he wanted to resume their friendship, and how could she trust he wouldn't weaponize his hypersexuality against her once again?

For all she knew, this whole thing might have been a simple lapse in judgement brought on by reoccurring insomnia, loneliness, and mental instability.

Cato had been incredibly out of sorts lately, and wasn't that putting it mildly?

Clove suspected, as Felix had caustically dubbed 'best case scenario', that Cato had completed an entire cycle of the steroidal drugs. The question of how far back he'd been taking them still plagued her mind into unrest.

Had he already begun the regimen when she had tried to apologize to him all those many months ago? The bigger question she had was — if so, did that change anything?

Because, like it or not, they'd have both ended up in the same place anyways. Here, in the Capitol, about to fight to the death.

She struggled within herself to a make a decision, effectively making the decision not to.

Clove stood up, draping the blanket over him, and murmured hoarsely, "Come back to us, Cato."

Author's Note (2012) - You guys are such fantastic reviewers and I really appreciate that you take the time to be vocal about things you like, don't like, or the questions you have. It's especially helpful when clarifying or developing ideas for the following chapters. So, thank you so much!

Fun little fact: Clove's love confession (chapter 24) to Cato took place on Valentine's Day. Her birthday is February 4th, and in the beginning of the chapter, she narrates "It'd been ten days. Ten days too many."

Written: August 12th, 2012
Edited: April 3rd, 2017