The cave became their world.
For several days, they remained hidden, tucked away in the safety of the stone walls, venturing out only to refill their water bottles from the stream. With the food from their sponsor gift, they were able to ration carefully, making it last. They didn't dare risk hunting or gathering. The arena had already taken enough from them.
The days were quiet, but not in a lonely way.
They sat close, their backs against the cave wall, their legs stretched out or lazily tangled together. Neither of them talked about the future. It was too cruel a thing to think about. The future meant only one of them—if either—would still be breathing. So instead, they talked about the past.
Memories became their refuge.
Sadie sat with her knees drawn to her chest, picking at the frayed edge of her jacket sleeve as she laughed softly.
"Remember when you pushed me into the mud during school?" she asked, glancing at him with a teasing glimmer in her eyes.
Rye snorted softly, leaning his head back against the stone wall.
"You deserved it," he said, though the corner of his mouth twitched with a smirk.
Her eyes narrowed playfully. "I absolutely did not."
He glanced sideways at her, lifting a brow.
"You kept making fun of my hair," he said, feigning offense. "Kept calling me bread boy."
Sadie grinned. "Because you are bread boy."
Rye shook his head, but there was no real annoyance in his expression. His eyes were warm.
"You were being such a brat," he muttered, the memory clear as day. "So I just… shoved you. Right into the mud."
Sadie smirked, her eyes narrowing faintly.
"You did it because you liked me," she teased.
Rye's mouth fell open slightly, but she could see the glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
"Did not," he deadpanned.
She tilted her head slightly, lifting a brow.
"Did too."
He tried to fight the smirk tugging at his lips, but he failed miserably. He huffed a small breath of laughter and shook his head.
"Okay, maybe," he finally muttered, his voice barely above a mumble.
Sadie's smile widened triumphantly.
She stretched her legs out, resting her heels against his thigh.
"Besides," she added with a smug grin, "if you hadn't shoved me into the mud, you never would've had to carry me all the way back home when I sprained my ankle."
Rye groaned softly at the memory, leaning his head back with a theatrical sigh.
"You were such a princess about it," he muttered, rolling his eyes.
"Was not!"
"You made me carry you and your school bag."
She stuck her tongue out at him, and for a brief moment, it was almost like they were back home.
They fell into a comfortable rhythm of reminiscing, filling the silence with laughter and small smiles.
Rye talked about teaching her how to bake the summer they turned sixteen.
"I should've just let you burn the bread," he teased.
Sadie smirked faintly, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"You say that now, but I seem to remember you stuffing your face with three rolls and not sharing with your brothers."
Rye snorted softly, smiling down at his hands.
Then Sadie grew quieter, her expression softening slightly as she spoke.
"You didn't complain when I made you that cake," she murmured softly, her eyes flickering over to him.
His smile faded slightly, and his eyes softened.
"No," he said quietly. "I didn't."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
He remembered that day perfectly—the last spring in District 12. He had turned eighteen. Sadie had somehow gotten her hands on extra sugar and cocoa powder and spent the entire afternoon baking him a cake from scratch.
He remembered the flour on her cheeks and the smudge of chocolate across her wrist when she handed him the lopsided, slightly burnt cake.
She had sung softly, quietly, and purposefully off-key, but he had never heard a more perfect song.
It had been the best thing he had ever tasted.
Rye exhaled softly, running a hand down his face as he stared down at the stone floor.
"That was the best birthday I ever had," he admitted quietly.
Sadie didn't say anything. She just reached out and covered his hand with hers, squeezing it softly.
That night, after they had picked at the last of their food for the day, they lay down on their makeshift bed.
The sleeping bag pad was lumpy and thin against the stone floor, but neither of them noticed.
They curled into each other beneath the sleeping bag blanket, fitting together perfectly in a mess of tangled limbs and heavy breaths.
Rye's arms slid around her waist, one hand splayed firmly against the small of her back, holding her as if he were afraid she might slip away in her sleep.
Sadie tucked her head beneath his chin, her arms wrapped tightly around his torso, her fingers pressed into the bare skin of his back, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart.
Neither of them loosened their grip. Not even when they drifted into sleep.
Even in their dreams, they held on.
The morning started quietly enough. They sat outside the cave, sharing the last bit of dried fruit they had rationed. Neither of them spoke much, their bodies sore and sluggish from days of sleeping on stone. But they were alive. Together.
Then the mutts came.
It started with the sharp snap of branches, followed by an eerie, guttural growl that echoed through the trees.
Rye was on his feet before he even realized he had moved. Sadie was already reaching for his hand.
"Run," she panted, her eyes wide.
They ran.
Their feet pounded against the uneven forest floor, dodging roots and sharp stones as they sprinted through the underbrush. The heavy, ragged breathing of the mutts grew closer behind them—faster, louder.
Rye's boot caught on a loose patch of dirt. His ankle twisted violently to the side.
There was no time to catch himself.
With a guttural yell, he went down hard, his weight crashing into the dirt. A sharp, blinding pain shot up his leg.
He barely had time to register the agony before a mutt lunged for him.
"Rye!"
Her voice was frantic, her feet skidding on the dirt as she turned back.
Before he could get his arms up, Sadie was there.
With a feral, unthinking scream, she slammed the butt of her knife into the mutt's temple, stunning it just long enough to jam the blade into its throat. Blood splattered across her hands as she yanked the knife free, spinning just in time to slice across the throat of another mutt as it lunged.
Rye tried to push himself up, but the pain in his leg was blinding. His vision blurred at the edges, and his breath caught in his throat.
"Sadie, go!" he shouted hoarsely, trying to wave her away. "Just run!"
But she didn't even hesitate.
She crouched in front of him, her face wild with adrenaline, eyes blazing.
He barely had time to register what she was doing before she gripped the front of his jacket, yanked him over onto his stomach, and shoved her shoulder beneath his ribs.
He let out a strangled sound as she hooked her arms around his thighs.
Then, somehow—somehow—she hauled him onto her back.
Rye's eyes widened in disbelief.
He wasn't small. Far from it. He was broad and tall, with thick muscles from years of carrying bags of flour and hauling crates. Sadie was strong but slender, nowhere near his size.
But with the sheer force of adrenaline coursing through her veins, she gritted her teeth and pushed herself to her feet.
"Hold on!" she barked, her voice strained as she staggered forward.
His arms hung heavily over her shoulders. His legs dangled limply at her sides.
For the briefest of moments, he thought there was no way she would make it.
But then she started running.
Her breaths came in harsh, uneven gasps, and her legs trembled under the weight, but she ran.
Rye stared down at the back of her head in stunned disbelief.
How the hell is she doing this?
Her boots slammed against the earth as she tore through the forest, never slowing, never stumbling. She kept going until the guttural growls faded into the distance.
Finally, when she was sure they were safe, she stumbled into a small thicket, her legs finally giving out beneath her.
She crumpled to her knees, letting Rye fall carefully onto his side. Her chest heaved violently as she gasped for air, her hands trembling with exhaustion.
Rye barely noticed the throbbing in his ankle. All he could do was stare at her.
Her face was streaked with sweat, dirt, and blood. Her hair was wild, half sticking to her face. Her hands were trembling, still clutching the knife she had used to kill the mutts.
She looked savage. Fierce. Beautiful.
And he had never been more in awe of her.
But then her eyes flickered down to his leg, and all the feral strength in her expression melted into sheer horror.
"Oh, God," she rasped, her voice cracking as her eyes widened. "Rye…"
He followed her gaze.
His pant leg was torn and soaked with blood. The bone of his ankle jutted out at an unnatural angle, piercing through the skin. Blood pooled steadily around it, painting the dirt red.
Sadie's hands shook violently as she pressed them to the wound.
"Okay," she muttered breathlessly, her voice trembling as she fumbled with his boot, hands slick with blood. "Okay, okay, I've got you."
Her voice was tight, but her hands were steady as she carefully slid the boot off, making Rye groan through gritted teeth.
She quickly unzipped her jacket and tore at the fabric with her knife, ripping it into uneven strips. Her fingers were slick with his blood, but she barely seemed to notice.
Without hesitation, she gently but firmly set the bone.
Rye screamed, his back arching violently off the ground.
"I'm sorry," she choked out, her eyes wide with guilt but unwavering as she worked. "I'm so sorry."
Her hands shook slightly as she carefully bound his ankle, wrapping the fabric around it tightly. She knotted the splint with practiced efficiency, as if she had been doing it for years.
When she was done, she pressed her bloodied hands against his calf, holding firm pressure to slow the bleeding.
Her eyes met his.
Her face was streaked with dirt and blood, her cheeks flushed and pale all at once.
But her eyes were sharp. Focused. Strong.
And Rye just… stared.
She had fought off three mutts. She had carried him—carried him—on her back. She had killed two other tributes. She had set his broken bone with second-nature precision.
This wasn't the same girl who had been giggling at his off-tune humming back in the bakery.
The Games were changing her.
He had known they would. Of course they would. He had seen it in the older victors—the hardness in their eyes, the weight in their voices. He knew no one left the arena the same.
But seeing it happen to Sadie—to his Sadie—was strange.
It wasn't that he minded the change.
If anything, he admired it.
She was stronger. Tougher. Sharper.
But the gentle warmth he had once seen in her eyes was dimmer now, buried beneath the hardness of survival.
She was still his Sadie—the same girl who had baked him a lopsided birthday cake and kissed him behind the deli when she was supposed to be working. But now, she was also the girl who had blood under her nails and a fire in her eyes.
And she wasn't done fighting.
She sat back slightly, still breathing heavily as she stared down at his leg, hands pressed firmly over the splint.
Her eyes were wild and haunted, but they didn't waver.
"You're okay," she whispered breathlessly, though she was clearly trying to convince herself. "You're okay."
Rye swallowed thickly, still staring at her.
"Sadie," he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper.
She lifted her eyes to meet his, and for the briefest moment, the steel in her gaze softened.
She was still there.
And he loved her more than ever.
The next twenty-four hours were some of the worst of Sadie's life.
Rye's face was ashen, his skin slick with sweat. His breathing came in shallow, ragged gasps, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might snap. The broken bone had stopped bleeding, but the makeshift splint was already soaked through.
Every time he shifted, he let out a guttural groan, half-conscious from the pain. She could see his hands trembling uncontrollably, gripping at the dirt beneath him.
"Shhh," she soothed softly, running her hand through his damp hair. Her voice was shaking. "I'm here. I've got you."
But it wasn't enough.
The pain was too much. She could see it written in the lines of his face, in the way his lips curled back as he tried to stifle his pained moans.
And there was nothing she could do.
Helpless.
Useless.
Her hands, stained with blood and dirt, were trembling violently. She felt her chest tightening with each of his broken gasps.
"Please," she whispered under her breath.
Then louder.
"Please."
Her eyes shot upward toward the sky.
"Please!" she screamed, her voice raw with desperation. She surged to her feet, fists clenched at her sides, blood-streaked and wild-eyed as she shouted at the sky.
"Send him something!" Her voice cracked violently as she backed up, eyes blazing. "Do you hear me, Haymitch?! He needs help!"
Her throat burned, her voice hoarse and ragged as she screamed again, her hands clawing at her hair.
"Please," she begged, her voice shattering into a broken sob. "Just send him something!"
She was choking on her own tears, her knees threatening to buckle.
Then, as if her words had torn through the screen, she heard the faint metallic clink of a parachute breaking through the trees.
She whirled around, breath catching in her throat.
There it was. A silver parachute drifted down through the branches, landing softly in the dirt a few feet away.
Her knees nearly gave out with relief.
She stumbled forward and snatched it up, ripping the fabric apart with trembling hands. Inside was a single vial of pain medication, secured with a stopper and tied with a small note.
One dose. Make it count.
Without hesitation, she rushed back to Rye's side.
His eyes were barely open, half-lidded and unfocused, his skin slick and pale. His chest heaved with short, ragged breaths.
She unscrewed the cap with shaky fingers and tilted his head back.
"Come on, baby," she whispered softly, voice thick with emotion. "Drink for me."
She pressed the vial to his lips, tilting it carefully.
At first, he coughed weakly, but she forced it down, massaging his throat until he swallowed the full dose.
Within moments, the harsh tension in his body slowly began to ease. The pained lines on his face softened. His eyelids drooped heavily.
And finally, he went still.
His chest rose and fell with slow, even breaths, his face slack with deep, drug-induced sleep.
Sadie let out a shaky breath, her body trembling with relief.
But she didn't stop.
She had to keep him safe.
She spent the next ten minutes dragging him into the underbrush, wincing as her muscles screamed in protest. Once he was deep in the thicket, she knelt down and carefully wrapped both of their sleeping bags around him, tucking him in tightly.
She pressed a trembling kiss to his temple.
"Stay hidden," she whispered. "I'll be back."
Then she turned and left.
Her body was still heavy with exhaustion, her limbs sluggish, but she forced herself forward. He needed protein. He needed food in his system if he was going to stand a chance at healing.
She moved quietly through the forest, her steps deliberate and sharp, ears attuned to every crack of a branch. She scanned the trees carefully, searching for small game.
Then she heard it.
A slow, deliberate clap.
She froze, her blood turning to ice.
"Wow."
The voice was mocking, smooth and laced with cruel amusement.
Her hand instantly flew to her knife.
She turned slowly, eyes narrowing.
Marvel.
He was leaning casually against a tree, his spear dangling loosely in his hand. His eyes glimmered with smugness.
"Where's your boyfriend, huh?" he sneered, tilting his head slightly. His lips curled into a smirk. "He finally realize he could do better and ditch you?"
Her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, her fingers tightening around her knife.
Marvel's smirk widened, clearly enjoying himself.
"Can't say I blame him," he taunted, his voice low and mocking. "You look like a wreck. You always did seem a little too needy for your own good."
She didn't respond. She just stood there, her knuckles white around the handle of her knife, her teeth clenched so hard they ached.
Marvel took a slow, deliberate step toward her.
His eyes glittered with malice.
"Bet he left you to die, didn't he?"
Then, before she could react, he lunged.
The spear sliced through the air.
White-hot pain shot through her side.
She stumbled back with a strangled gasp, eyes wide.
She looked down.
The spear was lodged just below her ribs, blood instantly seeping into her shirt.
Marvel grinned wickedly.
But he had made one mistake.
He didn't finish the job.
Her eyes snapped back up, blazing with fury.
Without hesitating, she let out a guttural roar and threw herself at him.
The impact sent them both crashing to the ground.
Marvel's eyes widened with shock as she slammed her knee into his chest. With a vicious snarl, she gripped his wrist, forcing the spear out of his hand.
His eyes flashed with panic, but she didn't let up.
She drove her knife into his shoulder.
He screamed.
She wrenched the blade free and slammed it into him again.
And again.
And again.
Blood splattered across her hands, warm and slick, but she didn't stop until his chest stopped rising.
Her breaths came in ragged, gasping sobs.
Her hands, trembling and slick with blood, slowly loosened their grip on the knife.
Marvel was still.
Dead.
Her stomach heaved violently.
Her side was still bleeding, her entire body trembling, but she pushed herself to her feet.
She was shaking violently as she quickly scavenged his pack, grabbing a small stash of dried meat and two bottles of water.
Then she kept moving.
By the time she returned to Rye, the sun was starting to sink low.
Her body was trembling from blood loss and exhaustion, but she still managed to catch a few squirrels.
With slow, methodical movements, she made a small, discreet fire, skinning the squirrels and cooking the meat over the low flames.
When Rye stirred hours later, still groggy from the medication, she was at his side.
His eyes barely fluttered open before she was pressing a warm strip of squirrel meat to his lips.
"Eat," she whispered softly.
He blinked slowly, his eyes heavy, but he obeyed, chewing weakly as she fed him small bits of meat.
She stayed up the whole night, her legs crossed beneath her with Rye's head in her lap.
Her blood-soaked shirt clung to her side, her body stiff and aching, but she didn't dare close her eyes.
Instead, she sat in the dark, one hand resting protectively on his chest, the other clutching her knife.
Her eyes stayed wide and sharp, scanning the trees.
She stayed awake. Watching. Waiting.
Because he had taken care of her for so long.
And now it was her turn.