By the time the sun started to rise, Rye was stirring more frequently. His breathing was steadier, no longer shallow and labored. The medication had done its job—the pain was dulled enough that he could open his eyes without grimacing.
When he finally blinked awake, the first thing he saw was Sadie's face hovering over him.
Her hand was already on his forehead, brushing back the damp strands of hair.
"Hey," she whispered softly, her voice hoarse from exhaustion. "You're awake."
His eyes were still a little unfocused, but he managed a weak, lopsided smile.
"Hey, pretty girl," he rasped, his voice rough and gravelly.
Her lips twitched slightly, her fingers still running soothingly through his hair.
But then his eyes trailed down.
And he saw it.
The dark stain on her shirt, crusted with dried blood.
His brow furrowed slightly. Then his eyes snapped wide open.
"Wait—" His voice was sharper now, more alert. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist. "You're—what the hell?" His eyes widened with horror. "You're hurt."
She tried to pull away, but he caught her hand tightly, sitting up with a grimace despite the sharp pain in his leg.
"Sadie, what happened?" he demanded, his eyes flashing with panic as he tugged at her shirt. "Let me see."
She grabbed his wrist, holding it gently but firmly.
"Stop," she murmured softly, shaking her head.
But he was already frantic, his eyes wide and wild.
"You're bleeding!" His voice cracked with urgency. "How bad is it? What—"
"Stop." Her voice was sharper this time, but still soft. She placed her hand gently on his chest, urging him to lie back down.
She could feel his heart racing beneath her palm.
"I'm fine," she whispered, her voice soothing. She cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at her. "I'm fine."
His eyes were still wide, wild with panic.
She let out a small, shaky breath and brushed his hair back from his forehead, her thumb running softly over his temple.
"I just had a run-in with Marvel, that's all," she said quietly.
His face went slack.
He stared at her, his eyes darkening.
"You—" His throat bobbed. "Marvel?"
She nodded faintly.
"Yeah," she whispered, keeping her voice deliberately light. "Don't worry, I got him."
But that only made his expression twist further.
His eyes fell on the dark, blood-crusted stain on her shirt again, and his jaw clenched.
The hand still clutching her wrist was trembling slightly.
"You—you fought him?" His voice was barely more than a rasp, disbelieving and horrified. "And you—you killed him?"
There was something broken in his voice—some combination of disbelief and guilt.
She exhaled softly, brushing her lips against his knuckles.
"Yeah," she murmured, squeezing his hand gently. "It's okay."
But he shook his head sharply, his face contorted with disbelief.
"You—you were alone," he choked out. His voice was strained, almost frantic. "You were—Sadie, you could've—" His voice broke slightly, cracking under the weight of the words.
But before he could finish, she pressed her forehead against his, silencing him.
Her voice was a barely audible whisper.
"Shh," she breathed softly. "You need to rest."
She could feel his shallow, uneven breaths against her lips, his chest trembling beneath her hands.
"Sadie—"
"Rest," she repeated, firmer this time, though her voice was still soft. She brushed her lips lightly against his temple. "Please."
He exhaled sharply, still trembling with barely-contained guilt and fear.
But he obeyed.
He let her press him back down, his body still weak from the injury, the pain meds making him drowsy once more.
But his eyes never left hers.
Even as they grew heavy again, he kept them on her, wide and worried.
She stayed at his side, curling protectively against him, her hand pressed lightly over his chest until she felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
And only then did she allow herself to breathe.
They remained hidden in the underbrush for most of the day.
Sadie didn't dare move him. She didn't hunt, didn't search for water. She just stayed by his side, her fingers brushing over his forehead every time he stirred.
They stayed silent for hours, listening to the eerie stillness of the arena, the occasional cannon boom in the distance.
But halfway through the day, the silence was broken by the sharp crackle of the arena speakers.
Both of them stilled instantly, tensing at the sound.
Then, a voice.
Claudius Templesmith.
"Attention, tributes!" his voice rang out with artificial cheer.
Sadie's fingers automatically tightened around the knife in her lap.
"There has been an exciting development in the Games!"
Her eyes narrowed, wary.
"From this moment forward, two tributes may be declared the victors—"
Her breath caught in her throat.
"—if they originate from the same district."
Her eyes shot toward Rye.
He was already staring at her, his eyes wide.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Neither of them breathed.
Then it hit them.
They could both go home.
Her lips parted slightly, her breath catching with a shaky gasp.
"Both of us," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Rye's face split into a disbelieving grin.
He let out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head slightly.
"Oh, great," he teased, his voice still weak but carrying its usual warmth. "Guess you're stuck with me forever, huh?"
He tried for a smirk, but before he could finish the joke, Sadie let out a soft, broken sob.
Her shoulders trembled.
Then, without warning, she threw herself against him, her arms wrapping around his neck.
Her face buried in his chest, her body shaking violently with sobs.
His eyes widened slightly in surprise.
"Hey," he whispered softly, his voice rasping. His arms came around her instantly, cradling her against him. "Hey, hey, it's okay—"
But she just clung to him tighter.
She sobbed into his chest, gripping his shirt in her fists as if she were terrified that if she let go, he might disappear.
And for once, he didn't try to tease her.
He just held her.
One hand on the back of her head, the other cradling her waist, pulling her tightly against him.
"Hey," he murmured softly against her hair, his voice cracking slightly. "We're going home, baby."
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, her entire body trembling with the force of her sobs.
"We're going home," he repeated softly, squeezing his eyes shut as he pressed his lips against her temple.
They could both go home.
If they made it to the end—if they fought hard enough—they could both go home.
And they clung to that hope, holding onto each other as if they might never let go.
The next morning, Sadie sat in the dirt beside Rye, running her fingers lightly over his hair as he slept. His head was in her lap again, his arms still loosely wrapped around her waist.
She could feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing. It was deeper now, less labored—a sign that the infection was finally losing its grip. The pain medication Haymitch had sent had done its job, giving Rye's body a fighting chance.
But they couldn't stay here.
The bushes were too exposed, too vulnerable. If anyone stumbled upon them now, with Rye still barely able to walk, they wouldn't stand a chance.
Her eyes drifted down to him again. His face was pale, his features slack with exhaustion, and his hands were still trembling slightly from the strain of the day before.
Her jaw clenched slightly.
They had to get back to the cave.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, then slowly, gently, she placed his head on the ground and untangled herself from him.
She quietly gathered what was left of their supplies—the empty medicine bottle, the remaining bits of cooked squirrel, and the sleeping bags. She rolled them tightly, slinging them over her back.
Then, she crouched beside him again.
"Rye," she whispered softly, brushing her fingers over his forehead. "Hey, come on, baby. Wake up."
His eyes fluttered slightly, then cracked open.
He blinked blearily up at her, his expression foggy with sleep and lingering exhaustion.
"Hmm?" he mumbled hoarsely, his voice thick with drowsiness.
She cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing lightly over his cheeks.
"We need to move," she murmured softly, pressing her forehead lightly to his. "We have to get back to the cave."
His brow furrowed slightly. His hand weakly caught her wrist, gripping it loosely.
"Too far," he rasped sleepily, barely coherent. His eyes were already starting to droop shut again. "Just—stay here."
Her lips curved faintly into a sad, tired smile.
"I know you're tired," she whispered softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "But it's not safe here. You'll be okay, I promise."
He groaned softly, trying to shift, but when he moved his leg, he grimaced.
A pained breath hissed between his teeth, and his fingers tightened slightly around her wrist.
Her throat tightened, but she quickly pressed another kiss to his temple, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
"I've got you," she murmured softly.
Slowly, carefully, she looped his arm over her shoulders and slipped her hand around his waist.
"Come on," she whispered softly, her lips brushing against his ear. "Lean on me."
With a sharp inhale, Rye gritted his teeth and braced himself.
Sadie hooked her arm firmly around him and pulled him to his feet.
He staggered instantly, gasping softly through the pain, but she tightened her grip, holding him up.
"I've got you," she repeated softly, her voice steady and sure.
His weight was heavy against her, his body trembling slightly from the strain. He was barely putting any weight on his injured leg, balancing entirely on the other one.
They staggered forward.
Slowly.
Painfully.
But they moved.
The sun was already sinking low when the cave finally came into view.
Sadie's entire body was aching from carrying Rye's weight for most of the day. Her arms and legs were trembling, her muscles screaming with fatigue, but she kept moving.
Rye was barely conscious by the time they reached the entrance. His face was ashen, his breathing ragged, and his legs were barely moving on their own.
But she didn't stop.
Her grip on him never loosened.
She half-dragged, half-carried him the last few steps, her heart pounding in her ears.
Finally, with one last, heaving gasp, she pulled him into the mouth of the cave and lowered him carefully to the ground.
His body sagged heavily against the cool stone, his chest heaving with shallow, exhausted breaths.
Sadie collapsed beside him, her arms shaking violently from the strain.
For several moments, she couldn't move.
She just sat there, her entire body trembling, her breath rasping in and out of her chest.
Her eyes stung with exhaustion and pain, but she forced herself to move again.
Her hands shook slightly as she unrolled the sleeping bags, draping one over him and pulling the other around herself. She pressed her body tightly against his, wrapping herself around him, shielding him from the chill.
His arm weakly looped around her waist, pulling her closer.
And finally, finally, they were safe again.
As night fell, Sadie sat with her back against the stone wall of the cave, her fingers running absently through Rye's hair.
He was already asleep, his head resting in her lap once again, his breathing deep and steady.
She sat in the quiet, listening to the faint crackle of the dying fire at the mouth of the cave.
Then, the sky flashed with the familiar light of the fallen tributes.
Her breath caught.
Her eyes flicked upward, watching the faces appear.
Two.
Just two.
The girl and the boy from district 7.
She let out a slow, shaky breath.
That meant there were only six of them left.
Her fingers absently trailed through Rye's hair, twisting a strand around her finger.
It was just the two of them now. And Cato, Clove, The Girl from District 5, and Thresh.
Her jaw clenched slightly.
They were running out of time.
And if they wanted to go home—if they wanted to live—they were going to have to fight for it.
The rain had started sometime during the night, a soft drizzle at first, but by morning it was a steady downpour. It came in thick, slanted sheets, hammering against the rocky mouth of the cave and turning the forest outside into a blur of grey and green. Sadie was awake before Rye, pressed against his side, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. His arm was still heavy around her, even in sleep, holding her close like he was afraid she might slip away.
Her jacket was gone—ripped into jagged strips to secure his splint—and now her arms were covered in goosebumps from the damp chill that had crept into the cave. Rye stirred slightly, wincing as he shifted his leg, and his eyes fluttered open. They were glassy with pain but still locked onto her immediately.
"Morning, Sunshine," he rasped, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Morning," she whispered back, brushing the damp hair from his forehead. She bit her lip when she noticed how pale he was, and how his foot had taken on an ugly blue tinge beneath the makeshift splint. The skin above the wound was angry and red, the telltale streaks of infection creeping upward. Her stomach clenched, but she forced herself to smile.
"You're staring," he teased, his lips quirking. "Something on my face? Or am I just that handsome?"
She exhaled sharply through her nose, resting her forehead against his. "Definitely that handsome."
"Mm," he murmured, squeezing her waist a little. "Good. Because I feel like I got run over by a pack of mutts." His voice was hoarse but still edged with humor. He always did that—trying to make her laugh, trying to keep it light, no matter how bad it was.
They spent the day huddled together, tangled in a single sleeping bag. Rye kept his arms around her, running his hands slowly up and down her back, trying to chase the chill from her skin. She could feel the heat radiating off of him, far too much of it. He was burning up.
Still, he made jokes—about how they should charge the Capitol for their cozy spa retreat or how he was going to demand a refund for the weather. She smiled at his efforts, but she could feel the fever in his voice. It was low and raspy, and he slurred his words slightly every so often. When he drifted off, she kept her hands pressed to his face, feeling the heat linger against her palm.
By the second day, the rain still hadn't let up. It pounded relentlessly on the rocks above, turning the forest into mud and sludge. The arena was probably a swamp by now, and the cold made every joint in Sadie's body ache. She curled up tighter against Rye, but he was in and out of consciousness, barely responding to her voice. The streaks on his leg were darker, and she couldn't ignore the swelling or the faint tremor in his limbs. She clenched her fists and pressed them against her lips, her breath shaking as she fought the rising panic in her chest.
They were running out of water. She knew she had to go out. She didn't want to—she didn't want to leave him alone—but she didn't have a choice.
On the third day, she slipped out of the cave just before dawn, while Rye was still asleep. His brow was furrowed in his fevered dreams, and his hand twitched slightly when she slowly, carefully, pulled away. She pressed a lingering kiss to his temple, then tucked the sleeping bag tightly around him before she slipped out into the rain.
It was freezing. The wind cut through her soaked shirt immediately, biting at her skin as she stumbled into the forest. Her boots sank into the mud with each step, and she slipped more than once, smacking her knees and scraping her hands raw. She filled their bottles from a rainwater pool she found at the base of a tree, then spent nearly an hour crawling through the underbrush in search of berries. Her fingers were stiff and slow, barely able to grasp the clusters she found.
By the time she returned, she was drenched through. Her hair clung in heavy, dripping ropes to her face and neck, and her teeth were chattering so hard her jaw ached. Her hands were trembling violently, barely able to hold the water bottles. She stumbled into the cave, soaked and shivering so hard she could barely stay on her feet.
Rye's eyes flew open immediately, and the moment he saw her, he tried to sit up. His face was pale and drawn with fever, but the panic in his eyes was sharp and clear. "What the hell, Sadie?" he rasped. He tried to sound stern, but his voice broke with concern.
She just blinked at him, still shaking violently, her lips a shade of pale blue.
His face softened immediately, and he reached out with both arms, pulling her to him. "Come here," he whispered hoarsely, not even bothering to be mad. She was shaking so hard she could barely fumble with the straps on her pack.
His fingers, rough and clumsy from the fever, pried at the laces on her boots and peeled off her sopping bag. "You're freezing," he murmured. "Shit, Sadie. You're gonna get sick."
Her hands were shaking too much to help. Rye's hands, despite the fever coursing through him, were more steady. He pulled off her wet clothes, leaving her in only her underclothes. She was trembling violently by then, her limbs jerking involuntarily from the cold. Without hesitation, he yanked his own shirt over his head and slipped it over her. The fabric was huge on her, practically hanging to her knees, but it was dry and warm from his body.
"Rye, no," she protested weakly, trying to push at his chest. She didn't want him getting colder.
"Shut up," he muttered, dragging her into his lap, cradling her against him. He pulled the sleeping bag around them both, wrapping her tightly against his chest. His arms were strong and steady, circling her protectively. "I mean it. Just shut up and let me warm you up."
She clung to him, her fingers clinging to the bare skin of his arm. Her skin was still like ice, and he pressed his lips to her temple, then to her cheek, then slowly trailed kisses down her neck, trying to warm her with every press of his mouth. His lips were chapped and rough from dehydration, but they were warm.
"Stay with me," he murmured softly against her skin. "Just keep breathing, okay? I've got you."
She buried her face in his chest, her breath coming in faint, trembling gasps. Her hair was damp against his skin, and her shoulders shook with the occasional shiver. But slowly—slowly—her body began to warm against his. Her breathing evened out. Her trembling grew weaker.
Rye's arms stayed wrapped around her, and he pressed kiss after kiss to her hair, her cheeks, her shoulders, keeping her close. His heartbeat was steady against her cheek, and she could feel the warmth of his skin radiating through the damp fabric of his shirt. She clung to him, half-conscious, her fingers still weakly curled into the fabric of his shirt.
"Don't scare me like that," he mumbled softly against her hair. His voice was rough, but there was a tenderness beneath it that made her throat tighten.
Her voice was small and hoarse, barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."
He shook his head, tightening his arms around her, pulling her even closer. "You're okay. That's all that matters. You're okay."
She exhaled softly against his chest, and he felt her relax slightly in his arms, her breathing slowing. He didn't stop holding her. Even after her skin was warm again, even after she drifted into an exhausted sleep, Rye kept her in his arms, his lips still brushing against her hair.