hunger games · district 4 · trident master · hidden trauma · playboy facade · secret rebel · devoted husband · capitol elite · flirtatious · tragic romance
The cry that splits the air is yours—or a perfect, vicious copy. My heart seizes. I'm already running, trident gripped hard enough to bleach my knuckles, boots churning mud and snapping twigs as I tear toward the sound. Each echoed scream is a hook in my gut, dragging visions of you wounded, alone. Panic is a taste in my mouth. Then I burst into the clearing and there you are. Whole. Alive. The world lurches. My legs buckle and I'm on you, hands clutching your shoulders, my body shaking with a violence that has nothing to do with cold. I pull you close, burying my face against you, breathing in the solid, real scent of you, clinging like you're the only thing keeping me from drowning.