𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠 ✔︎ || clove Kentwell

She never misses || XVI

The room is quiet save for Clove's steady breathing, her head nestled against my chest like a secret she never meant to reveal. I brush a strand of hair from her cheek before slipping free of her weight and rising to my feet.

The elevator hums softly as it carries me up. When the doors open to the rooftop, I find him there—leaning against the railing, arms folded like they're the only thing holding him up.

"Couldn't sleep either?" I offer, my voice low against the night.

He doesn't flinch. Just lifts his head slightly. "Hey," he says with that soft, worn-out smile he wears when he's too tired to pretend.

I take a step closer, the cool air biting in from the Capitol skyline. "Guess the nightmares don't care what district you're from."

He lets out a breath that might've once been a laugh. "No. Not really."

The cheers from the Capitol still echoed through the walls, distant but relentless. In the hush between us, I finally asked, "Do you hear that?"

Peeta didn't look at me right away. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the horizon. "Yeah," he said softly. "They're loud tonight."

He paused, then added, "I just don't want them to change me."

I tilted my head toward him. "Change you how?"

He gave a small shrug, the kind that carries more weight than it should. "I don't know. Into someone I don't recognize. I just... I don't want to be their puppet, just another name in the recap reel."

"You mean you won't fight?" I asked carefully.

"Oh, I'll fight," he said with a tired smile. "I'm not naïve. But I want to hold onto something real. Even if I don't make it out... I want it to be me they remember—not a version they twisted."

I nodded slowly. "Makes sense. I wish I had the space to think like that. But I have Clove, Cato, and Chris to watch out for. I can't afford to hesitate."

Peeta's eyes met mine for a beat. "Yeah. I get that."

He turned toward the elevator, his footsteps quiet. "See you tomorrow?"

"See you tomorrow," I said, making my way back inside—back to Clove, and the fleeting warmth of sleep before the Games.

---

The scent of breakfast hit me before I even stepped into the room—warm bread, spiced sausages, Capitol-sweet fruit. It should've made my mouth water. Instead, my stomach twisted.

I stared at the spread like it was a trap. Plates piled high, silver utensils gleaming... a victory feast for someone else. My fingers brushed the back of the nearest chair, but I didn't sit.

I had the skills. The training. Everyone said District 2 had this year in the bag. But as the minutes ticked closer to the arena, all I could feel was the weight pressing down on my chest—tight and cold.

I turned away from the table. Appetite gone. Winning didn't feel so certain when your hands were already trembling.

I found Clove near the far wall, her arms crossed, her gaze sharp even in stillness. Without a word, I closed the space between us and kissed her—slow and deliberate, like I could imprint every second of it into memory. Let them watch. Let them stare. This moment wasn't for the Capitol.

"I'll see you out there, okay?" I murmured against her lips, my voice barely carrying over the hum of the air vents.

She didn't answer at first—just brushed her fingers across my cheek and smiled, small and fierce. Then she pressed one last kiss to my lips, softer this time, like goodbye and promise all at once.

Esmeralda's heels clicked against the marble as she approached. "You've got twenty minutes. Shower. Eat. Clean up," she said briskly, already steering Clove toward the exit.

I stood there for a moment longer, watching her disappear down the corridor. My hands still trembled from the kiss... or maybe from everything that came after.

The water was hot—too hot, maybe—but I didn't turn it down. I let it sting my skin, steam curling around me like fog clinging to the edge of a cliff. It was the last time I'd have the luxury of standing still, of breathing without looking over my shoulder.

When I stepped out, I wrapped myself in a thick Capitol towel. It smelled like artificial lavender and something sterile, like everything else here—too clean to trust. I dressed quickly in the clothes laid out for me: a black shirt that clung to my frame and leggings that let me move. Practical. Simple. Just like they trained me to be.

An Avox waited outside my door—eyes lowered, silent. They gestured, and I followed without speaking. The hallway was quiet, but I could feel the Capitol buzzing just beneath the surface, like an insect crawling under my skin.

The room they brought me to was small, with one long table set for one. Plates overflowed with fruit, meats, pastries—colours too bright, portions too large. Esmeralda must've noticed I didn't eat any breakfast. Of course she did.

I sat down, hands clenched around the edge of the table. My stomach flipped at the sight of so much food. It felt wrong to eat while knowing what was coming... but worse not to. I forced myself to pick up the fork. One bite. Then another. Each chew mechanical.

I wasn't hungry. I was surviving.

I drained the glass like it was a lifeline—cold, tasteless water flooding my throat, drowning the nausea that was always waiting beneath the surface.

Then I saw them: two chalky pills placed neatly beside a fresh glass, the folded note propped like a casual afterthought.

Take these. It stops period and toilet. Meet you later. – Sloane

My stomach twisted before I even touched the pills. It wasn't just what they were—it was the reminder of how little control I had now. My body, my choices, my timing... everything was scheduled, sterilized, and sanctioned.

I didn't hesitate though. Just scooped them up, pressed them past my lips, and washed them down with what was left in the glass. Swallowed fast, like if I didn't think too hard, I could pretend it was normal.

The last bite of toast sat heavy in my mouth. I chewed through it mechanically, eyes fixed on nothing. The food tasted like paper. My gut churned, not from the pills—but from the reality of what they meant.

---

I stood in front of the mirror, hands braced against the counter, trying to steady my breathing. The Games hadn't started yet, but every muscle in my body already ached with anticipation—coiled like a spring, waiting to snap.

A knock interrupted the silence.

"Come in," I said, my voice quieter than I intended.

Brutus stepped into the room, the ever-present smirk on his face a little duller than usual. "Hey," he said simply. "You ready?"

I met his eyes through the reflection. "I don't think that matters now," I murmured. "Ready or not, it's happening."

He nodded, his expression flickering with something that might've been sympathy—though Brutus wasn't exactly known for softness. "Fair point. But still—showtime's ticking. Let's move."

He didn't reach for me. Didn't try to say something comforting or cliché. Just turned and waited by the door. That was Brutus's version of care: don't waste time, don't show weakness, and always walk in like the arena's yours already.

I took one last breath, grabbed the pin they gave me with the District 2 emblem, and followed.

Each step away from that room felt like shedding another piece of normal. By the time we reached the elevator, all that was left was the part of me built for war.