Scarlet.

XVIII

"Wildest Dreams."

Seven are the scars on Cato's back. I trace them with my fingertips over his shirt while he sleeps peacefully with his heart against my chest. He holds me tightly, and he doesn't let go for even a split second. I will probably never admit it out loud, but I enjoy being wrapped up in his arms. It feels safe, comforting, and strangely reassuring.

He wakes up abruptly, and instinctively, I look at my hand; it's bloodstained, just like his shirt. I accidentally reopened one of his scars.

"I'm sorry," I whisper as I move my hand to the back of his neck.

And I am sorry, truly sorry. Not for waking him up, but because everything that happened to him and his sister was my fault. They punished them to punish me; it's the only reasonable explanation unless he also had a problem with someone here.

He mumbles incoherently and simply holds me against his body. I can't breathe because he's crushing my ribs with his heavy weight and excessive strength. But it feels good. Maybe I'm losing my mind.

Moments later, I can tell that he has already woken up; neither of us slept much, and I know that I'll probably regret this as soon as I set foot in the arena. This is the last time I'm going to see his face, and somehow I wish that he could've snuck while I was asleep, to make things easier and to make me hate him for going away, when in reality I'm the one who's leaving.

I manage to escape his grip and walk to the bathroom; he complains while I grab a small towel and force him to sit up. He takes off his shirt, and I can see the blood flowing like thin threads down his back. Two of his scars aren't fully healed yet.

"I'm fine," Cato says.

"Yeah, sure thing." I laugh; he can't possibly believe that.

He winces when the fabric touches his skin, and we just sit there in silence for a couple of minutes until there's no longer blood coming out of his scars.

I hate seeing him like this—so weak and vulnerable; not a trace of the person he used to be. Even though that's not entirely a bad thing, I remember how annoying he was when we first met, and I certainly don't miss that. I really wish that a piece of me stays with him after I'm gone.

"Can I ask you something?" I say once the pressure inside of me becomes unbearable; he looks up and nods, and I ask, "Will you remember me?"

"No," he says, staring at me with a determined glint in his eyes and confidently asserting, "I won't because you're coming back. You're going to win this."

I manage to muster a faint smile, unwilling to admit my fears, even to him. I know I'm lining up to be murdered, and in this moment, I start to wonder if it was the right choice or if I acted impulsively, as I always do. I didn't have much to lose back in the district, and I certainly don't want to be some kind of trophy that can be paraded around the Capitol by the person who pays the most money for my body. Going back to the games was the only option I had.

Sure, spending time with Cato feels good; having a cup of coffee with Enobaria comforts me; and I laugh until my stomach hurts when I train with Ares. Maybe I wasn't completely alone back home, but it's too late to start thinking about it. And I know that it's for the better. Cato couldn't go to the games this year; he's not in his right mind, and Enobaria already lived enough of a peaceful life to get that taken away from her. I would never let that happen. I care for them, even though I don't say it, but this is my silent way of keeping them safe.

"Say you'll remember me." I whisper, my voice much weaker than I would have liked. I hate bringing these kinds of thoughts into the light, but I'm afraid—genuinely afraid—that this might be the last time we see each other. I haven't told him half of the things that are in my mind because I never knew how to start; he makes me feel so angry, so safe, so irritated, so comfortable, so annoyed, and, above all, he makes it feel like home. I want to punch him until my knuckles are bruised; I want to scream at him for making me feel so vulnerable and pathetic; I want him to hold me so tightly that my skin melds into his; and I want to kiss him. Oh, I want to kiss him until my lips bleed because it's never enough, and I'm sure it never will be. I'm a complete idiot, and apparently I'll die as one."Say you'll do it; say you'll remember me, because there's a possibility that..."