The subtle differences in touch are everything. Had the fingers tucked under his chin or the grip on his jaw been any firmer he’s sure he’d have locked up more than parts of him already are. But she’s careful. Every move is calculated, it seems, waking his nerves to something other than pain for the first time in a long time, and he catches on. It’s hard to miss her intent when the tip of her thumb presses, tinglingly light, against the soft damp of his inner lip. Lingering there before lipstick traces the curve and adds a splash of colour to his face altogether different from the bruises hidden under layers of powder. Tension creeps into his shoulders, into his neck.

He doesn’t know her, he reminds himself; doesn’t know what she’s capable of.

And still some worn-ragged part of him is too ready to give in completely at the smallest promise of respite whether or not there was really any to be found. Was this just another game like what the Capitol is imposing on them?