Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The forest is still, leaves quieting their rustling and birds trading in their usual melancholy melodies for silence.

Natalie is part of this silence, her knees bent, heels dug in as she sits against a tree smoking. The grey fog expelled is the only thing marking her presence.

She mulls over the day’s work, lazily watching the trickle of afternoon light through the canopy start to dimmish into an early evening haze. Four squirrels and a badger should definitely suffice for the next couple of days, she muses, even if she was hoping to catch a deer. It’s better than nothing, and nothing is becoming more and more common in District 12 as the season begins to turn colder.

Nat stubs out the rest of her dig as she slings the bag of fresh game across her torso and she shoulders her rifle, fingers habitually tracing the groves that long-time use instil.

She never forgets her luck when it comes to her hunting rifle, swiped from a disorientated peacekeeper a few years ago and now supplied bullets through an acquaintance on the force for a couple rabbits per box. God forbid she ever have to use a bow.

Despite the careful tread of her walk as she moves with much confidence through the dense flora of the District 12 outer woods, Nat does not go undetected.

“Scatorccio! Wait the fuck up!”

Nat chuckles slightly, turning to watch her friend clumsily make their way up the same path she took but in somehow twice the time.

Van, although not breathing heavily from their short obstacle course but not exactly comfortable with the amount of energy it required, grins brightly at Nat, and by extension her rather full game bag a little expectantly. Nat raises an eyebrow, shrugs off the bag and tosses out a squirrel, Van catching it by its neck.

“Thanks, it saves me harassing you later for a good deal.”

“I literally give them to you for free! What possibly counts as a better fucking deal?”

Van’s grin turns wickeder, “Dunno, maybe seeing you dance again tomorrow when I play The Lamplighters. You sure know to use those hips.”

Van emphasises this point by shifting her hips side to side, mimicking the movements of a very drunk Nat from far too recently. Nat groans but still laughs along with her friend.

“My hips are the only thing pulling a crowd to your stupid music nights. Your dancing is too shit to count. It’s like watching a calf walk for the first time, plus way too much elbow to be normal.”

Van huffs, “Fine, but all the more reason to come. Plus, we’ll owe Shaun his first reaping day drink and he’s far too excited about it for ‘Natty’ to miss out.”

This was their yearly tradition ever since they had turned twelve themselves and had first been entered into the reaping. A drink to celebrate their life, and in honour of the souls who would inevitably lose theirs. Van had initially suggested a shot per entry, but at that rate their livers would have given out years ago.

This year, young Shaun Palmer was of age to be entered into the reaping and while it only added to the lines of concern texturizing his older sibling’s face, he seemed thrilled to be finally part of their tradition.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. First round’s on you Palmer.”

Nat throws over her shoulder as she continues her way back to civilisation, smiling at the spluttered sounds of complaint behind her.

She makes it back to her trailer, if you could even call the metal hunk that, before the sun dipped out in full, paying no attention to her mentally absent mother sprawled on the coach. Liquid dripped out from the lip of a tilted bottle onto the flooring as she slept. The smell emanating told Nat that it was something strong and locally produced from the boy behind the butcher’s shop, therefore needing her attention soon if she didn’t want another hole corroded into the bottom of her house.

Nat sighs, grabbing a rag to clean up the spillage and removes the guilty bottle from its destructive position. She has other things to focus on: making the rounds to the regulars to sell off her squirrels and figuring out what she is going to wear for tomorrows reaping. Her nicest dress she wore last year was sold to a pretty girl from the town soon after and she wasn’t sure how her worn leather jacket would be received by the presenters and, hopefully not, the national public. But still, a nice jacket is a nice jacket and its better than going in her hunting get-up if she wants to live another day without the peacekeepers on her back.

Having prevented the worst of the damage, Nat pulls out a small tin of rolled green cylinders and sets one alight, taking a long drag. Cigarettes had long stopped making their way to District 12, and the makeshift version (‘digs’) from dry mint leaves was the one good thing her fuck-ward of a dead dad ever taught her how to make.

She brushes a couple of brown hair strands hanging low over her eyes out of the way as she smokes, making at least one decision. Gathering her knife, then some blonde dye Van had cooked up for her last time she tried it, Nat heads to the bathroom knowing she needs to look somewhat good for her last reaping.

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Jackie fights the urge to squirm, putting her finishing training into good use, as the tailor’s assistants skim their fingers along her legs, nipping at her ankles occasionally as they hem. Completely accidentally she imagines.

It would be an odd sight to someone not accustomed with the process of ordering formal attire, and this was certainly an occasion requiring the finest of dresses. One cut to make Jackie’s figure stun and coloured to compliment the innocent beauty of her doe-like eyes.

Jackie herself would be gushing more about the honour and importance of this, were the tailor not focused on synching her waist measurements therefore requiring her to hold a breath and suck in as much as possible. Silent until deemed acceptable enough for tomorrow’s reaping, but that did not mean the other ladies having accompanied her were not already basking in the glory.

“What a fantastic way to honour the Capital - lovers volunteering together! A story of love and sacrifice in the name of the nation, it’s like a fairytale…”

“A skilled, strong boy like Jeff Sadecki will do a tremendous job. Winning the games and returning District 1 to its glory in the favour of our President. Oh, Jacqualine, darling, you must be so grateful to be a part.”

“Ah, the audience will be enamoured with your love, it’s such a fresh take on the games, the capitol sponsors cannot do anything but shower you with gift in the arena. How wonderful.”

Jackie just smiles and blushes, unable to do much to respond, nodding her head slightly in acknowledgement of their praises.

She really is lucky, getting to live out the greatest romance story Panem will ever see as she and Jeff enter the games. And when Jeff wins, her sacrifice will be forever appreciated by the people of District 1. That will be enough of a prize for her, she decides, if she is ever asked.

_________________________________________________________________________

“No, I will not cut her in half. What in the name of Snow?”

Akilah’s patience for the children was still plentiful, but her goodwill towards the situation was beginning to falter.

She stood in front of the two children, bickering over who got to hold the lamb first with the barn’s gable shielding them from the worst of the Sun. As they looked up at her, tears threatening and voices trembling, Akilah changes tactic.

“How do we decide without hurting this sweet little lamb? Alright, how about this, one of you gets to hold her first for 15 seconds, but then the other who holds her second gets an extra 5 second to make it up.”

She breathes a little deeper seeing neither of them react to her compromise.

“Would that be okay with you guys?”

As if commanded by the same hand, both children sprung to life simultaneously. The boy on the right made little eight-year-old grabby hands towards the lamb while his companion looked over in awe and muted jealousy. Akilah supervised the transition of the lamb after the allotted time so soon enough both kids were giggling and shouting out over-enthused “thank you”s as they sped out of sight into the meadow where sheep freely grazed.

She’s not sure how she fell into the role of child-minder on the farm as she worked. The kids seemed to gravitate to her, many stopping by after school to look at the animals or just sit and tell her excitedly about what activities they did in class. Akilah loves it. She loves them.

As she steps out from the shadow of the barn, eyes needing a moment to adjust to the change in light intensity, she feels the slip of an arm in hers and is pleasantly surprised to see Simone walking with her.

Simone and she used to be classmates before they both left at fourteen to begin work on the farms of District 10, and since both being allocated to lamb care this year, they had become rather friendly.

Their conversation is not unique, focused on the events of tomorrow’s reaping and more importantly, what she will be wearing knowing that the illustrious, newly single, older boy Peter Melkin will be there in his best blue tie. The simplicity relaxes her, grounding her in the present.

Honestly, Akilah had not noticed him there until Simone made a point of it, and her attention shifted to the hunched figure leaning in a more secluded spot of the barn, chewing mindlessly on something she couldn’t quite make out.

Travis had never bothered her. He came and worked when needed and that’s all anyone could ask for, so she treated him cordially. Nonetheless, she was not unaware of his social ostracism, sharply reminded by Simone’s comments on his poor quality boots and uneven haircut, even if she was ignorant as to the origins of Travis’ reputation as ‘Flex’.

Akilah just listens without offering an opinion but almost as if he could hear her thoughts (or more likely Simone’s snickers), Flex shifts to turn his back on them fully, glaring them down as he does.

She doesn’t look back, Simone hanging on her arm.

_________________________________________________________________________

Akilah’s memory of the Reaping is fragmented, sharp edges carved by shock and dread.

Her name is read out and children scream. Even the cocking of some peacekeeper rifles does little to stifle the emotional outpour from the children of District 10.

She feels small hands grab at her dress as she makes her way down the channel between separated kids of reaping age, they part like the Red Sea. She stifles a sob, not wanting to worsen if for the little ones further as she climbs the stairs to the stage, standing beside a sympathetic looking mousey woman.

It takes all her energy to focus on the second draw, away from the ringing toll of the bell in her head signalling to her that this is her end. The silence that follows the second name makes it easier, ubiquitous apart from the weeping cries of one mother.

Travis Martinez.

Flex.

The crowd parts in a similar sombre fashion as he approaches the platform, his head held high in defiance. They stand beside one another, as the Capitol escort makes the closing statements of honour, Snow and the odds.

Akilah struggles to breathe.

It all feels so hollow.

_________________________________________________________________________

It’s predetermined.

Jackie knows that, but it does little to stop the rush of anxiety through her system, adrenaline spiking when the girls name is reaped.

She is stationed close by the podium, poised for her cue in her best tailored dress - even if her mother’s snide comments on the wider-than-usual waist fitting had failed to leave her thoughts yet - to sweep onto the stage declaring her undying loyalty to the Capitol by serving as the District 1 tribute. Her mouth dries more as the minutes tick by.

As part of the formalities, Bill Martinez reads out the name of the reaped girl.

Thirteen-year-old Mia Canderton.

Safe for another year. Thanks to Jackie’s sacrifice. At least one good thing may come out of it, she bitterly thinks before chastising herself. It’s an honour.

She feels the hand of her father on the small of her back, guiding her to take her place on stage as the volunteer and her feet follow suit. Jackie knows she is glowing, the light catching the golden hue of her hair and her ornate matching dress shimmers.

The clapping restarts when Jeff volunteers, flashing his boyish smile to the cameras, before taking Jackie in his arms for a dazzling dipped kiss. All very planned, and effective if the exponential increase in clapping is anything to go by.

Jackie smiles, without it reaching her eyes as she squints slightly. On the stage, in the spotlight, in Jeff’s grip, the faces of District 1 merge indistinguishably, her home already becoming a stranger. She swallows down her rising nausea.

_________________________________________________________________________

Nat and Van stand together, decidedly not talking. They’ve already made their promises, committed to the protection of their makeshift family of two kids and an alcoholic if anything were to happen but no words could soothe the inevitable anxiety until the reaping was over.

This is their last year before aging out and they’ve entered their names dozens of times, Van having the luxury to divide said entries between the collections for male and female tributes, though ‘luxury’ is misleading. Van entered themselves a total of 36 times, 36 chances of being sentenced to death for the sake that Shaun’s name is only one slip in thousands. Odds in their favour.

Nat already feels a headache brewing, the stress and heat of the day taking their toll as she waits in the confine of the crowd for the ceremony to commence.

As the Capitol escort takes centre stage, Nat feels Van’s hand sneak into her own that twitches slightly with nerves, and she focuses on the speech in front of her knowing the same one is being made in all districts across Panem.

Her mind has only started to drift when the first name is reaped.

“Natalie Scatorccio.”

Van’s hand tightens sharply around her’s before Nat has even registered what had happened, both protective and begging. It makes her head swim but still, like muscle memory of reapings past, she shuffles through the solemn crowd to take her place on the platform.

She's panicking, and rightly so in the face of absolute death. But she cannot let it show. She needs to seem strong for Panem, for the sponsors, for the district, for Van and the kids. She relaxes her face, washing her expression of emotion in a manner that screams practice. Nat focuses on her breathing, visualising the natural elastic recoil of her lungs with each breath and the progressive decrease in vigour as it slows to a natural rhythm.

“Shaun Palmer.”

The second name is reaped, and her neutral facade shatters like their family. A tear breaks rank to slide down her cheek tracking through the thin film of coal dust permanently settled on her face, skin paleing further in mortification of her own premonition.

She does not scream in protest when a desperate voice erupts from the crowd, knowing there is nothing she can do to stop them. The tears flow casually as her eyes follow the movement of the tribute towards the stage but she still extends her hand to help them up.

As she returns to her position Van is still clutching her hand, expression matching hers as they stand together, united, in front of Panem.

The reaping ends.

Chapter Text

Lottie sits on the bed, thumbing her signet ring anxiously. It is a beautiful ring, clearly of master craftmanship with a delicate carving of the Yellowjacket emblem on its face, guarded by the district identifier markings on the shoulders – two obvious, intricate ‘2’s.

An interesting gift from the Capitol to the tributes she considers, presented to her by her father in their first post-reaping meeting as mentor and tribute, and as he told it, a desperate advertising grab by this year’s biggest Games sponsors. Nonetheless, she likes the familiar weight on her hand, finding comfort in twisting it along her fingers.

What she likes considerably less are the thick excessive robes her stylist has dressed her in, coloured a deep purple that he insists is “heliotrope”, paired with a complimentary silver headdress. Another beautiful design really, as whenever she is bathed in light the silver reflects it within its structured bounds to produce a noticeable halo effect elevating the natural grace she already possesses.

Not holy, it said, but prized.

Perched on the edge of the mattress, eyes burning a hole through the ring, Lottie waits for her escort to arrive and accompany her from the District 2 level of the Capitol accommodation tower to the Stables. The polite lack of conversation between them on the journey is a welcome opportunity for her to switch her demeanour to one radiating determination, power and poise.

Randy is already there when she arrives, beside their chariot with his matching ring and outfit, with the exception of the halo headdress where instead he sports a small silver wreath, barely peeking out from his sandy hair.

He’s still being fussed over by the stylists, something he very much does not seem to mind, and flashes her a smile as she approaches. Not one of friendship or situational humour but rather one that settles to be more predatory.

However, Randy is the last problem on Lottie's mind. He is simple to read, unfortunately lacking the substance beyond the surface that affords much of a personality. Despite his grandiose sense of self as a fighter, she also doubts he will bother her much in the arena judging by the way he shrinks at the cold glance of superiority she directs at him.

Falling back on her father’s training, Lottie takes the time to survey the other tributes present in the stables, this being the first and only time they are all in the same place together before entering the Training Hall the next day. Instead of making note of their size and potential athleticism, or how much the boy from District 4 looks ready to throttle them all here and now, she analyses the execution of each theme.

Historically, the presentation of the tributes of each district have been in line with their strategy going into the arena. For example, if she had to judge, her and Randy’s coordinated clothing emphasises their shared position as career tributes and therefore likely allyship initially in the game, but her headdress signifies her greater value over him as a competitor to sponsors. She's the one to watch.

Thus, they are of the utmost value in gaining insight into the minds of her opponents: her window in. This year's styling certainty looks to follow the trend if the matching, heavy romanticism of the District 1’s carriage was anything to go by, in comparison to the starkly different styles of the District 6 tributes, one attempting to boast strength and the other faith.

One strange thing she does succeed in noticing is that unlike the parades of the past all twenty-four tributes are matching with their district counterpart. It’s not the normal way of the Games.

By the time her chariot begins to pull out of the Stables into the long stretch of track under Capitol scrutiny, Lottie feels somewhat accomplished in having absorbed enough information to prepare for tomorrow. Still, as the bright light illuminates her face and stretched smile, received with the cheers of the crowd, she grips the railing tightly. Knuckles white as her silver rings dig deeply into her fingers, leashing her consciousness to the present through the pain.

_________________________________________________________________________________

The Games are all about performance, and understandably the parades do require a certain level of dramatics from tributes in order to successfully capture the attention of sponsors. And of course, Tai does care about it to an extent, as with any event to improve her odds, but really, she’s counting more on her training score to impress than whatever hideous frock her stylist has interpretated District 5’s “Power” theme into.

Walter, on the other hand, appears to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He is sweating profusely causing dark patches to shine through on his skin-tight, electric blue jumpsuit. As he frantically swivels his head checking out the other tributes his bug eyes seem to double in size. Tai would not be surprised if they had engulfed his entire head by the time they exit the Stables.

Rolling her eyes at the fifteen-year-old's panic, Tai shifts her attention to the rest of the large open-plan room that comprises half of the Stables and it’s current inhabitants.

She scrutinises the District 7 pair, the protective way the tall brunette hovers beside a smaller boy with darker floppy hair concealing most of his face. Her hand rests on his shoulder, and she shoots him a small disarming smile before returning her attention to her stylist and the adjustments made to her outfit. Gorgeous green gowns that remind Tai of moss sprout up into emerald branches twisting above their heads. The girl’s spiral in a manner that almost mimics antlers.

Tai moves on, sight wandering over the seemingly stilted exchange occurring between the District 10 tributes until she stops on the last pair, her breath catching lightly.

They are stood together, jostling each other in an easy manner as they smoke something foreign to her. Their garments do not match in the slightest to her eyes, and she watches with vague curiosity as the shorter shaggy blonde is rigged with a long train of ripped and frilled coal black material.

But it is the other tribute that Tai keeps being drawn back to, trailing the gentle curves of their shockingly red hair that cascades down their back and staring as they play with the crimson cuffs of their suit. She continues of ogle the soft squareness of their jaw as they turn to chuckle at something their companion says, colouring a little more than she would like when they lock eyes in the process and she’s shot an unashamed smirk.

Tai imperceptibly shakes her head to pull herself out of... whatever that was, somewhat surprised at her complete susceptibility to the handsome individual’s unintentional attractiveness. She scolds herself for being so caught up in it, slightly annoyed at being seen looking but on the whole appreciates the new view.

The redhead fails to leave her thoughts as she ascends into the carriage with a no-calmer Walter, not sparing a glance back as they begin to pull out of the Stables into the spotlight and Tai begins her sparkling act.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Nat cannot get over how unbelievably hot their outfits are. Yes, they look good – great even, considering the sheer amount of time she noticed the District 5 girl appraising Van in their suit that seemed a bit too long to be normal pre-training analytics – but she’s sweltering in the thick cloth of her dress. She half-expects that by the end of the parade she will have sweated off most of her body weight, an idea that makes Van snort.

The last few days had been a frenzy of experiences and emotions, their departure from District 12 having spawned the worst of them.

Her mother did not come to see her but that was not much of a surprise, probably still sprawled on their couch unconscious. Nat had assumed she would spend the allowed few minutes for visitors before the train alone, listening to the violent cries of Shaun and Annie Palmer through the thin walls as they hugged their sibling and protector for what was most likely the last time.

To her utter surprise, one person came.

The door opened as if it was nervous itself for the following exchange, and a small skinny girl stepped through clutching a bunch of wildflowers tightly. Has she not already exhausted her reserves earlier, Nat would have likely burst into tears then and there.

Lisa often frequented the Hob, milling between the permeant ‘temporary’ stalls and being fretted over by sellers and regulars alike. She could have only been about six when Nat first saw her there, and Nat learned quickly of the small mine collapse that had taken both of her parents along with a few others. The next time and every time after that when Lisa passed her where she was selling her game, Nat would slip her some rabbit jerky. Whilst she was not in the position to commit herself to anything beyond Van and the kids, promised herself she would look out for the little one as much as she could, often looking for her first whenever she entered the Hob.

Lisa refused to take the dinged metal stool in front of Nat, preferring to stand. She thrust her hand forward, brandishing the wildflowers for Nat to take, which she did, yet unable to face her head-on. Nat simply chuckled, lightly tainted with the low vibrato of a sob, and motioned for Lisa to sit in front of her. Nat begun to braid her hair quietly, beheading the stalks of their flower heads to incorporate into the plaits and neither spoke for some time until a small voice shakily broke the silence.

“Will they have strawberries in the capitol?

Seeing Nat’s surprise at the question, Lisa tried to back-track, “I mean, like the strawberries you find. I don’t know that much about what it's like there, but they must have strawberries, right? I just was wondering what they would taste like...”

“I bet ours’ here are much nicer. Sweeter, even if not as fancy.”

Nat shifted to a sillier tone.

“The Capitol ones are probably MASSIVE; they grow them to be the size of their heads! The strawberries are so big that they have to roll them into the room to eat, that’s why they don’t get transported around the districts.”

Lisa giggled at the image and climbed up into Nat’s lap, snuggling in as Nat wrapped her arms around her. But she felt the growing damp patches in her shirt where Lisa’s tears were being absorbed, and it did not help her own until they both were fully crying.

They sat like that, together, for the rest of the time with Lisa’s head buried in Nat’s chest, doing a poor job at muffling the sniffles emerging.

When the peacekeepers came to escort Lisa out and Nat to the train that would take her away, Nat shrugged off her beloved leather jacket. It was worn and old, like most things she owned, but in this moment, she was pleased she had worn it to the reaping. The jacket was everything she had worked for in her short life, her pride and joy when she had traded a wild hog for it, skilled enough at hunting to afford to do so. Something she had earned for herself.

It was big on her normally, but as she draped it over Lisa’s shoulders it looked ginormous, forcing a laugh out of her at the little girl’s excitement at such a cool gift and resulting dopey smile.

Nat stood up, jacketless, and ruffled her hair fondly, “You better look after that jacket, it means a lot to me. Take good care kid.”

She does not say “until I get back”, because they both know that was not true and she refused to do Lisa such a disservice. So instead, she just turned and was guided out of the room, towards her fate.

Van and Nat’s mentor was waiting with them in the Stables, one of the very few mentors who had taken it upon themselves to be present.

Ben Scott was not from District 12, he was an older victor from 7. 12 did not have any living victors, the last having drunk themselves to an early grave, forcing the Capitol to allocate another in their place.

She was not sure yet how she felt about Ben Scott, a man who’s unruly beard was only matched in ferocity by his turbulent relationship with optimism. He had seemed enthusiastic about the idea of selling them initially as a team rather than competitors to their relief but shared little on how he planned to do so. Nat joked she would rather kill herself than them ever pretend to be dating, Van declared the idea incest.

Though she did have to admit, Ben and Paul, the Capitol stylist that had been assigned to the team, did make an excellent team. As Paul told it over dinner the previous night, he and Ben had worked together on many tributes over the years so knew each other’s habits well. Nat did not ask how many of their tributes had ever won.

Regardless, she knew better than to comment on the way Paul’s hand brushed Ben’s as he walked past, fussing over Van as he tried to attach the obtusely large train of reds, yellows and oranges to their suit. She was still just as lost on what the idea was – they looked ridiculous.

Nat feels very present, partially a result of the hot itching with every movement in the dress, when she and Van step up into their carriage.

Ben steps closer to make one final suggestion before they are pulled out, “Hold hands again, remind them you are a team.”

As Nat’s hand finds Van, she feels herself stabilise slightly against the juddering propulsion of the chariot as their horse gathers speed, exiting the stables into the limelight. It feels faster than the other tributes and looking ahead at the other carriages of Districts 11 and 10, she realises they are moving faster. Not by much, but enough for it to click in her head what was about to happen.

Paul’s a fucking genius.

The wind induced by their speed feeds under the trains attached to their outfits, catching on the tufted fabric and bunching forcing the cloth up into the air. The material fans out, intertwining the red ombre with the ashy black to form a stunning display around them.

They were fire and earth, coal and the spark, two separate beings that interlinked to form something beautiful.

She feels a tug at her hand and notices Van trying to lift their joined hands to be more easily seen by the audience, their face characterised by a wide toothy smile as they use their other hand to wave to the cheering audience. Nat follows suit, brandishing her most charming smile and even winking in the direction occasionally. The crowd were losing it at the District 12 carriage.

The procession is both longer and shorter than Nat had imagined and not soon enough, they have pulled into the shelter the other end of the track. Nat jumps off with too much energy, unravelling herself from Van, nearly losing her footing on the landing. Ben and Paul are yet to make it to this side of the Stables, Ben’s prosthetic leg after losing the real one during his Games made travel time longer, so she takes the time to look around a bit more. She’s exhausted, yes, but also feeling high off the adrenaline of the parade.

While just as immaculate as the rest of the Capitol buildings, the depot has an air of unbridled chaos as tributes spring from the carriages and individuals get lost in a sea of colours, flashes emerald, gold and royal blue.

Her eyes trip over a figure in purple, and she is startled to see the women already looking at her. Her haloed headdress rests in her hands, the waves of her hair are windswept, and she looks ethereal.

The girl seems pleased to have been caught admiring, taking the opportunity to observe Nat more thoroughly, a little crease forming on her forehead as if she’s deep in thought. It makes Nat shiver a little, slightly uncomfortable at the feeling that the purple goddess is somehow looking straight through her.

She breaks away first, missing the slight frown slip over the other’s face, as Paul arrives and Van throws themselves at the man in sheer joy at their success. They bustle out the room, chatting loudly while Van does a dramatic retelling as if they were not all there already. Yet, Nat still senses a lingering gaze follow her out the room, inducing a small glow in her chest that she dare not acknowledge.