She's looking at him so strangely, staring at his face, and not in the way he's used to being stared at in the Capitol by the crowds of people who want to be in love with him; he'd tested that when they'd first met, trying all his flirtation, all the chatter about life as a victor, that had been silly before it had turned so close to home and he'd hit back with a barbed strike about her wedding, the wedding organized and cancelled for her feigned arena romance, when even to love Annie, let alone admit it, is forbidden to him by the role Snow has him play for the Capitol.

He'd tested, and she'd passed, cool to his charm, only a little fazed though he'd overplayed it for her. (She'd only blushed once; that's saying something.)

No, she's staring at him like she can't quite believe what she's seeing, apologizing and apparently then unable -- or unwilling -- to tell him what she's apologizing for.

If he weren't such a good actor, his smile would slip, but that's a skill like so many he's learned for the Capitol.

He has plenty of other questions to ask her, ones she might answer. Ones about here and now and this situation.

"Why aren't you wearing the tribute outfit? We're supposed to be in the arena."