lys

You hadn’t meant for it to get this far. The actual assignment and the reason that got you into this mess in the first place had ended weeks ago. And, yet, here you were; slumped in a chair in the back corner of a shadowy bar, with a black hoodie pulled over your head. The beer in the glass in front of you had barely been touched. You needed to stay laser focused.

When he walked in, you sunk down in your seat a little more, plastering yourself against the wall next to you, your pulse quickening. Not that he even glanced in your direction. He headed straight for the third stool at the bar, just like always. He nodded familiarly to the bartender, who greeted him and immediately placed a glass of amber-colored liquid in front of him.

Maker’s Mark Kentucky bourbon. Neat, you recited in your head. Although, sometimes it was a single malt scotch. Not tonight, though. Tonight was bourbon.

He wouldn’t talk to anyone, except maybe a few words with the bartender. He’d have two, maybe three drinks, leave cash on the bar before he left, and then slip out into the night again. He’d walk the few blocks to his apartment and disappear inside. Always alone.

A few times some interested women had tried to sidle up to him, flirting shamelessly in an attempt to capture his attention. He would be polite, but obviously uninterested, until they gave up and moved on. Just thinking about those women make your skin prickle.

You don’t even know, you would seethe to them inside your head. You don’t even know how special he is.

You didn’t even know what you would do if he took up one of those offers with a woman. Probably something extremely embarrassing. But luckily, that hadn’t happened under your watch. Yet.

And now, as you studied his mannerisms that you already had memorized and would replay in your sleep later, you thought about how all of this happened. You used to be a normal, fully-functioning, logical and rational person. A professional, above all else.

But then your obsession with Five Hargreeves began, and all of that rationality flew out the window.

*****************

You stared at the file your superior had just slapped on the desk in front of you. When you saw the name, you looked up.

“Is this a joke?” you asked, incredulously.

Your boss shook his head. “Not a joke. Sorry, but the order comes from above.” He pointed at the ceiling.

You scoffed. “This is insane. You realize this is insane, right?”

Your boss nodded and sighed. “I understand your hesitation—”

“Hesitation?” you said, standing up to face him. “You want me to tail Five Fucking Hargreeves for two weeks, write up a report, and turn it in like he’s… like he’s…” you trailed off, unable to come up with the right word. Normal? Ordinary? Sane?

“A field agent,” your boss finished for you. “He’s subject to the same rules as every other Commission agent.”

You barked out a sarcastic laugh. “That’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard. Come on, what’s this really about?”

Your boss looked around and then leaned in, lowering his voice. “All right, look. I don’t know what the story is, ok? All I know is that the big boss wants a detailed report on his whereabouts in and out of headquarters. Maybe they think he’s up to something, I don’t know. But it’s not up to me. And you’re the best liaison I’ve got.”

The Interdepartmental Liaison Division, or ILD, was the branch of the Commission that worked to make sure all employees were adhering to the rules and regulations of the company. They made observations and reported back to the administrators. In short, they were snitches. And everyone hated them.

Anytime someone from the ILD would walk down the halls of headquarters, people scattered like bugs. No one wanted to be watched or reported on, regardless of whether they were following the rules or not. The majority of the staff didn’t trust the administration anyway, so having any attention drawn to yourself was usually not a good thing.

Because of this, the liaisons learned to be stealthy. They were lurkers in the shadows. Flies on the walls. They tracked and sniffed out rumors, and sometimes bought their information from less scrupulous employees.

You were the ILD’s best agent, hands down.

It’s not like you loved ratting on your co-workers, but just like everyone else in that building, you weren’t really given a choice. And if you were destined to that department, you might as well excel at the job. The more of an asset you were to the company, the less corporate bullshit you had to deal with.

Some employees, you knew, were favored more than others, and had certain privileges that others did not. There were people that were exempt from the rules everyone else had to follow. You certainly thought that out of anyone, Five Hargreeves, was one of the privileged few.

Having only been at the Commission for a little over a year, you were unsure of how and when Five arrived here. But given your expertise at eavesdropping, you knew he’d worked here a few different times. And, apparently, in a couple different bodies.

This time around, Five was back after reportedly saving the world more than once. But, due to lack of options and overall restlessness, he decided to come back. You heard he’d demanded several perks that would normally never be agreed to. But, for him, they were.

You knew the demands included, but weren’t limited to: no tracking chip, no on-site residence, no partner. That, on top of his natural ability to teleport, made him nearly impossible to keep tabs on.

You’d seen him around headquarters, though. In your daily wanderings and assigned tracking, you crossed his path a few times. He never paid you any notice and you barely had enough time to contemplate any feelings about him one way or another. But what you did notice was how everyone else reacted in his presence.

ILD agents were given a wide berth, but not in the same way that Five was. When he stalked down the halls of headquarters… and that’s what he did; stalked… no one stood in his way. With his head down, eyes focused in front of him, you weren’t even sure he was aware of the reaction he received.

Conversations turned to whispers, groups dispersed, stares were blatantly averted. Then, when he passed and was out of sight again, things returned to normal.

During one of your encounters with Five, you were so enrapt in everyone else’s behavior that you didn’t bother to change yours. While you continued on your path down the hallway, he continued along his, going the opposite way. You didn’t avoid eye contact or slow your stride. Why should you? He was only a person.

As you passed one another, you saw the tiniest flick of his eyes in your direction. Anyone else probably would’ve missed it. It was there and then it wasn’t, and then he was on his way to his destination and you were on your way to yours. You barely thought about him after that.

“Fine,” you snapped back at your boss, swiping the file off your desk. “But if he gets any wind that I’m tailing him and reporting back, it’s going to be both of our heads.”

Your boss nodded, looking a little ashen. “I’m fully aware. Another reason I’m putting you on the job. Less chance that I get caught in the crosshairs.”

You’d stayed up late studying what you could of Five’s file. There wasn’t much, all things considered. You were fairly certain a lot of information had been left out. It was clear, though, that the higher-ups in the Commission were curious about Five’s personal life. They hated that they couldn’t track him off the clock, or know who he spoke to outside of headquarters. They wanted to know anything and everything, no matter how small of a detail. And you were supposed to give all of this to them.

Without him knowing, of course.

During your time in the ILD, you had designed a set of rules for yourself that you always adhered to:

Report all verified facts truthfully

Be respectful of the subject’s physical boundaries (aka – no casing locker rooms, bathrooms, etc)

Never make it personal

The next day, you prepared to start your investigation. You weren’t nervous, even though you knew how dangerous he was. But you were used to dangerous people. The entire building was full of them.

Like all field agents at the Commission, Five didn’t have an office. Agents came and went according to their assignments. When they weren’t in the field, they were at home. For all others except for Five, that meant one of the drab, identical homes provided by the company and situated on headquarters’ campus.

Five was allowed to live wherever and whenever he desired, and according to the file, that was his own apartment in the city in the year 2026. Once he was done with a job, he’d come back to headquarters, fill out whatever paperwork was required, and leave again. He was also the only agent that was allowed to use a briefcase for personal reasons.

Your plan was to catch him when he returned from an assignment and then use a briefcase to follow him to his home and observe his actions there. The Commission was providing the whereabouts of the apartment and the case would already be programmed to take you there. There was no need to track him on a job; the switchboard operators took care of that. And while the Infinite Switchboard could be used for outside tracking as well, there were rules against that. And the Commission loved their rules.

You waited around headquarters, making it look like you were busy doing various tasks, and even tracking some of the other employees to report on later. You kept a close eye out for Five, though, and when you saw him appear out of nowhere and head to the briefcase room, you were on high alert.

Five returned the case he’d used for the mission, signed a few documents, nodded once to the woman that worked the room, and grabbed a new case. Without even looking up, he was gone again. Home, you assumed.

You followed directly behind him, appearing via your own briefcase in 2026. It was nighttime and the city was alive with the sounds of traffic, sirens, and voices from all around. The buildings, store fronts, and streets were lit up with bright white and neon lights. You let your eyes adjust and blinked to clear your head from the time jump.

You saw him, crossing the street, and heading into the tall, multi-story apartment building on the other side. You quickly followed, making sure not to get run over in the process, and let Five slip inside the main door. After a few seconds, you made your way there. The front door was glass and you could see a set of stairs leading to various floors above. There was a list of names next to buzzers to your right. You scanned them, but none of them read “Hargreeves” or “Five”.

You pondered the building thoughtfully and took a look around. Across the street, where you had originally appeared, was another tall apartment building. This one, however, was under construction, with scaffolding all around the outside walls. It didn’t look like it was occupied at the moment.

You scanned the windows above you and then the darkened ones of the empty building across the street. If you got lucky, it was possible that Five’s apartment window would be visible from the roof of the other building. Chances were slim, but it was worth a shot, anyway.

Unlike Five’s ability to blink through space, the briefcases could only blink through time. So, that meant any tracking was going to have to be done on foot. After climbing ten stories, carrying that damned case, and trying to suck air into your burning lungs, you arrived at the door to the roof. The door was already propped open, so you headed outside.

The night was cool but not cold, and the city was much quieter from that height. You were alone up there, and it was dark, but you clutched the briefcase tighter, knowing that if anyone tried to jump you, you could just blip your way back to headquarters.

Approaching the ledge of the roof, you looked out onto Five’s building. You had a small bag with you that contained your notebook for recording and a pair of high-powered binoculars. Taking them out, you did a cursory scan of the apartments that had lights on and blinds open. Then you began to look a little closer. Every so often, another light would pop on, showing you the insides of a person’s home.

Then, you saw it. A corner window on the sixth floor. Someone clicked a floor lamp on and passed by the window, and sure enough, you saw the familiar image of Five Hargreeves in perfect view, backlit by the lamp he had just turned on. There were no blinds or curtains, or at least there weren’t any that he closed.

You watched him, with his face much closer than you’d ever seen it before, thanks to the binoculars. You weren’t sure what you had expected, but he looked decidedly normal. Like he was just a man, returning home from a day at work, and relaxing for the evening. He threw his coat over a clean, if slightly beat up sofa, and loosened his tie. He had a beer in his hand that he must have grabbed from the kitchen on the way in. The Commission briefcase sat next to him on the floor.

You saw him lean back, take a drink of the beer, and pick up the TV remote on the table in front of him. You couldn’t see the screen from your position, but the flickering lights of the television illuminated his face. He flipped channels until he must have found something he was interested in, and set the remote down again. Then, he slumped further down in his seat and closed his eyes.

Lowering the binoculars, you took a look around you. The roof was small, but secluded, and sheltered from any major wind or rain that may occur. There was a folding chair in the corner that looked halfway decent. You nodded to yourself. This would make a good enough place for a stakeout.

For the next week, you developed a routine. In the mornings, you would travel back to your apartment at headquarters; shower, eat, and sleep a little. Then, you would type up the information you collected in preparation for the report you’d have to turn in. Not that there had been much to report.

As it turned out, Five was a pretty simple person. He worked, came home, ate, and slept like most other people. He didn’t seem to have any friends or people he hung around with. Once in a while one of his family members would come by his apartment to visit for a short while. You knew who they were from Five’s file. Usually it was his brother, Klaus. But once it was Diego, although he didn’t stay for very long.

On three occasions, Five left his apartment building and walked two blocks south to a dive bar. When he did that, you had to run down the stairs of your building, and follow him at a reasonable distance while trying not to gasp loudly for air and draw attention to yourself.

The bar was called O’Malleys and the second L of the sign above the door had fallen off some time ago. You couldn’t follow him inside without being discovered, since the place was too small and he might recognize you from the Commission, so you waited around in the shadows until he emerged an hour or so later and made his way back to his apartment again.

When you turned in your report at the end of the first week, your boss looked it over.

“It doesn’t say anything about mental status in here,” he said.

You knew that was something the Commission always wanted to know. They wanted to make sure their agents weren’t cracking up from the pressure. Or getting too soft.

“Not much to report,” you said with a shrug. “I don’t think the guy has any emotions, to be honest. Except maybe perpetual irritation.”

“Hmmm,” your boss said with a snort. “Well, I guess they get what they get, then.”

On the ninth day of tracking Five Hargreeves, you still hadn’t witnessed anything groundbreaking. Although, you had started to become a little enthralled with his general dark and brooding demeanor. And, while you had never paid much attention to him before this assignment, you had started to notice just how good looking he was.

With that chiseled face and sharp, green eyes framed by dark lashes, and a body that was toned and lean from years of training and fighting, it was impossible not to notice. All of those hours you spent staring at his face from behind your binoculars were getting to you. You saw that face even in your dreams.

So, when you watched Five walk into his apartment after an assignment that ninth night, you expected to see the same determined and fierce face. But even from a distance, before you could pick up your binoculars, you could see something was different. He held himself differently and his normal purposeful stride was off. You saw him enter the building and then you waited the minute or so it took for him to climb the stairs and get to his apartment. When the light clicked on, you zoomed in on him as he sat down on his couch. He had skipped grabbing a beer on his way in.

The hardened ferocity and irritability were gone. The stony, impassive gaze was gone. Even the slight amusement that would sometimes flicker over his lips while he watched some show, or when his family came to visit, was gone.

There was a different look now. Pain.

You actually let out a little gasp when you saw it. It was like a completely different person had taken over the only other version of Five you had seen up to that point. His facial features had softened and his eyes were devoid of their usual spark. There was a crease between his brows that wasn’t there from annoyance or anger. Instead of the impenetrable Five Hargreeves that you had been tracking, there was a sad and defeated man in his place.

You saw him flop onto the couch, like his body weighed a thousand pounds, and he rested his elbows on his knees. He dragged both hands through his hair and then down his face. And then he just stayed like that for a few minutes; with his head in his hands. When he finally raised his head again, you had expected to see signs of tears. But there weren’t any. Just that hollow, far-away look of a man beaten down by life.

After several more minutes of Five staring forlornly at nothing in front of him, he suddenly stood up. He grabbed his coat off the back of the couch and headed for the door. When you saw him emerge onto the street below, he looked like his old self again. Strong, persistent, formidable. You knew by the direction he was walking that he was headed to O’Malley’s. He turned a corner and then he was gone.

Instead of dashing down the stairs like you usually did, you sat back in your chair, deep in thought.

You’d never in a million years have guessed that Five could look so broken like that. And what had made him break? You knew he’d seen and done a hundred terrible things in his lifetime, but as far as you knew, he’d always taken everything in stride. Nothing seemed to faze him.

Apparently, you’d been wrong.

You couldn’t stop thinking about him after that. Even when you weren’t tailing him, you were thinking of him. Of the pain on his face and how sad, but also beautiful, he’d looked.

As you wrote out your next report, and you came to the section on mental status, your fingers lingered over the typewriter keys; hovering. This change in demeanor you witnessed is what the admins upstairs wanted to know about. This would have been a juicy detail for them to latch onto.

You assumed that Five would have rather died than to have that side of him revealed to anyone, let alone the sharks at the Commission. But you also had your rules, and number one was to report all facts truthfully. And number three was to never make it personal.

Well, fuck the rules. I made them, I can break them if I want.

You typed “Mental status: unremarkable/unchanged” and finished the report. You smiled to yourself, because now it was official: you knew a secret about Five Hargreeves that no one else in that building did. Just that small little notion was enough to send a tingle down your spine.

As the rest of the second week went on, you became more and more consumed with Five. You still watched him through your binoculars and followed him to the bar and to anywhere else he wandered. But now, you studied him with so much more intensity. You watched his face for any flicker of emotion. You studied his body language and the way he moved and spoke.

The more you watched, the more you started to notice. A tiny upturn of the corner of his mouth when a small child on the street laughed joyfully. The way his jaw clenched with annoyance when having to endure a particularly chatty person. How he rolled his shoulders back, just slightly, in preparation for anything he was gearing up to do. The insanely attractive way he’d rake his hand through his hair while in thought or with frustration.

When his brother Klaus would visit, Five’s tightly wound stature seemed to relax somewhat. And while much of their visits were spent with Klaus talking and gesturing like he was in a heated game of charades, and Five rolling his eyes and shooting back with clipped rebuttals, the interaction looked natural and comfortable. When Klaus would leave and Five would shut the door behind him, he always smiled to himself; just a little.

One night he fell asleep sitting up on the couch and you watched him as he breathed deeply with his eyes closed and his lashes fanning over his cheekbones. You watched him sleep for nearly an hour until he woke with a start, breathing hard and looking around in a panic. Then he rubbed his eyes, turned the light off, and went into his bedroom for the night.

You wanted so badly to follow him into that bedroom, and if you had any way to do it without getting caught, you would have.

You started to imagine scenarios where the two of you were together. In bed in your apartment, you’d lie there and think of all the ways those hands you’d studied for hours on end could touch you. You were dying to see him up close and personal, without the aid of binoculars. You wanted to know what his skin felt like and how his hair would feel if you ran your fingers through it, and how he smelled.

You’d never seen him with a woman but you had a feeling that intensity he carried around with him would transfer over to any relationship he may have. And you were positive he fucked like a God. Of course, that was speculative, but you knew him better than anyone else at this point, so it seemed reasonable.

More than anything, though, you wanted to know him when he was at his worst. You imagined being the only one that could comfort him in his time of need. You wanted to be who he came to when he needed someone.

It was getting dangerous; you knew that. You were most definitely breaking your number three rule of not making it personal. But it was so hard to stop. You just wanted to know more and more about him. You started shortening your time at your own apartment so you could hang around headquarters longer, in the hopes of catching him in the halls between assignments.

When you would see him in the building, your breath would catch in your throat and your entire body would flood with heat. Your initial instinct was to turn away or shrink into the shadows, but you would force yourself to watch as he strode by. You couldn’t risk missing anything.

On one of those occasions, you had been so flustered that you dropped the small purse you’d been holding and the contents spilled out onto the floor. There wasn’t much in there; just some cash and cards, your I.D. and some lip balm. You saw Five glance over in your direction as you cursed and stooped down to scoop up your items. When you stood back up again, he was gone.

When you turned in your report at the end of the second week, your boss looked it over with a frown and then sighed.

“Alright, well, that’s it then,” he said casually.

“What’s what?” you asked.

He gestured to the paper. “Two weeks of being observed by our best liaison and nothing of note. That’ll be good enough for administration. For now, anyway.”

You chewed at your bottom lip, trying to hide your anxiety. “What do you mean? My assignment is finished?”

Your boss nodded. “Yep. Good work, though. You never even got caught, which is pretty impressive.” He took another file off his desk and handed it to you. “Here’s your next one.”

You stared at the file but you didn’t take it from him. Instead, you started internally panicking. “You know, two weeks isn’t really a long time in the scheme of things. Especially when we’re talking about Hargreeves. The man is practically a ghost. If they want more intel, I just need more time.”

“Nah,” your boss said with a shake of his head. “What you got is fine. If they want more, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, take this one.” He shoved the new file toward you again.

As you left the ILD, file folder in hand, you could feel your palms growing clammy with anxiousness.

I won’t be able to see him every day now. What if I don’t see him ever again? I don’t think I can do this.

Your mild panic attack was in full swing when you happened to catch Five leaving the briefcase room. You stopped in your tracks, eyes wide, as he walked directly across your path. As usual, he didn’t look up, but this time you could see why.

He was covered in blood. Red splatters painted his face and hair and the crisp white collar of his dress shirt. His shoes left bloody footprints in his wake. And he was pissed. If you had seen other workers scurry out of his way before, that was nothing. People were practically diving out of the way, ready to throw themselves through windows if necessary. Anything to avoid a run in with Five.

With his hands balled into fists and a permanent snarl on his face, he looked like some sort of feral storybook beast after ransacking a small village.

Fuck.

You were the only one that didn’t turn their back and walk away. Instead, you followed him with your eyes, observing every movement with your heart in your throat. As he passed by, you caught the scent of sweat, copper, and something that reminded you of ocean air. When he turned the corner at the next hallway, you let out a long release of the breath you’d been holding.

While you stood there, trying to pull yourself together, you saw the blood-stained footprints on the tile, marking Five’s path through the building. You wondered why he wasn’t just going back to his apartment, but maybe he had to turn right back around and go out on another job. Or maybe he had to report back to someone first. That could’ve been the reason he was in such a rage, among other things. You had come to learn that Five hated the bureaucratic bullshit of paperwork.

Trying to look as casual as possible, and using your skills as a liaison, you strolled in the same direction as the footprints. When you rounded the same corner that Five had taken, you saw where they were leading. To the locker room.

You hung back, trying to blend into your surroundings and peruse the file you had in your hands, as you decided your next move. A handful of men streamed out of the locker room, a couple still only half-dressed, looking grateful they’d escaped unscathed. After a few minutes, you assumed Five would remain in there by himself, since word would have traveled fast and no one wanted to take the chance on meeting him face to face in such intimate quarters.

There was only one rule left out of three and you were about to break it.

Be respectful of the subject’s physical boundaries.

After scanning the area around you, you moved forward before you lost your nerve. You got to the men’s locker room, paused with your hand on the door, and then slipped inside. The room was pretty basic, as all things at headquarters were, with a few aisles of metal lockers and some benches for changing. Off to the right were the showers.

The locker area was empty and you could hear water running in the other room. On one of the benches nearby by was a pile of clothes. A suit, by the looks of it. As you got closer, making sure to walk extra lightly, you could see the suit, shirt, and shoes were covered in a splatter of blood. The blood was dry now, and it had turned a dark burgundy on the collar and cuffs of the white dress shirt.

You stared at the pile for a minute. Then, looking around you, you picked up the shirt. It was still warm from Five’s body and you caressed the fabric a little between your fingers. Then you raised it to your face and brushed it across your cheek. It was soft and smelled like the same intoxicating combination that you had noticed when he’d walked past you, only stronger. You took a deep breath and closed your eyes.

This is bad. But I don’t care.

You knew you were on limited time, so you reluctantly set the shirt down on the bench, being sure to place it in the exact same spot. You turned to leave, but the sound of running water caught your attention again.

I shouldn’t but…

Your desire to sneak a look was stronger than any scruples you had, and so you made you way stealthily toward the shower room. You held onto the corner of the doorway while you peeked your head around. The showers stalls were small and made of white tile with an opaque shower curtain to close for privacy.

Five was the only one in there, so you knew right away which stall he was in. You could see his feet beneath the curtain. The water running into the drain was tinged a slight pink as the blood washed off his body. Even though the curtain was pulled closed, there was a small opening where it didn’t quite meet the wall. You craned your neck to get just the right angle.

When you saw him, you put a hand over your mouth to cover your gasp. He was facing away from you, toward the shower stream, but you could see his entire body. Or, at least, the back side of it.

He was so beautiful you wanted to cry. Like a marble statue with a perfect ass. There were a few scars that were visible across his back and one on his shoulder. His dark hair was wet and he used a hand to slick it back off his forehead. His shoulders rose and fell with his heavy breathing as he dealt with whatever anger or frustration he was feeling.

You knew you had to go. It was just a matter of time before someone walked in or Five saw you. But you couldn’t look away. It was impossible. Then you saw him lean against the side wall of the shower, his eyes closed, and sink to the floor, his knees drawn to his chest. He put his head in his hands, just like the time you’d seen him in his apartment, and he let the water run over him in sheets.

You took the tiniest step forward, like you were going to go to him, but you caught yourself. As much as it broke your heart to see him like that, there was no way you could intervene. So, you just stood there, helpless, as this hard, strong, and ferocious man tried to come to grips with whatever nightmare he was forced to live with.

I wish I could help you. I wish I could be with you. I wish you were mine.

Five eventually stood back up and turned the water off. At that moment, you made a quick turn to leave as quietly and as quickly as you could. On your way out, you smashed your knee into the corner of one of the benches. It hurt like a motherfucker, but you had to stifle your cry and hobble out of there before Five realized you’d been there.

Once you were back outside, you whimpered and rubbed at your knee. That was definitely going to leave a mark. No one was around, luckily, so you walked back down the hallway, looking as innocent as possible, and blended into the daily crowd of Commission employees.

The next day, when you walked into the ILD, you approached your desk and found a tube of lip balm lying in the middle. It was the same type that you had lost when all of your things had spilled out of your purse in the hallway. But this one was brand new. Vanilla Honey. The flavor you always used.

You looked around but you were the first one in that morning and there was no one else there. You frowned and slipped it into your pocket. You’d ask about it later when your other coworkers came in.

Days passed and then weeks. You did your job as required and reported on anyone you were assigned to. You typed up your reports with professionalism and talked with your boss and coworkers. But it was Five that always occupied every moment of your days and nights. Any down time you had was spent following him or thinking about him. Five Hargreeves was your obsession and you couldn’t seem to stop.

You started stealing briefcases so that you could follow him to his home again. You would plant yourself at O’Malley’s to wait for him to come in, so you could watch him from the corner. He never saw you and he always left without even a glance in your general direction.

At work, he came and went as usual, with folks scattering and parting like the Red Sea whenever he walked by. To everyone else, he was a dangerous weapon just waiting to explode, but to you he was much more than that. You’d seen his pain and his sadness. You knew how lonely his life was. And yet, you had to keep all of that to yourself.

One night, when you got home from work, you noticed that the flower planter on the porch looked brighter and perkier than normal. You’d been neglecting its care lately, since you’d been preoccupied with Five. You checked the soil with your finger and found it was wet. It hadn’t rained in days.

You assumed one of your neighbors had come by to help out your poor, ailing plant. Probably Janet next door; she was always out tending to her own garden. You’d have to thank her the next time you saw her.

Now, tonight, you were back at O’Malley’s, with another stolen briefcase, stalking a man that didn’t know you existed. Knowing full well that getting caught by the Commission, or Five, would put you in serious danger.

Five finished his bourbon, setting the glass on the bar top with a quiet clink. You waited for him to flag the bartender down for another round, like he always did, but instead he threw a few bills on the bar top and slid off his stool. He headed to the door and left without a look back.

You started to scramble for your things. You hadn’t been prepared for him to leave this soon. You rummaged around in your pocket for enough money to pay for your beer and left it on the table. Then you grabbed the briefcase and hurried outside.

Outside, in the crisp night air, you looked to your left, which was the direction Five’s apartment was. You didn’t see him anywhere along the sidewalk and so you turned to your right. There he was, with his unmistakable form and stride, about a block ahead of you. It was odd he would be going somewhere else instead of home, so you were definitely curious. You followed in the same direction.

After two more blocks, you closed the gap somewhat and were now closer. But not too close, of course. You watched with confusion as Five slowed at an alley that intersected two tall buildings and turned the corner, disappearing from view.

You stopped, not knowing what to do. The smart thing would be to just leave and go home. But there was no way you’d be able to leave without knowing what he was up to. Slowly, you approached the entrance between the buildings. You glanced around the corner and saw only shadows. You heard no footsteps or voices, either.

Steeling yourself and taking a deep breath, you crept into the alleyway. There was a large dumpster against one of the walls, and you hid the briefcase behind it for safekeeping. Maybe that was stupid, and left you no way to escape, but it would also make you clumsier by carrying it.

You made your way deeper into the alley. There was still no sign of anyone and you were starting to feel uneasy. Five must have blinked away somewhere after he turned the corner. You were disappointed, but you had to get going. When you made your way back to the dumpster, you reached behind it and felt nothing. Confused, you crouched down and peered closer to the dirty ground. Still nothing. The briefcase was gone.

Holy shit. This is really, really bad.

Then you heard a voice from behind you.

“Lose something, agent?”

You spun around, yelping with surprise, and came face to face with Five Hargreeves. He was standing there, your briefcase in his hand, and his head tilted slightly to the side. His eyes flashed with anger and your pulse pounded in your ears.

“What? No. No, I—” you stuttered.

He cut you off. “Save it.” He smiled ruefully. “I know all about you, Madam Liaison.”

“I’m only doing my job,” you answered, doing your best to stand tall and not let your hands shake. He was staring at you so intently, though, that your entire body was in danger of collapsing to the ground.

Five nodded, thoughtfully. “I know that.”  He took a step closer to you. “The thing is… you turned that report in over a month ago. And yet, here you are.” His voice was calm. Smooth. “Why is that?”

You swallowed. The faint moonlight that was breaking through the clouds above illuminated one side of his face. You pulled the hood of your sweatshirt off your head in an attempt to appear less stalkerish.

“They wanted more intel on you,” you lied. “They weren’t satisfied with the initial report.”

One side of Five’s mouth curled up and he stepped closer to you again. He shook his head. “You do realize I’m not an idiot, right? That I’m pretty fucking good at stalking people myself?”

“I wasn’t stalking,” you lied again. “I’m a liaison, it’s my job, I—”

He closed in on you, grabbing your arm, but not roughly. This was the first time you’d been this close to him and the warmth of his hand on your arm had your lips trembling.

“Stop with the lies,” Five said, cutting you off again. He studied your face, intensely as always, and his gaze moved from your eyes to your lips. His voice softened. “I know who you are.”

Your heart rate skyrocketed and you were starting to break out in a sweat as the realization that Five had been onto you this whole time washed over you. You tried desperately to maintain your dignity. You held your head up.

“And who am I?” you asked, as haughtily as you could manage.

Five broke into a grin. He was still holding onto your arm. “I know you’re the best liaison in the ILD. I know you live alone and don’t have many friends. I know you like vanilla honey lip balm and Sam Adams Cherry Wheat beer, and that you’re a shit gardener. And I know you’re either really brave or really stupid for stealing cases from headquarters.” He paused, still staring. “How’d I do?”

Your eyes widened and your heart thumped wildly against your ribs. You wanted to cry or scream, maybe. He’d known all along. Then something else hit you.

“Wait,” you croaked out. “That was you that gave me the lip balm and watered my flowers?” Five raised an eyebrow and gave a very tiny nod. “Why?” you asked, truly dumbfounded.

Five’s fingers tightened just slightly around your arm but his facial features softened. “Everyone has a file. Even you.”

You realized what that meant and your eyes filled with tears. He’d read your file and everything about you. He knew your whole backstory and why you’d ended up at the Commission in the first place.

“So, you feel sorry for me, is that it?” you asked pitifully.

Five shook his head. “No. But I know what it’s like to lose your entire family. Maybe not in a car accident, but just the same… I know why you ended up here.” He paused. “Because you wanted to hide from the pain.”

You took that in and wiped the tears from your eyes. You nodded. “Turns out it just follows you wherever you go.”

“Yeah. It sure does,” Five said, matter-of-factly, before switching gears again. “Now, you can either go back to headquarters and we’ll pretend this never happened.” He paused. “Or, we can get to know each other the old-fashioned way. No files. No stakeouts.” He held the briefcase up. “Your call, agent.”

He was so close. Closer than you’d ever been to him before. The moonlight was faint, but you could see all the details of his face that you had previously only viewed through binocular lenses. You were having a hard time concentrating because all you could think about was how he didn’t know the full extent of your feelings for him.

“I… I…” You felt like your throat was closing up. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” Five said with the most infuriating, cocky smirk.

And then suddenly you didn’t care about your nerves or what he did or didn’t know. He was there; right there in front of you, and he was offering you a choice. Without a word, you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him toward you, your lips meeting his with unrestrained hunger.

He didn’t pull away or even hesitate. His free hand came to rest on the back of your head and he deepened the kiss, matching your intensity. When you finally parted, you were both breathing heavily. You waited for him to say something else, but instead, you were being dragged through the ether of time and space.

Five’s blink felt nearly the same as using the briefcase, only slightly rougher. Like experiencing turbulence on an airplane. When you came out of the portal, you were standing in his apartment.

You took a look around, bewildered. It was like being transported onto a movie set. You’d been watching him for so long that it was surreal to be standing in the same place you had only observed from afar.

“Is this ok?” he asked you, setting down the briefcase and pulling you close to him.

You nodded. “Yes, it’s ok,” you said quietly.

He was looking at you in that same intense way he’d done in the alley. He brushed the back of his fingers over your cheek, gently.

“Let me ask you something,” he said and waited for your small nod. “Why me?”

“I was assigned to report on you,” you answered.

“No,” Five said. “I mean, after that. Why did you keep watching me?”

You were nervous, but his hand was on the small of your back, the warmth pooling there through your shirt. And he was looking at you with an expression you had never seen on him before. Something like wonder. You relaxed a little.

“Because I saw you, Five,” you said. You tentatively brought your hand up to his face and gently pushed a few stray hairs off his forehead. “I saw the real you.”

Five swallowed loudly and he looked away from you for a second. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

“Yes, it is,” you assured him. “It really, really is.” You debated against saying anything else, but you figured there was no point in holding back now. “Once the assignment ended, I just couldn’t bear to let you go.”

Five leaned down and kissed you. It was softer and gentler than before and he cradled your face in his hand. When he pulled back, he said, “I’ve seen the real you, too. And I think you’re beautiful.”

You smiled and Five kissed you again. He held you tighter and you could feel the strength of his arms around you and the firmness of his body.

“I’m sorry, Five,” you said in between kisses. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he told you. Then he drew back and smiled. “I’ve had my eye on you for a while now. I just didn’t think you’d be interested.”

You raised your eyebrows in surprise. “You… you knew who I was even before this?”

“Of course, I did. I know everything.”

“How? You’ve never even paid me one bit of attention,” you told him, slightly annoyed.

Five chuckled. “You’re the only one that doesn’t run and hide from me like I’m some medieval lord coming to seize your livestock.”

You giggled. “That is kind of the vibe you give off.”

“So, why don’t you run?” he asked.

“Because I’m too busy trying to breathe to run,” you said quietly.

Five raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

You nodded. “You quite literally take my breath away.”

“Hmm,” he said thoughtfully. He pulled you closer with a sharp tug, leaning down and dragging his lips across your cheek and jaw. “I’d like to make you breathless right now.”

Your gasp was swallowed up by more of Five’s urgent kisses as his hands roamed over your body. You raked your hands through his hair and trailed your nails down his neck and over his back. He shivered and made a soft groaning noise into your mouth.

The palms of his hands were warm as they slipped under your shirt. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion but somehow also impossibly fast, and it was hard to keep track of what was going on. You knew you wanted whatever was happening, though, that wasn’t a question. And as Five tore your shirt over your head and unclasped your bra, you didn’t hesitate to start unbuttoning his own shirt; feeling the heat rise off his body.

When he dropped to his knees, right there in front of you, and started to unbutton your jeans, you thought for just a moment that you must be dreaming. No way was Number Five Hargreeves, of all people, kneeling before you. He was tearing your pants down your legs and you stepped out of them and kicked them to the side.

Left in just your underwear, your chest heaving and your mind reeling, you followed Five’s movements as he ran his hands up your thighs and back down again, over the backs of your knees and calves. He noticed the small bruise on your knee that you’d gotten when you ran into the bench in the locker room that day.

Five brushed his thumb over the small mark and leaned in to kiss it. He looked up at you; lips still pressed to the inside of your leg. He smiled.

“Should’ve let me take care of this bruise in the shower,” he told you; that half-smirk playing on his face. He kissed you again, further up your thigh. “It would have made for a better day, anyway.”

Your face burned a bright red. He knew. How the fuck did he know?

“Five, I’m—”

“I know what you saw,” he said, quieter. The tips of his fingers grazed just inside the material of your underwear. Despite the shiver it sent up your spine and everything else that was happening, you still couldn’t help but wish you’d worn something a little sexier than your plain, cotton panties.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered.

Five gave you another gentle kiss; this time onto the crease between your leg and hip. You bit at your bottom lip.

“But you did see,” he said.

You nodded. “Yes.”

He looked up again, his hands gripping your hips. “And you still didn’t run.”

You frowned, reaching your hand down to sweep his hair out of his eyes. Your eyebrows creased together. “Of course not.”

Five paused, like he was taking that information in. Then, he closed his eyes and pressed his face between your legs, placing open-mouthed kisses over the thin material of your panties; even lightly biting and licking at the already-damp area.

Your hand automatically came to rest in his hair and your head fell back with a tiny whimper. When you exhaled, you breathed out his name in a whisper. “Five.”

Five pulled your underwear down with his teeth and as soon as his warm tongue slipped across your clit, your grip tightened in his hair and you moaned loudly.

“Fuck,” he groaned into you. “I’m obsessed with you.”

Hearing him say those words, and realizing the insanity of the current situation, made you want to laugh, but with Five doing what he was doing, you were panting and whining instead. He continued licking into you, on his knees in his black suit pants and his shirt unbuttoned, and every time you looked down you were on the verge of passing out. He had you right on the edge when he stopped and stood back up.

He regarded you for a moment; studying your face as you fought for air and tried to keep it together.

“I’ve been dying to get my mouth on you,” he told you. He kissed you, slipping his tongue inside your mouth and gripping the back of your neck. He pulled back just an inch, his lips still close to yours. “What about you, agent?”

“What do you mean?”

He trailed his fingers down your neck and over your breasts. His green eyes bore right through you. “You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about what you’d do with me.”

Your body was trembling and hot under his touch. You could feel how aroused he was as he pressed his groin into you. You tentatively ran your hands down his chest and rested them on either side of his waist. His skin was so warm and his muscles were tense. You kissed him again as your heart hammered in your chest.

“I just wanted to touch you,” you said. “And have you close to me.”

Five smirked. “Is that all?”

Half of you hated that he knew you so well when you’d assumed he didn’t even know you existed. The other half was dying to show him how right he was. One side of your mouth curled up and you smashed your mouth onto his, aggressively devouring him, while pulling his shirt off and hurrying to undo the front of his pants.

“I want to know what it feels like to be fucked by the world’s deadliest assassin,” you told him fiercely.

If Five was surprised by your bluntness, he didn’t show it. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on you, and before you knew it you were being blinked into his bedroom and tossed onto the bed.

Five casually pushed his hair off his face and finished taking his pants and boxers off. He was watching you the entire time, like he was hunting you. Except that you were already caught, so you weren’t sure what his game plan was. This was the first time you’d seen him fully nude, though, and you couldn’t take your eyes off his body. He was so gorgeous and his hard cock was impressive.

He walked slowly to you, and pulled you up so that you were kneeling on the bed while he stood in front of you. His hands slid up and down your sides, over your breasts, and between your legs. He kissed you, softer this time, while he slowly touched you; dragging his fingers through your folds that were already wet from his mouth. When you reached down to take his cock in your hand, he let out a long moan.

“You want me?” Five asked, his voice almost a whisper as he closed his eyes and let you stroke him.

Your other hand rested on the back of his neck and you pressed your forehead to his. You smiled. “Yes.”

Five opened his eyes and as he gently pushed two fingers inside you, he watched your reaction. Your jaw dropped open but no sound came out and you increased the pace of your hand around him. A rough growl rose in his throat and he pushed you backward, following with you, until you were on your back and he was lying over you.

Neither of you could wait anymore, and while Five leaned down to kiss you, he thrust his cock inside you. Your body stiffened from the sensation but when he began to move, you relaxed and circled your legs around his waist. Five held himself over you, breathing hard while driving rhythmically into you.

“Is this what you imagined?” he asked you, looking down. “When you were over on that roof spying on me?”

His words were clipped from the effort of fucking you, but his mouth twitched up in a crooked smile.

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat. “Every time.”

Five clenched his teeth together and slammed his hips forward, making you cry out much louder than you’d meant to. His grin widened.

“That’s what I imagined,” he told you. “Making you scream.” He thrust into you again and your cry was cut off by his kiss. “Making you mine,” he murmured against your lips.

You were back in that dream-like state of not being fully convinced this was really happening. Five’s body was pressed to yours, his hands caressing you, and his cock filling you up, and it was just so unbelievable that your eyes filled up with tears. He moved his face to the crook of your neck, kissing along your shoulder and collarbone, and making quiet, raspy grunting noises that warmed your skin.

“Why did you wait so long?” you asked, your question broken off at the end by a sharp gasp when Five snapped his hips hard against you.

He stopped, momentarily, to gaze down on you. He raised a brow. “The hunt’s half the fun, don’t you think?”

You let out a quiet laugh. “I don’t know. I think I prefer this.”

“You may have a point,” he said, before continuing to fuck you.

Five grabbed at your ass and your thighs, pushing himself harder and deeper inside of you, while you grasped at his body, clutching onto his back and shoulders. Each drag of his cock through your core sent tiny shocks through your body, spreading out like ripples in water.

“Right there… there… please don’t… don’t stop,” you moaned. You were trying to pull him tighter to you, wrapping your body around him like a python to get him closer. “Five…”

You felt him exhale softly against your neck. “I won’t stop, honey, but you have to let me move.”

You released your hold on him, just enough to allow him more room to work, and he raked his teeth down the side of your neck. “Oh, fuck…” he said with a low groan next to your ear.

Your entire body was so tense and begging for release, that when Five lifted his head and locked eyes with you, just the sight of him watching you so intently made you instantly break. You threw your head back, arching your back, and digging your nails into his stiff muscles as you came hard.

A few seconds later, Five was shuddering against you, cursing under his breath as his cum covered your walls in hot pulses. Neither of you moved, still entwined with one another and out of breath, while the aftershocks of your orgasms continued to roll through you both.

Gradually, your body started to soften again and you released your grip on Five. He kissed you once, on your temple, before pulling out and sliding off of you. You suddenly felt very exposed and unsure of what had happened, lying there on your back, with Five next to you. Everything you’d been fantasizing about had just come true, but you weren’t sure what to do now. Maybe Five was going to kick you out.

But when you looked over, he gave a small smile and you knew he wasn’t going to do that. After all, you knew his facial expressions better than anyone. As further confirmation, he turned on his side and pulled you close to him with an arm around your waist.

“Was that the old-fashioned way of getting to know one another that you suggested earlier?” you asked. You traced a finger over his cheek bone and jawline, feeling the slight stubble that was growing there.

Five laughed, a real laugh, and it was so beautiful, like sunshine breaking through the clouds. “Yeah, I may have skipped ahead a little.”

You laughed along with him and for a second it felt like something normal and not the aftermath of an impromptu sexual encounter with a man you’ve been stalking for several months. Well, mutually stalking, you supposed.

“So, now what?” you asked. “Do we go back to the shadows and pretend this never happened?”

Five smoothed your hair back from your face. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“What do you want?”

Five hesitated before he spoke. “There’s a reason I don’t have many people in my life. I’ve designed it that way, for their sakes as well as mine.” He paused, looking thoughtful, before smiling slightly. “But you kind of wrecked that for me. You saw through all of that. And now… I don’t really want to be so alone anymore.”

You swallowed down the lump that formed in your throat. “I think I can help you with that.”

“But what do you want?” Five asked.

You breathed out a short laugh. “I just want you. All of you.”

Five leaned in to kiss you and you could feel your body heating up again. “Ok,” he told you, like some agreement had been decided upon, and you guessed it had been.

“This might not go over so well at headquarters,” you said, realizing you both had actual jobs to get back to eventually.

Five kissed you again, longer this time, and when you parted, he looked at you in the most carnal and devious way. “That’s where the real fun comes in.”

*******************

A month later, back at Commission headquarters, things were going the same at usual. You had a few new agents to tail and report back on and you had stopped spending all of your down time stalking Five. Although, admittedly, you still found yourself going out of your way to potentially “accidentally” bump into him in the hallways.

As you were stealthily observing a conversation between two lower-level field agents a few yards away, you noticed a slight change in the vibes of everyone around you. Like a herd of antelope raising their heads at the same time when they catch the scent of a lion on the wind. You smiled to yourself.

Sure enough, after a few seconds, Five came striding toward you. The seas parted and everyone got out of his way. He wasn’t covered in blood this time, but he was wearing his usual scowl and was walking with determined purpose. His gazed was fixed in front of him, but when he passed you by, you saw that tiny, fleeting glance in your direction. Then he rounded the corner was gone again. The herd exhaled a collective sigh and went back to their conversations.

You, however, turned on your heel and followed Five in the direction he’d headed. It was extremely difficult not to full-out sprint but you kept your cool and did your best to remain nonchalant. Whether it was convincing to others or not, you had no idea. But most people tended to steer clear of you anyway, which was a definite plus in this situation.

As predicted, you witnessed several men scurrying out of the locker room as you approached. You waited a reasonable amount of time before checking that you were alone and slipping inside the door.

The room was empty inside and the hairs on the back of your neck stood up with anticipation. Sometimes you were attacked immediately and sometimes he made you wait. Today, it seemed, he was in no mood to draw things out.

You were grabbed from behind, with two arms around your waist, and pulled directly into a glowing blue portal. It didn’t matter how used to spatial jumping you were, it always caught you off guard. Your scream was immediately cut short with a hand over your mouth, as your back slammed into the tiled wall of the shower stall.

“Careful, Madam Liaison,” Five said, his voice laced with fire and lust. “You don’t want to get caught.”

You smiled beneath his hand, your pulse already pounding in your ears. He lifted his hand away.

“I think I’m already caught,” you said.

Five grinned in that predatorial way you’d come to love, right before grabbing your face in both hands and kissing you fiercely. You knew the drill; this wasn’t your first locker room tryst, and you hurried up and started to unbuckle his belt. Your hand brushed against the hard bulge already forming in his pants and he moaned into your mouth. You loved it when he was so needy and ready to go.

As you worked at unzipping his fly and Five furiously yanked your skirt up to your waist, he moved his mouth to your neck, breathing fast and hard.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he said, his lips pressed hotly against your sensitive skin. “Fuck, I couldn’t wait to get back.”

You tipped your head back against the wall and gasped when he bit down on your collarbone. Your fingers threaded through his hair. “You’re so obsessed with me,” you teased.

He pulled back and raised one eyebrow. “Don’t make me blink you into the middle of headquarters and fuck you for everyone to see.” He tilted his head. “Or maybe you’d like that?”

You shook your head with a soft giggle. “Not really.”

When you were six, you met a boy with bronze curls and sea-green eyes. You were crouched by the shore, trying and failing to build a castle out of sand, only to have every small wave undo your work with careless indifference. Frustration simmered in your chest until the boy appeared beside you, his shadow cutting into the sunlight. He asked if he could help, promised that together you could build something bigger, something the tide wouldn’t dare destroy. You said yes. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, your mother’s voice was calling your name, and just before you turned to leave, the boy offered his name—Finnick Odair—and asked if you’d like to be friends. You said yes again. And somehow, that moment, all sun-warmed skin and saltwater air, set you both on a path that carried you fifteen years forward.

At eight, the two of you ran wild through the town square, sticky fingers swiping sweets from distracted vendors, mouths stained with chocolate as laughter rang through cobblestone alleys. You always ended up back at the beach, sand clinging to your skin as you talked about everything and nothing until the sky turned lavender. Sometimes it was your mother who’d call you home, and other times Finnick’s father would arrive, stern and tired from his son’s market ruckus again, dragging his son by the wrist. But he never included you in his scoldings. No—Finnick’s father looked at you like he might’ve looked at a daughter, gentle and kind. Finnick would sulk afterward, grumbling that you were definitely his dad’s favorite. You’d blow raspberries at him in response, which only made him roll his eyes harder.

When you were ten, Finnick showed up on your doorstep with a trembling smile, a box of chocolates in one hand and a single rose in the other. He was flushed and awkward and so very nervous when he stammered out the words—"Will you be my girlfriend?" Your father nearly had a heart attack, clutching his chest while your mother just laughed, amused and endlessly supportive, even though she said, "They’re children. It’ll pass." It took three nights to calm your dad down, reassure him that no, you and Finnick weren’t eloping anytime soon. Annie, your little sister, teased the both of you mercilessly. Whenever Finnick came by, she’d grin and say, “Dad’s gonna kill you if you ever make her cry.” Finnick always rolled his eyes and promised, “I could never.”

But that promise didn’t last long. You were twelve when you came home in tears over a ridiculous argument—something about sea animals and which one was the best. You lost, and your pride was bruised, and your father, loyal to a fault, nearly turned the entire district inside out looking for Finnick, who was hiding behind a fruit stall with his heart in his throat. That night, Finnick snuck through your window with your favorite lilies clutched in one hand and your favorite chocolates in the other. You forgave him before he even spoke. Giving him a kiss on the cheek as you hugged him.

By fourteen, the two of you had settled into something that felt eternal. Your relationship was soft and strong in the way only young love can be—full of promise and warmth and long walks along the beach with no need for words. He’d sleep over some nights, and you’d eat with his family just as often as he’d eat with yours. You had your own lives too, your own interests, your own spaces. You weren’t tied at the hip, but always tied at the heart. Arguments happened, sure. But they never lasted long. A few hours later, you'd be barefoot and breathless, laughing as he chased you across the shore like nothing had gone wrong at all.

But then came the 65th Hunger Games Reaping and it altered everything you once knew.

You heard his name called, and the world tilted. Time stopped. You watched him walk up to that stage, pale and shaking, and you felt your own heart fall from your chest and crack somewhere on the Justice Building’s stone steps. You wished you could scream. You wished you could run to him. You wished you could hide him away from the world. When the Peacekeepers finally let you in, led you through dim corridors to the room where Finnick waited, it felt like a dream unraveling into a nightmare. 

Because he was going, and you were staying, and neither of you knew how to live without the other.

Finnick made you promise not to wait for him—his voice thick with tears that tasted like the sea. One of his hands cupped your cheek gently, the other resting on your shoulder like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. You shook your head, burying your face in his chest, your arms wrapped around him like letting go would make everything real.

“Please,” Finnick whispered, his voice barely holding together. “When you leave this building… just forget it. Forget what we were. Everything we said we’d do, everything we thought we’d have—just let it go.”

A single tear slipped down his cheek. He tilted your chin up, gently, like he couldn’t stand not seeing your face one last time, even if it was streaked with tears.

Your breath hitched as you looked up at him, his face already starting to blur through the tears in your eyes. You wanted to tell him no—that you wouldn’t forget, that you couldn’t. But your throat tightened too much to speak, so you just nodded, slowly, even though your heart was breaking with every second.

Finnick leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes closed like he was trying to freeze time. “You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered, more like a hope than a promise. “You always were braver than me.”

You let out a shaky laugh, barely there. “That’s a lie,” you said quietly. “You were never scared of anything.”

“I’m scared now,” he admitted.

He kissed your forehead—soft, lingering, like a secret he didn’t know how to say out loud—and when he pulled back, his hands slid from your cheeks like he didn’t want to leave but knew he had to.

A knock on the door came too soon. A Peacekeeper's voice told you time was up.

You stepped back, arms falling to your sides, feeling colder already. Your fingers itched to grab him again, to hold on just one second longer, but you didn’t move.

“I’ll see you again,” you said, even though you didn’t know if you believed it.

Finnick gave you the smallest smile, eyes shining. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe somewhere without the Games. Just us.”

And then you turned, because if you waited another second, you’d never leave. The door closed behind you with a final, hollow sound. And just like that, the boy who had built sandcastles with you, who brought you chocolate and lilies, was gone.

~

For the rest of the month, you moved through your house like a ghost, pacing from room to room with nerves crackling just beneath your skin. The television was always on, no matter where you were—living room, kitchen, even the bathroom while you showered. You couldn’t bear to miss a moment. Even when you tried to sleep, the static hum and flicker of the screen followed you, casting shadows on your walls. You watched as the boy you loved, the boy who once helped you build sandcastles and brought you lilies, was slowly carved into something unrecognizable. The Games stripped him bare, piece by piece, and you watched it all happen in real time.

Your father tried to pull the plug—told you that no child should be watching something so violent, so vile. You screamed, and you ran, and you ended up at a friend’s house just to sit in front of their screen instead. Every night, you whispered prayers into your pillow, begged whatever gods might be listening to bring him home. Just bring him home.

And they did.

But God, how you wished they hadn’t.

Because the boy who returned wasn’t your Finnick. He looked the same—same bronze curls, same sea eyes—but his smile was gone, and the warmth in him had been buried somewhere you couldn’t reach. The boy who used to pull you into rib-cracking hugs now stood at a distance, a stranger wrapped in skin that used to feel like home. His eyes didn’t shine anymore. They just stared, empty and far away, like he was still in the arena, still trying to survive.

At first, you tried to understand. Of course he was different. Of course the Games had done something to him. How could they not? You told yourself he just needed time. You tried to talk to him, to remind him who he was, who you were together. You begged him to come outside, to walk with you down to the beach like old times. But all you got in return was silence, or worse—polite indifference, as if you were nothing more than another face in the crowd.

And then, one day, he broke your heart clean in two. No warning. No kindness. Just words as sharp as a blade and twice as cruel. He said it was over. That it had always been over. That you needed to forget.

You didn’t understand. You couldn’t. The Games were over. That nightmare—bloody and cruel and distant—should’ve ended the moment Finnick stepped back onto District 4 soil. So why was he still breaking your heart? Why was he pushing you away like your love had been part of the price he paid to win?

“I don’t understand...” you whispered, your voice trembling as your vision blurred with tears. “You’re alive. You’re here. So why won’t you come back to me?”

You cried. You begged. And if it would’ve changed anything, you would’ve dropped to your knees right then and there. But before you could, Finnick’s father gently pulled you back, his arms steady and warm in a way that almost made you crumble all over again. He told you Finnick just needed time. That trauma like his doesn’t fade, not quickly. Not easily.

You nodded, brushing the tears from your cheeks, trying to convince yourself it made sense. But when you turned back toward Finnick, he didn’t move. He stood completely still, his face a blank page. Nothing there. No flicker of the boy you loved.

But you caught it.

The twitch of his fingers, like he was holding himself back from reaching for you. The storm caught behind his eyes, screaming silently. The slight, almost invisible twitch at the corner of his mouth, like some part of him was dying to speak.

And so you waited. Days, then weeks. Months. Two years. You were patient. Gentle. You told yourself this was what love meant—loving someone through the dark, even if they couldn’t meet you halfway. You were there when he needed help after the fire that stole his parents, when the only thing left was a hollowed house and smoke. You stayed by his side as he moved into the empty victor’s mansion, a “gift” from President Snow that felt more like a cage than a home.

Sometimes, you’d find a window left open or a door that hadn’t been locked all the way, and you’d slip inside quietly, just to leave behind a flower, or a plate of food, or a note you didn’t sign. Sometimes, you just stood outside, staring at the doorknob, wondering if today would be the day he opened it for you.

Sometimes, Mags would catch you waiting. She never raised her voice. She just looked at you with soft, tired eyes and said, “Don’t come back.”

But she always let you in anyway.

You kept coming, and she kept letting you.

Until your sixteenth birthday.

Your house was full of people, of laughter and light and plates scraped clean—but none of it felt like yours. Your smile sat too neatly on your face. The laughter felt too hollow in your chest. Your father noticed. He watched you all evening like you were glass, just waiting for the moment you’d slip out the door.

And you did—right under his nose, with Annie’s help, while the dishes clattered and your friends cleaned up. You stepped out into the night barefoot, the hem of your dress brushing your calves, your heart pounding loud enough to drown out the world. There was only one place you wanted to be.

And maybe—just maybe—you hoped tonight would be different.

The walk to his house felt endless. The streets of District 4 were quiet, hushed under the weight of nightfall, the only sound the soft thud of your footsteps and the ocean sighing somewhere in the distance. When you reached his door, you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t even knock. The back window was cracked open like always, and your fingers pushed it up with ease, slipping through like you’d done so many times before.

But this time, Finnick was waiting for you.

He stood in the middle of the dimly lit living room, arms crossed, as if he’d heard your steps coming from a mile away. His face was unreadable, his eyes shadowed by something heavy and cold.

You froze from your spot. You weren’t expecting him to be there at all. “I-I just wanted to see you. It’s my birthday.”

“I know,” he said flatly.

Something in his voice made your stomach turn. Still, you stepped closer, like you had a hundred times before. “I thought maybe tonight we could just talk. Or sit. Like we used to—”

“We’re not anything anymore.”

The words landed sharp, like ice water poured over your chest. “Finnick, don’t—”

“I’m tired,” he said, voice sharp now, clipped and distant. “Tired of you sneaking in. Tired of you acting like this is still something it’s not. You need to stop.”

You stood still, your fingers curling into your palms. “I’ve been there for you—after everything. I never stopped caring. You can’t just throw that away.”

His laugh was hollow. “You think this is some story where love fixes everything? That you showing up like a stray dog will make me come running back? Grow up.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“I don’t want you here,” he said, voice like stone. “I don’t want you waiting for me. I don’t want you loving me.”

You stared at him, at this cold-eyed stranger wearing your first love’s face. The silence between you stretched taut and unbearable.

Then you nodded. Just once. It felt like your chest cracked in half.

“Fine,” you whispered, barely able to speak. “You win.”

And with that, you turned. You didn’t look back. You didn’t cry, not until you were past the gates of Victor’s Village and halfway down the empty road. 

You dropped to your knees, the cold mud soaking through your dress, clinging to your skin like grief itself. Your father found you there, his arms lifting you gently as if you might shatter. He carried you home without a word. You wailed into your mother’s chest, her hands cradling your head while your sister sat on the staircase above, silent, listening.

That night, something in you snapped clean.

No more waiting. No more hoping.

He killed it with his own hands.

And what took its place was colder. Not the kind of anger that burns fast and wild—but the kind that settles deep, simmering low and steady. The kind that lets you walk away without looking back, even when your heart is still bleeding.

~

The final year of eligibility came and went with a tension that clung to your lungs like smoke. Each reaping before had felt like a tightrope walk—every breath held, every step tentative. But this year, something shifted. Maybe it was acceptance. Maybe it was the exhaustion of bracing for something that never came. Either way, when they called two names that weren’t yours, the air returned to your lungs like a flood.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t cheer. You just stood there, heart pounding in your ears, staring at the stage until your friends tugged you back to reality. The weight you’d been carrying for years finally loosened, if only slightly.

Later that evening, you all gathered in the clearing just outside town—a quiet spot near the cliffs where the ocean breeze carried away the noise. There was music from a nearby radio, low and grainy, and someone had brought pastries from the market to celebrate. You laughed. You danced barefoot in the grass. You tilted your head back and screamed into the open sky just to hear yourself alive.

It felt like the first time in a long while that you were breathing without flinching.

But as the sun dipped lower, turning the ocean orange, something tugged at you. A ripple across your skin. A sixth sense you never could shake.

You turned toward the path that led back to town—and there he was.

Finnick stood at a distance, half-shadowed beneath the trees. His posture still, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He didn’t move. Just watched. The fading sunlight carved a line across his face, and for a moment, everything around you fell away—the music, the chatter, even the wind.

It was just him and you.

You couldn’t read his expression. Maybe he didn’t expect to be seen. Maybe he hoped you would. But your eyes met, and the moment hung heavy between you, suspended in that slow-burn ache you thought you'd long buried.

You blinked, and the world resumed its spin.

“I’ll be right back,” you told your friends, forcing a smile that didn’t quite fit. They nodded, distracted, too wrapped up in the freedom of not being chosen.

You slipped away from the crowd and into the cover of trees, your heart unsettled, like a drumbeat without rhythm. The ocean roared somewhere behind you, wild and alive, and you let the wind press against your skin, let it remind you that you were still here. Still untouched. Still standing yet still not free.

You leaned your weight against the trunk of the mango tree, pressing your temple to the rough bark. The rustling of leaves overhead mingled with the distant laughter of your friends, soft and far away, like a memory you were already starting to lose. A quiet ache bloomed in your chest, and before you could stop yourself, your mind wandered to Finnick—because that could’ve been him. That should’ve been him, standing beside you, laughing with the rest of them. But pride had built walls between you both—his heavy with guilt, yours laced with bitterness. And neither of you had the nerve to climb over.

Even after everything he’d done. Even after he broke your heart. You still yearned for him.

The crunch of boots on grass cut through the stillness, pulling you from your thoughts. You didn’t move at first—just let your eyes flutter open, fingers curling into the fabric of your skirt as your heart kicked up its pace. The footsteps were slow, hesitant. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could recognize him by his scent alone. More than that, you could feel him—like a change in the air, the way memory sometimes brushes too close to your skin.

Finnick stood a few feet behind you, and the silence between you thickened into something almost physical. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved.

You kept your eyes on the horizon, pretending you hadn’t noticed. But your body betrayed you. Your skin flushed with heat, your breath caught short, your jaw locked tight. Every part of you was aware of him—his presence like gravity, impossible to ignore.

Eventually, you couldn’t help it. You turned.

It had been years since you’d looked at him—really looked—and time had etched itself into his features. He wasn’t the boy who used to press wildflowers into your hands or kiss your forehead when no one was looking. His face was sharper now, his jaw more defined, his shoulders broader. He carried himself differently, like someone who had survived things he couldn’t speak of.

But it was his eyes that hit you hardest—those sea-green eyes, dulled now, as if salt and sorrow had washed the shine from them. You didn’t know what haunted him, but you knew something did. Maybe it was the Capitol. Maybe it was the cost of survival. Or maybe it was everything he never let himself say.

He looked older. Tired. Worn thin by something invisible but heavy.

You knew, deep down, that the version of him the Capitol adored—the flirt, the heartthrob, the enigma—wasn’t real. It was armor. A mask. Finnick had always been good at making people see what he wanted them to see. But underneath all of it, he was still just a boy trying to survive a world that never played fair.

And part of you—despite the ache, despite the bitterness—still believed that when he let you go all those years ago, it wasn’t out of cruelty. It was to protect you.

From what, you weren’t sure. But you had your suspicions. And that involved the Capitol.

Even now, with dark circles under his eyes, the slight sag at the corner of his mouth, the lines forming between his brows—he was still devastatingly, achingly beautiful. And that, too, made you angry.

The silence stretched, suspended by rustling leaves and the steady roar of waves in the distance. Finnick squinted at you, like he wasn’t quite sure where he was or why he’d come. There was something in his eyes when he looked at you—a flicker of recognition, but deeper than that. Not joy. Not even regret. It was as if his body remembered you before his mind did.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he might reach for you—or like he was stopping himself.

And you stood there, arms crossed over your chest, heart thudding against your ribs. Not angry. Not forgiving. Just exposed.

You didn’t know what to say. And he didn’t either.

So you both stood there in the shadow of what used to be, staring across a distance that time, pain, and silence had carved too wide to cross. Not now. Maybe not ever.

The wind picked up again, carrying the sharp scent of salt and something older—something lost. Memories. Promises. The ghosts of what could’ve been.

“It’s just us,” you said, the words scraping from your throat like they'd been dragged through sand. “You don’t need to look like you’re about to throw yourself in front of me to kill somebody.”

It wasn’t a great joke—barely a joke at all—but something in it eased the tension in his face. Finnick let out a breath he’d clearly been holding, like he wasn’t sure he’d be allowed to exhale in your presence.

Then, slowly, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his shorts. You noticed the hesitation, the way his fingers twitched before they disappeared.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he said, barely louder than the wind.

The words hung in the space between you, light and fragile. If you hadn’t been watching his face so closely—if you hadn’t been trying to memorize every line of him like this was the last time—you might’ve missed them entirely.

You blinked. Brows furrowing. Your shoulders drew inward before you could stop them, like your body was trying to shield something. That wasn’t what you expected. You thought he’d come armed with that Capitol grin, or that same cold indifference he wore the last time you spoke. Not this. Not the look in his eyes now—like he was unraveling in front of you, thread by thread, and didn’t care who saw.

He looked like he’d carved his heart out and held it in his hands, raw and bleeding, asking you to take it again. Asking you to break it all over if you needed to.

You took a small step back, instinctively. Your eyes narrowed, scanning his face as if you could spot a lie hiding behind the softness. And he saw it—that flicker of suspicion, of hurt, still sharp-edged and buried deep.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t defend himself. Just stood there, letting the silence wrap around both of you again.

You shook your head slightly, glancing away, grounding yourself in the crashing waves and the tree bark under your fingers.

“Why now?” you asked quietly. “After all this time?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you the way someone looks at something they lost and never expected to find again. And then, voice low and unsteady, he said, “Because it’s the first time I’ve seen you at peace in years.”

That silenced whatever you were going to say next. Your breath caught in your throat, a familiar burn rising behind your eyes—but you blinked it back.

You looked at him and for a moment, the years between you flickered. The memories. The pain. The boy who loved you. The boy who left. The man standing here now, trying too late to be brave.

You didn’t forgive him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But in that moment, you saw the wound behind the armor, and it mirrored your own.

So you nodded once. Quiet. Detached. And said, “I need to get back.”

You turned before he could reply, walking back toward the sound of laughter and life, where your friends waited and your future hadn’t yet been tangled up in his shadow again.

~

The 70th Hunger Games reaping arrived like a thundercloud—heavy, ominous, and buzzing with unspoken dread.

You stood at the edge of the square with your parents, your hands clasped tightly in front of you as you scanned the crowd. Your eyes searched the eighteen-year-old girls’ section until they landed on a familiar head of auburn hair. Annie. It was her last year of eligibility, and your stomach hadn’t stopped twisting since you woke up.

You’d noticed the pattern over the years—how the girl tributes were often eighteen, how the Capitol liked the illusion of a coming-of-age tragedy. Annie had barely lived her life. The thought made your heart lurch. She caught your gaze from across the square and gave you a small, nervous smile—brave in the way only Annie could manage.

From the corner of your eye, you caught a flicker of movement. Tousled blond hair. A strong jawline. Finnick. He stood on the stage near the other victors, his eyes trained on the crowd. You could feel his gaze grazing your skin, but you refused to meet it. Last year had already broken through walls you’d spent years building. You weren’t about to let him ruin your footing again—not now.

The escort began her rehearsed speech, cheerful and detached. Her voice blurred around the edges as your heartbeat thundered in your ears. You were nineteen. Safe. Annie wasn’t. This was her final year. One last time to tempt the odds.

And this year, the odds are not in your favor.

“Annie Cresta.”

The name cracked across the square like a whip.

The air stilled. Conversations stopped mid-word. Heads turned. Your breath caught, and the world seemed to tilt beneath you. All eyes were on you—because they remembered. They remembered the last time someone you loved was taken.

And just like that, you were fourteen again. Watching the boy you once dreamed of forever with get ripped from your life. Only now, it wasn’t love on the line. It was blood.

At first, you didn’t understand. Your brain scrambled, lips parting, but no sound came out. You felt the air leave your lungs and your knees nearly buckled. You turned to Annie, whose face had gone pale, eyes wide, mouth trembling.

The silence stretched unbearably long before a Peacekeeper gave a subtle nudge. That broke her paralysis. Annie stepped forward slowly, her legs wooden, like every step was a decision she didn’t want to make.

“No,” you whispered, a soundless protest as your heart slammed against your ribs. “No!” You cried out as you reached for her, but someone was already holding you back.

Your father wrapped his arms around your waist and shoulder. Your mother cupping your face and pressing you into her shoulder. You kicked, thrashed, sobbed against their hold as the reality of your situation dawned on you fully.

Annie was probably crying too now, trying not to fall apart in front of the whole district.

You didn’t have to look to know Finnick was watching.

But eventually, you twisted enough to catch a glimpse of her. Annie stood on the stage like a leaf in the wind. Her sea-green dress clung to her in the summer heat, hair stuck to her temples with sweat. She looked impossibly young. Fragile in a way that made your chest hurt.

You barely remember who the male tribute was. He didn’t matter.

Everything in your world zeroed in on the girl standing alone on the stage, blinking fast as she tried not to cry.

Then your gaze flickered to Finnick. He was standing by the Victor’s section, hands clenched into fists, jaw so tight you swore it might shatter. His eyes didn’t leave Annie. Not once. Not even when she was escorted away toward the Justice Building.

The crowd began to dissolve, families murmuring soft prayers and farewells, but you stood frozen. Your hands still trembled at your sides, and your sister’s name kept echoing in your mind like a wound that wouldn’t close.

That was the moment the Games became real in a new way. Not as a far-off threat. Not as something that might happen.

But as something that had taken someone you loved.

Your father said something about being allowed to visit her before she left. A short goodbye. A few minutes. But your legs moved before your mind could catch up, pulling yourself free from their weakened grip.

Because you weren’t heading for the Justice Building.

You were heading for Finnick.

You ran to the docks. You didn’t have to think. Your feet just knew. That’s where he always went after a reaping—where the sea could swallow the things he couldn’t say. You’d found him there before, year after year, always standing just past the last post, where the saltwater licked the edge of the wood and the wind carried the cries of gulls overhead.

Finnick stood with his back to you, shoulders drawn tight, head bowed slightly. The sea mist caught in his hair, and for a second, he didn’t look like the boy you once loved. He looked like a myth. A shipwreck still standing.

You slowed, breath catching as your gaze traced the outline of him. He was broader now, stronger, wearier. Time had carved him into something harsher—like a statue softened by storms, not age. He hadn’t heard you yet.

“Finnick?” you called, voice fragile as driftwood.

He turned. And in the space of a heartbeat, he was in front of you—arms wrapping around your waist, breath hitting your cheek, lips crashing against yours like a wave that had waited years to break.

There was no hesitation. No words. Just the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for permission, because it already knows the answer. A kiss made of everything you’d both tried to drown—grief, longing, rage, hope. His mouth tasted like salt and sorrow, and your tears slipped down between you, catching in the corners of the kiss, but neither of you stopped.

His arms wrapped around you so tightly it almost hurt. But you didn’t pull away. You clung to him like he was a wound and you’d forgotten how to stop bleeding.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was teeth and tears and years of silence crumbling between you. It was desperate, broken, angry. It was everything you never got to say, poured out in gasps and shudders.

You kissed him like you hated him. Like you still loved him. Like you wished it didn’t still feel like this.

And when you finally pulled away, breathless and aching, it wasn’t relief that followed. It was the kind of silence that settled between people who knew they had no future—only history. Only ruin.

Finnick didn’t say anything. Neither did you. You just stared at each other, chest heaving, salt from the sea and your tears sticking to your lips.

This wasn’t forgiveness.

This was grief wearing love’s face.

“Promise me you’ll bring her back,” you whispered, the words trembling but edged with steel.

Finnick’s gaze flickered, sorrow rising like a tide behind his eyes. His grip on your waist faltered, and that alone was enough to send panic lurching in your chest. You reached up and cupped his face firmly, grounding him. Forcing him to look at you.

“Finnick,” you said louder, voice hoarse. “Swear to me you’ll bring my sister back.”

His lips parted, but nothing came out. Then soft and pained,“You know I can’t—”

“I’ll spend the rest of this life hating you,” you cut in, voice cracking like ice under pressure, “and the next one, too, if you don’t. I can’t lose her. Not after everything.”

He closed his eyes like it hurt to look at you, lashes brushing his cheeks as he pressed his forehead to yours, breath warm and shaky.

“That’s not fair,” he whispered, broken open.

A hollow, bitter laugh escaped you. “You stopped playing fair the day you told me to forget you. The day they took you away.” Your thumb ghosted across his jaw. “This is me returning the favor.”

Finnick’s hands curled around your waist again, tighter now. “I don’t control the Games, sweetheart.”

“But you can influence them.” You met his eyes without flinching. “You have power in that hell, even if you pretend you don’t. Use it. Use whatever the Capitol gave you—your smile, your secrets, your body, I don’t care.”

Your voice wavered, a thread unraveling. “Just bring her back to me.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek, and Finnick caught it with the pad of his thumb—slow, reverent. His eyes searched yours like you were asking him to walk through fire. And you were.

He nodded once—slowly, solemnly—as if sealing something ancient and sacred. His thumb lingered against your cheek, then trailed down to your jaw, gentle as a prayer.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he murmured.

And then he kissed you again.

But this one was different—less fire, more ache. Like he was memorizing your mouth. Like he was afraid this would be the last time he’d taste something that reminded him what it meant to be alive. It was a promise, a confession, and a goodbye, all tangled in the same breath.

He pulled you closer, crushing you to him as though he could will the world to stop. As though this kiss could delay the storm waiting on the other side of the sunrise.

~

The rest of the month was a slow, merciless bleed. You paced the floors until the wood creaked in protest. Sleep became a stranger. Your meals went cold on untouched plates. Every second was haunted by the thought of Annie—of her dying alone in an arena designed to chew innocence to pieces.

You couldn’t bring yourself to watch the broadcasts. Every TV in the house remained dark, silent like a grave. You didn’t go outside. You didn’t speak to anyone who tried to console you. Because if you were going to lose her, if the Capitol was going to steal her the way it stole Finnick, then you wanted to be the last to know. You wanted to keep the illusion of hope alive for just a little longer.

You weren’t ready to grieve her yet.

The thought alone was unbearable—it felt like the same knife, twisted again, deeper. Losing Finnick once had shattered you. Losing Annie would be the final blow. You couldn’t come back from that.

So you prayed. Harder than you ever had. Not to any god you truly believed in, but to anything listening. You whispered promises to the sea, lit candles at dawn, begged the stars overhead.

Bring her back. Please, just bring her back.

It didn’t matter if she came home broken or silenced or strange. You’d take her in any form she returned. You’d rebuild her piece by piece, hold her hand through every nightmare. You’d trade your sanity, your soul, your future—anything. Just to see her again.

Because you knew her heart. You’d watched her grow from a bright-eyed child into a girl who still believed in kindness, even in a world that tried to kill it. You knew the sound of her laugh in a crowded room. The way she curled up in her sleep. The softness in her that didn’t belong anywhere near blood-soaked soil.

If you could’ve taken her place, you would’ve. Gladly. Because this time, unlike with Finnick, you had a choice to save her.

The announcement came on a quiet evening, when the clouds hung low like they, too, were bracing for something. You hadn’t planned to be near the screen. In fact, you’d been doing everything not to be.

But your father called your name with a voice that shook. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be.

You walked into the room like someone heading toward a noose. Each step dragged with the weight of too many memories, too many hopes stitched together by desperation.

The Capitol seal spun. The anthem played. You didn’t breathe.

And then, there she was. Her face is plastered on the screen as the gamemaker announces her win. But unlike a close-up shot of the victor they usually do, it’s a poster of her face.

You staggered back like you’d been hit. The world blurred as tears rushed forward with no warning, and all at once, the ache you’d been trying to smother cracked wide open. You fell to your knees in the middle of the room, sobbing so hard it tore something loose in you. She was alive. She’s alive. Not untouched—but breathing, standing. Still here.

You pressed your face to your hands, overcome by a grief that had been paused for weeks and was now finally allowed to finish its scream. Annie. Annie.

The sea carried her back to you days later.

You waited at the docks long before the train arrived. The sky was the same soft gray it had been the day Finnick kissed you goodbye. The waves lapped against the shore in a quiet rhythm. The gulls circled overhead like guardians, watchful and wide-winged.

You saw her before she saw you—standing in the doorway of the train car, framed by glass and metal and too much sorrow. She stepped out slowly, eyes scanning the crowd with a blankness that punched the breath right out of you.

She was thinner. Her lips pale. Her eyes—those green eyes—were distant, darting like she expected someone to leap at her from the shadows.

But she was here.

You didn’t call her name. You didn’t need to. Somehow, she found you.

Her eyes landed on yours like they were remembering how to be hers again. And that was it. You broke into a run and she did too, stumbling at first, then faster, until the two of you collided.

You wrapped your arms around her with a strength you didn’t know you had left, clutching her like she’d slip through your fingers if you let go for even a second. Annie buried her face in your shoulder and sobbed—not like the girl who’d survived, but like the one who finally knew she was safe.

“I’m here,” you whispered over and over, your voice cracking, your tears soaking her hair. “I’m here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

And behind the two of you, standing by the tracks, was Finnick.

He didn’t say a word nor did he try to interrupt, but his eyes met yours—and they said everything.

He kept his promise.

The outside of the train station was packed, a wall of faces blurring into one another—cheering, gawking, reaching for a glimpse of the girl who survived. Annie clutched your hand so tightly your knuckles turned white, her small fingers digging into your palm like she was afraid the moment she let go, she’d vanish back into that arena. You leaned down, whispering comfort against her temple, but your voice was lost in the roar of the crowd. The Capitol had announced her return, spun her survival into a tale of quiet victory, and now the whole of District 4 wanted to witness the aftermath of a miracle.

You should have seen it coming. The way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath started to hitch. Her gaze flitted wildly, like she was searching for a way out. The noise, the crush of people—it was too much. She stumbled, her body trembling. You turned to her, trying to anchor her, to bring her back into the safety of your voice, but it was already too late.

Annie screamed. A raw, guttural sound that split the air like a struck bell. Her hands lashed out—not in anger but in sheer terror. And one of them caught your face. You didn’t register the pain right away. All you knew was the copper taste of shock and the wet warmth blooming from your cheek. Then the crowd recoiled. Peacekeepers surged forward. You tried to shield her, to stop them, but a pair of arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you back.

Finnick.

He caught you just as your legs gave out, holding you against his chest while Annie was wrestled from the platform. Her cries echoed, high and frantic, as the Peacekeepers restrained her and led her toward a waiting black car. She thrashed like a wild thing, like a child in a nightmare that no one could shake her from. Your heart cracked wide open watching her disappear behind the metal doors.

The medical wing of District 4’s Justice Building smelled like antiseptic and ocean salt. A doctor patched up the gash on your cheek while your parents sat silent, pale and stiff, across the room. No one spoke until a Capitol official—your district’s escort, dressed in muted tones for once—arrived with a folder clutched tightly in her manicured hands. She didn’t sit. Just read off the facts like they were weather reports. Annie was experiencing acute post-traumatic psychosis. She’d had several episodes on the train ride back. Screaming in her sleep. Refusing to eat. Moments of complete dissociation. The Capitol had deemed her unstable, unfit for interviews or appearances. She would not be presented to the public. She would not have a victory tour. Her Games were to be erased, quietly shelved. She was to be kept out of sight—"for her own good," the escort added, eyes glossed with practiced sympathy.

You thanked her, numb and hollowed out.

It was strange, the way grief and relief could exist inside you at the same time. Annie was safe. She would never have to play the Capitol’s game the way Finnick had. She wouldn’t be dolled up in sequins, forced to smile while being showed off to people with power. She wouldn’t have to go through the same things Finnick did when he’s in the Capitol to survive. You should have felt victorious.

But you didn’t.

Because you’d lost her anyway. Not to a blade or a cannon, but to something slower, quieter. Annie had come back breathing, but not whole. The girl who whispered sea shanties in her sleep and laughed like sunlight on waves was gone. And in her place was someone the Capitol couldn’t use—so they discarded her, tucked her away like something broken.

You pressed your face into your hands, sitting in a sterile room that reeked of tragedy, and for the second time in your life, you felt the Games take someone you loved and twist them into something unrecognizable.

You took care of your sister. You quit your job at the front of your family’s fishery, turned your back on the small sliver of normalcy you'd managed to hold onto, and redirected everything into Annie. Because no one else could. Not in the way she needed. Your parents tried—your mother cooked more than she ever had, your father offered quiet gestures of comfort—but it was you Annie reached for when the nights grew long and the memories returned screaming. It was you who held her through every fractured moment, every disoriented stare, every time she forgot where she was.

You moved into the mansion President Snow generously allotted in the Victor’s Village. The place was too big, too white, too hollow. Your mother did what she could to make it feel like home—curtains with warm colors, potted herbs in the kitchen, family photos tucked into glass frames—but no matter how much she softened the corners, it never stopped feeling like a cage. Everything about the house was a monument to survival, but none of it felt alive. You tried to ignore the way the walls pressed in. You tried to ignore the silence. You tried, but it never left.

This wasn’t the life you imagined for yourself. You should’ve been outside right now, maybe stringing fish with the village girls, maybe letting some hopeful boy walk you home, someone who resembled Finnick in all the worst ways—pretty, careless, distant. You should’ve been pretending that heartbreak wasn’t a part of your story. That promises never made don’t hurt when they’re never kept. That the boy you built your world around hadn't become a stranger dressed in silk and scars.

But instead, you were here. In a mansion that echoed with old grief and new fear, in hallways where your parents’ voices ricocheted like sharp stones. Your mother shouting numbers. Your father sighing in exhaustion. Their arguments wove into the background like music, and you watched Annie flinch at each crescendo, her body curling in on itself as if trying to vanish into air. Then it would be you again—kneeling, soothing, holding her as her breathing turned erratic and her eyes lost focus.

You were tired. Tired of the weight. Tired of the pain. Tired of pretending that if you worked hard enough, loved hard enough, you could undo what had already been done.

Sometimes, when the house finally quieted and your bones ached with fatigue, you’d lie flat on the cold floor of your room, staring up at the ceiling like it held answers. You’d imagine other versions of your life—one where Finnick was never reaped, where his smile never carried secrets, where you were both just two kids in love, dreaming of something small and safe. Or maybe a life where he didn’t exist at all. Maybe then your heart wouldn’t feel like it was still waiting for him. Waiting for something that was never coming back.

Your gaze drifted to the form curled up on the bed across the room. Annie’s breathing had slowed. Her face, so soft in sleep, looked like it belonged to a child again. But even peace looked haunted on her. The Capitol hadn’t just taken her sanity—it had taken her time, her youth, her quietness. You swallowed hard and looked away.

And then you remembered that day. The first time Finnick stepped off the train after his Games. You remembered the way your lungs had locked up, the way you recognized him instantly and yet not at all. He looked older, like someone had drained the color from him. There was a shine in his eyes that had nothing to do with light and everything to do with damage. He had been gilded in gold and clothed in silk, but all you saw was the wreckage.

You rose carefully, checking Annie one last time, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek before slipping from the room. A quick, hot shower to wash off the stillness clinging to your skin, and then you dressed in something simple and clean. There was an hour left—maybe less—before Annie would wake from the nightmares again. You moved quickly. Slipped through the front door, past the silent garden your mother kept trying to coax to life, past the white fences that looked like bones.

The path to the beach wasn’t long. It never was. The sea had always been near, calling to you like a lullaby too old to forget.

You didn’t stop until your feet met the sand, until you stood before the great stretch of gray-blue water and let the salt sting your lungs. The ocean didn’t ask for anything. It didn’t explain itself. It just kept going—crashing, shifting, changing, surviving.

You closed your eyes and let it drown out everything else. For a moment, just a moment, you could breathe again.

You sank down into the sand, drawing your knees to your chest as the tide whispered its hush. The sky was heavy above you, smeared with clouds that looked like they’d forgotten how to rain. The wind was colder than it should’ve been, brushing your skin like a ghost you didn’t want to name. But you stayed, arms wrapped around your legs, head bowed like prayer, as the waves pushed and pulled at the shore like they were looking for something too.

It was always the quiet that made you think of him the most.

Finnick Odair.

Even now, the thought of his name hurt in a place words couldn’t reach. It throbbed somewhere beneath your ribs, like your heart had been split open and stitched back wrong. You remembered everything too vividly—how his laughter once wrapped around you like a safety net, how his eyes found yours in a crowd like magnets. You remembered the first time he kissed you by these very shores, sand in your hair and salt on your lips, his hands trembling just enough to tell you he was scared too.

You remembered the promises. Not the grand, theatrical kind—but the small ones, whispered under breath in the shadows between curfews and the seas. He’d promised to teach you how to dive deeper, to build you a little house on stilts by the rocks where no one could find you, to grow old with you in a place where the Capitol couldn’t reach.

None of those promises were kept.

It wasn’t his fault. You told yourself that more times than you could count. But it didn’t stop you from aching anyway.

Because the truth was, Finnick didn’t come back the same. The Games took the boy you loved and sent back someone who wore his face but none of his softness. The Capitol dressed him up like a prize and passed him around like he didn’t bleed the same way everyone else did. And you had to watch—helpless—as the light in him died out piece by piece, each interview, each appearance, each year that passed.

And what hurt the most—what broke something inside you—was that he let it happen. He let the Capitol turn him into something you barely recognized. He never fought to hold onto you. He just let go.

You tried to hate him for it.

You tried to bury every tender thing you ever felt and replace it with anger, but no matter how hard you tried, it never stuck. Because you knew. Deep down, you always knew.

He did it to protect you.

He gave you up like a gift, a final desperate offering to a world that only knew how to take. He loved you in silence because that was the only way he knew how to keep you safe. And in doing so, he shattered you.

So you sat there on the sand, choking on the memories, wishing you could hold him one last time. Not the version the Capitol claimed, not the Victor they paraded on screens. Just him. Just Finnick. Barefoot, sea-soaked, thirteen. Telling you he’d love you forever with a smile that didn’t know yet what it would cost.

You pressed your forehead to your knees and let the tide sing you something soft. There were no answers in the waves, only ache. And you carried enough of that to last a lifetime.

You didn’t hear the footsteps behind you. You were too lost in your thoughts to recognize the soft thud of feet meeting sand, too wrapped in the ache of what could’ve been to notice the shift in the air beside you. The tide kept humming, but something about it changed—like it suddenly had company. You only realized someone had sat next to you when the warmth of their presence brushed against your side, quiet and steady like a second heartbeat you forgot you missed.

You didn’t turn right away.

You couldn’t.

Because some part of you already knew who it was. The weight of him settled into the earth like it belonged there, like he had always been drawn to your orbit, and you to his. And you weren’t ready—not to see him, not to unravel beneath that face again. But then came his voice, quiet, unsteady, like he hadn’t spoken all day.

“I figured I’d find you here.”

You closed your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to keep the emotion at bay, to swallow the thousand things you wanted to scream and instead let silence stretch between you. You opened them only when you were sure you wouldn’t cry at the sound of him.

“Don’t tell me you’re here to apologize,” you said. Your voice didn’t sound like yours. It sounded older. Tired.

Finnick didn’t answer right away. Instead, he brought his knees up, forearms resting on them, head tilted slightly toward the sea. He looked like someone trying to memorize the horizon, maybe because the present was too hard to look at.

“I don’t think I have the right words to say sorry,” he admitted. “Not after everything.”

You studied him from the side. The light caught his face differently now. The angles were sharper, the shadows deeper. His beauty hadn’t faded, but there was something hollow behind it now, something bruised. It was the kind of face you ached to touch but knew it might burn you.

It had been months since you last saw him. The last time was when Annie broke down at the station, when the Peacekeepers tried to restrain her and you lunged forward like instinct. Finnick had caught you then, his grip strong and desperate, as if loosening it meant losing you too. He’d held you like you were the only steady thing left in the world. He accompanied you to the Justice Building, stood at the far end of the hallway with watchful eyes, quiet and protective. He helped your mother when her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, helped your father when he stumbled trying to sit down, and when the doctors told you Annie could finally come home, he was still there—lingering, waiting. But after that day, you never really crossed paths again. Not truly.

Even though he lived just across the street in the Victor’s Village. Even though you caught glimpses of him now and then through curtained windows or the rustle of grocery bags left at your door. He visited sometimes, brought fruit, helped your father with the porch railings and fixed the roof when the wind tore shingles off. But you were too buried in Annie’s care—watching her every breath, terrified she'd be taken from you again. And so you both existed in proximity, orbiting the same grief but never touching. Busy in lives that revolved around a shared ruin.

You turned back toward the ocean, the sand shifting beneath your fingers.

“I used to think I’d never stop loving you,” you whispered, not meaning to say it out loud. “That no matter what happened, you’d always be the one.”

His breath caught, and that silence that stretched between you before now felt like a scream.

“I never stopped,” he said.

And god, how you hated him for saying it. Because he meant it. You could hear it in the way his voice cracked on the last word, how his knuckles whitened against his knees.

“But you left,” you said, still staring straight ahead. “You let them turn you into something I didn’t recognize. You didn’t fight for me. For us.”

“I was trying to keep you safe,” he murmured. “If they knew how much you meant to me... they would’ve used you. Like they used everything else.”

A bitter laugh slipped from your lips, tired and sharp. “And what difference did it make? I still lost everything.”

You felt his gaze on you then—heavy, full of everything he couldn’t say. Your breath hitched when his hand brushed against yours, hesitant, like asking for permission to hold something sacred.

“I miss you,” he said, the words so soft they barely reached over the waves.

You turned toward him, finally letting yourself look.

There he was. Not the Capitol’s toy. Not the Victor. Just Finnick. The boy you loved. The boy you still loved in all the ways that mattered.

“I miss who we were,” you whispered back.

The space between you closed before you could stop it. His hand slid into yours and you didn’t pull away. Not this time. His forehead came to rest against yours, and the moment held still—delicate, aching, reverent.

No kiss followed this time. Just breathing.

Just two broken people trying to remember how to hold on without shattering further.

Finnick slowly pulls away from you, as if that he had lingered any longer, he would have broken down. He plants his hands behind him and leans back on them, staring blankly at the dark horizon as the waves continue their endless crashing against the shore. You examine him in silence, drinking in the way his hair catches the breeze, how his features have sharpened with time—his jaw more prominent, his cheeks leaner, eyes more sunken, heavier. He looks like someone who’s been carried too far out to sea and barely crawled his way back.

Your eyes catch on something at the base of his neck. A bruise. Fading, but unmistakable. The sight of it knocks something loose in your chest.

You shift closer, your voice tentative as your fingers hover just near the discolored skin. “Where did you get that?”

Finnick doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t even flinch. He keeps staring out at the horizon like he’s searching for a way to disappear.

You draw back a little, heart beating faster, already fearing the answer but needing to hear it anyway. “Was it… from someone in the Capitol?” The words taste bitter in your mouth. You hate yourself for how jealous you sound. You expect him to confirm it, maybe shrug it off like he always used to when the topic came up—half a smile, a deflection, some comment about admirers with too many teeth.

But this time, he doesn’t lie.

“No,” he says quietly. “Not someone. Everyone.”

His voice is too hollow to be casual. Too cracked to be teasing. He finally turns to look at you, and what you see in his eyes isn’t embarrassment. It’s resignation.

Your stomach sinks. “Finnick…” you breathe, dread coiling in your throat.

“When you win,” he begins, slowly, like the words are costing him pieces of himself, “they let you think you’re free. You get your parade, your crown, the cheers. And then you find out that your real life—the one after the arena—is just another performance. Another prison.”

You don’t interrupt. You can’t. You’re barely breathing.

“Snow didn’t just want me to be a victor,” he continues. “He wanted me to be… presentable. Marketable. There’s a certain kind of entertainment the Capitol values more than blood. And they paid him well for me.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest. You look away, eyes stinging, your breath caught in your throat. “He sold you,” you whisper.

Finnick nods. “Over and over again. To anyone who had enough money or enough power. Old men. Women. Senators. Sponsors. Some of them just wanted to say they had me. Some wanted more.”

You shake your head slowly, unable to stop the tears now falling freely down your cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Because I couldn’t,” he says, his voice strained. “Because if I so much as hinted at it, they would’ve come after you. After your family. After anyone I cared about. I did everything I could to keep them from seeing how much you meant to me.”

You choke on a sob, your hand rising to cover your mouth. “God, I was so stupid. I thought you were just… sleeping around. I hated you for it. I thought you changed.”

“I wanted you to hate me,” he says quietly. “I needed you to. It was the only way I could keep you safe. If you thought I’d become just another Capitol puppet, maybe they’d think I saw you as nothing. Maybe they’d leave you alone.”

“She warned me,” he continued, eyes still locked on the sea. “Mags. The night I won. The Capitol hadn’t even let me sleep yet. They were already lining up people for me to meet. She pulled me into this quiet room, held my face like she used to when I was a kid, and said, ‘If you want her to live, you let her go.’ Just like that. No explanation. But I knew what she meant.”

Something cold twisted deep in your stomach. Mags—gentle, warm Mags—saying something so dire, so absolute. It made the back of your throat ache.

“They’d seen me with you,” Finnick said, his voice low and bitter. “Back home. Before the Games. They knew everything. They always know everything. And when a Victor becomes someone worth watching, the people around them do too. I thought maybe if I was careful… maybe if I kept just enough distance. But they made it very clear. You were a string they could pull if I ever misbehaved. So I cut it first.”

Your body trembles with the weight of it all. The months you spent hating him, envying his admirers, grieving the boy he used to be—all while he was being broken piece by piece behind closed doors. And you hadn’t seen it. You hadn’t wanted to see it. Because believing he’d become cruel was easier than imagining he was being hurt.

You wrap your arms around yourself, the night air suddenly colder, heavier, pressing down on your ribs. “You should’ve let me choose, Finnick,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve fought.”

He shakes his head, a small, sad smile on his lips. “That’s what scared me. You would’ve followed me into hell if I asked. And they would’ve made you suffer for it.”

The silence that follows is thick with things unsaid, with the ache of love long buried beneath fear and sacrifice. The waves keep rolling in, the only constant sound between the two of you.

You feel the tremor in his words more than you hear it. Something inside you cracks again, like glass under too much pressure. You press your palm over his heart, feeling how fast it’s racing, as if the truth itself is clawing to escape from where he buried it for too long. You try to memorize the moment, etch it into your mind the way you did back then—his scent, the soft tremble in his breath, the way he says your name like it’s the only word that ever meant anything.

“I wrote to you,” he says, and your eyes snap up to his, wide with confusion. “After that night. Letters. Every week.”

You blink at him, stunned. “You… you did?”

Finnick nods slowly, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “At first, I thought maybe they weren’t getting through. But then I stopped getting anything back, and I started wondering if you just… couldn’t forgive me. And then your father came to see me.”

A cold chill spreads down your spine, dread pooling at the base of your stomach. “My father?”

Finnick leans back again, looking up at the stars like he’s searching for an answer he already knows won’t come. “He said I needed to stop. That it wasn’t right for me to keep reaching out. That you were better off not being tangled in something the Capitol was obsessed with. He told me I’d ruin you if I kept holding on. And he wasn’t wrong. So I stopped.”

You’re frozen for a moment. A long, bitter moment where your mind races to piece together all the holes in your memory—after your sixteenth birthday, the way Finnick kept looking at you like he’s expecting something from you, the silence that followed. You remember asking your father once, asking if Finnick had written or visited, and how he shook his head without meeting your eyes.

Your jaw tightens as heat stings behind your eyes. “He never told me,” you whisper, voice shaking. “He never told me anything.”

“I figured,” Finnick says quietly. “He was trying to protect you. I can’t even hate him for it.”

But you can. And you do, just a little.

The betrayal cuts sharper than you expected. Because while your father kept you safe, he also kept you in the dark. He let you believe you weren’t wanted. He let you think Finnick had changed into someone else—someone cold, someone selfish. And you let that belief root itself deep in your chest, never knowing it had all been a carefully constructed lie meant to keep you apart.

Tears prick at your eyes again, but this time they’re different. This time they burn. “I hated you,” you admit, voice trembling. “For so long, I hated you. I thought you threw me away.”

Finnick looks at you then, really looks at you, and you see all of it written in his face—regret, guilt, sorrow. But not once does he try to defend himself. “That was the point,” he says softly.

You can’t stop the sob that escapes you. You turn away, burying your face in your hands as your shoulders shake. All this time, you thought he’d chosen the Capitol. You thought he’d abandoned you, turned into someone else. But he had been breaking in silence, alone, while you grieved a version of him that never really died.

You feel him move beside you, the warmth of his hand ghosting over your back, not pushing, not pulling—just there. Just steady.

“I would’ve waited forever,” you whisper. “If I had known.”

The tears on your cheeks have dried, but your skin still feels tight with salt and grief. You sit beside him in the hush that follows, your fingers curled into the sand, knuckles white. The air is thick with everything—everything he said, everything he didn't, everything you finally understand. It presses down on you like the weight of the ocean, vast and cold and merciless.

“You don’t get to do that,” you whisper. Your voice is low, sharp-edged and unsteady, trembling with everything you’re trying not to say. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

Finnick’s head turns slowly, brows drawing together, confusion flickering in his eyes.

“You don’t get to rip me apart for years, make me think I was never enough, and then tell me it was all for my protection,” you say. “You don’t get to martyr yourself and leave me in the dark. That wasn’t fair.”

He looks away again, jaw clenching. “I—”

“No, you don’t,” you snap, voice rising despite the quiver in it. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t have let me believe I was forgettable. Replaceable. You wouldn’t have looked me in the eyes and made me feel like nothing.”

Finnick’s hands are fists in the sand now, knuckles scraped raw. “You think I wanted to do that to you?” he says, his voice breaking. “You think I wanted to see you cry every time I passed your house and didn’t look up? You think I didn’t die every time Annie tells me about you?”

“Then why didn’t you fight?” you ask, hating how wrecked your voice sounds. “Why didn’t you trust me? We could’ve figured it out. Together.”

He finally turns to you fully, and the look on his face guts you. It’s not anger. It’s not defensiveness. It’s devastation. “Because I wasn’t strong enough. Because they used me up, over and over, until I didn’t know who I was anymore. And I couldn’t ask you to love what was left.”

You suck in a breath, and it feels like broken glass in your throat.

Finnick’s voice softens, like he’s afraid the truth might shatter you now that it’s out. “You were the only thing that felt real, and I thought if I held on to you, they’d destroy you just to prove they could. So I let them destroy me instead.”

The sob that escapes you is ugly and jagged. “I spent years hating you, Finnick. Years thinking you never cared. And now I don’t even know where to put all of this—this guilt, this love, this hurt.”

He reaches for you then, carefully, like you’re a wounded bird. His fingers curl around yours, gentle and trembling. “Put it here,” he whispers, bringing your joined hands to his chest. “Put it where I kept you all this time.”

You stare at him, tears blurring your vision, your heart aching in every direction at once. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“I don’t think we can fix it,” he says, quiet and steady. “But maybe we can carry it. Together, this time.”

You don’t respond. Not yet. The tide has gone still for now, but everything inside you is still churning. The world hasn’t shifted into clarity. If anything, it feels more uncertain than ever.

You draw your hand back slowly, fingertips brushing over the place where your palm had pressed to his chest. His heart still races beneath his ribs.

“I don’t know what to do, Finnick,” you admit. Your voice is soft, raw. “I don’t even know what to feel. It’s like I’ve been walking in the wrong direction for so long, and now I finally turned around, but everything behind me is on fire.”

Finnick doesn’t rush to comfort you. He doesn’t offer you promises he can’t keep. He just nods, eyes glassy, understanding exactly what that kind of lost feels like.

“Then we take it slow,” he says after a moment. “We wait. We try. One step at a time. That’s all we can do.”

You sit in silence after that, both of you listening to the waves breathing in and out. There’s nothing dramatic about how the night ends—no kiss, no dramatic embrace—just a quiet understanding, a fragile thread of something mending. When you finally stand, Finnick walks you home, his presence at your side solid and grounding. He doesn’t ask to come inside. He just watches you reach the porch, and when you glance back, he gives you a faint nod. No smile, no sadness. He’s just there.

Inside, the house is dark and still. But as you step into the kitchen, the lamp flicks on.

Your father sits at the table, a half-empty cup of tea cooling by his hand. He looks like he hasn’t slept all night, and judging by the silence, your mother must’ve taken care of Annie upstairs. The look on his face is hard to read—something between guilt and resolve.

You say nothing at first. You only walk past him, open the small drawer where loose keys and mail are sometimes left, and reach into the very back. You don’t even know what makes you check there. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s desperation. But your fingers brush something papery and old, bound by a fraying string.

You pull the bundle out slowly. Letters. Dozens of them. All addressed to you in Finnick’s handwriting.

Your hands tremble as you turn back to your father. “You kept them.”

He doesn’t deny it. He just exhales heavily, running a hand down his tired face. “I did.”

“Why?” The word is barely a whisper.

“Because he was already marked,” your father says. “We didn’t know how deep it went, but we knew enough. The Capitol had its eyes on him. And boys like that? They don’t get happy endings. They become warnings. Tools. Examples. I wasn’t going to let that destroy you too.”

Tears sting your eyes, but you refuse to blink them away. “You didn’t even let me decide.”

“It was for your own good,” he says. “I was trying to protect you. And if I had to do it all over again, I would.”

You clutch the letters tighter to your chest. There’s nothing more to say, not right now. The ache in your chest is too wide, too heavy. You turn and walk away, up the stairs, your father’s silence trailing behind you.

Later, in the quiet of your room, you sit on the edge of your bed, still holding the letters. You don’t open them—not yet. You’re not ready for that. But you press them against your heart, as if their weight alone can tell you everything you missed.

You lie back slowly, eyes unfocused as they settle on the ceiling. The wind outside shifts, brushing against your windowpane. You glance to the side.

Across the road, the light in Finnick’s bedroom is still on.

You don’t know what tomorrow will look like. You don’t know how much can be repaired. But tonight, you hold the truth against your chest and stare at the soft glow of his window, knowing—finally, fully—that you were never forgotten.

~

The year passes like the tide—slow in some places, quick in others, always shifting. At first, everything feels fragile. Annie flinches at the clink of cutlery, cries in her sleep, and stares blankly for hours. But you stay by her side through it all, arms always ready to catch her when she stumbles. You hold her through long nights, fill the silence with stories laced in childhood memories, and when words become too heavy, you sit with her quietly, just breathing beside her. You never ask for more than she can give. You’ve learned not to. You move at her pace, steady and gentle, letting her know with every small gesture: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. And sometimes, as you lie beside her in bed, she’ll squeeze your hand before drifting off, and that squeeze says more than words ever could. It’s her way of thanking you—for staying. For drowning with her and never letting go.

You don’t mind if you’re going under too. As long as Annie’s with you, the rest doesn’t matter. You braid each other’s hair now, sit out on the porch with cold lemon iced tea, peeling fruit in the hush of late afternoons. It isn’t perfect. She still has days where she won’t speak, won’t move, where she wakes up screaming and thrashing. But she bathes herself now. She eats. She hums those ridiculous sea shanties she used to belt out as a kid.

Your father is another slow burn. At first, you barely speak. You leave the room when he enters, avoid his eyes, build a quiet wall between you made of resentment and pain. You hate him for hiding those letters, but deep down, you understand why he did it—he just didn’t want to see you hurt more than you already were. Still, understanding doesn’t make forgiveness easy. But time, as always, does its work. One quiet Thursday afternoon, you find yourself sitting with him on the porch, sharing coffee. You talk—not as father and daughter, not at first—but as two people who missed each other terribly and didn’t know how to begin again. You cry in his arms. He cries, too. It doesn’t fix everything, but it opens a door.

And through all this, Finnick is there—quietly, steadily, always showing up. He never asks for your forgiveness, never expects anything in return. He just helps. You wake up some mornings to find him in your mother’s garden, drawing water from the well or sweeping the steps clean. He shares easy laughter with your father as they work together in the yard. He reads to Annie with a voice that’s soft and careful. He never arrives empty-handed—sometimes it’s strawberries, ripe and sun-warmed, or slices of lemon cheesecake from the market. Sometimes it’s little seashell bracelets or small bundles of daisies tied with twine. Once, he brought you three lily buds—because he remembered how you like to watch them bloom.

There’s something between you. Not quite love—not yet—but the shape of it. The quiet promise of it.

When Mags' birthday comes, Finnick invites your whole family to her cottage. The house smells like salt and rosemary, the air thick with laughter and seafood boil. Mags glows with gentle pride, surrounded by the people she loves. There’s music playing from a battered old radio, someone’s whistling along out of tune. Even Annie sways to the beat, her fingers curled loosely around yours before she lets go, nudging you toward Finnick with the smallest smile.

He takes your hand gently, as if asking, Is this okay? And you nod, letting him lead you into the open space where the others have been dancing. The music is lazy and slow, something old and familiar. His palm is warm against your back. You haven’t danced in a long time—not like this. Not with someone who looks at you like you’re something soft and not already broken.

For a while, you just move, guided more by his steadiness than the music. And then, you look up.

Maybe it’s the glow of the hanging lights or the way his mouth twitches when he tries not to smile too wide. But something shifts.

You see him—not the Capitol’s golden boy, not the heartthrob everyone whispered about, not the Finnick who broke your heart by vanishing into a storm of war and secrets. You see the boy who never stopped coming back. Who brings you mangoes in the heat of summer and lilies just about to bloom. The boy who reads to your sister and laughs with your father and doesn’t try to fix you—only stand beside you.

You realize, with a jolt so quiet it feels like a breath, that you don’t hate him anymore. You hadn’t even noticed when the hatred left, only that now, in its place, there’s something else. Something tender. Curious.

Finnick says your name like a question, maybe because you’ve been staring too long, and your hand tightens just slightly in his.

“I’m okay,” you murmur, and this time, it’s true.

Finnick doesn’t say anything right away. His eyes stay on yours, searching for something—not doubt, not disbelief. Just making sure. Like he’s afraid the moment will slip if he breathes too hard.

Then, almost in a whisper, he says, “I’ve been hoping you'd be. Not rushing you—just... hoping.”

His voice is low, almost lost beneath the music. There’s no expectation in it, no pressure. Just that quiet kind of honesty that always catches you off guard with him.

You feel his thumb brush against your knuckles where your hands are still joined. It’s a small touch, one he could’ve made a hundred times before, but tonight it feels different. More grounded. Earned.

“I missed you,” he says, and though you’ve heard those words before—from him, in letters, in memories—tonight they feel new. Not the kind of missing that aches, but the kind that holds room for hope. The kind that says, I’m still here.

Your throat tightens a little. You want to say something back—something real—but the words catch on the edges of everything you’ve carried. So instead, you step a little closer, rest your cheek lightly against his shoulder. You let the music carry you both for a while, and listen to the quiet thrum of your heartbeat and the way Finnick holds you like you’re something sacred.

When the party winds down, people begin to drift out one by one, laughter fading into the night air. Your family lingers the longest. Just as your dad starts to gather his coat, Annie suddenly turns to you with an impish glint in her eyes.

“You said you’ll help clean up with Finnick, right?” she announces brightly, grabbing your parents by their sleeves and tugging them out the door before either of them can protest.

You’re left blinking at the doorway, stunned, as the door swings shut behind them. Beside you, Mags lets out a low chuckle, patting your arm before hobbling off toward her bedroom. “Don’t forget the pie tins,” she calls over her shoulder with amusement. And then it’s just you and Finnick.

You follow him back into the kitchen. He’s already at the sink, sleeves rolled up, methodically scrubbing at plates while the warm glow of the cottage lights frames him in soft gold. You grab a rag and start wiping down the counters, trying to keep yourself busy—anything to avoid standing there and letting the silence press down between you again.

It’s not awkward, exactly. The air between you feels like it’s waiting for something.

Finnick breaks it first.

“Sweetheart.”

Your head snaps toward him. His voice was soft, but it still catches you off guard.

He smirks gently, biting his inner cheek to hide a laugh. “Sorry,” he says, setting a plate in the drying rack. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I wasn’t scared,” you mutter, grabbing a towel to dry the next plate.

“Mm, sure you weren’t,” he teases lightly.

You fall into a rhythm—he washes, you dry. Occasionally your hands brush, and each time, it makes your heart stutter in a way that’s both maddening and familiar. You glance at him once, just a glance, and catch him already looking at you. He doesn’t look away.

“I’ve missed this,” Finnick says suddenly, his voice low.

You pause, the plate in your hands halfway to the shelf. “What?”

“This,” he says again, softer this time. “You. Talking to you. Just being in the same room without feeling like I’ve already lost you.”

You set the plate down. You don’t say anything right away because there’s too much in your chest and not enough breath to say it.

“I didn’t know how to be around you anymore,” you admit. “It felt like… if I let myself be close to you again, I’d fall apart.”

Finnick’s hands are wet, and the dish rag is still hanging from his fingers, but he turns toward you anyway. “Then let me be the one you fall apart with,” he says, quiet and steady.

You’re not sure who moves first—maybe it’s you, maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s both of you at once, pulled forward by the weight of everything that’s gone unsaid between you, by the gravity of a love that never really left, only went quiet.

The space between you collapses all at once. Your hands reach for his shirt, fingers curling in the fabric like you’ve done in your dreams, like you did in another lifetime. His hands find your waist with a kind of desperation, like he’s afraid that if he touches too gently, you’ll disappear.

The first brush of his lips against yours is hesitant—testing the waters, asking a silent question. But you answer with your whole body. You rise on your toes, close the last inch of space, and press yourself to him fully, a quiet gasp slipping out as the kiss deepens.

It’s not gentle anymore.

It’s years of longing. Of silence. Of pretending. It’s the ache of missing someone who was standing right in front of you, and now you finally have him again. He tastes like sea salt and lemon and something so heartbreakingly familiar that it makes your knees weak.

You kiss him like you’re trying to memorize him all over again. Like you’re angry at yourself for waiting this long. Like you’ve just remembered what it feels like to be alive in someone else’s arms.

His hands slide up your back, anchor you to him, pull you even closer until there’s not an inch of space left. One hand cups the back of your neck, his thumb brushing just behind your ear in a way that makes you shiver. And when he pulls back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel him trembling a little.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers, voice ragged.

“You didn’t,” you breathe back. “You never did.”

The air around you is thick with everything unspoken, humming like a live wire. His breath brushes over your lips again—barely there, teasing. And then he's kissing you once more, deeper this time, like he’s finally allowed to want you and he’s starved for it.

Your fingers slide up, over the line of his chest, curling behind his neck as if anchoring yourself to something solid. He sighs into your mouth, low and shaky, and you can feel the tension unraveling from his shoulders as he melts into you. Like he’s been holding himself together for too long and now, finally, he gets to fall apart in your arms.

His hands move restlessly—over your waist, your back, like he’s trying to map out every piece of you again, relearn what it means to hold you without guilt, without fear. There’s nothing rushed in the way he touches you. It’s reverent. Intentional. Like he’s afraid this moment might break if he moves too quickly.

You pull back, just slightly, just enough to look at him. His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide like he’s drunk on this, on you. His chest rises and falls with each unsteady breath and he’s staring at you like you hung the stars and he’s only now remembering how bright they shine.

“Tell me this is real,” he says, voice hoarse, almost pleading.

You nod, eyes never leaving his. “It’s real,” you whisper, and your voice trembles because suddenly you feel everything at once—years of grief and guilt and hope crashing together in your chest.

His lips part like he’s about to say something else, but no words come. Instead, he kisses you again—and this time it’s rougher. Not angry, but urgent. Needy. You respond with the same hunger, your hands fisting into his shirt as he walks you backwards until your hips bump the kitchen counter. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the feel of him, the warmth of his body pressed against yours like he’s trying to make up for all the time lost between you.

His hands cradle your jaw, tilting your face up as he kisses you slow and deep, like a vow. You feel dizzy with it—like you’ve waited your whole life to be kissed like this, to be wanted like this. And for the first time in what feels like forever, your heart isn’t heavy.

You’re here. With him. And he’s here with you.

You break apart again, just barely, breathing each other in. His fingers slide down to your sides, squeezing lightly like he can’t believe you’re really in front of him.

“I love you.” He breathes out. “I never stopped,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours. “Not once.”

And there it is again—that ache, that softness, that overwhelming truth between you. A beginning born from everything broken.

This time, when he kisses you, it’s with no hesitation. Just certainty.

But it didn't.

He sat there, watching you laugh with the others, like your normal self. He knew you wouldn’t show any emotions that you were feeling, and that made him feel worse. He wishes you’d just slap him instead of acting like whatever happened didn’t affect you in the slightest.

He knew. 

He knew what you felt for him, and he’d be lying if he said that there wasn’t a part of him that felt the same.

But he’d always love Lily more.

And you were his best friend. The fear of messing things up with you at some point and then losing you, terrified him.

However, something told him that he’d lost you already.

He couldn’t sleep at night.

He stayed up,  constantly thinking about you and your expression that day.

And the haunting fear stayed.

He felt like he was drowning and usually he’d go to you. But he couldn’t. Not this time. Not when you were probably in the same situation, a little farther down, struggling to swim up with your own weight tied to your feet.

He lay there, counting the hours, until he decided he couldn’t anymore, and walked down to the common room.

And he instantly wished he hadn’t.

You were sitting there, a blank look on your face as you stared off into nothingness. 

He felt you slipping away from his fingers then. Because at times like this, he’d be the first you called.

But of course, he’d never been the reason for this before.

He stood, frozen, unsure what to do, and maybe he should’ve decided sooner, because you seemed to realize you weren’t alone, and turned to face him.

“Hey James.” You’re surprised, he can tell, but he doesn’t move, still scared to make any decision. The last time he had to make a tough choice is what led to this in the first place, and now he was too scared to move.

You pat the seat next you, and he thinks that maybe it’s the right thing to do. Maybe this will fix everything. Maybe you’re not as affected by it as he thought.

But as he sits down, he knows he’s wrong.

Terribly, terribly wrong.

You’re wearing Sirius’s oversized sweater.

He gave it to you because he didn’t like how loose it was, and you’d started wearing it when you were in a bad mood. You said that it provided comfort to you, and that whenever you wrapped your arms around yourself, the extra cloth would bunch up, making you feel like you were being hugged.

The second he saw it, James’s resolve broke.

The tears flowed freely, a sob wracking his body.

He felt so stupid for crying when clearly you were hurting more.

You didn’t react immediately, watching him as he continued to sob into his hands. And James thought that it was for the best. He didn’t want you to comfort him. He wanted you to cry as well, cursing him for ever deciding to choose Lily over you.

But of course, you’d never do that.

You wrapped your arms around his body, resting your cheek against his shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” you whispered.

“No, no it’s not,” James replied, still crying. Why wouldn’t you just yell at him? Why couldn’t you call him out for how unfair he was being?

You shush him, gently rubbing his hand.

“This is it isn’t it? I-I’m gonna lose you,” He muttered, and he felt you freeze. He was right. Of course he was. Who would stay with him after what he’d just done?

But you didn’t let go.

You pulled him towards you, so that his head was resting on your chest, arms wrapped around his shoulders.

“You’re not gonna lose me Jamie. At least, not forever,” you mutter, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

He didn’t know what you meant. But it only made the pain in his chest double. Usually being your arms released the building pressure, but this time, it only amplified.

He couldn’t even imagine how you felt.

“Please yell at me. Curse me, do something but please please don’t sit here and hug me after everything I’ve done,” he voice was pleading. He needed you to do that so that he didn’t have to see you upset tomorrow. Or watch you laugh, knowing the truth of how much this had affected you.

But your arms only tightened around him.

“No,” You whisper, your voice shaky. 

You’re crying.

“I get it. She’s the love of your life. I’m not mad. I’m not upset,” you pause, your hands gently rubbing his back, “not upset with you at least,” you mutter.

James knows what you mean. You’d always compared yourself with Lily. She was the only person who you deemed worthy enough to be your competition, for many things. You two were friends and you’d never let that get compromised. Not even now. But you’d always felt insecure when it came to her.

And James had only fueled it.

He couldn’t tell you to not compare yourself with her, after he’d literally chosen her over you.

But you were both different people and he wanted you to know that.

He pulled away, looking at your tear stained face. “Please don’t compare yourself,” he muttered. Ashamed that he was even in a situation like this in the first place.

You smiled sadly, sniffling, “Kinda hard not to. It’s okay. I just need…time,” you say nodding your head.

You took your hands in his, and internally, James begged for another try. He wanted a chance to go back in time, to fix things.

But he knew that would be wrong.

Because it was the truth. He loved Lily more. He always had, and he always would.

Yet the crushing feeling of losing you overpowered that love right now.

“I’m gonna need time,” you avoided his gaze, looking down at your intertwined hands, tears falling onto them.

“What do you mean?” he asked, knowing full well what you were going to say next, and it crushed him.

“I need some time away from you. You’re not losing me but-” Your voice cracked and you trailed off, unable to finish your sentence.

It hurt way more hearing you say it.

His grip on your hands tightened. “No. No please. For how long? I need you.”

You let out a small laugh, and for the first time since James had met you, he felt the bitter touch. “That’s not fair James,” you said, shaking your head. “I’ll come back, just give me some time.”

You were slipping away. Fast. 

And there was nothing he could do about it.

“You’re gonna be okay,” you whispered, running your thumb over his knuckles. “You’re gonna be okay. You don’t need me. You have Lily, you have the boys and if something really bad happens I’m always right here. I just…I just need some time,” you muttered, looking at him.

James felt like he was being torn apart. He watched your hurt eyes, contradicting the soft smile on your face. He didn’t want to hurt you. He never had. But he couldn’t deny his strong feelings for the redhead. He knew you’d only be even more hurt if he’d chosen you while loving the other girl more.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, sniffling, as the tears continued to fall. 

“I know James. It’s okay,” you mutter.

You pat his hands before pulling away, bending over to press your lips against his forehead.

You stay like that for a moment and James feels like dying.

You always care so much. No matter how much someone hurts you, you always care. You shouldn’t be comforting him right now. Not when you’re probably hurting more. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” you say once more as you move away, standing up.

Then you’re walking away from him and up to the dorms and with each step James feels you slip away.

Until he can no longer see you, and he knows you’re gone.

Maybe not permanently. But you both will never be the same again. Because you’ll no longer look at him like he’s the most amazing person you’ve ever met. And he’ll never be able to forgive himself for hurting you like this.

But you’re gone now and all he can do is pray that you’ll come back.

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