𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ

You sit across from him, legs crossed, elbow propped on the armrest. Your gaze is fixed out the window, where the scenery blurs into streaks of green and gray. The train hums beneath you, cutting across the country at 250 miles per hour, but everything inside this car feels oddly still—quiet, suspended.

Finnick’s been watching you ever since the two of you left your tributes behind to give them some space. Alyssa is still recovering from her breakdown, trembling and hollow-eyed, while Ronan seems hellbent on burning the whole world down with his glare alone. You figured they needed a moment to breathe—without the weight of two victors hovering over them—and Finnick, ever your shadow, followed you here without question.

“What?” you blink, snapping out of your thoughts and turning your head to him.

He’s a mess of golden curls and lazy elegance. His hair is longer now, brushing the tops of his ears and curling at the nape of his neck. He’s slouched low, legs sprawled across the glass coffee table, chin resting against his chest. His lips are jutted in mock offense, and those sea-green eyes flick lazily over you, unbothered and amused.

“I asked if you knew how to braid hair,” he repeats, unmoving.

You shift, uncrossing your legs and planting your feet firmly on the ground. “Sort of. Why?”

A grin breaks across his face like sunshine. He springs up from the chair, eyes glowing with the kind of giddy excitement that makes him look years younger.

“I do! But my hair’s too short—it’s tricky.” He clasps his hands together with childlike eagerness. “So I figured I’d teach you instead. How about it?”

You eye him suspiciously, arms crossing over your chest. “You want me to braid your hair.”

He shrugs, grin widening. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes.”

Finnick gasps—loud and dramatic, like he’s auditioning for a Capitol soap opera. “What? Can’t a man want his hair braided in peace?”

“You think I’m buying that?”

“Okay, fine, you caught me.” He throws himself back into the chair, hands raised in surrender. “I just wanted a pretty girl to doll me up and put her hands all over me. Sue me.”

You scoff, but the twitch at the corner of your mouth betrays you. He sees it immediately.

Triumphant, he rises again—this time stepping clean over the coffee table with those absurdly long legs—and drops into the seat beside you. He doesn’t just sit; he flops, half his weight pressing against your side as he rests the back of his head on your shoulder.

“Finnick, get off—”

“Just braid my hair, please,” he whines, craning his neck to look up at you. His sea-green eyes widen into a pitiful, practiced pout that probably gets him whatever he wants 99% of the time.

If you were still the girl who had a hopeless crush on Finnick Odair back when you first met—when he was shiny and untouchable and looked like he belonged in storybooks—you probably would’ve folded right then and there. Hell, you would’ve agreed the second he brought it up.

“Finnick, that’s disgusting,” you deadpan, pushing at his shoulder with mock disdain.

He only leans in harder, his grin turning mischievous.

“Why won’t you justtt—” Finnick shifts abruptly, knocking you sideways as he flops fully onto the couch, “braid my hairrrr.”

You groan, smacking his arm. But you’re already reaching for his curls.

You sigh, combing your fingers through the mess of bronze curls resting on your shoulder. “You’re impossible,” you mutter.

“But charming,” he mumbles, eyes closed, lips curled into a smug little smile.

You ignore him, gathering a small section of his hair near the crown of his head. It’s surprisingly soft, the strands slipping through your fingers like silk. You separate it into three uneven parts, unsure if you remember the technique exactly—it's been a while.

“Alright,” he says, voice lilting. “You start with three sections—left over middle, right over middle. Just keep crossing them like that.”

“I do know the basics,” you reply, tugging a bit tighter on one of the strands just to make a point.

Finnick winces dramatically. “Ow! Is this how you treat all your clients?"

“You’re not my client,” you murmur, already smoothing another piece into the braid. “You’re the guy who whined until I let him use my shoulder as a pillow.”

“Correction,” he says, eyes still closed, “I am the guy who won his Games at fourteen, who’s currently teaching you how to braid, and who looks devastatingly handsome while doing so.”

You yank just a bit harder on the next cross.

He jerks slightly, hissing through his teeth. “Hey!”

You feign innocence. “Oops. My fingers slipped.”

Finnick lifts his head just enough to glare at you from the corner of his eye. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Me?” You blink at him sweetly, even as you deliberately pull the next section just a touch too tight. “Why would I ever do that?”

He groans and flops back down, muttering something about “cruel women with delicate hands” as you stifle a laugh.

“You’re such a baby,” you tease.

“I’m a delicate baby,” he replies, still dramatically sprawled across your lap. “Handle me with care.”

You roll your eyes but your hands work more gently this time, smoothing the last bit into a neat little braid that curves just behind his ear. It’s not perfect, but it holds—and for someone who supposedly hates the Capitol, you can admit that it makes him look softer. Like a boy again.

“There,” you say, giving the braid a light pat. “Braided. Happy now?”

Finnick hums, tilting his head side to side like he’s testing the tension. “Not bad,” he muses. “A little tight. Think you’re mad at me.”

You shrug, wiping your hands together like the job’s done. “Maybe I am.”

He gasps. “For what?”

“For existing.”

Finnick clutches his imaginary pearls. “You wound me.”

“You’ll live.”

“I might not,” he moans dramatically, slumping even further against your side. “This braid might cut off circulation to my brain. If I die, I want you to know you’re the prime suspect.”

“Oh no,” you deadpan. “Whatever will I do without your constant whining and inflated ego?”

He grins, bright and boyish. “Mourn me forever. Keep a little locket with my picture in it. Swear vengeance.”

“I’d throw a party,” you shoot back, poking his cheek. “Balloons. Cake. Streamers that say Good Riddance.”

“You’re cruel,” he says, feigning deep heartbreak. “And I liked it better when you were pretending not to hate me.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Maybe,” he says, eyes crinkling, “but if you braid my hair again tomorrow, I’ll take it as a declaration of love.”

You snort, giving him a shove with your shoulder. “You’re lucky I didn’t tie a knot in it.”

“Oh, you tied something, alright,” he says with a wink, flicking the end of the braid.

“Finnick,” you warn, already smiling.

“Just saying,” he chirps, stretching back out with a yawn, “if I start walking around the Capitol with braids, everyone’s going to assume I’m spoken for.”

“Let them.”

That makes him pause—but just for a second. Then he smirks again.

“Dangerous words,” he murmurs, turning his face up toward yours. “Careful. I might hold you to them.”

You roll your eyes, flick the end of his braid, and lean back with a smirk of your own.

peeta mellark

coming soon!

johanna mason

coming soon!

star wars

anakin skywalker

coming soon!

obi-wan kenobi

coming soon!

padmé amidala

coming soon!

marvel

steve rogers

coming soon!

bucky barnes

coming soon!

natasha romanoff

coming soon!

sam wilson

coming soon!

The capital was hosting a luxurious party for the most recent hunger games. This made you sick. You never understand why you needed to celebrate children fighting to the death especially when at one point you were one of those kids. You were only 15 during your games. You came from district 10 (livestock). You grew up poor and overworked. Taking care and slaughtering cattle from day to night. You couldn’t lie it gave you somewhat of an advantage to be able to work constantly. And of course you would sneak off with a butcher's knife for hours. You had to put your name in often for your family, so you had a sickening feeling that you would be picked one day. And that day did come. You were chosen to fight in the 68th hunger games. And you won. You won with luck and an array of knives.

-

(Flashback)

The air was dry. The sand went on for what looked like miles. There weren’t many places to hide but you had found a spot in between rocks of a mountain. You knew you wouldn’t be able to stay here for long. The games had just started and you were only able to grab one knife before running off to hide.

You hear rocks fall down the mountain and you turn your head quickly to look where it came from. The tribute from district 7 was holding an axe high and mighty. You move quickly out of the way, careful to watch where she swings. You throw your knife at her in hopes it will land. And it does, right in the chest. You freeze and watch her fall. You slowly make your way to her body and pull your knife out. And take the axe out of her hand. You felt sick, you felt stiff, and your breath was rigid. You start humming a tune your grandmother used to sing to you. You made sure not to be loud. You didn’t want a huge target on your back. You left your hiding spot and traveled through the arena till you found somewhere to rest your eyes.

—

Now here you stand 21 years old and being forced to watch the 74th hunger games. The air was sticky and the sky was black. People in strange and colorful dresses prance around you. The chatter of the capital people made you sick. They loved watching people suffer and it was disgusting.

“Hummingbird” you hear someone familiar yell behind you. You roll your eyes and turn around to face the person.

“Finnick, what a lovely surprise.” Sarcasm lacing your voice.

He smiles “Oh don’t be so sharp, I know you just love seeing my face.”

You feel your heart sink to your stomach “Maybe in a different setting. I hate these parties. I hate what they stand for.”

You can see his face falter then fade “me too, hummingbird.”

‘Hummingbird’ is the nickname they gave you after the games. It definitely sounded better coming out of his mouth than anybody else’s. You gained the nickname from singing during the games. You sang to keep your mind at peace. You hummed yourself to sleep on the first night. You sang after you killed someone for the first time. You did it while working in your district, you did it during your games, and you do it now. It’s the only way to drown the noise of everything out.

“Well it was nice seeing you Finnick, but I would like to be alone at this repulsive party.” You take a sip from your champagne glass.

He smiles “If you say so.” He puts a hand on your shoulder “goodbye hummingbird.” He says then walks away.

Finnick was someone you have grown friendly with over the years. He was around your age when you won so he was the only person you found any similarities in. You felt bad for the boy. Being only 14 when he won his games. Then the capital turned him into one of their “workers”. He didn’t deserve that so young. No one did.

—

Two tributes from district 12 won. Not one but two. You knew this would anger snow. And you loved it.

Now there was going to be a grand party for the victors. You were not excited for this and you know any victor wouldn’t be.

You walk into the party. Already uncomfortable from your dress. It was revealing and lightly colored. However long and elegant at the same time. You knew what they were doing, always playing with the idea of your given nickname. But you were used to it at this point. You couldn’t lie, it was a beautiful dress. (Idea here).

People stared at you like you were an object when you arrived. They whispered and stared in an ill manor. But as more and more victors arrived the attention was taken off of you. You search the large display of people and food to search for a familiar face. This was a party you would rather spend in company than in a corner by yourself.

You spot Finnick's blonde hair and make your way through the crowd. “Finnick.” You say loud enough for him to hear over the crowd of chattering people.

He turns to face you and a smile spreads across his face. “Hello, darling.”

“Do you mind if we step out of the crowd? It’s so loud here.”

He takes your hand “of course.” He leads you out of the big crowd. You stand in a tucked away corner free from anyone who would be a bother.

“I remember my victory tour. I can’t imagine what they are feeling. The party’s, the people, the food. I remember the regret. I couldn’t sleep for days.” You say looking away from Finnick and off to the distance.

“I don’t think I could ever forget mine. I was so young and alone. Then I was forced into work. It only made the nightmares worse. Regret is always the worst isn’t it?” He says quietly but loud enough for you to hear.

You turn your head to face him. “I’m glad I had you to talk to. You were the only one who didn’t mock me or look at me like I’m crazy. You were also the only one close to my age.”

“I’ve always enjoyed talking to you. I knew you would have needed someone, winning is lonely.” He meets your eyes and lets out a sigh.

“You never left me lonely.” You let out a deep breath, “this dress is killing me.” (Idea here)

He lets out a chuckle. “You look gorgeous in it.”

“Thank you but it’s so uncomfortable and it’s so revealing. And don’t get me started on how itchy feathers are.” You say while trying to hold in your laughter.

“Well you have to have feathers, hummingbird. That is your name.”

You roll your eyes “Hilarious.”

His face turns serious “After all these years I’ve never asked you why you sang so much?”

You look down slightly “I sang so much in my district to keep my mind busy. Slaughtering cattle isn’t easy for everyone. Singing keeps my mind off of the situation, it drowns everything out. It was the only thing that kept me sane in the games.”

He steps closer to you. “You really are amazing, hummingbird.”

You look up to meet his eyes “I should probably go.”

“Me as well.”

“I’ll see you soon Finnick. Thank you for spending the night with me.”

“Of course.”

And with that you went your separate ways. You didn’t go to another party after that, not until the Quarter Quell.

—

The projector buzzed as president Snow announced the 75th hunger games. You sat by yourself and listened closely.

“The third quarter quell games the male and female tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors in each district.”

You froze and your heart sinks into your stomach. You were supposed to be free. You were going back. Why? What was the point of putting us back in the games? You were the only girl victor still alive. You were going back for sure. Your worst nightmare is coming true.

You slowly rise from your seat on the couch and slowly make your way to your bedroom. You lay on your bed and hum. You hum any tune you can remember. You hum until you fall asleep. You don’t leave your bed until you're forced to leave. Your team arrives and gets you ready. You finish getting ready and walk into town. Your legs feel like jello and your head is spinning. You feel sick. There was only one piece of paper in the female bowl. You made your way to your designated spot. You put on a fake smile and a fake brave face. You couldn’t believe you had to go back. Freedom never lasted long.

—

The carriages were lined up and you were in a ridiculous outfit that “represents” your district (idea here). You were standing beside the carriage waiting for it to begin. You look off to where Katniss is and notice she’s speaking with Finnick. The costume for district 4 was ridiculously revealing, they knew what they were doing. He turns to leave and notices your glancing eye. He walks over to you after giving a farewell to Katniss.

“Hello, hummingbird.”

“Hello, Finnick.”

“How are you?”

“How do you think I’m feeling?”

“When the games start you need to stay with me. I’ll keep you safe. I promise.” His face softens and looks at you with pity.

He doesn't say anything else. He just leaves to get on his carriage. You get on yours and prepare for the eventful day and the days to come.

—

The interviews were always the worst. The fake smiles and fake news. Finnick's interviews were way before yours so you decided to pay extra attention to it.

Cesar smiles bright with his blinding teeth. “I heard you had a special message for a special someone, so let’s hear it.”

Finnick's smile then fades into seriousness. “There’s someone here who’s very special to me. And I’m not sure if she realizes it. But, if you’re listening right now, you hold a very special place in my heart. And I can’t believe I’ll have to part from someone who’s always been there for me. Thank you hummingbird, for always being here for me.”

Your face drops. Sadness overtakes every part of your body. Why would he wait until now? You didn’t even know if he was being truthful. People will say anything to get these games to stop. You can hear the crowd in shock. This made you even more nervous.

Your stylist rushes to your side “Don’t cry hunny we’re almost done getting you ready.”

You walk away and wait for Finnick to get finished with his interview. When he finishes and walks off stage you say,

“Why would you say that?” You say in a monotoned voice.

He keeps walking and looks to the ground. “It’s true. Everything I said.”

You grab his arm “why would you wait. We’re gonna die. You waited all these years to tell me.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have waited but you deserve to know.” He looks up to meet your eyes.

You don’t say anything back, you just walk away and wait for your interviews.

-

When district nine exits the stage you make your way to the doors where you stand and wait to be called. When they call your name you walk slowly to stand beside Cesar.

Cesar looks at you with a bright smile. “Our darling hummingbird. How are you doing?”

You give your best smile “Well considering the situation, not so well.”

His face fades then he gives a small toothless smile. “Of course. But on a better note, I’m sure you heard Finnick's interview, how are you feeling about that?”

You let out a light laugh “well I couldn’t be more happy. He was the only person who was by my side when I won my games. I’m forever grateful for him.”

He puts a hand on your shoulder “well it’s that sweet. Don’t you think that’s sweet.” He says to the crowd. The crowd cheers. He continues with the interview till it’s time for district eleven's victors.

When all the interviews were done and the crowd was going crazy from the newly learned information about the love birds of district twelve. You all hold hands high and the lights cut off.

—

This was the day you never wanted to happen. You step in the tube and it closes. You swear your breathing stops. Your head is spinning and your chest feels tight. You get into the arena and you're surrounded by water. You never were the best at swimming. But you had to be good today. You waited for the count down and when the canon went off you dove into the water. Adrenaline took over and you swam until you couldn’t get on to the rocks. You ran as fast as you could to the cornucopia. And when you got there Katniss and Finnick were there. When Katniss spotted you she pulled her bow to face you.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. She’s an ally.” Katniss puts her bow down and Finnick gives you all directions. You needed to gather weapons so you grabbed your a large axe.

“Mags found peeta.” You and Katniss rush to where he’s pointing and notice a struggling peeta. The other tribute brings him under water and a canon goes off. Your heart drops. However peeta rises from the water. You all swim to shore and run into the forest. Finnick carries Mags on his back while he runs. The five of you stop running and crouch down.

“God it’s hot. We have to find fresh water.” Peeta says while panting.

Three cannons go off and Finnick says “well we aren’t holding hands anymore.” He laughs

“You think that’s funny.” Katniss says in a serious tone

Finnick smiles “Everytime that cannon goes off it’s music to my ears”. You snicker at his comment

“Glad to hear that” Katniss says glaring at the two of you.

Peeta suggests we keep moving so that’s what you do. Finnick puts Mags back on his back and you all begin to move further into the forest.

“PEETA NO!” Katniss yells right before peeta is sent flying back due to a force field.

He stops breathing and Finnick begins CPR on him. You begin to worry he won’t wake up.

Peeta shoots his eyes open and gasps. You all let a deep breath out.

You continue walking and stop when you decide you need to set up camp.

The best part is that Haymitch sent something. You aren’t sure what it’s called but you know it gets water so you don’t really care. You all take turns drinking from the tree when you're all finished drinking and settle back to your spots. You fall asleep near mags. You are startled awake when 12 chimes go off then lightning. You hear Finnick say he’s going to rest and he goes and lays next to you.

You fall back asleep until you're awoken by Katniss yelling in pain. She starts yelling “run” and you jump up and start running through the forest. You notice Finnick slowing down due to mags. The fog closes in on all of you. And you try to run faster only making yourself fall in the process. The fog hits the side of your body and you let out a scream.

You stand up slowly and try your hardest to run as fast as you can. You can hear Finnick yelping and trying to get himself and mags down safely. You all reach the bottom of the hill and Peeta falls. Katniss and you try getting him up. You look up and see mags walking towards the fog. You knew she didn’t want to be a burden. Finnick tries to run after her but Katniss stops him. Finnick yells for her but it’s no use. A cannon goes off. Finnick and Katniss get peeta up. And you all limp to get away before falling down a hill where the fog makes a haltering stop.

You couldn’t move due to the pain of the burns and boils that littered your skin. You hear Katniss let out a loud yell then say the water helps. But you couldn’t move and your vision went black.

You flutter your eyes open and notice the pain is gone. You lift your body up. And look up only to be met with the eyes of a mutt. You jump to your feet and step back closer to the others. Then the mutts that look like very large monkeys start attacking the four of you. You swing your axe at the mutts and kill a couple before you notice Katniss and Finnick running towards the beach so you follow quickly after them. You and Finnick stand on the beach and try to ward off the mutts. When they leave you turn to see the drone picking up the girl who threw herself in front of a mutt.

Later Finnick went fishing and you all sat on the beach and ate. You notice screams in the distance and see a large wave take over the other side of the beach. Then you see Johanna and her group covered in blood.

You start running towards her and you hear Finnick yell “Johanna!” Then run towards her as well.

Johanna explains what happens and you go to sit by yourself while the chaos unfolds. Later while Johanna’s cleaning her axe and Katniss is cleaning up Wiress, you sit on the beach with Finnick.

“If something happens. I don’t want you sacrificing yourself. You deserve to win this thing more than anyone.” You say turning your head to face Finnick.

“Don’t say that. We’re gonna get out of here. Trust me. We both deserve a good life outside of this.” He looks over to you. “I want to be by your side. And I will.” He takes your face into right hand and pulls your face closer. You lean in and kiss his lips. You pull away after a second. You look up at him and smile.

“Okay lovebirds we have to go.”

You make your way towards the cornucopia as Katniss explains the arena is a clock. Then Wiress stops singing and lets out a gasp. You all look up and notice Gloss over her body. Katniss shoots at him and he falls. You see Cashmere making her way to Katniss but before she can reach her you swing your axe and her and nail her in the chest, you pull your axe away and go to help Finnick. The cornucopia starts spinning and you fall. You slide to the edge slipping into the water.

You let out a loud “FINNICK” before falling into the water. Finnick looks up hearing your voice. When the cornucopia stops spinning you struggle to get back up. Finnick notices your absence and looks into the water for you. When he spots you he jumps into the water and grabs you. When you reach the surface you chock for air.

“Let’s just get what we need and get off this island.” you hear Johanna say. You stand up and wrap Finnick in a tight hug.

“I’m so glad you're okay.” He says into your shoulder. And with that you get what you need and leave. You're sitting on the beach discussing your plan when all of a sudden Katniss jumps up and starts running to the forest. You all jump up after her. You're the first to reach Katniss.

“Katniss, are you okay?” You say to her softly.

Then you hear Finnick yell your name in pain. You start running to where you hear the sound coming from.

“Finnick? Finnick, where are you!” You yell out to the sound.

Katniss walks up to you and grabs your shoulder “it’s not real it’s a jabberjay.”

“Jabberjays copy katniss.” More of them swarm the two of you and you both begin to run. You hit a force field and drop to your knees. You squeeze your eyes shut, unable to take Finnick screaming in your ear any longer. You start humming to yourself and trying to make it go away.

On the other side Finnick is yelling for you and trying to tell you it’s okay. But you couldn’t see or hear him. You couldn’t even move. You don’t realize it but you pass out. When an hour passes Finnick lifts you up and you shoot your eyes open and scream his name.

He holds you in his arms tightly. “Shh shh you’re okay. They weren’t real, they were just mutts. I’m right here.”

You take a couple deep breaths. Then Johanna starts yelling out to snow. Everyone else is shocked but you're not. You don’t care who you make mad either. You don’t have any family. Snow made them “disappear.” You all get up and make your way to the beach. You walk to the line of the ocean and slump down onto the sand. You hear someone sit beside you but you don’t look over.

“Are you okay?” You hear Finnick say.

You don’t reply with words, you just shake your head.

“Who did you hear?”

“You.” You look at him then look back to the ocean.

You don’t let him say anything before you continue “Snow killed my family. I wasn’t what he wanted and that made him angry. To be fair the only family I had alive was my mom but now I don’t have her either. When I said you were the only one I had to keep me company after I won. I mean it.”

“I’m never gonna leave you. I mean that hummingbird.” He takes your hand in his.

He takes your hand in his. “We’ll figure something out.” He says looking at you.

You lean your head on his shoulder and let a single tear fall. “I hope so.”

—————-

A/n- ahhh! I’m so sorry this has taken me so long! I’m sorry if the ending feels rushed I tried my absolute hardest. Thank you for the support I hope you enjoyed it. I also now have the flu so that’s great :(

finnick odair who owns a fishing company called ‘odair fisheries.’ he spends most of his time out on a little sailboat he’s made up. he’ll spend hours out in the ocean, just him, a cooler, and his fishing rod. his golden tan skin is sunburnt in some areas from long exposure and lack of sunscreen, something you’d gotten onto him about ten times too many. his body is covered in little tattoos of seashells, sea turtles, boat anchors, small outlines of fish. a seashell necklace sits around his neck, homemade from your delicate and loving hands.

finnick odair who’d practically BEG for you to come fishing with him. you weren’t the biggest fan. something about sitting out in the searing heat all day on a rocking surface didn’t seem all that appealing to you, but when finnick would look at you with his big blue puppy dog eyes, his bottom lip sticking out, you couldn’t resist. if you were determined to deny his suggestions, he’d go even further, throwing in a desperate, “please, sweetheart, you know i hate being without you as is.” as always, you’d give in, not particularly loving the sweat dripping off of your forehead but loving admiring your partner in front of you. you loved the way his face scrunched up in focus as he cast the line, his eyes perched on a particular spot. you loved the way his muscles tensed as he reeled the line in, or the way he huddled over you when attempting to teach you how to fish for the hundredth time (once again unsuccessful, though you know he’d try again tomorrow).

finnick odair who also taught children to fish as a part of his company. on weekend mornings, he’d have different classes that would last about 30 minutes. at the beginning, he’d take a group of kids out to a dock near his boat and he would teach the basics. by the end of the block of classes, he’d have even kids as little as 5 out fishing on his boat with him. he loved the kids like his own, growing attached to each and every one of them. you loved watching him teach, seeing how he’d sweetly hug the little boy gripping onto his leg back or how he’d soothe the crying little girl who fell and scraped your knee. he’d get you involved in helping to wrangle the kids, too, watching you intently as you’d braid a little girl’s hair for her or cradle one of the youngest ones on your hip. finnick wanted kids more than anything and he wanted them with you, his mind going crazy, desperate for a little family with you every time he saw you with children. it’s safe to say finnick’s baby fever is crazy.

finnick odair who spends rainy sunday mornings with nothing else to do playing guitar hero and other various video games. as rain would pelt down heavily on the roof of the house, the waves rocking the boat a little too much for him to even dare to attempt the seas (although he had in unsafe weather one too many times for your liking), you’d be awoken far too early in the morning to the smell of freshly baked muffins (from a box) and the sound of some rock song on the tv mixed with plastic clanking. you’d trudge into the living room, fuzzy blanket wrapped around your cold shoulders, and plop down onto the couch where a muffin already awaited you with some warm coffee on the side table. you couldn’t help but laugh as you nestled into your corner on the couch, turning yourself into a nest of blanket. finnick would be going crazy with the guitar strapped around his neck, resting at his somewhat bare torso. he’d be jamming out in his underwear, hair tussled, eyes still puffy with sleep. his nimble fingers would click through the red, blue, green, yellow pieces as his piercing blue eyes focused on the screen. you couldn’t help but fall more in love with him as you begin to doze back off in your corner.

billy dunne x ex! reader ♡

billy dunne x popstar! reader

alistair ryle ♡

finnick x victor! reader ♡

mentor! finnick x tribute! reader ♡

So, he commits the cardinal sin – he snaps his fingers at you, not unlike the way an owner might to a dog – and vows to get on his knees and atone for his sins later when you finally lift your face from the screen to look at him in bemusement. 

“What?”

He laughs at you. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for, like, eight minutes.” An exaggeration. “What are you watching?”

Your goofy smile turns sardonic as you raise a brow at him. “Well, wouldn’t you like to know.” 

“I would,” he agrees readily around a teasing smile of his own. “That's why I asked.” 

Your response is haughty; your nose turns up at him and everything. “This doesn’t concern you, Finn.” 

And, well, he disagrees, because it’s taking up an awful lot of his girlfriend’s attention – which he feels should be on him – and he’s sort of bored and lonely, despite being on the same couch as you as he scrolls through his own for you page. 

He abandons his phone and repositions on the couch, eliciting a groan of disagreement from you as he spreads out and leans heavily into your side. 

“Honey.”

“What,” you huff, smiling despite your putupon ire. 

“I miss you,” he pouts.

“I’m literally right here,” you counter, stabbing him with your socked foot that’s now trapped under his weight. “You couldn’t possibly get any closer to me.” 

“S’not close enough.” He says it into your arm, words muffled by the fabric of your sweater as he weasels his way closer, closer, closer-

“I know what you’re doing,” you snicker, smiling down at him fond and lovely and- shit why was Finnick ever on the opposite side of the couch as you? 

“I wanna know what’s stealing all of my girlfriend’s attention away from me,” he admits, aiming for smarmy but landing somewhere closer to petulant. 

The laugh that flies out of you is sharp, surprising, and – if Finnick’s being honest – a little bit hurtful, considering he just laid his feelings out on the line for you. 

“What is so funny about that?” He huffs in frustration though he makes no moves to remove himself from you; laughing at him or no, he’s exactly where he wants to be. 

“You’re ridiculous.” Is your only reply, returning your attention to your phone. 

“That’s not a new deduction now, is it, sweetheart? Because it’s a little late in the game to be picking up on those clues.”

You give him another mean jab of your foot. “Ass.”

“What are you watching,” he asks again, annoying even to his own ears.

You pass him your phone. 

The screen is various shots of Finnick posing – scantily dressed – for a number of different ads. Calvin Klein, Abercrombie, Prada, and some he can’t even remember shooting though the half-naked man on your screen is definitely him. 

“You’re watching thirst edits of me?” He asks, two octaves too high as he laughs. 

“Uhm, yeah?” You reply as if that was obvious, taking the phone back and opening up the comments. 

“Oh god, you’re one of those.” Finnick groans as he settles back into your side, watching you heart comments that manage to earn a huff of a laugh from you. 

“One of what?” 

“You go through comment sections?”

“People in the comment sections are fucking funny, Finn. That’s, like, some of the best content online; the comment section.”

“Is that right?”

You turn your nose up again. “Quite.” 

Finnick snorts a laugh at you but kisses your elbow placatingly. “I can’t believe you watch thirst edits of me.” 

“Why wouldn’t I watch thirst edits of you?” You ask in disbelief. “It’s, like, the best part of having a supermodel partner.” 

“Your supermodel partner is literally right here for your viewing pleasure, sweetheart. You only have to ask.” 

You scrunch your nose up and smile at him like you’re sharing a secret. “I know…but odairsbabymama89 put a lot of effort into making this, so…” 

“Unbelievable,” he scoffs.

“I have been wondering, though,” you begin, and Finnick clocks your tone immediately.

“Have you now?”

“Aren’t models supposed to, like, model fashion? Like, provide visual examples of different clothing?” 

Finnick hums carefully, eyes narrowed playfully. “I guess… why?”

You turn your phone towards him, his attention pulled back towards an image of him in Calvin Klein briefs that leave very little to the imagination. “You spend an awful lot of time being photographed wearing, like, no clothes.” 

Finnick snorts again, pulling you further into the couch with him and forcing you to readjust your hold on him. “And are you complaining?” 

You laugh again, but this time it’s lighter, brighter, sweeter. “Not even a little bit.” 

His face is buried under your arm and he smiles into your ribs. “Didn’t think so.”

“Normally I would,” Cecelia began scrubbing vigorously. “But the train will be coming in a couple of hours, you need to get ready for the Victory Tour dinner.”

“Tonight?” You spluttered. It’d been a week ago just yesterday, hadn’t it? Or had a week really passed that fast? No, it wasn’t possible, you still had time to gather yourself and prepare for—

The nausea resurfaces in your body, but now it’s for an entirely different reason. You don’t want to see him, you can’t see him.

“Time passes fast when you’re too high to remember your own name,” Cecelia broke through your thoughts with a pointed look. It’s neither judgemental nor pitying, but it makes you feel shameful — like she knows you can do better than the life you’re currently living.

“I…” You opened your mouth to defend yourself, to tell her it’s not like that, you just use the morphling sometimes when your mind is too full of horrors for you to bear. When you need a reprise, that’s all. You’re not like the freaks from Six, who have completely succumbed to the drug, or like the Victor from Twelve, who can’t seem to put down the bottle. You’re not like them, you want to say, it’s a choice for you.

“You’re going to kill yourself if you keep this up,” she says matter-of-factly, wiping her hand on a dish rag.

You don’t look at her, don’t want her to know the word hanging from your lips. Good.

To her credit, all she does is move to pour a glass of water and say, “Be ready by noon. It’s ten.” 

While you’re grateful she didn’t press you further, you don’t even know why she cares at all. She’s eight years older than you, with two young kids and another on the way, she shouldn’t have time to worry about you, or check up on you, or even remember you exist. Cecelia had been your mentor, yes, but she had her own life. She’d moved on from her own Games, and you were trying to do the same.

She passed you the glass of water as she walks out, leaving you with the task of steadying your hands enough so they can hold on to the glass without shaking. 

You’re lucky this night won’t be about you, but the new Victor, because your appearance is pretty ghastly — not that you care. When you look in the mirror, you know there’s no hiding the dark circles under your eyes, or the way your cheeks have begun to hollow out, so you don’t bother.

You can’t do it, you can’t face him — not now, not ever. Not when you’ve spent the last six months ignoring every call, every letter sent your way. 

You wished more than anything he would just take the hint and forget about you, so you could finally forget about him, too. You never picked up. Never read a single letter. If you did, your resolve would crumble and you knew it.

And still, whenever you heard the phone ring, or had a letter dropped off at your doorstep, the memories came flooding back with such force it knocked the breath out of you.

Remembering the only time you’ve ever truly felt safe makes you wish you could forget how to feel anything at all. 

———

“Oh, so you are alive. Thought you might’ve died or something.” 

You didn’t know why you thought you had a chance at avoiding him today. Immediately, your body betrayed you, the hair on the back of your neck standing straight up and your posture stiffening. 

“Hi,” was all you could muster. He looked as beautiful as always, with that sunkissed skin and wavy hair, those beautiful sea green eyes that looked exactly like the ocean you’d seen in District Four. 

He’s dressed in a beautiful cream suit that compliments his skin, and a seafoam shirt that’s halfway undone and brings out his eyes. His hands are in his pockets like he’s totally casual, but his muscles are rigid and his eyes are just like the ocean, cold and vast and unyielding. 

He’s too pretty to be in this ugly place you call home, the cream of his suit too bright against the dull air thick with smog. The weather in Eight matches how you’ve been feeling for a while, gloomy and depressed, which is why he looks so out of place. 

Finnick quirks an eyebrow, his gaze never leaving you. “Hi?” He repeats, taking a step towards you. Instinctively, you take a small step back, which makes him frown. “I don’t hear from you for six months, and hi is the best you can give me? Really?”

“I—”

“Are you kidding me?” He takes another step towards you, and this time, you’re so lost as to what to say that you can’t even retreat. 

“I’m sorry if you were upset,” you begin, as calmly as you can, trying desperately to calm the rapid beat of your heart.

“Upset doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he says, breaking in to a wide smile as someone passes by. “I know a place where we can talk. Follow me.” 

“I think I should stay here, in case…” In case what? It was pretty well known by now that you were about as important as a rock. Even in your own District, you’re useless, trapped in a cage of your own self pity.

You look around wildly, wondering if anyone would notice two victors disappearing, but he’s smart. This is the social hour before the dinner begins, where everyone catches up and buzzes with excitement about the games. He’s got you trapped, and he knows it. 

His hand is outstretched in front of you. Waiting. Your own are clenched at your sides, fingernails digging so hard into your palms they sting, but the pain is nice. It reminds you that you’re alive, you made it out of the arena, and everything happening in front of you is real. 

The hand in front of you dropped to his side as you remained still, and you almost felt bad. He hasn’t done anything to deserve the reaction he’s getting from you, but you can’t help it. This was done to protect you, you want to scream. I’m doing this for you.

Telling him any of this was out of the question, though. It would defeat the whole purpose of trying to make him hate you. If he hated you of his own volition, Snow couldn’t use you against him. But if he knew how you still felt, knew this master plan of yours, he wouldn’t let you continue, and all your efforts would be moot. 

He doesn’t say anything, but you follow. Through the winding halls of the Justice Building until you’ve reached a balcony off the kitchen, a place only occupied with Avoxes who of course can’t speak; this must be why he’s certain nobody will be listening to you.

The wind whipped against your skin, thick with so much smoke your eyes began to water. Your outfit quickly becomes a regrettable choice as the cold air nips at your exposed skin and makes you shiver slightly.

Wordlessly, Finnick shrugs off his suit jacket and hands it to you before you can protest, even though you want to. Another gust of wind blows away your remaining resolve and you slip the jacket over your shoulders, trying to ignore the scent of his cologne.

“What do you want.” It’s not a question but a statement, as flat and void from emotion as you can manage. You wish there were trees you could observe, or even a lone bird that could fly across the gray sky, but it’s just a backdrop of ugly factories and chimneys pumping out pollution.

“What happened, after that day? It’s like we never even met.” His tone is weary.

You don’t respond, because what can you say? Nothing. So you just stand there, hands awkwardly at your side. 

“What did I do?” He tries to press further.

“I can’t tell you, okay? I just… it’s better for both of us this way.” You close your eyes and bite your lip so hard you taste the sharp, metallic tang of blood in your mouth. “I’m doing this for you. Please don’t make this any harder than it has to be. Just forget about all of it.”

His fingers press against your chin and tilt your head, until you can do nothing but finally meet his gaze. 

The weight of everything from the past six months comes crashing down on you all at once. Your chest feels tight, like it’s being crushed by every feeling under the sun, and your heart is being squeezed so tightly by emotion you wonder if it’ll burst. Desperately, you wished the relief the morphling gave you would come back, the feeling of nothing at all, of total numbness.

You’d done such a good job suppressing your feelings, avoiding this exact moment, and with one touch he’s erased all that progress. 

Your face tingles where his fingers lay under your chin, slowly spreading the warmth throughout your body until you feel almost giddy.

“You won’t even look at me,” a hint of desperation creeps into his tone. “You won’t even say my name.”

“I have to go,” you mustered out, taking a step back to clear your head. “I’ll see you later.”

You spin on your heels and run for the hills, because it’s the only thing you know how to do.

———

The food in front of you sat barely touched. You hadn’t been able to stomach even the finery of Capitol cooking, not when you felt his eyes staring holes in the side of your head the entire time. You’ve spent the majority of this dinner with your head down and rolling peas between the prongs of your fork, avoiding his gaze.

Finnick’s eyes hadn’t left you all evening, from the moment you’d sat down an hour ago, through the speeches given by Annie Cresta, Cecelia, and your mayor, to you now absentmindedly picking at your food.

Desperately, you want to know what he’s thinking, but realistically, you know that would only hurt even more. You try to go to a far off place in your mind, the place the morphling takes you when it all becomes too much. A vast abyss of nothing, where all you do is exist without the constant heartache.

Cecelia, who’d been sitting next to you, nudged you with her shoulder as she stood up, bringing you back to reality. “Hey, silly. We’re free to go.” 

With shaky limbs you pushed the chair back, and noticed Finnick immediately following suit. You hoped there was enough time for you to try and slip away through the back entrance in the kitchen as everyone shuffles out of the Justice Building. 

Finnick grasped onto your wrist before you could escape; you whirled around and yanked yourself out of his grip in such a harsh manner that he took a step back, looking like he’d been hit.

“I’m sorry,” he began slowly, like he was talking to a wounded animal. 

This only makes you angry, because what does he have to be sorry for? He hadn’t done anything, you should be the one apologizing, yet here he is.

“I don’t need you to be sorry,” you snapped, surprising even yourself with the harshness of your tone. “I need you to leave me alone, Finnick! I told you, just leave me alone, before you ruin everything.” 

He stood there, unmoving, his eyes warm as he studied you. Your chest is heaving as you inhale gulps of air, then breaking in to a fit of coughing to hide the uneavenness of your breath.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” He says softly, so softly, you barely hear it. He was still a good distance away, but his hands twitch at his side, like he wants to reach out to you. Suddenly, you remembered his touch from earlier, how lovely it felt to feel his fingers brushing your face.

You’re still reeling from remembering his touch, from being in his presence after so long, that you don’t realize he’s taken another step towards you until you look up.

“No, I don’t,” you mumble, swallowing hard as his eye bore into yours. “Why— why would you think that?”

“You think I wouldn’t figure out what you’ve been doing?” Finnick’s voice is as light as a feather. “I spent this entire time thinking I’d done something, and then you tell me you’re doing it for me? So… you think that if you ignore me, everything I feel for you will just… just what? Go away? So Snow can’t use you against me like he uses me against you?”

Well, maybe you needed to work how much you give away when you speak, because the fact that he just read you to filth and erased six months of your hard work after two conversations is a little embarrassing. 

“Am I that easy to read?” You let out a huff of laughter, but it’s not funny. Now he knows what Snow has told you, now he knows you don’t actually hate him, and now he’s subjected himself to a lifetime of Capitol enslavement. 

“You’re acting like I haven’t been through this already.” His entire body relaxes and a dimple pops out on his cheek, taking another step forward and trailing his hand from your chin upwards until he’s cupping your face. 

“There’s nothing to be happy about,” you whispered after seeing his smile, still trying to cling on to the idea that there was something you could do to make him hate you. 

“I’m just happy that you’re talking to me again,” he admits, and it’s like someone’s struck you in the chest because you can’t breathe. You’d done this, put him through six months of silence and caused him so much misery he was happy the two of you were talking.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” you whispered despite the constriction in your chest, “They’re so… awful to you, Finnick, I didn’t want— I couldn’t bear—” Your throat had tightened now, and you hated the fact your eyes had begun to well with tears. They’ve been unshed for so long as you tried to self medicate, but one more look at the hurt in his eyes and you’re sure the floodgates will open. 

I will not cry, I will not cry, you repeat, over and over until its a running mantra in your head. I will not cry. 

You don’t even notice you’d already started until Finnick wipes your tears away with his thumb. 

You tilt your head up just a bit more, and your nose brushes against his, his breath tickling your face as he inhales sharply at the closeness. 

His thumbs move in soothing strokes across your cheeks, clearing away the tears as they flowed freely now, but he doesn’t move to close the gap. When you inch closer, he takes a step back, an unreadable expression crossing his face. 

There’s an awkward moment of silence before you stammer out, “I’m sorry.” Heat flushed your cheeks as the possibilities raced through your mind. Had you read the situation wrong? Was it too soon? Did he no longer feel the same? Your body is screaming at you to run away, because avoiding the situation is better than being rejected outright. 

You only make it a few steps before he tugs you back to him, and then he’s kissing you with such earnest you wonder if he’s trying to make up for all the kisses he couldn’t give you these past few months.

At first you’re worried, like it’ll somehow feel foreign and awkward after not doing it for so long, but he tastes and feels just as you remember. You taste the salt from your own tears and feel the softness of his hands as they cup your face makes you melt into him.  

You finally feel like a person again. Your body drinks up the sensation of his lips as they mould with yours, the months of numbing yourself with drink and morphling having dried your body of any affection or feeling. 

One of his hands leaves your face and hovers over your body for a moment before it settles on the small of your back, trying to pull you even closer, but there’s not an inch of you that’s separated from him.

This kiss is different from so many of the ones you’ve had before with anyone else. They’ve always been lust driven; even in the past with Finnick, there’d always been an underlying tension. But this one is wholly innocent and lacking any sexual chemistry. It’s needy and desperate, yes, but only because you’ve been deprived of each other for so long.

The desperation must be evident in your kiss because he pulls back slowly to look at your face, searching your expression for a hint of how you’re feeling.

“It’s not safe here,” He breathes in sharply, though his hand doesn’t leave your face. “We shouldn’t be this careless.” 

A reminder that life wasn’t that simple, you weren’t just a teenager kissing the boy you liked, but a Victor under constant surveillance. 

“You’re right,” you agreed breathlessly, fighting the stupid smile that threatened to spread across your lips and light up your face. “We can go back to mine.”

The walk back is silent, but comfortable. All you want to do is bask in his presence, observe every tiny detail of him and see what’s changed in the past six months. His fingers are intertwined with yours, grasping tightly like you’ll disappear if he lets go. 

The feeling is so nice, so warm and comforting and right, that you forget about the bigger picture, just for a little while. 

———

You’d been lying there on the couch in your room for at least an hour, soaking up every moment with him, every place his body rested against yours. The tender kisses he’s left on your cheeks, your forehead, your lips… they’re all imprinted in your memory permanently. Like if you never see him again, at least you’ll have this.

Your legs were stretched out in front of you and intertwined with his own. His arm around you kept pulling you impossibly closer, his fingers stroking up and down your shoulder in a motion of absentminded affection. Like it was just natural for him to want to be with you, to touch you.

Lying down with your ear pressed against his chest, you’re soothed by his heart thrumming in steady beats that lull you into a state of false security. 

In some fantasy universe, where there are no Hunger Games, where there is no Capitol, neither of you have to worry about your actions being responsible for someone else’s life.

But the reality was much more grim, and President Snow’s ominous warning reverbates in the back of your mind constantly. He hadn’t asked you to do anything, not yet, which scares you. Maybe because you were such a mess, but deep down you wonder if it’s because you were really just a pawn in a much bigger game, and Finnick was the real target. He was too valuable to lose, and he was almost free.

You wonder if that’s the reason he’s here—

“Why’d they let you come anyways? You didn’t mentor Annie, I was stuck with you,” you asked, almost regretting breaking the quiet contentment, but you needed to know. Had Snow ordered him to accompany Mags so he would see you again? To send a warning to you that he got what he wanted, no matter how hard you tried.

You’re not even that important, you tried to shake off the worrisome thoughts.

“Don’t remind me, you were impossible. Hardest job I’ve ever had,” he grinned, poking your cheek playfully. 

You swatted his hand away and rolled your eyes. “I was not the impossible one.” 

He raised an eyebrow and stared at you with such an incredulous look you were beginning to get a little offended. “Travel is hard for Mags. I didn’t want her to be on a train for so long, so I offered to take her place.”

“Oh. And they just… let you do that?”

Finnick shrugged, and by the grin on his face you know he’s going to say something ridiculous to ease your nerves. “I’m the Capitol Darling, they have to let me do whatever I want. I’m pretty famous, y’know.” 

If you didn’t know all the horrible, awful things they did to Finnick in the Capitol, his joke might’ve been funny, but it just makes you sick. 

“I’m sorry again, Finnick,” you whispered, closing your eyes. “I should’ve handled it better, I should’ve found a way to tell you about everything… going on.” 

He brings you to a sitting position, forcing you to look into his eyes as he shakes his head, any hint of laughter gone from his features. “None of this is your fault, you know?”

“If I had just—” His thumb brushes over your lips, effectively silencing you. 

“I should’ve warned you,” he continues with pursed lips, and you can see his jaw tighten. “In the back of my mind, I knew what was going on, I just… I just couldn’t do anything about it. I should’ve told you, I’m sorry. I knew better than this.”

He looks wracked with such genuine guilt that your heart begins to bleed from within your chest. Is this really what he thought?

“It’s not your fault either, Finnick,” you murmured, bringing a hand to his face. You try not to notice how his head immediately leans into your hand, and his whole body seems to melt at such a simple touch. 

He gave you a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes, but didn’t reply. Instead, he let his hand go to the back of your neck and pulled you close before he kissed you. 

This one is familiar in a way the previous ones from tonight haven’t been, there’s an underlying craving for more. You’re not sure how the two of you are able to communicate your wants through only unspoken words, but you’re eager to reciprocate. 

You sighe into the kiss as he pulled you into his lap, relishing in the feeling of your body on his. His hands trailed down to your hips as he drew you closer, kissed you with more urgency. Your hands went to his hair and your nails raked through the soft waves and tugged gently at his scalp.

You smiled into the kiss as his hands squeezed your hips with every tug. It felt so good, to have him want you in the way you’ve been yearning for him. If you could kiss him for the rest of your life, you would.

He broke away for a moment, chest heaving, with blown out pupils that look at you like you’re the only person in the world. When you leaned down to attach your lips to his neck, he groaned and squeezed your hip again, sending a shiver up and down your spine. He leans his head back to allow you to pepper kisses around his jawline and trail down, sucking and letting your teeth scrape at the delicate skin of his neck.

With his mussed hair that’s splayed across his forehead, and slightly swollen lips that are parted ever so slightly, a rather embarrassing thought crosses your mind: he’s so pretty. Another one passes through your mind as well, but it’s much scarier: you’ve missed him so much. It was so plain, but so raw it scared you.

You’ve never felt anything like this before — you’re only nineteen, and these feelings are still so foreign to you.

He must’ve sensed the shift because he pulled you back a bit until his forehead was resting against yours. “You okay?”

Much to your surprise, you let out a giggle. “Mmm hmm.”

He quirks his lips into a half smile, nudging his nose with yours in casual affection. “Why’re you laughing at me?”

“I just think I really like you,” you blurted out, hoping he couldn’t feel your body becoming hot with embarrassment.

He broke into a grin. “You think? I thought it was kinda obvious by now…” 

“Stop!” You groaned, pulled back, and buried your head in your hands. You’re too nervous and embarrassed to look at him now, despite your thighs still resting on either side of his. You’ve totally killed the mood with your inability to articulate your feelings, you’re certain of it. 

Tentatively, he grabbed your wrists and brings your hands away from your face, the smile not once leaving his own. His green eyes were bright with laughter, the indents of his dimples only growing deeper.

“For the record,” Finnick began in a gentler tone, though there was still a hint of teasing, “The feeling is mutual.”

You fought the dopey smile that threatened to take over your features at his words. “I’d hope so,” you murmured, your hands circling around his neck and your forehead going back to his. “I like doing this too much.” 

He makes a noise of agreement and kisses you. His hands slide under your shirt and you shimmy out of it as quickly as you can, eager to have his lips back on yours. They’re soft, and warm, and they feel so good as he begins to press long, lingering kisses down your neck and your bare chest. 

In another swift motion he’s unclasped the bra you’d been wearing and discards that, too.

You shiver as if a cool breeze has just passed through the room, suddenly self conscious and fighting the urge to cross your arms over your chest. It’s been a while since he’s seen you like this, and now it feels more intimate for him to see you in any state of undress after you’ve actually said you like him. 

“Relax,” Finnick whispered, as if he could read your thoughts, his hands never leaving your hips. “I just told you I really liked you too.”

That elicits a laugh that quickly turns into a gasp as he kisses your breasts and begins gently sucking on your right nipple.

Your hands find their way to his hair again and you tug, wanting him, needing him as close as physically possible.

He takes his sweet time, alternating from one to the other, alternating between playful nipping and tongue swirling until you begin to squirm on his lap from the stimulation.

You let out another small gasp as his mouth leaves your breasts and they’re exposed to the cool air, though he doesn’t spare a moment before he begins to tug at the waistband of your pants.

Before you wriggle out of them, you pause and begin to fidget with the remaining buttons on his shirt, “I can’t be the only one without any clothes on.”

He laughs and presses a quick kiss to your nose before leaning back and letting you work the buttons free. You can feel him watching you as you work, and you try to ignore it so you don’t become too self conscious that every move you make is being hungrily devoured by the man in front of you. 

Lucky doesn’t even begin to describe how you feel when he shrugs his shirt off. You take in the sight of him in front of you, noticing every well defined muscle of his body, from his torso to his chest. You don’t even realize you’re staring until he says your name.

“What?” You ask, suddenly a little shy. 

“You’re staring,” he teases lightly, his thumbs making circles against your hips. “What’re you thinking about?”

“That you’re kinda cute,” you shrug, deciding since you’ve already embarrassed yourself earlier, that doing it again won’t change much. 

“Only kinda?” His hand clutches his chest, eyes wide in disbelief. “Wow… that… that really hurts.”

“Never mind,” you roll your eyes, “I take it back—”

You yelped in surprise as he abruptly stands up, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist as his arm slides under you for support. 

“You better not drop me,” you gripped on to his shoulders. He’s strong, really strong, but you still cling to him as he walks the short distance to the edge of the bed. 

“I would never,” he grins, before loosening his grip and gently laying you down before him.

For a moment, there’s nothing but heavy breathing and the rustling of sheets beneath you. The playfulness from earlier has transformed into something deeper, needier. 

The intensity of his stare makes you blurt out, “Are you sure about this? I mean, I know its not new— but with everything going on with— well, you know,” You’re rambling now, you know it, but the words keep pouring out of you. “I don’t know, I just think—” 

“I think,” he says, in a tone so low it cuts you off and sends a shiver up your spine, “That we should stop talking.”

You nod in agreement, a little breathless as he places his knee between your legs to spread them further apart. He leaned down in what you think would be another kiss, but are surprised to find his fingers at your lips instead.

Wordlessly, you open your mouth and let his fingers slides past your lips as you began to suck, never breaking his gaze.

His breath hitched and his eyes widened ever so slightly, two almost undetectable tells, but it was enough to keep you going, focusing on the feeling of his fingers in your mouth, of wanting him so close to you it physically hurt.

His fingers ghosted over your inner thigh, circling you, teasing you. With a soft whine, you tugged him back towards you and kissed him, as if the brief moments spent with your lips apart was an eternity too long. They continued their minstrations of your thigh, creeping higher until it reaches right below where you craved his touch, when he pauses.

“What is it?” You breathed, squirming under him slightly in anticipation, because you want to feel his fingers, you want to feel him after being deprived of it for so long. 

“I thought about this every day,” his voice is so strained you’re surprised, “every day this whole time. I just… I can’t believe you’re back here… with me.” 

Your chest flutters and a warmth spread throughout your body at his words. You open your mouth to say something, but he seals your words in with another kiss as his finger enters you.

Your breath hitches as you adjust to the sensation of his finger moving in and out of you, the anticipation of it all making every sensation a hundred times stronger.

When his thumb finds your clit you let out a moan and throw your head back against the mattress, separating your lips from his own. His thumb moves in small circles, making small quirks to the pressure and speed until you were writhing under him, panting, desperate for more.

You’re not sure how much time has passed, all you know is that you’re completely lost in everything Finnick; the way he feels when he adds another finger, the way he tastes when he kisses you without hesitation. 

It’s overwhelming in the best way, and you’re trying to find the right way to tell him when he suddenly removes himself from you completely. You let out a whine of frustration at the loss of contact and open your eyes in confusion, only to see and feel him kiss down your body. He latches and sucks on to your neck, before trailing down to the valley of your breats, to your stomach, to the inside of your thighs. 

He’s nowhere and then everywhere all at once, his tongue at your clit and the two fingers he’d withdrawn back in. You moan out his name and dig your nails into his hair, tugging him impossibly closer, but he’s focused on what’s in front of him. 

The pressure continues to build, and your begin to pleas turn more desperate until the only thing falling from your lips is his name, over and over again.

It’s overwhelming, the physical feeling of pure ecstasy, but the emotional weight of knowing whose bringing you such bliss. That you have him, he hasn’t slipped between your fingertips, and that for this moment, he’s not going anywhere. It’s that knowledge that snaps the coil wound deep in your stomach and you cry out, chest heaving as you finally find release.

When he lifts his head to watch you come undone, it’s then that he finally kisses you again. You taste yourself on his tongue, feel the weight of his body as he pins you to the mattress, nowhere near done with you yet.

“You’ve made a mess,” he says, and you gasp as he withdraws his fingers, glistening with your own arousal, and brings them to your lips again. “Clean me up.” 

You obliged without hesitation, wanting to anything and everything he asked you to. You work in earnest, your tongue swirling around his fingers in earnest, tasting yourself for the second time. When he’s satisfied he withdraws them and captures your lips in a sweet kiss.

“You sure?” Finnick asks, lining himself up with you. You nod eagerly, desperate to have him inside you, because he’s not the only one who’s been thinking about him every day for the past few months.

When he finally enters you it’s like all the pieces fall into place. He moves slowly at first, giving you time to adjust to the size of him. When you’ve relaxed more he increases his pace, and your fingernails dig into his back when he captures your lips in another kiss. This one is searing and messy as he continues his thrusts, his fingers digging into your hips like he can’t get enough of you, your body, everything.

You want him to slow down and speed up at the same time, the familiar tension in your body steadily rising and overwhelming all your senses. 

“Finnick,” the moan escapes your lips. “Please, I—” 

His hairline is dotted with beads of sweat as he looks down at you, and you’re sure you’ve never seen anything more beautiful. “Come on, pretty girl,” he whispered through heavy breaths, “Just a little longer.”

You try to nod but it’s hard to focus on anything but the sensation of him moving inside you, of one of his hands around your wrists, of his mouth on yours. 

When he reaches down and his fingers find your clit again, it’s enough to send you over the edge. Your own undoing spurs on his own and he kisses you fiercely, swallowing your moans as your fingernails scratch their way down his back.

He continues to rock into you, slowly, riding out the aftershocks that jolt through your body for a moment longer before he falls on the bed next to you. Finnick peppers kisses around your face and murmurs praise, his hair tickling against your nose and cheeks and making you giggle.

You lie there for a moment, trying so hard to catch your breath and reorient yourself back to reality that you don’t notice he’s moved away. 

The sensation of a warm rag against your thigh jolts you from the sleepy haze you’d trailed off to and alerts you to his presence. He moves with gentle swipes, wiping everything away and pausing when your breath hitched from the sensitivity.

You hear the sound of the rag being tossed in the corner and the bed dipping with his weight as Finnick rejoins you. Instinctively, your face broke into a smile so wide your cheeks began to hurt. When his arms wrapped around you and tugged you close, you couldn’t help but let out a sigh of content. 

He pressed a chaste kiss on your upper back, working his way up your spine and stopping at the nape of your neck. The kisses began to linger a bit longer, his lips not moving from your neck until he finished with one on your cheek.

“I don’t think you’ve ever been this quiet.” You could feel rumble of his chest against your back as he spoke and know he’s asking how you feel about everything. 

“I’m just happy.” Your fingers ghosted over his forearm that’s wrapped around your waist. “Promise.”

He pressed another kiss to the top of your head.

It’s pure bliss, being wrapped in the safety of his arms, like the outside world with all of it’s problems couldn’t find you here—

Until you hear the knock at your front door. Your blood runs cold and you grip on to Finnick’s arm instinctively, like he’s going to be taken away from you at this very moment.

He gives you a quick kiss before scrambling to find his clothes, telling you, “I’ll get it.” Like he can sense your worry and is trying to take care of you.

You’re too lost in a state of panic to fully register him leaving your room and heading towards the front door until he reenters a minute later with a letter in his hand.

His eyes are hardened and his mouth is pressed into a thin line as they scanned the note. 

“What is it?” You dared to ask after a long moment, struggling to calm your breathing. 

“At the end of the tour,” he began slowly, “for the final celebration in the Capitol, Snow… he wants you to come.”

“Oh.” Your mind is blank, even though your brain is screaming at you to say something, anything. Why is this news coming all of a sudden? Was it always meant to be delivered now, or had you two been found out that quickly?

“He knows,” Finnick’s grip on the paper tightened, and when you looked at them, you noticed they were shaking. “We weren’t being very subtle, anyone could’ve seen us come back here together, we shouldn’t—” 

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” you cut him off, desperate to calm him down. “There’s no law against any of this.”

“You don’t understand,” his voice grew weak with defeat. “In private, yes, but… I have an image to maintain. Not for me, I couldn’t give a damn, but the Capitol. I’m too… important to them to get distracted by someone else. People would get jealous. Vindictive.”

Even though you know he doesn’t believe the words being spoken, it still hurts. To know that the people in the Capitol own him so completely, and you’re part of the reason why.

You grab his hands and squeeze them tight, trying to bring him some sort of reassurance, even if you’re just as terrified. “It’ll be okay, Finnick.” 

“I just didn’t want you to get wrapped up in all of this,” his voice grew weak with defeat. “I wanted to protect you.”

You smile, but it’s a sad one. “I know,” you said simply. “But it was only a matter of time. I’ll do whatever Snow wants me to do if it means I have you.”

The words coming out of your mouth feel foreign and terrifying, like you’re not the one saying them. They’re true, of course, but the weight of them is not lost on you.

Deep down, you’re wracked with worry for what the future held, because everything nice seemed to slip through your fingers sooner or later.

Whatever your feelings for Finnick are, they’re strong, really strong, and that terrifies you. It’s all consuming, the way you feel when you look at him, when he looks back at you like you’re the only person who matters.

You’ve never felt this way before, and it frightens you.

He seems to sense you slipping away because his hands move to cup your face, like he’s trying to hold on to the last moments of earlier, when things were okay for a minute. “We can’t go back to before,” he reminds you, but there’s a hint of desperation in his voice. You can’t run away because you’re scared, is what he means to say, and you understand him perfectly.

“Okay,” you promise, hoping it’s one you can keep. “Everything will be fine.”

You’d been at it for fifteen minutes. Fifteen long, humiliating minutes.

The rope slipped through your fingers again, the half-formed knot unraveling in your hands like it was mocking you laughing at the burns it was causing on your fingers. You let out a huff, brushing a loose strand of hair out of your face and glaring at the cord like it had personally volunteered to sponsor your death in the arena.

District 11 wasn’t known for their survival skills — at least not the fancy kind. You could set a few traps, handle a bow if you had to. But tying proper knots? That wasn’t exactly a part of daily life back home.

“Need a hand?”

You froze. You didn’t have to turn around to recognize the voice — low, lazy, smooth enough to make the Capitol swoon.

Finnick Odair.

Of course it was him.

You rolled your eyes and kept your back to him. “I’m fine.”

He chuckled softly, and you heard the click of his trident’s base against the floor as he walked closer. “Sure you are. That’s the third time you’ve tied what looks like a… very sad pretzel.”

You spun around. “Are you keeping count?”

“I keep count of everything,” he said, flashing that trademark grin — the one that probably made half the Capitol faint during his interviews. “Makes life more interesting.”

He stopped just in front of you, close enough for you to catch the faint scent of sea salt and something sweet — probably one of the Capitol’s expensive soaps. His bronze hair gleamed under the fluorescent training room lights, annoyingly perfect, and his eyes — that impossible sea-green — sparkled with mischief.

You tightened your grip on the rope. “Shouldn’t you be charming someone else?”

“I could,” he said easily. “But watching you struggle is much more entertaining.”

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “Such a gentleman.”

Finnick’s grin widened. “Oh, I can be. When I want to be for the right people.” He winked

You tried to go back to your knot, ignoring the way he lingered behind you. But his presence was hard to tune out — too confident, too self-assured. You tugged the rope again, and of course, it came apart in your hands.

“Alright,” he said with a sigh, stepping forward. “You’re going to get yourself strangled in the arena if you don’t learn this properly.”

You shot him a glare. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

He crouched beside you anyway, taking the rope from your hands like it was his now. “No,” he said, looping the cord around his fingers with practiced ease. “But I’m offering it. Consider it a kindness from District Four.”

You crossed your arms. “You mean the District of Arrogance?”

He laughed under his breath. “Careful. You might hurt my delicate feelings.”

He worked the rope effortlessly, his movements quick and sure — twist, loop, pull. The knot tightened neatly, solid and symmetrical. He held it up with a little flourish. “See? This one’s called a bowline. It won’t slip under pressure.”

You hated that you were impressed.

He caught your look and smirked. “You can admire me if you want. I don’t mind.”

“I’m admiring the knot,” you shot back.

“Of course you are.”

He held out the rope to you. “Your turn. Hands on mine.”

“What?”

“It’s easier to learn by feel,” he said, voice lowering just a touch — teasing, but not insincere. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite.” the look on his face told you he was lying. 

You hesitated, glaring at him for a long moment before finally placing your hands over his. His skin was warm and rough with calluses — from nets, not weapons. His fingers moved slowly, deliberately guiding yours through the motions.

“Loop under,” he murmured, his breath brushing your ear. “Over the top. Pull it through — gently.”

You followed, jaw tightening when the knot actually held together.

He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “See? You’re a natural.”

You snorted. “You just don’t want me to die before I make you look bad.”

Finnick tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “I don’t think you could ever make me look bad.”

You pulled your hands away and stepped back, the rope falling loose between you. “You really don’t know when to stop flirting, do you?”

He grinned, all teeth and charm. “It’s one of my many talents.”

“Well, you can keep it.”

“I’d rather keep you,” he said smoothly.

You stared at him, incredulous. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Full of yourself.”

Finnick chuckled. “You think that’s all I am?”

You opened your mouth, but his tone — lighter than before, but edged with something genuine — stopped you. His gaze flicked briefly around the room — to where other tributes were sparring, throwing knives, climbing. For a second, you saw past the Capitol smile.

“People only see what they want to,” he said quietly. “I just give them what they expect.”

You didn’t know how to respond. The teasing mask slipped back into place almost immediately, his grin returning like it had never left.

“Well,” he said, tossing you the rope. “You’re better than I expected. Maybe I’ll have to watch out for you.”

You caught it, glaring to hide the faint warmth creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe you should.”

Finnick winked. “Good. I like a challenge.”

He turned to leave, the sound of his trident tapping against the floor echoing behind him. You rolled your eyes — but when you looked down, the perfect knot still held in your hands.

You hated to admit it, but maybe — just maybe — District 4 had taught you something useful.

And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t hate Finnick Odair as much as you thought you did you knew one thing for sure. You definitely didn’t hate that face or what was below it.

The roar of the countdown pounded in your ears.

Sixty seconds.

You stood on your metal plate, staring across the water, breath shallow. The jungle was just beyond, mocking you with its stillness. You could feel the moisture in the air, thick and unrelenting. Everything smelled like salt and steel and something foreboding.

Fifty seconds.

Your knees trembled, but you stood your ground. You weren’t a good swimmer. You’d trained for years in blades and speed, but water? Water was foreign. That alone nearly made you sick. But what really made your stomach turn,

Was him.

Finnick Odair stood several platforms away. The same boy who had once held your heart in his palms like a lifeline.

The same man who shattered it with a single phrase: “Maybe this was a mistake.”

Forty seconds.

The letter.

It still felt like it was burning a hole through your chest, even now, folded tightly and tucked into the seam of your boot.

Thirty seconds.

Finnick’s head turned, slow and deliberate. His sea-green eyes locked on yours across the churning blue.

Your breath hitched.

He gave nothing away, not anger, not softness, not even fear. Just… a flicker of something unreadable.

Twenty seconds.

You looked away first. Just like you always did when things got too real.

Fifteen seconds.

You clenched your fists, fingers curling into sweaty palms. You weren’t ready. Not for the blood. Not for the water.

Not for him.

Ten seconds.

Breathe.

Nine.

Breathe.

Eight.

The sea is calm.

Seven.

His eyes are not.

Six.

You have to survive.

Five.

You have to see him again.

Four.

Even if just once more.

Three.

To say what you never got to say.

Two.

Please.

One.

You dive, water engulfing you instantly. Cold. Icy. Unforgiving.

You kicked wildly, flailing more than swimming. The salt stung your eyes, your limbs aching from the panic before the fight had even begun. The Cornucopia shimmered in the center. Blades. Packs. Food. Hope.

But you couldn’t reach it. Water filled your throat, sending you gasping for air.

A strong arm wrapped around your waist.

You thrashed with instinct, terrified. You can’t go out like this, not without saying goodbye to him. Not without telling him everything you needed to.

“Easy,” a voice murmured. Familiar. Unwelcome. Comforting.

Finnick.

“Let me help you.”

He guided you through the water with ease, dragging you with practiced strength. You hated how natural it felt, his arms around you, his body pressed close. You hated how your heart betrayed you in its rhythm. The metal base of the Cornucopia loomed, and he hoisted you up with little effort. Then, just like that, he was gone, diving back for Peeta, helping him with the same determination.

You haul yourself up the rocks of the cornucopia, fingers scrambling for grip on the slick metal platform. Your chest is heaving. Salt burns your throat.

All you can think about is the fact that you’re alive but unarmed.

The moment your feet find traction, you sprint toward the pile. It’s chaos, bodies everywhere, metal clashing against metal, screams and splashes and the distant pulse of the Capitol anthem still echoing in your skull.

You don’t look for faces. You don’t stop. You dive forward and grab the first thing you see, a small set of twin daggers in curved sheaths, light and deadly. You slide one into your boot, the other into your grip.

Someone screams behind you. You spin but it’s too late.

A tribute, big, fast, face smeared with blood, is barreling straight for you with a club raised high. You try to dodge, but your footing slips on the wet surface. You fall hard, elbow cracking against the platform. Your dagger goes skidding.

You see the weapon above you, swinging down. But it never hits.

Marek slams into the other tribute with the force of a freight train, taking the blow on his back, driving the boy sideways. You scream his name, too stunned to move, as they crash to the ground just feet away.

There’s a brief, brutal struggle. And then the club rises again, only to come down straight into Marek’s ribs.

You scream again, louder this time, and launch yourself forward, but your knees collapse under you. You crawl instead, dragging yourself through blood and seawater.

The boy who killed him is already dead, Finnick’s trident buried in his chest before you even realized he was near. The body rolls off Marek with a sickening thud. But it doesn’t matter.

Marek isn’t moving.

You reach him, hands slippery with from the blood that covers the ground as you shake him. “Marek, Marek, please, no,” His mouth opens like he’s trying to say something, but nothing comes out.

His eyes find yours. He looks… calm. But then they go still.

You don’t even notice Finnick until he’s beside you. Until he pulls you back from Marek’s body, first by the elbow, then by the waist.

“No—NO—!” You twist against him, kicking, clawing. “Let me go! I’m not leaving him!”

“You have to,” he snaps, voice harsh with desperation. “If you stay here, you’ll die too. You’ll die too.”

You scream again, not words this time, just grief. Fury. You’re not even sure who it’s for. But Finnick doesn’t let go.

He grabs both your wrists, pulls you to your feet. You stumble, wild and weightless, all fight leaving you in a single breath as your knees threaten to buckle.

“Come on,” he mutters, wrapping an arm around your back as he drags you from the blood-soaked metal. “We have to move. Now.”

Your head whips over your shoulder as he pulls you away. You can still see Marek’s body, crumpled, abandoned.

“Please,” you whisper, too quiet for Finnick to hear. “Please don’t…” But there’s no going back.

The moment Finnick pulled you away from the Cornucopia, his hand closed over yours with a quiet certainty that both startled and grounded you. The jungle air was thick and heavy, sweat and dust clinging to your skin, but his grip was cool and steady, a lifeline when everything else was slipping through your fingers. You didn’t look at him; you barely even breathed. Your mind was a fog of shock, the sharp sting of Marek’s death slicing through your chest like a blade.

Somewhere in the distance, the others waited. Katniss, Peeta, and Mags. You could see them now, standing near the shoreline, the tension in their bodies as palpable as the oppressive heat. Katniss’s eyes locked onto you and Finnick as you approached. There was surprise there , something almost like disbelief. She had never imagined the two of you moving through the Games together, much less with that quiet connection flickering between you. Peeta was watching too, his brows drawn tight in concern, but his glance carried something more, something wary, guarded.

Mags, however, met your gaze with a small, knowing smile. No shock. No judgment. Just a steady, understanding look that reminded you there were people who saw more than the surface, who understood the burdens you all carried.

Finnick never let go of your hand, even when you stumbled, and even when the flood of grief threatened to pull you under completely. His fingers curled around yours like a silent promise: you were not alone.

Your legs felt weak, your breath shallow, but the rhythm of his grip was a steady anchor. It reminded you that you were still here. Still breathing. Still fighting.

Inside, the chaos was deafening. Marek , your partner, your friend, someone you had trusted and loved, was gone. The image of his face, pale and still, haunted the corners of your mind. The weight of it threatened to crush you, but Finnick’s quiet presence was like a shield against the collapse.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. The words stuck in your throat, twisted with anger, heartbreak, and confusion.

Katniss and Peeta exchanged subtle glances, their whispers barely carried on the humid breeze. You caught snippets, soft murmurs full of shock and speculation. They wondered how you and Finnick, once distant, even hostile, could now be intertwined like this. It didn’t take much to tell they had expected animosity, or at least distance. But here you were, hand in hand, and it unsettled them more than they let on.

Mags, watching quietly from the sidelines, didn’t need to ask questions. She had seen too much, carried too much pain herself, and understood the unspoken bond forming between you and Finnick. She knew the cost of loss. She knew the desperation beneath his protective stance. And she knew something else, something you didn’t yet, about the dangerous game that was playing out beyond your immediate fight for survival.

Slowly, your heart began to steady, the haze lifting just enough to clear a sliver of purpose. Marek’s death couldn’t be the end of your story. It couldn’t be the price you paid without a fight. You clenched Finnick’s hand tighter, letting the fire inside you grow. The grief was still there, raw and jagged, but beneath it was a fierce determination.

You had to keep moving forward.

The group moved deeper into the jungle, branches scratching your arms and leaves whispering secrets you weren’t sure you wanted to hear. Finnick was close, always close, his hand a constant, grounding presence wrapped around yours. You kept your eyes trained on the path ahead, silent but aware of every glance thrown your way. You refuse to meet Finnicks eye, or even talk to him. You don’t know what to say. The mix of emotions you’ve been through in the past 24 hours have been too much to wrap your head around.

—

Later, as the group navigated through the thick jungle, a moment came that shattered the fragile peace.

You weren’t paying attention, your mind still tangled with memories of Marek, with the crushing weight of loss and fear, when you stumbled forward and suddenly hit something invisible, something harsh and unyielding.

Your chest slammed against the forcefield. The impact stole the breath from your lungs and sent a jarring shock through your entire body. You crumpled to the ground, the world falling black.

Finnick’s eyes snapped to you with immediate panic. He dropped everything and was at your side in an instant, his hands trembling but sure as he checked you, calling your name.

“No, no, no, stay with me,” he whispered, voice cracking with desperation. His hands pressed firmly against your chest, trying to restart your heart, trying to pull you back from the edge.

His breath was ragged, matching your shallow gasps. His tears mixed with sweat as he pressed harder, his fingers working the life back into you with a frantic urgency.

Katniss and Peeta stood frozen, wide-eyed and pale, watching the scene unfold as if the world had stopped spinning.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Finnick choked out through the tears, his voice breaking under the weight of his fear. “Come back to me.”

Slowly, agonizing seconds passed.

Then your eyes fluttered open, focusing on the panic-stricken face inches from yours.

Your breath came in ragged gasps as the jungle slowly steadied around you. Finnick’s hands were steady on your shoulders, his face close, eyes shimmering with a mix of worry and tears.

You managed a dry, tired smile and muttered, “Careful, there’s a forcefield up there.”

Finnick blinked, then a slow, shaky grin spread across his face. Wiping a tear from his cheek, he teased softly, “Careful, don’t make me regret saving your life with my kiss.”

He pulled you into a fierce hug, his arms wrapping tight as if holding you was the only thing keeping him grounded. His heartbeat pounded against your own, steady and fierce.

Nearby, the others watched quietly, Peeta’s guarded gaze softened, Katniss gave a subtle nod, and Mags just smiled knowingly.

For the first time since Marek’s death, you allowed yourself to lean into Finnick’s embrace.

—

The forcefield burned into your skin like fire. Not physically, not anymore, but the phantom sting remained, a warning echoing across every nerve ending. You could still feel it humming in your bones. One second you’d been scanning for threats, trying to prove to yourself and the others that you weren’t broken, and the next, you were airborne, pain and electricity ripping through your chest.

And then, Finnick. Pressing his mouth to yours in a desperate mimic of life. His hands trembling, soaked with tears and panic and the weight of a hundred regrets. He’d held you like someone who couldn’t afford to lose one more thing.

You remembered the feeling of your heart stuttering back to life, his voice cracking as he gasped your name. Now, minutes later, your legs were shaky but moving, driven more by pride than strength. You hated that your knees still threatened to buckle. That Finnick’s hand still gripped yours like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

The jungle pressed in around you, thick with vines and heat and the distant chorus of the Games. You walked in silence, the others a few feet ahead, Peeta glancing back every so often, Katniss whispering something to him under her breath. But neither of them asked. The looks said enough.

Mags didn’t look surprised at all. She walked just behind you, her expression unreadable but calm. Like she’d known long before you did.

Finnick squeezed your hand. You didn’t pull away.

—

It took the better part of an hour, but you finally stumbled on a spot you all decided to call camp for the night. While the others cleared out the area, removing any harsh rocks or sticks, you stood still. They refused to let you move much.

Finnick never left your side.

You sat down against the trunk of a tree, arms crossed, head bowed. Everything ached. Not just your body, though the pain in your ribs was undeniable, but something deeper. Something that had nothing to do with the forcefield.

Marek. His name burned behind your eyelids.

Your partner. Your friend. Maybe the only person left who truly knew you before this. And now he was gone. You saw it over and over again, his wide eyes as he shoved the other tribute to the ground.

You hadn’t even had time to say goodbye. Or thank him. And somehow that hurts the most.

Eventually, all of you sit around in silence. No one’s sure what to talk about, so you speak up first. “I’ll take first watch.”

“No.” Finnick’s voice was low and immediate.

You turned on him. “I wasn’t asking.”

“You’re still shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

“You almost died,” he hissed, his head snapping towards you, his tone sharp but quiet enough not to be a threat others. “You think you can take the first shift after being unconscious less than an a few hours ago?”

“I can handle it.”

“I said no.”

You stared him down, jaw clenched, fists trembling. Part of you wanted to scream. Part of you wanted to let him win, just to be held again. But neither of those were options. “Then we both do it,” you snapped. “You stay awake, I stay awake. Happy?”

His mouth opened like he wanted to argue more, then shut. He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “Fine.”

—

The jungle had finally gone quiet.

Not peaceful. never peaceful, but still. As if the arena itself was holding its breath. You sat cross-legged near the edge of the small clearing the group had claimed for the night, your back pressed to a thick tree trunk, gaze fixed outward into the darkness. Vines dangled like nooses from the canopy above. The hum of insects droned on, unbothered by the fact that a bloodbath had unfolded only hours ago.

Finnick sat beside you, close but not touching. His trident lay across his lap, glinting faintly in the moonlight. You knew he hadn’t taken his eyes off you, even if you hadn’t looked at him once.

Behind you, Peeta and Katniss were tangled together in restless sleep. Mags rested a little apart, curled like a child beneath a thick leaf, breathing softly. Her presence was like a steady heartbeat, quiet, dependable, ancient.

You, however, were unraveling. Marek’s death, it was playing on a loop behind your eyes. The same way Finnick’s letter echoed in your chest, over and over, like a wound reopening.

The silence stretched long between you and Finnick, until he finally broke it.

“You got the letter,” he said softly. You didn’t answer. You didn’t know if you could. You take a deep breath. “I didn’t know if it’d make it to you,” he added. “It wasn’t safe… but Haymitch said he’d try.” Still, you didn’t move.

“I meant every word.”

A pause. “I just need to know if you—”

You turned to him abruptly. “No.”

Finnick blinked. “No?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” The sharpness in your voice surprised even you. He sat back slightly, like the words had knocked the air from his lungs.

“Why not?” he asked, and though his voice stayed gentle, you could hear the edge beneath it. The hurt. The desperation. “You deserve an explanation. You deserve to know why I– why I said what I said. Why I—”

Your throat tightened. You looked away again, jaw clenched. And finally, you whispered, “It’ll hurt too much to know the truth if one of us doesn’t make it out of here.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Finnick didn’t speak. Didn’t move. You stared straight ahead into the darkness, your voice trembling despite how hard you fought it.

“If I let you explain, and it was real, if you really felt everything I did… If I let that hope in and then watch you die, I don’t think I’ll make it. And if I die knowing you really loved me—” Your breath hitched. “I’d go with regret. With something too big in my chest to let go of.”

Finnick’s trident slid off his lap with a dull thud in the grass. He didn’t speak, not right away. But slowly, his hand inched toward yours. Not pressing. Just waiting. You didn’t take it. But you didn’t pull away either. A part of you wanted to take it, to find comfort in his grasp again, but you just couldn’t.

He leaned his head back against the tree behind him, eyes closing briefly. “Okay,” he said finally. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Good,” you breathed.

—

The world hadn’t slowed since Mags walked into the fog.

She hadn’t said a word. No dramatic farewell, no noble declaration. Just let go of Finnick’s shoulder, pressed her lips gently to his cheek, and turned away.

You’d screamed after her. Katniss had, too. But the poison was too fast. She was gone in seconds.

The jungle felt unbearably close, the thick air pressing down like a weight on your chest. Every breath was a struggle, each inhale sharp and shallow from the poison still lingering in your lungs. Around you, the others sat in a rough circle, bodies tense, faces drawn and pale under the waning light.

Katniss sat a little ways apart from you, scanning the shadows with fierce, guarded eyes.

You sank down beside her, the damp earth cold beneath your fingers. You didn’t speak. Words felt hollow, like fragments of a shattered mirror reflecting only pain and fear.

Mags was gone.

None of you knew what to say, or where to go next. The Capitol cameras might be watching every step, every breath, every flicker of despair.

Finnick’s grip tightened slightly on Peeta’s shoulder, a silent vow to carry him through whatever came next. You felt the ghost of Mags’ sacrifice like a cold shadow settling over the group, a painful reminder of what survival demanded.

You glanced at Finnick, his face streaked with dirt and tears, jaw clenched so tightly you worried it might break. You wanted to say something. Anything. But the words caught in your throat, swallowed by the heavy night air.

Instead, you shifted closer, letting your fingers brush his, just for a moment, a quiet promise that you were still here. Still fighting.

Katniss’s sharp eyes flicked between the two of you but said nothing. You knew she saw the fragile thread connecting you, and Finnick, a thread woven with pain, loss, and desperate hope.

No one moved for a long time. The jungle whispered its secrets all around, but inside your circle, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the steady thrum of hearts refusing to give up.

You didn’t know how you’d survive tomorrow.

But for now, you were together.

Since you and Finnick had taken the first watch, before the fog happened, Peeta and Katniss volunteered this time. You allowed it, only because you felt like you were about to crumble with exhaustion.

But even as your body laid still against the tree, rest didn’t come. Not really.

You watched the jungle sway, watched the fire crackle. You watched the slow rise and fall of Peeta’s shoulders where he stood beside Katniss, both of them quiet, alert, trying to keep it together.

And then there was Finnick.

He lay on his side a foot away from you, muscles twitching beneath his skin like he was still outrunning something in his sleep. But you knew he wasn’t asleep.

You could feel it in the way his breath hitched sometimes. In how often he blinked against the firelight. In how his fingers flexed against the ground, restless.

You stared up at the treetops, jaw clenched, willing yourself to stay still. You told yourself not to get involved. Because you’d already given enough. You’d already hurt enough.

But then Finnick exhaled, shaky, long, broken in the middle like a cracked shell, and you were moving before you even realized it. You scooter over toward him, your hand reaching instinctively, brushing lightly against his arm.

He startled just slightly, as if he didn’t expect to be touched.

And when his eyes met yours in the low flicker of the fire, you didn’t say anything. You just lifted your hand a little higher, fingers curling gently behind his neck. An invitation. He hesitated for a second. Just one.

Then he let out another trembling breath and shifted closer. Carefully, slowly, as if unsure he was allowed to. He laid his head down in your lap, curling toward you, silent.

You swallowed hard, blinking back the burn in your eyes. And then you did what you hadn’t done in so long, you threaded your fingers through his hair, slow and deliberate, combing gently through the sea-swept gold. His lashes fluttered, but his eyes stayed open. Watching the dark. Watching you.

You ran your nails along his scalp in gentle, looping strokes, like muscle memory. Like your hands remembered even if your heart wasn’t sure how.

After a long while, you heard the smallest breath from him. Not a word. Not a cry. Just. a sigh. So you kept going.

You traced along his brow, down his cheekbone. Drew circles near the corner of his jaw. Back when everything was simpler, or at least less painful, he used to fall asleep like this. Whenever you got the chance. Wherever the Capitol wasn’t watching too closely.

Now, of course, they were watching. Always. And still, you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not when this might be the last time you hold him. Finnick hadn’t asked for comfort. You weren’t even sure he would’ve. But the way he pressed closer into your lap, the way his fist slowly unclenched.. that was enough.

That was a yes.

Peeta and Katniss were quiet a few feet away. Maybe they saw it, maybe they didn’t. Or maybe they just chose to let the moment be. No questions. No commentary. Just the four of you, alive, for now, in the middle of something impossible.

Eventually, Finnick’s eyes slipped closed, lashes brushing your thigh. His breathing slowed.

You kept your fingers moving through his hair.

And even though your body ached and your eyes burned, something inside of you exhaled. Just a little.

Tomorrow would be worse. You knew that. The Capitol wasn’t done yet.

But right now, right here, Finnick slept in your lap, and your heart was still beating, and that was enough to keep going.

At least for tonight.

—

The morning came without promise. No birdsong. No light breeze. Just the slow, oppressive crawl of pale sun through thick jungle canopy, filtering down like watered-down gold, far too faint to warm you.

No one said it, but you all felt it, that shift. That irreversible moment where the Games had tipped from survival to something else entirely. Grief. Weariness. A bone-deep dread.

You moved because you had to. Not because you wanted to. Certainly not because you believed there was safety waiting ahead. But staying in the clearing where it happened, where Mags had disappeared into the fog with only a final breath and a look, was unbearable.

So you walked.

Katniss had been the first to suggest it, finding Beetee and Wiress. She didn’t say much when she said it, just that Wiress had been in their alliance. Beetee would be with her. They’d need help. You didn’t argue. No one did.

Peeta limped quietly beside her, his movements steadier than yesterday but still strained. His arm brushed hers occasionally, and though neither of them acknowledged it, the subtle proximity seemed to keep them tethered.

You trailed near the back, alongside Finnick, whose silence this morning had taken on a different shape than last night’s. It wasn’t cold or closed-off. It was the kind of silence that speaks louder than words, raw and too large to fit in a sentence.

He hadn’t said a single thing since you’d woken. Not even when he handed you a piece of dried fruit, still soft from the heat. You took it without a word, fingers brushing briefly, and you didn’t miss how his lingered just a second longer than necessary. A quiet plea. A reassurance. You couldn’t tell which.

The jungle underfoot had turned thicker, vines snagging against your ankles, the humidity clinging to your skin like a second, suffocating layer. You felt heavy, like something inside you had sunk overnight. Grief had lodged somewhere between your ribs and refused to leave.

Not even for him.

Especially not for him.

You didn’t know where the two of you stood anymore. You weren’t sure he did either. After everything, after Marek, after the forcefield, after holding him while he trembled like he was fourteen again and just trying to survive the Capitol, there still hadn’t been words.

Maybe there didn’t need to be. But you wished there were.

Every so often, you caught Peeta glancing back at the two of you. Not in judgment. Just quiet, observant curiosity. Like he was trying to piece it together in his mind. He never asked. He didn’t have to. Katniss noticed too, but her attention always veered back to the jungle in front of her, scanning, calculating. She was trying to stay ahead of the arena, as if she could predict its next move before it struck again.

You admired that about her. You just weren’t sure hope was still something you could afford.

Finnick’s voice finally came, low and close, like he was worried speaking too loudly might break something fragile in the air. “You need to rest.”

You looked over at him, brow furrowed. “I’m walking.”

His eyes, though tired, sparkled just faintly with that signature kind of charm. “Not what I meant.”

You exhaled through your nose, not quite laughing, not quite annoyed. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna start making jokes again.”

“Would it be better if I didn’t?” he murmured. “You never liked when I was too quiet.” The way he said it, it was almost nothing. Just a line, just a memory between you. But it hit like a blade.

You didn’t reply. Your eyes stayed forward.

Because the truth was, he was right. His silence had always unnerved you, especially when you first started dating. When Finnick was quiet, it meant something was deeply wrong. And right now, the silence between you both was a thousand different things, loss, regret, unfinished conversations, years of wanting and pushing away.

But it was also comfort. Familiarity. The kind you didn’t expect to find again, least of all here.

Another vine tangled around your ankle. You hissed, swatting it away, your frustration boiling closer to the surface. It wasn’t just the jungle. It was everything. Your skin itched with sweat. Your legs ached. Your stomach twisted with hunger and fear and the ever-present knowledge that this alliance could fall apart at any second. That you might have to kill someone tomorrow. Or watch someone you love die.

Again.

“We need water,” Katniss said, glancing back. “And we need shelter before dark.”

Her voice was tight. Flat. The edge of it almost reminded you of yourself. As you continued, the sound of buzzing insects grew louder, thrumming like static in your ears. You wiped your forehead with the back of your hand, and suddenly, the edge of the world felt closer than it had any right to be.

Katniss held a hand up abruptly. Stopped. Everyone froze. A soft clicking sound echoed from deeper in the jungle. Small. Precise. Like something mechanical.

No one spoke, but the tension pulled tight. Peeta shifted closer to Katniss. Finnick instinctively stepped in front of you. You narrowed your eyes toward the sound, and then, Nothing. Just the silence returning. But the air had changed again. Heavier. Expectant.

“We should move,” Katniss said. “Now.” You all started again, a little faster this time. Your heart picked up without permission.

Finnick glanced at you, just once. “Stay close.”

You wanted to snap back, something sarcastic, something sharp, but the words died on your tongue.

Because for what feels like the 100th time since stepping foot in the arena, you realized how afraid you truly were.

Not of dying. Of losing him again.

—

You weren’t sure how long it had lasted.

The monkey mutts had come without warning, just a blur of snarling teeth and red eyes in the trees, and then chaos, panic, blood. Screams. One of them had lunged at Peeta, jaws wide, and Finnick had barely gotten there in time. Katniss’ arrows had sung through the air like curses. You’d thrown your knives, sticks, anything.

It ended as suddenly as it began. Like the arena had been satisfied. Like it had gotten what it wanted, fear, pain, the promise of weakness. Now, you stood on the beach. The same stretch of pale sand where the Games had started. Everything felt different now.

The waves whispered softly in the background, dragging the jungle stench out of your lungs. The breeze off the water was cool against your skin, offering the first moment of relief you’d felt in hours, maybe days.

You weren’t sure how long it had been. Time didn’t move the same in the arena. The sun played tricks on you. Your muscles pulsed with exhaustion. Your throat ached for water, but your stomach couldn’t bear it.

Peeta stood beside Katniss, his hand curled tightly around the hilt of the trident Finnick had lent him. His shirt was torn, his hair clumped with sand and sweat, but he was upright. Alive. That counted for something.

Finnick was at your side again, his hand still hovering like it had been all day, close, but not quite touching. He kept glancing toward your arm, where one of the monkey’s claws had scratched you earlier. You’d cleaned it quickly, but the sting still lingered. You’d insisted you were fine, even snapped a little, but that hadn’t stopped him from watching you like you might fall apart at any second.

You weren’t sure whether to be grateful or resent it.

“Look,” Katniss said quietly, pointing toward the opposite edge of the beach. Three figures were approaching.

You narrowed your eyes, squinting into the hazy light. The first was clearly Johanna, her gait sharp and confident even through the exhaustion. Her axe was strapped across her back, her eyes narrowed as if daring the jungle to challenge her again.

Behind her, much slower, came Wiress and Beetee.

Wiress walked like she was floating, her arms twitching slightly at her sides, her mouth moving as if she were whispering numbers. Beetee looked more grounded, but even he had the glassy-eyed look of someone who had seen too much, too fast. You all stood frozen, observing them for a moment.

Katniss took a step forward but didn’t lower her bow. “They’re alive.”

Peeta exhaled in relief. “I wasn’t sure they’d make it.”

“Looks like they barely did,” Finnick muttered. You said nothing. Just watched them come closer, step by painful step, until Johanna finally stopped a few yards away and cocked her head at your group like it was just another nuisance.

“Nice to see none of you are dead,” she said flatly.

You raised a brow. “Nice to see your attitude’s still intact.”

She smirked faintly, then glanced at Finnick. “Didn’t think you’d actually protect them. Thought you’d bail after the first cannon.”

Finnick gave no reply, just looked at her with hollow eyes. Johanna frowned, only slightly, but didn’t push. Then, almost as an afterthought, her eyes flicked past Finnick to where Mags should have been.

“She’s not with you,” Johanna said quietly, her voice dropping an octave. Your heart clenched, but no one answered.

Johanna looked back at Finnick, something like pity hidden beneath her rough exterior. “I’m sorry Finnick.” You don’t know much, but you do know Jo and Finnick are close. Finnick’s jaw tightened, but still no words came.

Wiress dropped to her knees in the sand, whispering, “Tick, tock, tick, tock,” under her breath as Beetee sat beside her.

“She’s been doing that since yesterday,” Johanna said, sounding tired. “Won’t eat. Barely drinks. But she’s right about the arena. There’s a pattern.”

No one argued, because deep down you all knew she was right.

You felt the heaviness settle again, the same one that had hung over all of you since the fog. Since the mutts. Since the first blood was spilled. Mags’ absence still clung to Finnick like smoke, wrapping around his shoulders, too thick to shake. He hadn’t said her name once since she walked into the fog, and you hadn’t tried to make him.

You couldn’t bear it either.

Now, you stood surrounded by tributes, supposed allies, some former enemies, but there was no trust. Just survival. And barely that. Still, it was something.

You glanced at Wiress again, watching the way she traced lines into the sand, over and over again. Circles. Clocks. Numbers.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but you had the night.

And for now, you had each other.

—

The faint crackle of Beetee’s voice broke through the heavy stillness as the group gathered beneath the towering canopy of ancient trees. His eyes, sharp and calculating, swept across the gathered faces, landing on Katniss, Peeta, Finnick, Johanna, and you in turn. The others leaned in, hanging on every word.

“There’s a plan,” Beetee began, voice low but urgent, “one that might turn the odds in our favor.” His fingers traced a pattern in the dirt as he explained, “The lightning tree. If we can rig it just right, it’ll create an electrical charge strong enough to stun or kill anyone caught beneath.”

Katniss’s brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a hard line as she absorbed the details. Johanna’s jaw tightened, and Finnick’s eyes exchanged a fleeting glance with Beetee’s and Johanna, that subtle look, heavy with meaning, something unspoken that made your skin crawl with unease.

You tried to catch Finnick’s eye, hoping for some clue, some hint of what was really happening. But his gaze flicked away, distant and guarded. There was a wall between you now, a barrier you hadn’t expected.

No one had told you about the rebellion. No whispered warnings or secret nods. You were still in the dark, still fighting not just for survival in the arena but for answers that felt just out of reach.

Later, when the others were distracted setting traps or gathering supplies, you pulled Finnick aside. The jungle was quieter here, the sounds of insects and distant calls wrapping around you like a cocoon. You gripped his arm, voice low and sharp with frustration.

“Finnick… what’s going on? Don’t act like you and Johanna aren’t giving each other odd glances.” You mutter.

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, the mask slipped, revealing the turmoil beneath. But then he shook his head, voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t tell you.“

The words hit you harder than any blow. Why can’t he tell you?

You looked at him, searching, pleading, but all you got was silence.

The weight of it settled around you, more suffocating than the humid jungle air, and you realized the fight wasn’t just against the other tributes or the Capitol’s twisted arena. It was against secrets that could either save you all or destroy you completely.

—

The jungle pressed in around you, thick and humid, every leaf and twig heavy with the promise of a storm. You and Katniss stayed close, crouched beneath the shadow of a massive tree, eyes flicking toward Johanna but never meeting hers directly.

Finnick and Peeta were out there somewhere, carrying out the other part of the plan, but you and Katniss weren’t fools. Something was off. The way Johanna kept watching you, the way you’d been separated from the boys, it didn’t sit right.

No words passed between you. There was no need. A glance, a slight narrowing of eyes, and everything was said.

Johanna’s smirk flickered as she turned away, oblivious to the silent exchange happening just a few feet from her.

The low rumble of thunder rolled in, and the air thickened. The storm was coming.

Your pulse quickened, but your gaze stayed sharp, searching the dark canopy above, knowing that the lightning would change everything.

Whatever the plan was, whatever secrets they were keeping, you and Katniss were ready. And you wouldn’t be caught off guard.

—

The storm broke overhead like a scream.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the arena in brilliant white streaks, and thunder followed hard and fast, shaking the jungle from its roots.

You didn’t know how long you’d been waiting, ten minutes, maybe more, but when Johanna finally said, “Move,” you didn’t argue.

The three of you emerged from the undergrowth, silent, soaked, hearts pounding. Somewhere in the distance, the faintest shimmer of Beetee’s wire glinted in the canopy light, strung tight from the lightning tree to the force field. You followed it.

Beetee lay slumped at the base of the tree.

“Beetee?” Katniss called, rushing forward.

You followed close behind, crouching beside her. His hands were burned, the wire tangled in his arms. The end of it was frayed, crackling faintly. He’d been trying to complete the circuit, but something had gone wrong.

“Is he—” you began but were quickly cut off by a flash of movement.

Johanna turned, grabbing Katniss by the arm and slamming her into the mud. Before you could react, she was on you too, her knife flashing, slicing through your upper arm in one swift motion.

You cried out, struggling, but the blade wasn’t meant to kill, it was precise, surgical. You weren’t sure what she was doing, but God, did it hurt.

Blood mixed with dirt and water as you thrashed, disoriented, the world spinning, going hazy. Through the trees, you saw her sprint off with the wire in her hands. and then, nothing but the sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears. Darkness threatened your edges.

When you came to after only seconds, the world was chaos. Beetee was gone. So was Johanna.

Katniss was crawling, weak and dizzy, just a few feet from you. Her eyes darted around like a trapped animal.

“Peeta,” she murmured, panic threading her voice. “Where’s Peeta?” Before you could answer, a voice broke through the trees.

“Katniss!”

It was Finnick. He stumbled into view, mud-streaked and wide-eyed. Alone. He didn’t see you at first, his eyes were locked on her. “Where is he?” Katniss asked, staggering upright. “Where’s Peeta?”

“I— I can’t find—,” Finnick said, voice breaking. She lifted her bow, and you knew without a doubt that she was aiming to kill.

“Katniss,” you rasped, but she was already moving, arrow nocked, drawn, aimed directly at Finnick’s chest.

“You lied,” she whispered. “All of you.”

“Katniss,” Finnick said, stepping closer, his voice desperate as he see’s you on the ground. “Remember who the real enemy is.”

The words hung in the air like a spark. Katniss turned slightly, her eyes catching yours, raw, broken, but suddenly… clear. She looked up. The wire still glinted in the branches, barely attached now, swaying with the wind. The lightning was coming again. You saw it in her eyes before she moved.

She turned, lifted the bow to the canopy, and fired.

The arrow soared upward, arcing beautifully through the night, trailing the end of Beetee’s wire behind it.

The moment it struck the point of impact, lightning hit.

A blinding white explosion tore across the sky, and the sound that followed wasn’t thunder. It was the arena’s death rattle.

The sky cracked open. The force field shattered, sparks raining down around you. Everything burned electric.

You were weightless for a moment.

Then the world split in two.

—

The world was spinning.

You woke with a gasp, lungs aching like you’d been drowning. Your body jerked upright before your brain could catch up, hands flailing for purchase, heart thudding like a war drum against your ribs.

White walls. Metal ceiling. Cold air. Not the arena.

You scrambled back against the headboard of the medical cot, your bandaged shoulder slamming into the wall. The pain lanced through you, sharp and white-hot, but it was nothing compared to the panic rising in your chest.

“Peeta—?” you rasped. “Finnick? Katniss?”

Nothing but silence.

Then, voices. Muted, through the wall but calm. They’re discussing something. Your breath hitched. You couldn’t tell who they were.

You swung your legs off the cot, wobbling onto bare feet. Everything ached. Your knees buckled for a moment, catching against the cold floor, but you forced yourself up. You had to find the others. You had to find out if they were alive. If you were still alive.

The hallway outside was dim, lit only by the humming overhead fluorescents. The metal floor clanged softly beneath your steps. You leaned against the wall for balance, blinking through the dizziness and panic.

That’s when you heard it.

“…She’s strong. She’ll come around soon.”

The voice was male, low and unfamiliar. You didn’t know that voice. You didn’t recognize it. But he was talking about someone. You?

You stepped closer to the half-open doorway, your heart pounding.

“What matters is she made it out,” Haymitch said. “Barely. She’s lucky. They all are.”

You reached the edge of the doorway, breath shaking, one hand pressed flat to the wall for support.

You pushed the door just wide enough to see…

Finnick. Sitting with his head in his hands, face pale and broken in the center of a room that didn’t feel real. Haymitch stood across from him, arms crossed. Plutarch pored over something on a screen. And there, leaning in the corner, was a tall boy you didn’t recognize. Slate-gray shirt, black hair. His eyes flicked to the door just as you stepped inside.

They all turned.

Your legs nearly gave out when you saw Finnick. You didn’t care about the others. Not right then. Just him.

“Finnick—?” He stood instantly.

“You’re awake,” he breathed, and the relief on his face nearly undid you. He crossed the space in three strides, catching you as your knees buckled.

“Where—” your voice cracked. “Where are we? What happened? Where’s Peeta? Johanna?” Finnick’s grip on you tightened for a second, and when he pulled back, his eyes looked hollow.

“They didn’t make it,” he said, voice breaking.

You stared. “What?”

“They were taken,” Plutarch said from behind you. “By the Capitol.” Your world dropped out from under you.

You looked from face to face, Haymitch’s guilt, Finnick’s heartbreak, the stranger’s steady, unreadable stare. You couldn’t breathe.

“Where are we?” you whispered.

“On our way to District 13,” Haymitch said. Your blood ran cold. District 13 doesn’t exist anymore.

“That’s not real,” you croaked.

“It is,” said the stranger. Gale. But you barely heard him.

You were too busy trying to piece it all together: the broken wire, the flash of lightning, the sound of shattering sky, and then nothing.

“You left them,” you whispered, barely recognizing your own voice.

Finnick flinched. You staggered back a step, slipping from his grasp. The look in your eyes was half-broken, half-blazing. The weight of it all, the confusion, the pain, the unanswered questions, came rushing in like a tidal wave.

Haymitch sighed behind you. “They weren’t supposed to be left behind.”

You turned on him. “Then what was supposed to happen?” A silence thickened the room. Plutarch looked away. Gale, whoever he was, stayed quiet.

Haymitch rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking years older. “It was a rescue mission,” he muttered. “A rebel extraction. Beetee’s wire, the tree, the lightning, it was all part of the plan. We were breaking you out. Getting Katniss, and you, out of the arena alive.”

Your stomach turned. “What?”

“We had people on the inside,” Haymitch went on, nodding toward Finnick. “Johanna. Beetee. Finnick.” You froze. Your eyes snapped back to him.

“I knew it. I knew you were hiding something from me.” The anger is visible on your face. You’re seething, upset at how he kept this from you.

Finnick’s mouth opened, then closed again. His shoulders dropped, like the truth was a weight he couldn’t carry anymore.

“I couldn’t tell you,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t safe.”

You laughed, sharp and humorless. “Safe? You think this was safe?” Your voice cracked as you took another step back from him. “I asked you. I begged you to tell me what was going on, and you lied. Every time.”

“I was trying to protect you,” he said, and the way he said it, so full of guilt, so desperately gentle, made your chest ache worse than the wound on your shoulder.

“By keeping me in the dark?” you snapped. “By letting me think I was losing my mind while you and Johanna shared your little looks and coded glances and I was just, what? Dead weight?”

His jaw tightened. “You’re not—”

“I wasn’t prepared, Finnick!” you shouted, voice ringing off the metal walls. “I didn’t know what was happening! I thought Johanna was going to kill us!”

“She wasn’t.”

“You don’t know that!” you screamed. “You weren’t there. You left. You left me. You left Peeta, and you left Jo.” He stepped toward you again, but you backed away, shaking.

“I would’ve gone back for him,” he said, eyes glassy. “I tried. But they pulled me out before I could—”

“And now they’re gone.” The words landed like a blade. You could see it on his face, how much it cut him to hear you say it.

You turned to Haymitch, voice lower now, trembling. “Why didn’t you tell me? Any of you?” Haymitch just looked at you, and for once, he didn’t have a snide comeback. He just looked tired.

“Because knowing would’ve made you a target,” he said. “The Capitol watches everything. We had to keep it quiet. Even from you.”

“And Peeta and Katniss?” You raised an eyebrow, voice cold. Daring him to lie again.

He nodded slowly, no words spoken. A silent confirmation. A heavy, guilty weight in the air. The panic inside you boiled over. You stumbled backward, vision blurring, chest tight like it was going to explode. Finnick reached out, but you didn’t want his touch.

The room spun, hot and suffocating. Without thinking, your fists balled tight and slammed hard against Finnick’s chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you yelled, voice cracking. “Why him? Why Peeta? Why Johanna? Why did you have to leave me in the dark?”

Finnick caught you by the arms, his face pained, but you wrenched away. “You think it was easy?” he said quietly. “I wanted to tell you.”

“Then why didn’t you?” You shook your head, tears burning your eyes. “I trusted you. I trusted all of you.”

Your scream had already ripped through the halls long before Katniss pushed the door open. The sound was raw and jagged, everything you were feeling spilled out with no filter, no control. She stepped inside cautiously, fragile, eyes wide but haunted. You caught her gaze flicker to Gale, a quick, silent exchange you barely understood, like they shared a past you didn’t.

Then she asked, soft, almost broken, but desperate, “Where’s Peeta?” The room froze, the question slicing through the heavy silence like a knife. Haymitch cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice, but before he could speak, your rage exploded:

“The Capitol took him. They left him behind in the arena, and the Capitol took him.”

The words slammed down, brutal and unforgiving. Katniss’s breath hitched sharply. For a moment, she looked like she might crumble into herself, blank, stunned, as if the world had just cracked beneath her feet.

Then the storm broke.

Her body went rigid. Fists clenched tight, trembling so fiercely you could almost hear the shattering inside her. And then, like a dam bursting, she punched the wall, once, twice, her knuckles striking cold plaster with a sound sharp and jagged.

She screamed then, not words, just pure, desperate fury.

She slammed a fist down on the table, the crash echoing through the room, then spun on her heel, pacing like a wild animal trapped. Her breath came fast, shallow, as tears spilled down her cheeks unchecked, raw grief and rage coiling inside her like venom.

She didn’t speak anymore. No words could capture the depth of that pain. Only those violent, shuddering breaths and the wild beating of her fists against anything she could reach.

You watched, heart hammering, a storm of bitterness rising in your chest. When Haymitch moved forward with a syringe, urgency in his eyes, you stepped forward, voice sharp as steel. “No.” But exhaustion was crushing her body. The needle slipped in, and her thrashing slowed.

Her heavy lids fluttered closed. She sank into the chair, fragile and broken, but you could feel the fire still smoldering beneath that quiet calm. You stood frozen for a moment, your chest tight with rage and helplessness.

Without a word, you turned away. Finnick reached out slowly, a silent plea in his eyes. You slapped his hand away before he could touch you, cold and hard.

No words were said. No apologies. Only silence.

—

Time passed differently in District 13. It was sterile and cold, humming with artificial light and muffled orders barked down clean white corridors. There were no windows, no sunrise to count days by, only the low, constant ache of something unfinished. Something broken.

Katniss had been sedated. Not just that day, but more than once since. You caught glimpses of her sometimes, in the medical wing, in the cafeteria, in passing between mission briefings she hadn’t agreed to. Her edges were sharper now. Brittle. Unreadable. You hadn’t said a word to her since that moment in the room.

You hadn’t said a word to anyone.

Except when it was required, when some sharp-eyed soldier asked for your name, or your clearance, or your participation in another round of “reintegration” exercises. You nodded. Gave what was needed. Then vanished.

Most days, you spent in your bunk, staring at the ceiling. Nights were worse, your mind spun like a storm, and the silence around you felt more oppressive than even the arena’s danger. At least there, you had purpose. At least there, Finnick had looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him sane.

Now… he didn’t look at all. Not since that day. Not since you slapped his hand away and walked out of the room with your spine locked straight and your heart falling apart behind it.

But he’d started sitting near you again. Not speaking. Not reaching.

Just sitting.

In the cafeteria. In the training rooms. On the edge of your bunk while you pretended to sleep. Sometimes you opened your eyes just a sliver and watched him. The guilt on his face wasn’t performative. It wasn’t strategic. It was… deep. Worn like a second skin. His eyes were hollow most days, ringed with dark shadows that hadn’t been there before the arena. Before Mags. Before the Capitol took everything back again.

He was unraveling. Quietly. Slowly.

You told yourself not to care. Told yourself he deserved it.

But the longer the silence stretched, the more your chest hurt from holding it all in.

And then, one night, when the halls were quiet and the world felt too heavy, you didn’t send him away when he entered. You didn’t speak either. But you sat up, legs crossed, back to the cold wall of your dormitory. And you looked at him.

That was enough. He sat down at the edge of your cot again, slower this time. Careful. And then, for the first time in weeks, his voice cracked the silence.

“I never wanted to lie to you.”

You didn’t reply, but your chest ached from just the sound of his voice.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he was holding himself together. “I was going to tell you. After I heard the Quarter Quell announcement. I had this plan in my head, how I’d say it, when, where. I thought… I thought we’d have time.”

You looked at him. Watched his jaw tighten as he exhaled.

“But then Snow found out we were close. Closer than he liked. I was… a liability.” His voice dropped. “So he reminded me of what I owed.”

And just like that, the air felt thinner.

You didn’t speak, but your mind stirred with images you hadn’t let yourself remember in days, his lips brushing yours in a dark Capitol corridor, back when the walls had ears and time was always running out. That desperate kiss he gave you when he could hear footsteps approaching. When he would whisper “I’ll find you”, low in your ear during a party, letting you know it was time for you two to slip away for a moment. Like it was a promise threaded with panic. The way your fingers used to thread through his hair when he couldn’t sleep, the weight of your hand grounding him in a world where nothing else made sense.

You blinked, hard. Tried to breathe past the memory of your hands brushing his face with your nails in the arena.

“I pulled away because I had to,” he said eventually. “Because if I didn’t, he’d use you too. And I couldn’t let that happen.”

You closed your eyes. You’d told yourself that before. Replayed it over and over, that maybe there was a reason. But hearing it, hearing the brokenness in his voice, it made it harder to hold onto the anger like a shield.

“You should’ve told me anyway,” you whispered finally.

“I know.”

He didn’t justify it. Didn’t reach for your hand. Just sat there, letting the weight of it all linger in the space between you.

“You were part of it all,” you said quietly. “The rebellion. The plan. The escape. And I was just… collateral.”

His eyes snapped to yours at that, pain flickering in them. “You were never collateral.”

“Then why didn’t anyone trust me?”

He swallowed hard. “They didn’t trust anyone. Not really. Haymitch. Plutarch, they were trying to keep it airtight. Too many risks. Too many mouths.”

“But not yours?” you asked, bitterly.

He looked away.

“I made them promise you’d be rescued,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “That no matter what happened, someone would get you out. That you’d survive.” You stared at him, breath caught in your throat.

“I know it doesn’t make up for it,” he added. “I know you were scared and angry and alone and I wasn’t there. But I was trying. I was always trying.” Your hand had curled into a fist in your lap without you noticing.

“There were days in the Capitol I thought I’d break,” he continued. “Nights I came back from… those rooms… and the only thing that kept me from putting a knife in my own chest was the thought of you. Your voice. Your laugh. The way you used to make me forget, even just for a few hours, that I was a thing being sold.”

You remembered those hours, too. The secret ones. The ones stolen in silence, when you’d both pretended the Capitol wasn’t watching. When he kissed you like you were the only real thing left.

He glanced at you, then looked away like he wasn’t sure he deserved to. “Snow didn’t just use me. He broke me in pieces. And every time I started to find a way back to myself, he found new ways to remind me who was in control.”

“And now?” you asked, not because you didn’t know, but because you needed him to say it.

He didn’t answer right away.

“I’m still trying to remember who I am,” he said. “Without the arena. Without Snow. Without the guilt.”

You looked at him, really looked. His eyes were glassy but unblinking, his shoulders tense beneath the threadbare fabric of his borrowed District 13 uniform.

He looked tired. Older. Like someone who had been cracked open and hadn’t quite healed shut again.

You didn’t forgive him. Not completely. But you understood. And sometimes, that was the beginning of forgiveness.

You moved slowly, cautiously, until your shoulder brushed his. He froze. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to breathe. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t reach for him.

But you didn’t move away either.

And in a place like District 13, where there was no sun, no softness, no mercy, that meant everything.

—

One week later

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly, casting a cold, antiseptic glow across the concrete floor. Everything in District 13 feels the same, gray, controlled, stripped of softness. The training room is no exception. Even the punching bags feel muted, the sound of fists against canvas lost in the suffocating quiet.

You’re already on the mat, lacing up your boots, when the door hisses open behind you.

You don’t have to look to know who it is.

Coin’s directive had come down without ceremony: all victors are to remain in prime physical condition. Appearances must be maintained. The rebellion needs its faces, its fighters, its survivors, whether or not they still feel like any of those things.

You’d obeyed the order silently, showing up each morning without protest. You expected to train alone.

But they paired you with him.

Finnick.

You keep your eyes fixed on the laces in your hands, but your chest tightens all the same. His footsteps are quieter than they used to be. Careful. Hesitant. You wonder if he expects you to turn away again.

You don’t.

He walks past you toward the rack of spears and practice blades. For a moment, there’s only the sound of his fingers brushing metal. Then, “You’re early,” he says.

You don’t answer right away. You finish tying the last knot in your boot and stand slowly, stretching out your shoulders, rolling your wrists.

“So are you,” you murmur.

He glances back at you. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes linger. He looks tired. Hollow in the way only you would notice, like someone still waking from a nightmare, unsure if they’re truly safe.

The mat between you feels wider than it is.

The last time you’d really spoken was a week ago. The night he told you everything.

You’d sat together in the dim dormitory light, knees almost touching. His voice was quiet, his eyes never quite meeting yours, and still he poured it all out. What Snow had done. What he’d been forced to give. Why he pushed you away, and why he hadn’t told you about the rebel plot.

You hadn’t forgiven him.

But you’d stayed. That soft moment rests somewhere in your chest now, tender, but still aching.

You both stand in silence for a long moment.

Then, without looking at you, Finnick says, “Coin said we’d be rotating drills today. Weapons first.”

You nod.

“Fine.”

You pick up a staff and step onto the center mat, posture straight, expression blank. He joins you a beat later, his gaze flicking to your grip, the way you position your feet, like he remembers every time you sparred in training before the quarter quell.

There’s no smile. No small talk. Just the quiet weight of two people circling the same truth but not yet touching it. You shift your stance.

“Ready?” you ask.

His eyes find yours.

“For you? Always.”

You arch a brow, smirking despite yourself. “Are you flirting or fighting now?”

His lips twitch, a ghost of his old grin. “Take a guess.” You look away, for a moment, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks before you meet his gaze again, your face unreadable.

And the first strike echoes across the mat.

The clash of your staffs rings sharp and sudden in the stillness, cutting through the quiet like a flash of lightning. You move instinctively, muscles remembering the rhythm of this dance, the ebb and flow you and Finnick had perfected in training before the war, before the games had shattered everything.

His stance is familiar, fluid and confident, but there’s something softer in the way his eyes search yours now, like he’s looking for permission, or forgiveness, or something you’re not ready to name.

You block his strike, feeling the heat of the impact vibrate through your arms. His breath is steady, but you catch a faint hitch, a reminder of the times you’d teased him, how his steady composure could crack with the right touch, the right word.

A flash of memory strikes, your fingers tangled in his damp, sea-salt hair after a long day in the arena, the whispered promises that had never needed to be spoken aloud. The way he traced the line of your jaw with a thumb, a touch so light it felt like a secret between just the two of you.

You falter for a fraction of a second, just enough for him to press an advantage, spinning you gently to the side. But instead of following through, he lets you go, eyes flickering with something almost shy.

“Not holding back anymore,” he murmurs, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small, bittersweet smile.

Your pulse quickens, the old ache rising again, hope and fear tangled together, fragile and raw.

You plant your feet firmly, meeting his gaze. “Neither am I.”

The room feels smaller now, the distance between you shrinking with every movement. The past isn’t gone; it’s wrapped around you both, woven into each strike, each breath.

And somewhere beneath the tension, beneath the anger and the pain, trust begins to seep through the cracks.

—

Weeks passed in the quiet tension of waiting, until finally news came: a rescue team, led by Gale and a small, fierce band of rebels, had breached the Capitol’s defenses and brought Johanna and Peeta back to District 13.

But the victory was bittersweet. Peeta returned a shell of himself, his mind shattered, tangled in the horrors he endured. He looked at Katniss with fear and confusion, mistaking her for a mutt, a creature bred to kill. The sight of him, broken and lost, crushed something inside Katniss, her pain deepening in a way that silenced even her fiery spirit.

The compound buzzed with cautious relief, but the tension was thick during meals. Conversations stumbled and faltered around the tables, eyes darting away from Peeta’s vacant stares and Johanna’s quiet, guarded presence.

You and Finnick had begun to find each other again, slowly reclaiming a space side by side. Lunches became less lonely, your elbows brushing occasionally, tentative smiles exchanged amid the quiet chaos.

It wasn’t perfect, far from it. But in the fractured silence, in the shared looks and small touches, there was a beginning.

—

Lunch had become a small but steady routine, you, Finnick, Gale, and Katniss sharing a table in the mess hall, while Peeta was still confined to a guarded room and Johanna rested in the medical center. The space between you all was slowly shrinking, the tension easing just enough to allow for moments of normalcy.

Today, the conversation between you and Gale had drifted to something light, a silly debate over whether the stew was better cold or hot, and who could endure the mess hall fare longer without complaint. His easy laughter was almost a balm.

Finnick set next to you, Katniss by Gale, both of them finishing their meals but keeping half an ear on the playful back-and-forth. There was a tentative ease between all of you now, a fragile bridge after the storm.

Gale leaned in with a grin, voice low and teasing, “Well, if you’re not going to admit I’m right, I guess I’ll just have to keep trying to win you over, one stubborn meal at a time.” The words hung there, light but unmistakably flirty, with a hint of challenge.

Finnick’s brows lifted in surprise, a flash of something sharp and protective crossing his eyes. Katniss’s gaze narrowed slightly, an unreadable expression flickering on her face.

You blinked, caught off guard but amused, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Finnick cleared his throat quietly, a warning laced in the tone. “Careful, Gale.”

Katniss shook her head softly, the faintest smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

Lunch wasn’t just about the food anymore. It was about quiet reconnections, fragile trust, and the subtle shifting currents between you all, even as Peeta and Johanna faced their own battles behind closed doors.

—

The clatter and murmur of the cafeteria had faded hours ago, but the weight of the day still settled heavy in your chest. After eating with Katniss, Finnick, and Gale, you’d excused yourself, needing space, needing to untangle the knot of thoughts and feelings twisting inside you.

You found yourself in the common room, a sparse space where a few scattered victors sat quietly, lost in their own worlds. The harsh fluorescent lights did little to ease the heaviness that sat on your shoulders. You sank into a worn chair by the window, staring out through the reinforced glass into the dim corridors of District 13, the sterile walls reflecting the pale glow of the lights.

Your mind was a jumble, memories and regrets mixing with a cautious hope. The slow rebuilding with Finnick, the letter, the brief flashes of affection and familiarity that haunted your days since arriving here. Yet, underneath it all, there was a wall—a careful, guarded thing you built around your heart to keep from breaking again.

The soft scrape of footsteps pulled you from your reverie before you could sink too deep. Gale appeared quietly, his presence surprisingly gentle. He paused a few feet away, clearly hesitant but deciding to approach.

You looked up, startled. “Gale,” you said softly, managing a small smile.

He took a tentative step closer, settling into the seat beside you without invading your space. “You disappeared after lunch. Thought you might want some company.”

You nodded, thankful for the kindness but wary of how much you wanted to share. “Needed a moment.”

For a beat, there was only silence between you, filled with the hum of the underground base and distant voices echoing from other rooms.

Then, with a careful smile, Gale leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “You know, when this war finally ends… maybe we could do something normal. Go somewhere with fresh air, see the sun without fear. Maybe just the two of us.”

His words were light, almost playful, but you caught the subtle hope beneath. Your chest tightened, and heat rushed to your cheeks. The idea of a peaceful future was almost laughably distant, yet his suggestion stirred something fragile inside you.

You swallowed, glancing down at your hands. “That sounds nice,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m… not sure if I can think about that yet.”

Gale’s gaze softened, but there was a flicker of something else, maybe disappointment, maybe understanding. “I get it. This war has a way of stealing normal from us all.”

Your heart ached with the truth in his words, but beneath it, a familiar ache pulsed, for someone else. For Finnick. For what you shared and what you weren’t sure if you had lost.

You gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of your head, trying to push the feelings down. “I’m glad you’re here though.”

He smiled again, but there was an unspoken tension, a question lingering in the air neither of you dared voice.

—

You step into the training room just as the clocks switch over. Artificial lights hum overhead, painting everything in pale gray. The room is half-empty, quiet save for the low shuffle of movement across the mats. You spot Finnick immediately.

He’s already there, of course. Shirt damp from an early warmup, hair damp at the ends like he’d dunked his head under the sink. The moment your eyes land on him, he looks up. And something in his gaze changes. Sharpens.

You cross the room with careful ease, pulling your gloves tighter over your knuckles. You don’t say anything. Not yet.

But he does.

“Gale seems to be pretty interested in you.”

The words land like a crack of static. Subtle, but charged. Your jaw tenses. You should’ve known this was coming.

“Don’t,” you say, eyes still on your hands. “You know I—“

“Just making an observation.” His tone is light. Too light. But it doesn’t match his stance. His shoulders are too stiff. His expression too composed.

You look at him now. Really look. And you see it.

He’s not as unaffected as he wants to seem.

You step onto the mat without another word, and the sparring begins. But it’s different today. Every movement feels too sharp, too exact. Your fists move with instinct and buried frustration. His counters are faster than they need to be. Every time your bodies collide, shoulder against shoulder, wrist grazing wrist, it feels like something electric passes between you.

You can’t help it, You think of last night.

Gale’s smirk. His comment about “when the war ends.” The way you’d smiled, just enough to be polite. The blush that rose to your cheeks that you don’t entirely understand the reason for.

“You hit harder today,” Finnick mutters as you land a clean strike to his ribs.

“Maybe you’re just slower,” you shoot back, breathless.

His grin twitches, but doesn’t stay. There’s something else behind his eyes now. Something more unguarded. He circles you again, eyes locked onto yours.

Your bodies keep moving, pivoting, striking, dodging. But the rhythm falters.

Finnick’s tone is too casual when he says it:

“You like him?”

You barely hesitate. A soft scoff escapes, dry and unimpressed. “Thought you’d have better observation skills.”

The words hit like a trigger. And he catches it, recognizes it, remembers it. The phrase you had used during your first conversation with him.

— capitol party, the ending of your victory tour. —

Finnick approached her with a casual confidence that had rarely faltered, but inside, there was something unfamiliar tugging at him, an unspoken curiosity. He’d seen plenty of victors, plenty of Capitol faces playing their parts, but something about her unsettled that easy charm. Maybe it was the way she didn’t look away, the way her eyes held steady instead of darting nervously like most did. Or maybe it was that edge of defiance, sharp and clear, cutting through the polished facade of this place.

He swirled the liquid in his glass, trying to keep the mood light, to test the waters. “Add a death threat or two, and it’s basically just another day at the beach,” he said, half-joking, half-serious.

Her snort startled him, sharp, genuine, unexpected. “You must have very violent beaches,” she shot back, and for a moment, he caught a glimpse of something real beneath the surface.

He glanced sideways at her, amused, lips twitching into a smile. “Only on Tuesdays.”

But he wanted to know more. He leaned in, voice softer now. “You don’t actually enjoy this, do you? All the fawning, the fake smiles.”

Her gaze met his without hesitation, steady and unyielding. “Do I look like I’m enjoying it? Thought you’d have better observation skills.”

That line, so simple, so biting, hit him differently. It wasn’t just a retort. It was a challenge. And in that moment, something shifted.

Finnick held her gaze, feeling the usual bravado slipping away, replaced by something more honest and raw. “No,” he admitted, shaking his head slowly. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else. That’s rare here.”

And in that rare moment, Finnick realized she wasn’t just another player in the Capitol’s cruel game. She was real. She was fierce. And maybe, just maybe, she was someone worth knowing.

— present day, training session. —

He shakes his head, seeming to clear something from his thoughts, and he throws a snarky response right back with a flash of that signature grin, too sharp to be playful. “Hm. Forgot how mouthy you get when you’re flirting.”

You pause mid-step, your arm still extended from your last strike. That word, flirting, spikes hot in your chest.

It takes everything not to react.

He used to say things like that all the time, back when things were easier. Back when his hand would linger a little too long at your hip during hidden moments, when his fingers would tangle through your hair just to annoy you, when the two of you were always finding each other in the dark.

You shake your head and reset your stance, jaw tight.

“I was really starting to believe you preferred fighting.”

Finnick’s expression flickers.

“Guess I like both.”

It’s quiet for a beat. Not silence exactly, just the sound of your breath, your heart hammering, the shuffling of your feet against the mat. But beneath it all, something is unraveling.

He lunges. You duck. Parry. Counter. But neither of you are really sparring anymore. Not for Coin. Not for strength. This is something else entirely. A push and pull you’ve both missed, even if neither of you will admit it.

His next strike comes close, deliberate.

You block it, holding his wrist for half a second longer than necessary. Just long enough to feel his pulse.

Neither of you speak again, but the tension stays thick, rooted in everything unsaid.

Because what he really meant wasn’t “do you like Gale?”

What he really meant was “is there still something here?”

And your answer, clear as ever, was:

“You should already know.”

Mid-Autumn was closely approaching District Four.

Harvest in the fishing industry was at its peak and the docks were chock-full with boats bringing in their plentiful catches. The town centre was a bustling scene, crowded with people selling produce and trading for food to bring home to their family's kitchen table.

Last year's autumn harvest was the same picture—overflow, hustle, commotion; chaos like this was something you never came to enjoy. So, it was also around this time last year that you had decided to set off in search of the perfect location away from the rest of society. A place where you could be at peace, where you could forget the disastrous world you lived in.

District Four was home to many popular beaches, but the one you discovered was uninhabited, isolated, found after an hour-or-so-long trek through overgrown dirt pathways and a thicket of sea-grape and palm trees. A true paradise away from society. Or so you had thought in the first few weeks.

You weren't too sure when he had started showing up or how he had even discovered the beach.

However, one evening, as you were seated in the sand watching the sunset on the darkening horizon, you noticed a dark figure diving and surfacing in the flat, glimmering water. Their movements were so poised and fluid like the ocean was something they had conquered. You guessed it to be a dolphin or shark because there was no way a human being could move so gracefully.

But then the figure started wading to shore, and the next thing you knew, they were standing on two legs and exiting the water. You knew then that you had guessed wrong. The sun behind him obscured the bronze of his hair and the swirling lukewarm sea that pooled around his pupils. All you could see was the outline of his tall broad figure as he hiked through the sand toward you.

Fear had told you to bolt from the approaching stranger. You were in the middle of nowhere—it was the perfect place to be murdered or kidnapped. But something else, some deep and tangible instinct, also told you to stay.

"Didn't realise I had a captive audience," thestranger spoke, droplets of gleaming water sliding off his body and into the sand as he stood a few feet away.

Taken by surprise, you fumbled over your words trying to form a sentence in response. "I wasn't—I didn't—"

"Easy, honey," he chuckled. The sound was so warm and pleasant that it almost alleviated the slight chill in the air. "Just pulling your leg."

Your mouth formed a small circle. "Right," you said, gaze locked on the golden sand in embarrassment. "I, uh, didn't think anyone else knew about this place."

To be honest, you were pretty sure it was a restricted area. Probably the reason it was so isolated. If a Capitol official found you, the consequences would most likely involve your tongue, a scalpel, and a hell of a lot of pain. All for a wanting a little peace and quiet.

"Neither did I," the man said. "I only come every now and then. Need an escape from the constant buzz back home. Time for myself, you know?"

"Yeah." You smiled, feeling the stranger's words resonate in your soul. "Yeah, I do know."

You thought you saw the corners of his lips curve into a smile, but the shadows on his face were so prominent that you couldn't tell.

"Mind if I sit?" he asked.

Well... if he were going to murder you, he would have done it already. So, you nodded. Sometimes you questioned your survival instincts. Or lack thereof.

He didn't leave much space as he sat beside you. Only an inch or two, meaning you could feel the humidity of body heat and salt water emit from his skin. Even sitting down, he was still quite tall compared to you, but that wasn't what caused your heart to drop into your stomach.

The setting sun, which no longer disguised his face with shadows, now illuminated his entire figure and revealed his identity. His hair was a mess of wet wavy strands, the colour alight like a pale fire beneath the sun's orange radiance. His skin was sun-kissed, no doubt from days he had spent perfecting his swimming abilities. And those dimples... wow.

He was gorgeous. A man sculpted by the gods of beauty, just like everyone in Panem had depicted him to be. Even his sea-green eyes were as striking as everyone said.

Finnick Odair.

The man who was crowned victor of the sixty-fifth Hunger Games at fourteen. Who trapped multiple tributes at once in a net and killed them one by one with his famed trident. A killer.

The man whose reputation in the Capitol was known nationwide. A proud womanizer.

That was what everyone made him out to be.

Only, in the brief interaction you shared with him, he seemed like quite the opposite. He radiated effortless charm and warmth, but not in the arrogant way the media had portrayed him. Then again, did the media ever accurately portray the truth of anything?

It was then that you determined it didn't really matter who people said he was or what he had done. He was a human being—just like you. He deserved a chance.

His pink lips stretched into a knee-weakening smile; you were grateful that you were sitting down.

"I'm Finnick, by the way."

The both of you knew he didn't need to introduce himself. The whole of Panem knew his name and face. Though the fact that he humbly did so anyway made you like him the tiniest bit more.

You returned his smile with one of your own and introduced yourself.

Time passed and the sun had set; the moon had risen, but you both remained sitting side-by-side in the sand. Conversation flowed so naturally between the two of you that it was difficult for you to remember that stopping and getting some air into your lungs was an important factor in keeping a conversation going... as well as keeping you alive.

You told him about yourself as he did himself—some things that were meant to remain secrets, some things that seemed too strange to tell anyone else.

At some point, he had offered to walk you back to your house. The trek was over an hour long but neither of you seemed to care. The time flew by. 

When you were standing at your front door and he was gazing up at you from the bottom of the steps, you both promised to meet again the next day. And you did. 

As you did the day after that... and the day after that... and the day after that...

**********

As soon as the nights carried that familiar chill and the town congested with markets and fervent buyers, you knew mid-autumn had made its return. This meant most of your evenings were spent at a certain secret beach with a certain District Four victor.

Having already finished his pre-sunset swim, Finnick was sitting beside you, fingers weaving dried palm leaves into the mat beneath you. A couple of weeks after you had first met, he had shown up one day holding it all rolled up in hand.

"Made this for you to sit on," he had said with a proud smile. "Took nearly all night and earned me a few good finger cramps, but I think it was worth it."

Pinpointing the exact moment your attraction to him first formed was tricky. However, that gesture was one your mind returned to often. That little palm-leaf mat, the time and effort he put into making it, was scored on your heart.

Finnick was very much a gentleman.

He would always offer you a hand when standing up and whenever you walked back through the overgrown seaside forest. Sometimes he picked fruits for you such as sea grapes and mangos or would climb one of the palms and knock down a few coconuts. One thing he always, always did wasmake sure you got home safe; he never let you out of his sight until you were safe inside your front door.

All those gestures, big and small, added up. Soon enough, Finnick Odair had infiltrated your heart and consumed all your thoughts. You saw his sea-green eyes staring back at you whenever you gazed out at the ocean by your house. Felt the ghost of his hands on yours whenever you picked a grape from the kitchen fruit bowl. Heard his voice calling out your name in your most vivid of dreams.

But there was more to it than innocent adoration.

The guilt came when your gaze started lingering on his body a little too long whenever he left the water at the beach. Shimmering droplets would glide down his beautifully tanned skin; his arm muscles would flex as his fingers raked back his dripping wet hair. It wasn't yourfault he was the walking definition of perfection.

Unholy was the closest word to describe the filthy thoughts that had perverted your imagination. What started as endearing daydreams soon became fantasies that had you seeking relief between your thighs late at night. Your thoughts went wild whenever he dropped you off at your house. It took everything in you not to invite him inside and ask him to fuck you senseless against the front door.

All you had to do was ask. You knew he would say yes.

A year is a long time to know someone. A long time for feelings to grow. It also serves as a lot of time for things to happen between two people—things that linger in your mind even months after they have happened.

Like the times he would walk by you and teasingly whisper something provocative in your ear, then disappear for an hour of swimming, leaving you all hot and flustered in the sand. Neither of you would acknowledge it when he returned. Or when conversations took such a flirtatious turn, the tension only dissipated when houses were separating you at the end of the night.

But that's just what friends do, right? They tease and banter?

Maybe.

However, not all things could be chalked up to being just friends.

Another thing about Finnick's eyes was that they were transparent. You saw how helplessly they clung to you the days you stripped to your underwear and joined him in the water. He had this sort of reaction that turned his eyes into a dark violent sea, like you were some divine temptation planted to test the strength of his resolve.

Sometimes he could resist. Other days it was obvious he couldn't help but reach out and touch.

He would try to be subtle about it. Hands holding yours a little longer than necessary when he helped you stand up. Sitting too closely beside you so that your arms and legs would graze against each other. Brushing off pieces of seaweed that would stick to the dip of your waist and then constantly using the same excuse just to feel the heat of your soft skin.

There was one interaction, though, that you fell asleep to the thought of every night. It was a moment when things almost went too far; an interaction friends definitely did not share.

You could remember it clear a day. Hell, you could still feel it clear as day.

It was a hot summer evening. Both you and Finnick were at the beach and swimming in the water since being in the muggy coastal heat for more than five minutes was parallel to roasting in a thousand-degree sauna.

You were about twenty meters offshore, bobbing beside Finnick as he dived to collect various seashells. That boy could hold his breath for an unbelievable amount of time which meant sometimes you spent minutes alone on the surface, waiting, listening to the calm waves lap eerily around you.

This is exactly how people die in shark movies, said an unwarranted voice in your mind.

As usual, a minute went by. Nothing to worry about. Then a minute turned into two and you were starting to become a little concerned. And then it was two and a half minutes and you were now panicking.

"Finnick?!" you called out, hoping he could somehow hear you from the dark depths.

Three minutes had totalled, and you were pretty certain he had drowned. Just to add to the utter dread coursing through your veins, something slimy brushed against your foot. Most likely a piece of seaweed, but you didn't make that connection at the time.

That very same moment, Finnick burst through the water's surface, only mildly breathless and pinching a small iridescent shell between his fingers.

"Look at thi—"

Before the words could leave his mouth, he found himself enveloped in your distraught embrace. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck, crying tears of relief. 

Damn that stupid seashell.

He automatically secured you in his arms, concern palpable in his voice as he asked, "Are you okay?"

You pulled away, an indistinguishable combination of tears and saltwater rolling down your cheeks. Though it was hard to miss the look of distress found in your furrowed brows and trembling lips.

"Don't ever do that to me again!" you exclaimed, gripping his arms to emphasise your urgency. "You hear me?! Ever!"

Finnick's head tilted slightly, surprised by your emotional reaction. He hadn't realised he meant so much to you. The surprise faded into remorse, softening his features.

"I won't. I won't, I promise," he said sincerely. His eyes flickered over the worry lines etched on your forehead. He unconsciously brushed his thumb over the lines, hoping to draw out the anxiety with his touch, and then tucked away a strand of hair. "I'm sorry I scared you."

You took in a deep, shuddering breath in an attempt to compose yourself. A mess of emotions stirred inside you—worry, embarrassment, irritation. You were partially frustrated with Finnick for making you fear for his life. Mostly annoyed with yourself for showing such vulnerability in front of him.

"God, you're an idiot sometimes," you sighed, shaking your head.

He smirked. "Didn't think you cared so much about me."

"No, you just don't think, Finn."

He glanced off into the distance for a moment with furrowed brows. "Well, that's definitely not true," he countered, meeting your gaze again with a half-smirk. "I think about a lot of things, actually."

"Oh? Like what?" you asked, slightly annoyed. "Do tell me what the great Finnick Odair thinks about instead of his own safety."

Slowly, the smirk faded from his lips. Something new tinged the atmosphere and suddenly everything around you seemed hotter than it previously was. Not an uncomfortable or sweltering heat, but one that held an intensity that sparked the air with electricity.

You suddenly became very aware that Finnick was still holding you in his arms. You recognised the confined proximity between you and him and realised that, before this moment, your bodies had never been so close.

Your legs were curled around his hips, pelvis pressed firmly against his. The position of his hands, which were keeping you afloat, was bordering on inappropriate but would only be deemed as such if you cared. Which you didn't. You liked it—having his hands on you.

One thing you couldn't ignore was the flickering of his gaze. How his eyes kept dropping to your lips. How they blatantly revealed a long-awaited confession that words just couldn't capture. Still, you wanted to hear him say it. You wanted to hear the purr in his voice as he told you.

Then he was leaning in. You weren't sure whether it was on purpose or if the pure magnetism of the tension between you was drawing him closer. Regardless, you started to lean in closer too, eyes drooping as you focused on his mouth.

And before the short distance between your lips and his became immeasurable, you whispered, "Tell me, Finn."

The hands keeping you afloat trailed up and down your back restlessly as Finnick forced a tense exhale through his nose. He seemed to be wrestling with thoughts. You waited in anticipation, and right when it seemed like he was going to make a move—

"I think..."

—you were interrupted. By no less than a pod of dolphins as they leapt from the water, causing you and Finnick to jolt from each other's embrace.

The rest of that evening was not worth mentioning. Not because you had forgotten what happened, but because the sheer awkwardness between you and Finnick afterwards was so torturous that you wanted to keep the memory squashed in the recesses of your mind. Neither of you acknowledged what happened. Finnick still walked you home, but it was done so in agonising silence.

Surprisingly, you both returned to the beach the next day. You hadn't expected him to be his usual upbeat self, but he was. So, in turn, you too acted like the previous day was erased from history. But your friendship with him was never the same.

Flirty conversations no longer felt like a joke; they now had a deeper meaning. Fleeting touches caused full-body goosebumps that didn't happen before. There was so much unresolved tension, and it was painfully thick. Inescapable.

So, as Finnick sat beside you present-day, weaving dried palm leaves into the mat beneath your bodies, you couldn't help but notice the transparency of your body language and his. The gap between you both was comparable to the size of a pearl and even though neither of you acknowledged it, you kept catching each other stealing quick glances every half-minute or so.

When you were sure he wasn't looking, you found your gaze drawn to his fingers. They were sturdy, yet nimble; curling and manoeuvring in ways that had your face feeling hotter than the heat of any sunburn or warm summer's day. This heat was beneath your skin. Spreading through your limbs in little tendrils and wrapping around your nerves. A dip in the salty sea wouldn't cool you down nor would a gulp of cold fresh water.

As you stared at his hands, you knew only the source of the sensation could offer reprieve. But that wouldn't happen, so there you burned.

The fact that he was shirtless and that his hair was a gorgeous mess of damp bronze curls helped not one bit with taming the consuming desire inside you. God, you were a mess yourself.

You sighed.

The sun, glowing intensely with a divine orange, was beginning its descent on the horizon. Your feet were buried beneath the soft sand, trying to retain some warmth as a slight breeze blew against your exposed skin.

Wearing a short sundress probably wasn't the most practical idea. Embarrassing as it was to admit, practicality wasn't what was going through your mind when you decided to wear it... Someone—Something else was.

"Something on your mind?" Finnick asked suddenly.

Your heart fumbled in your chest, terrified that he had somehow heard your thoughts. "Sorry?"

"You sighed," he said, turning his head to look at you. "Or am I just getting so old that I'm already starting to hear things?"

With relief of his lack of mind-reading abilities, you laughed softly. "You're definitely getting a bit old, Finn," you teased. "Any nursing homes you've been considering?"

"I heard retirement by the sea has its perks," he quipped, subtle dimples present as he returned to his weaving. "Although, I will need someone to make sure I don't fall asleep while swimming and get carried out by the tide. What d'you say, sweetheart? Up for becoming my personal lifeguard?"

Absolutely. "Depends. Will you force me to wear one of those awful flowery swimming caps with a matching tankini?"

He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "I'm thinking more like those little red bodysuits. You know, the ones that zip open down the front?"

You reprimanded him by pushing his shoulder, wearing a betraying smile. "Very charming."

"I just think red's your colour, that's all," he laughed.

Your stomach fluttered. You knew he was teasing you; teasing was basically the foundation of your... friendship. Deep down, you knew there was also some truth behind his words. A truth that was as electrifying as it was upsetting—how long were you both going to keep up with this whole 'friends' charade? Could you handle it if the answer was forever?

Best not to think about it. For your sanity's sake.

Finnick finally settled into a comfortable position with his forearms locked around his bent knees, apparently having decided to continue his mat-weaving another time. He had been extending it bit by bit ever since he first made it for you. At this point, you were sure he was attempting to cover the entire beach. For now, it was only big enough for two people to lie down on.

Sounds pretty convenient, came an abrupt thought.

And then you fell down yet another rabbit hole of depraved daydreams... A pair of hands interlocking your own above your head. Hot lips pressing kisses to your neck. Tongue gliding up the sensitive skin of your jugular. Your fingers tugging at bronze curls between your thighs.

You were sick. Diseased with immorality. Finnick was your friend. If not your best friend. You're not supposed to fantasise about fucking your best friend.

"Thinking about anyone in particular?"

You almost choked on your saliva. "W—What?" 

How did he keep doing that?

Finnick seemed to find joy in your perplexity. It was written all over his face. God, those fucking dimples. "You've been completely still for nearly five minutes and your legs are covered in goosebumps," he pointed out. "Hence the question: who are you thinking about?"

As you looked down, you found that your skin was in fact riddled with goosebumps. It didn't occur to you then that the only reason he could have noticed was if he was staring at your legs in the first place. It also didn't occur to you that Finnick obviously had the very same debauched thoughts running through his own mind.

Why did you have to wear such a revealing dress? He already struggled enough with resisting you at the best of times.

If you had been paying attention, a simple glance in his direction would have revealed how his ears were pink and his pupils were dilated. More importantly, you would have seen his legs constantly shifting to ease the discomfort tenting his pants. Fortunately, he had mastered the art of winding himself down in a short amount of time.

Unfortunately for you, that ability was not within your skill set.

You scoffed. "In case you haven't noticed, Finnick—it's autumn," you said, a quick snappy lilt in your tone. "I know you've got some weird internal space heater built into you, but normal people tend to have a reaction to the cold."

Well, it's a good thing you didn't sound defensive...

Finnick raised an eyebrow at you, displaying a puzzled half-smirk that spoke a thousand words.

You lowered your head in embarrassment, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry," you murmured. "I just, uh, don't really like the cold."

"Who could've guessed."

Despite serving as an excuse, it wasn't entirely untrue. You really did dislike the cold. And it was now that you seriously regretted your choice of sparse attire. The breeze kept blowing up the dress's skirt, threatening to expose your dignity to the world. Or more accurately, to Finnick. Thankfully, you had decided to wear a pair of delicate lace underwear that morning instead of old granny panties.

Nevertheless, now that it was on your mind, you couldn't think about anything but the cold gusts of wind blowing against you. Chills ran over your skin and you were shaking like a leaf.

Finnick, being the gentleman that he was, scanned the surrounding area for anything he could use to keep you warm. He would've given you his shirt had it not been crumpled in a ball of wet sand on the ground.

There was nothing else of use. Nothing except a single apprehensive idea sitting in the forefront of his mind. It was all he had. He bit the inside of his cheek as he contemplated the potentially disastrous idea.

Then, after taking a silent deep breath, he finally said, "Come here then." Your eyes snapped to his. You must've looked like you had seen a ghost because his brows knitted together in confusion. "What?" he breathed out a chuckle. "I'd prefer not having to carry you home as a block of ice."

You thought about it for a moment. Was it really such a good idea after the thoughts that were just swarming in your mind? Another gust of wind blew by and you instinctively wrapped your arms around yourself.

"I won't bite, sweetheart. Not unless you want me to," he added.

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, shut up."

With that, you slid across the mat, positioning your body, which was still facing the sunset, in front of his legs. There was a moment of hesitation. Anxiety. But before you could reconsider, Finnick wrapped a strong arm around your middle and pulled you back against his chest, situating your body between his legs.

The exhale that left your lips was instantaneous and you couldn't help but shudder at the warmth of his skin. "God," you sighed, overwhelmed by the sudden change in temperature. "How are you so warm all the time?"

"Oh, you know. Weird internal space heater."

You laughed softly, then felt Finnick's chest vibrate against your back as he joined you. His bare arms wound tighter around you, motivated by the affectionate atmosphere. Your body seemed to melt into the cocoon of warmth he provided, and a soft smile graced your lips.

"Better?" he asked.

You nodded, responding with a whisper, "Thank you."

"Anytime."

You could hear the smile in his voice and how intently he was trying to hide it. You wished you could have seen it. To see the sense of peace you shared. However, feeling it in the way he held you was enough.

Instead of blood, your heart now seemed to be pumping out rather odd alternatives—waves of sea-green salted ocean, iridescent seashells, smiles paired with heart-stopping dimples. How could he? How could Finnick condemn you to loving him like this? So unwaveringly; so without a hope of ever being able to return to life without him in it.

He made a mess of you. A ruin. And even with wholesome affection running through your veins, you still couldn't ignore the hazy images conjuring in your mind from the way his body was pressed firmly behind you.

How could he?

The sun had just touched the horizon, granting the sky a few more minutes of light, meaning it was almost time to head home—an upsetting reality. You weren't sure how much time had passed before your body started to ache from lack of movement.

You wiggled your toes which were buzzing like television static. The feeling started moving up your legs and you knew if you didn't stretch, you would later embarrass yourself trying to stand on dead legs. So that is what you did. You started moving.

First, you stretched out the muscles in your legs and then moved onto straightening your back against Finnick's chest, feeling the faint pops of your spine offer you relief. And then you started readjusting your position and wriggling your hips to fit more comfortably between Finnick's toned thighs. That was your first mistake.

"Stop moving."

You were taken aback by the rigid inflection in his tone. "What?" you asked, ignoring his warning and continuing your restless movements.

"Stop. Moving," Finnick repeated, sounding more strained.

His hold on you became stiff. Completely frozen.

You were confused. Everything was perfect a moment ago, and all you were doing was stretching—why was he being so weird and snappy?

In response, you exhaled sharply. "I'm just trying to get comf—"

"Fuck," he breathed out.

Your eyes widened and it was safe to say your stomach had flipped inside out.

That was the moment you finally realised your second mistake. The rigidness in his voice wasn't him being snappy with you at all. Not even close. He was just trying to prevent the pleasure he felt below from reaching his vocal cords.

But it was too late. It wouldn't have mattered if he managed to keep quiet because you could feel it now. The achingly hard length that was pressed against your backside, reaching all the way up to your tailbone.

"...Oh," you whispered.

"Yeah," Finnick said. "Oh."

Now it was your turn to freeze. Fear consumed you, similar to what you imagined having to remain motionless in front of tyrannosaurus rex to prevent from being eaten alive was like. Thanks to the damning wind, strands of your hair blew behind your shoulders, undoubtedly tickling the exposed skin of Finnick's chest. Even that minuscule movement had your heart threatening to explode with anxiety.

As per usual, panic wreaked havoc in your mind.

What do I do? Do I get up? How will we come back from this? Does he—

Finnick cleared his throat. "Uh, you still alive in there?" he chuckled nervously.

You felt minor relief enter your bloodstream upon hearing the normality in his voice. At least one of you was composed enough to act normally. Well, as normal as one could act after becoming hard due to their best friend sitting in their lap.

"Is it—" You swallowed the nerves rattling your voice "—is it because there's a girl sitting on your lap, or is it because it's me?"

That was the million-dollar question. Was his reaction simply biological? A natural response to stimulation? Or was it deeper than that? More personal.

Finnick was silent.

The rapid thumping in your chest moved to your ears, like a drumroll leading up to some grand reveal. You felt dizzy; both filled with dreadful anticipation and exhilaration. Your senses were so heightened, fuelled by an inane bout of adrenaline. You swore you could almost hear the gears turning in Finnick's mind, smell the smoke as they rotated over and over, trying to make sense of your question and form a suitable response.

Religion never played a factor in your life, but, oh, how you were zealously praying his answer would be the one you spent all your nights fantasising about. But still, he was silent.

And right when you believed he wasn't going to respond at all, his lips finally uttered that single life-changing word. "You."

Fireworks seemed to light up every nerve in your body. You.

You weren't sure what to make of your thoughts at first. The overwhelming abundance of emotion caused by a singular word was difficult to fathom. Only one sentiment stood out from the rest—and that was the fact that Finnick felt the same as you did for him.

It was no longer a speculation. It was a fact. A truth. An undeniable reality. You had both verbal and physicalproof, literally digging into your backside.

Finnick slowly, very slowly, unwound an arm from your torso, and you held your breath. His hand slid across your waist and then plastered itself over your hipbone, careful not to apply too much pressure to make you feel uncomfortable. When you felt the slight movement of his thumb gliding across your clothed skin, you exhaled the burning air in your lungs with a shaky sigh.

"Do you want me to get up?" you asked softly while staring at the sunset, although you were focused on anything but.

"Not a chance." And then he unwound the other arm, now cupping both sides of your hips with two large hands. The heat from his palm sank into your skin, sinking deeper layer by layer until it reached the rapid flow of your bloodstream. "Do you want to get up?"

You felt a pulsing sensation between your thighs that had your parted lips inhaling slow deep breaths, and you knew the only logical answer was no. So, you shook your head.

Finnick reached up to skilfully tuck a lock of hair behind your ear before placing his hand back on your hip. He then leaned down beside your ear, voice a hot, velvety whisper, "What next then, sweetheart?"

A wave of chills ran down your entire body.

What next? Another question for the ages. You had dreamt of this moment a million times over. You had pictured the unholiest, most vivid of scenarios, and yet here you were, mind blank as an empty void.

Then it hit you. Rather than acting from a pre-planned script, wouldn't it be better to just let your body act on what it naturally desired? On instinct? You took in a deep, stabilising breath and gave yourself into moment.

You slowly began turning your head to the side until, for the first time since he pulled you into his arms, your eyes flickered up and found Finnick's. His lips quirked with the ghost of a smile at the exchange, but he held it back. His jaw clenched and unclenched, muscles ticking with tension.

He was looking at you in a way you had never seen before. Or perhaps, you were just never close enough to notice, and he had always looked at you this way. There was a blazing intensity in his eyes, dark and penetrative, a bridge between yearning and total reverence. It was so enticing that you could feel your hands itching to undress yourself in front of him.

Finnick murmured your name.

"Yes?" you managed to whisper.

"Do you have any idea how long I've waited for this?"

Those words—he had stolen them from the tip of your tongue.

You couldn't find the strength to muster any profound response. So instead, you found your head tilting back and the crook of your elbow winding up and around the nape of his neck. You didn't need to guide him down; he came willingly.

His lips caught yours in a soft, warm exchange. Singular yet prolonged. Then there was a brief pause of disconnection, a calm before the storm. And with Finnick, when it rained, it poured. Suddenly, a hand was cupping the area where your jaw and neck connected, and his lips were on yours again.

There was so much more heat in this kiss. A depth that kept growing with each connection of your lips. You could hear the fervour in the breathless exhales that exited his nose, the quiet groans that slipped into your mouth. Though the same could be said for you.

You couldn't subdue the moans and meek whimpers that leaked out. Especially when his tongue slipped into your mouth and took control over your own. At this point, you couldn't even be called putty in his arms; you were pure liquid, totally and completely submissive in his embrace.

It was impossible to tell who was throbbing beneath you anymore. All you were sure of was that the pretty lace panties you had put on that morning were now soaked. Though even if he never touched you, you wouldn't have cared. Having his lips on yours, his tongue on yours, was enough. And if he kept at it long enough, you were sure it would even be enough to get you off. That's how much power Finnick had over you.

Apparently, he felt the same too. Because when you leaned further back into him and your ass pushed against the length of his erection, his fist scrunched the fabric of your dress by your hip and his lips left yours to let out a shuddering breath.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he huffed, half chuckling.

Technically, it was a suppressed moan. Either way, you swear you almost came then and there.

With one last gentle kiss, you opened your eyes, pulling away to replenish your lungs with air. Finnick's eyes were already locked on yours in a drunken haze from the taste of your lips. Your arm unwound from his neck, grazing down his broad shoulders and bicep. During so, your eyes caught on the tiny bumps and raised hair scattered across his arm.

"You've got goosebumps," you smiled, trailing your fingertips across his skin.

His gaze moved to follow your hand, wearing a boyish grin. "Would you believe me if I said I was cold?"

Your throat buzzed with a suppressed giggle. Seeing the way his body reacted to yours was incredibly motivating. Someone telling you they lusted after you could easily be spoken with deception. But having visual confirmation, witnessing a reaction that couldn't possibly be forced, was a whole different story. Finnick's body craved you.

Given that incentive, the slight trepidation still holding you back now disappeared into the back of your mind. Your fingers curled around his wrist, dragging the hand beneath your jaw down to your neck, and then down to your chest. It didn't take him too long to figure out your intentions. He overtook your influence and autonomously moved his hand to cup your breast.

You were essentially caged in his embrace. Exactly how you wanted it.

You stared ahead with relaxed eyes, watching as the sun slipped into the dark water. Night had officially blanketed District Four and, now being shielded by darkness, the stars were your only witness. Strangely enough, you felt a new sense of shamelessness.

So as Finnick kneaded your breast in his warm hand and pinched the sensitive peak of your nipple between his thumb and forefinger through the lace of your bra, you allowed a soft moan to escape your lips.

It was almost as if you could actually feel the smirk growing across Finnick's lips behind you. One thing you actually could feel was the twitch of his achingly hard cock beneath you.

"You like that?" he asked, definitely smirking.

"Yes," you sighed almost immediately.

If only he knew how truly euphoric you felt. If only he knew how many times you had imagined being in this exact situation. Having him touching you like this. The guilt of imagining him in such a way used to eat you up. But now that you were past the guilt, there was no shame connected to the thought of Finnick eating you up.

Fuck, he would look so perfect between your thighs—bronze curls all messed up from your pulling and tugging; sea green eyes squeezed shut as he dedicated his attention to dragging you down to the pits of hell with his tongue.

Your head fell back against his collarbone. He took this as a signal to move your hair aside and start planting hot kisses onto the curve of your shoulder. Then he trailed further across, brushing his lips across your skin until he reached the side of your neck and started sucking gently, though enough to leave behind pretty little red marks of possession.

"What about this?" he murmured against the delicate skin.

The faint taste of sea-salted air sat in the back of your throat as your breaths deepened. You felt his tongue glide partially up the length of your carotid artery, and your entire nervous system seemed to short-circuit.

"Yes,"you practically whined.

He must have found this amusing because you could feel the vibrations of his chuckle against your neck. But he wasn't finished yet. Hell, the finish line was a lifetime away regarding the things he planned on doing to you. They probably couldn't all be done in one night though, unfortunately.

You had completely forgotten about the hand still splayed on your hip. Why would you pay it any attention when it was sitting idle? Only it wasn't simply resting on your hip anymore. No. Now it was moving. Moving down.

His lips were still on your neck and he was still cupping your breast, but all you could focus on was the carnal descent of his hand. He found the hem of your dress, fingers toying with the flimsy material as one did when deciding whether or not to go through with something potentially consequential. Ultimately, he began to drag the fabric up your thighs, knuckles grazing over your soft skin until the skirt of your dress was ruched around your hips.

You sucked in a sharp breath. The vulnerability of suddenly being exposed in such a manner hit you like a tonne of bricks. This was really happening. Finnick, the Capitol's darling, District Four's golden boy, and more significant;y, your best friend, was touching you. He was kissing you. He was seeing and feeling parts of your body you had never let him see or feel before.

Naturally, this unfurling web of thoughts produced a surge of insecurity.

But, when his hand curled around your inner thigh and spread a wildfire of warmth across your skin, every thought that was previously passing through your mind disintegrated and was replaced with unadulterated yearning.

Finnick's mouth finally detached from your neck to hover beside your ear. "And this?"

He lightly kneaded your thigh to emphasise his question, dangerously close to the place that undoubtedly crossed the boundary between friend and lover.

You were speechless. The desire running through your veins was paralysing. All you could do was look, see, feel, and hope to god you didn't pass out from the shallowness of your breathing.

"Come on, sweetheart," he roused in that low, seductive purr. "Don't go quiet on me now. Use your words."

And how could you ever disobey a voice like that? It took every ounce of strength and concentration you had in you, but eventually, you managed to find your voice.

"I—" You cut yourself off with a gasp as his thumb purposefully wandered up to the edge of your underwear. Asshole. "I lie awake every night imagining us like this, Finn. You don't need permission to touch me. You've already had it for months."

Suddenly, a gentle finger was turning your chin, compelling you to meet Finnick's gaze. His eyes lacked the intensity from before and were now brimming with awe, brows knitted as if he was asking for confirmation if what you had said was truthful. And it was, painfully so.

To answer his wordless question, you leaned forward and connected your lips with his. He responded with ardency, and not long after, you could feel his hand wander up to the waistband of your panties. 

He wasted not a second before dipping his hand beneath the lace material and finding that sensitive spot that had been begging for his attention.

Your lips separated from his to let out a breathy moan. "Finnick."

He simply smiled, two fingers rubbing circles around your clit. He pressed gentle coaxing kisses to your lips, and you really did try to respond, but you were never one for multitasking. Especially when the man you had fallen in love with was touching you so.

His other hand wandered across your torso, holding your waist, grazing over your stomach, tracing the length of your sternum. All very loving adorations compared to what his other hand was doing.

"I think I'm going to hell because of you," he murmured, millimetres away from your lips. Such a disconcerting thing for someone to admit, but all you could manage was a hum in response. "Every time I see you, I can feel myself getting closer and closer. You derange my thoughts, sweetheart. You corrupt them.

How am I supposed to be around you if I want to fuck you every time you say my name? And what makes it so much more impossible is that you don't even mean to make me feel this way; you just do. God, you're maddening. So sweet and maddening," he cooed, fingers picking up in pace which caused you to melt back into his chest and let out a pretty little moan. "Drives me crazy."

"And to think," you managed, "I thought you had your hands between my legs because you hated me."

Your hips were rolling lightly along with the rhythm of his fingers.

At the very same time Finnick's thighs tensed around your hips from the friction against his cock, he abruptly plunged two fingers inside you. Punishment.

The moan you let out was positively filthy.

"Such an attitude you have," he said. "Anyone would think you're completely innocent in a dress like this. But I know better than that." His fingers slid in and out, curling every time the base of his fingers bottomed out inside of you. "I know exactly why you wore it. Just like I know exactly why you wore those lace panties you pretend that I can't see whenever you bend over."

Heat crept up into your cheeks from hearing his words. You wanted to provoke him by saying 'And look where it got me'but who knew how his fingers would respond to your attitude.

"You can't do that to a man," he continued. "It's criminal."

"It's only fair, Finn," you breathed out, struggling to keep your voice level. "You ruined me."

A deep moan rumbled in his chest, though it never escaped. He couldn't break that easily. He needed to remain in control. This moment, to him, seemed like an eternity forthcoming. He needed to make the most of this moment with you, needed to show you what it was like to receive earth-shattering pleasure so that you only ever wanted to receive it from him. No one else.

Despite his obvious attempts at keeping himself in check, you could still feel his thick impatient cock twitch beneath your ass. Even through the layers of clothing between you, you could tell that he was incredibly big. So much so that it worried you a little. Only, when his fingers curled again, you forgot all about it.

The pads of his fingertips buried into your inner walls with every curl. The heel of his palm struck your clit with every thrust of his fingers and you could feel your stomach start tightening. Fuck, he was amazing at this.

It had been so long since someone had touched you like this. Well, someone that was actually good at it. Just a few minutes and Finnick was already about to make you come.

"Feels so good, so—ah—good!" you moaned, eyes fluttering shut.

He reached a free hand up to your breast, lightly pinching your nipple between his fingers until you let out a gasp. At least one of you was good at multitasking.

"You gonna come?" he asked, not that he even needed an answer. He could feel the way your walls were contracting around his fingers, feel the sticky warmth of your slick leaking onto his knuckles.

You nodded fervently.

"Say please first."

"Finn," you whined in frustration.

You could hear him chuckle self-satisfyingly behind you. "Come on, baby. Sweet girls are supposed to have manners, aren't they?"

His low, husky voice almost threw you over the edge. Oh, how you would love to listen to the sound of him talking you through your orgasm. That is if he ever even let you get to that point.

Never had you ever thought you would be pleading with a man for anything, yet here you were. Though, Finnick Odair could hardly be called a man. He was so much more than that; he was bordering on divinity. And you weren't going to miss the chance of being unravelled at the hands of a divine being.

"Please, Finnick," you begged, your body literally buzzing with desperation. "Please make me come."

He pressed a kiss below your earlobe. "Since you asked so nicely."

His fingers picked up in pace. They weren't even plunging in and out anymore but were rather curling, over and over again in that electrifying spot inside you. He went hard and fast, working to bring you to your high as quickly as possible. Your moans were so unrestrained, so breathless and shallow that you started to feel the world spin around you.

Your hand flew back to hold onto his arm, nails digging into the hard muscles of his bicep. Your hips were writhing in Finnick's lap and you could hear him groan out a string of curses. He held you down by the hip to try and keep you still, then moved across to the bottom of your abdomen where he pressed down.

That is what did it for you.

You cried out as tightness spread down your stomach and pure ecstasy took control. Finnick murmured words of praise and reassurance as you rode through your high, though a lot of it didn't register in your mind. You heard only a few bits and pieces which were enough to prolong the feeling that was overwhelming your entire body.

"Taking it so well."

"That's it, sweetheart. That's it."

"Such a good girl."

As the waves of pleasure slowly began to subside, you returned to reality. The heat that had been building up inside you started melting away, leaving you in a state of relaxation. Your fingers, which previously clung onto Finnick's arm, now grazed absentmindedly across his skin. It felt like you had been sucked into a dream—a little hazy and surreal, but incredibly tranquil.

"You okay?" Finnick asked softly.

You hadn't even noticed that his fingers had left your body. He had pulled down the hem of your dress— not that your dignity really needed saving anymore—and was holding your melted figure in his arms.

"Mm," you hummed contently, eyes fixed on the view in front of you. "Warmed up."

If only you were able to see his face, his smile. Those dimples. A powerful longing to be able to see every expression known to man morph his facial features washed over you. It was a little ridiculous how attracted to him you were. Nonetheless, you indulged the desire.

You pushed yourself from his lap and pivoted to face him

You were straddling his lap before any ounce of hesitation could hold you back. Finnick circled his arms around your waist, pulling you closer into his chest. He was smiling. He was smiling and it was even more beautiful than any sunset you had ever witnessed. You concluded that you had definitely made the right choice in deciding to face him.

"Hi," you whispered.

He smiled. "Hey, stranger."

He brushed back a few pieces of hair from your face, observing the blown size of your pupils and the sultry colour of your lips. He did that—he could not get over the fact that he did that to you. Finally.

You shrunk away from his gaze, a timid smile on your lips.

Finnick tilted his head slightly. "Shy thing."

You buried your face into the side of his neck, groaning quietly in embarrassment. You could hear the perfect sound of him laughing above you. He stroked the length of your spine, somehow managing to ease the nerves from your body with a simple touch. You left a quick kiss on the warm skin of his neck and rose back up to meet his gaze.

"Feeling better?"

"Much," you replied, sheepishly. Your eyes flickered across Finnick's, hesitated, and then gestured downwards. "But... you're not." His head tilted as though he were confused as to what you were suggesting, so you leaned in closer until your lips ghosted over his. "Still need to take care of you."

A breath of warm air fanned across your face as he chuckled. He shook his head. "It's alright. I can hold off for another time."

And although the prospect of doing this again another time was downright exhilarating, you couldn't ignore the palpable heat still lingering in your lower stomach, throbbing between your thighs. You could only imagine how he must have been feeling—cock throbbing with a need for relief, though ready to deny himself the same amount of pleasure he just gave you.

You suddenly curled a hand around the back of his neck and brought him into a slow kiss. To show him he was allowed to indulge himself. That you wanted him to. You ground your hips down on his lap and felt his lips falter against yours.

You pulled back and echoed your previous words, "It's only fair, Finn."

Time seemed to pause for a moment. Your breath and his mixed with one another in a sort of hot whirlwind of anticipation. Your bodies were still. Finnick's eyes were half-lidded staring at your mouth.

Then came the explosion.

His hands were hastily tugging your sundress over your head; his lips were on yours as he reached down between your bodies to unbutton his pants. It felt like a race against time. Like if you didn't do this now, the chance would never come by again. Hell, his pants hadn't even made it off his legs before he was holding himself in his hand and you were rising to your knees, positioning yourself directly above his length.

Your lips never left his, strenuous as it was, meaning the only gauge you got of how big he was wasn't from seeing it, but from feeling it as you pulled your panties aside, guided his cock to your entrance with one hand, and felt the entire veiny length of him fill you completely as you lowered yourself onto him.

A quiet, synchronised gasp left both your lips as you enveloped him completely in wet velvety warmth. His pelvis was connected with yours and his cock was pressed right up against your cervix. So incredibly deep, you could almost feel him in your stomach.

You stayed like this for a few seconds.

"So big," you gasped against his lips.

His hands were on your back, dragging up and down. "Want to stop?"

"Never."

This was so not what friends did.

He trailed kisses from your mouth, to your jaw, and down to your neck. You were grinding sinuously back and forth, Finnick's hands now on your hips as a guide, feeling his tip bury into the sensitive walls inside you. Your head fell back with a gratified moan as he nipped your neck unforgivingly, only to soothe the spots he marked with the glide of his tongue.

At that moment, the past and future were of no significance. The idea that doing this might ruin your relationship with him afterwards didn't concern you. You didn't bother recollecting a time when you and Finnick were merely friends, nor did you ponder how you even managed to reach this point.

All you could focus on was how fucking perfect his cock felt inside of you.

The cold, which was previously a nuisance, now served as a stimulant to your nipples which were only covered by the thin unpadded material of your lace bra. They were bouncing with every movement you made, the hard peaks rubbing against Finnick's chest and creating a triangle of pleasure between them and the depravity that was happening further below.

He was so hungry in the way he kissed you. His lips were soft, but they moved with heat and determination. His tongue was supple as it pushed against yours, moving masterfully in a way you could only compare to how he swam in the ocean. A conqueror—able to bring you into submission with ease.

You pushed yourself upwards, the muscles in your thighs slightly burning as you did so, and felt his cock glide through you. He inhaled harshly through his nose when his tip almost left your wet heat, and then groaned into your mouth when your hips sunk back down, engulfing him once again.

"Shit," he almost whined as your walls clenched around him. "I fuckinglove you."

You pulled away to look him in the eyes. It was incredibly difficult for you to contemplate his words—his confession—when he was, what, eight or so inches deep inside you?

He didn't look like he regretted saying it. He was simply staring at you with raised brows pinched together in pleasure, awaiting your response as you continued your sequence of rising and sinking to fill yourself up with his cock.

"You love me?" you asked in a laboured breath. He only nodded in response. You sank fully down onto his lap, discontinuing your movements, willing him to prove his so-declared devotion. "Then show me."

He was breathing heavily and watching you through strands of sea-salted hair messily splayed across his forehead. He was so beautiful it actually kind of hurt to look at him. His eyes fell to your mouth during this brief amnesty, a decision prominent in his mind. Then he was rushing forward, crushing his lips to yours and forcing your body to lay back on the mat beneath you.

Finnick somehow managed to remain inside you as he switched your positions—him now above you as your legs were wrapped around his waist. His body pinned you down with a comfortable weight, skin warm and flush against yours.

He was overpowering and dominating, and his thrusts were laced with a sense of appropriation like he was making you his. The slow grinds of his hips were hard yet measured and so breathtakingly deep, and the gentle upwards curve of his cock made sure his tip was prodding against that swollen pleasure-inducing spot every single time.

His kisses were sensual and slow; his tongue slipping languidly into your mouth, swirling and massaging your tongue like it was made of pure silk.

You had told him what to do—now he was showing you. Finnick Odair wasn't fucking you. He was making love to you.

Your hands were on his back, fingertips leaving red marks on the curves of his shoulder blades. You moved up to his hair, scratching your nails softly into his scalp, which earned you a soft moan in your mouth. Even you could feel yourself pulsing around his cock. Everything he did, every sound and action he made, had your body yielding to him.

His hand pulled you up into him by the waist, arching your back off the palm-leaf mat so that he was thrusting more profoundly into that blissful spot inside you. He never sped up his pace. He didn't need to. He was savouring the moment as much as he could, memorising each warm ripple of your walls his cock glided over inside you, every intoxicating moan your soft lips released, the pressure of your warm supple thighs hugging his waist.

He was committing every aspect of you to memory. Inside and out.

Having that knowledge only made the moment so much more pleasurable. Knowing that he wasn't just thinking about you with his cock, but was thinking about you with his heart too.

That feeling started creeping up inside you—the blissful burn of heat pooling in your lower stomach. It made your walls flutter around him. Made you whine and moan uncontrollably into his mouth until you couldn't focus on kissing him anymore and had to pull away.

Your head fell back onto the mat, hair strewn out around you. The sounds coming out of you were pure sin. Desperate, greedy sin.

Finnick chuckled adoringly above you. "Too fucked out, sweetheart?"

He couldn't exactly talk. The second you clenched around him again, he groaned out a curse and you—the parts of your mind that were still relatively comprehensible—were sure you could feel the warmth of pre-cum ooze inside you.

"Finnick," you mewled, and he caressed the baby hairs framing your face. "Feels so good. Should—should've done this sooner."

Through your half-lidded eyes, you watched as he nodded and then descended to your forehead, pressing his lips tenderly against your skin. I know, the gesture said. You felt a rush of affection flood through your body, ultimately accelerating the build-up happening inside you.

You could feel yourself teetering so impossibly close to the brink of your orgasm. The tightness inside you was so hot and overwhelming; it was a struggle for you to keep your eyes from fluttering shut and rolling back, though you willed yourself to keep them open. You had to.

Watching Finnick's face contort with pleasure as he's thrown into his own high from feeling your walls contract around him would probably be the highlight of your entire life.

"So beautiful," he cooed as he thrusted into you. "My sweet girl's gonna come, isn't she? Can feel it."

The words flew out of your mouth. "Come inside me."

"Come inside you?"

You were pretty sure he was mocking you from the devilish curve of his lips and furrow of his brows. But your lust-drunk brain didn't really care.

"Please. Wanna feel you—" Your chest heaved with each breath "—everywhere."

Finnick was so obviously trying to keep himself from giving in before you. But you could see how delirious his eyes were as they stared down at you and you heard how every low, gratified—frustratingly sexy—sound he made betrayed him. He was so close.

"Anything for you, sweetheart," he said, finally.

He managed to unhook your hands from around his back and guided them upwards, holding your wrists together above your head with one hand before he brought his other back to your waist. It was oddly romantic how he held you, given that he was fucking you like life after that night wasn't guaranteed.

And then, without warning, he was pounding into you, bottoming out completely with each thrust.

It was almost animalistic now—how you were both unable to control yourselves anymore. You were writhing beneath him, impulsively fighting against the grip he had on your wrists. And Finnick, well, he was fucking you so hard, you weren't sure if walking home that night would be a possibility.

He was a disaster of pleasured vocals, deep moans, and heavy breaths. You thanked the absolute heavens he was because it was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard in your entire life.

When your own moans started to rise in pitch, you knew you were done for. You felt so full. Stretched out to the max. Blinded by the heat that was drowning you. But your eyes managed to remain clear and locked on Finnick's the entire time, just as his were on yours.

With a fleeting glance downward, he once again placed a large hand over your abdomen and pushed down, and your back arched off the ground.

You were gone.

"Oh fuck!"

The heat, white and fiery, had consumed you. Your thighs tensed uncontrollably around Finnick, your body shaking beneath him as your insides pulsed all the way down to your stuffed entrance. White, sticky sweetness covered Finnick's cock as he continued to thrust into you, the wet sounds overpowering the waves cresting on the sands. It felt like fucking heaven.

He let out a moan, broken and breathless, and released the grip he had on your hands. In that short moment, you instantly gripped onto him, feeling his body shudder beneath your hands as his throbbing cock spurted out ropes of warmth deep inside you, the essence of both of you mixing inside your body, making you one.

You pulled him down and crushed your lips to his with a sudden intense urge to be as close to him as you could, if it were even possible to be any closer to him at that point. It felt a little spiritual, the way you practically wanted to merge your body with his. That's what having sex with someone you truly loved was like, you supposed.

The kiss was sloppy and messy, but it never lacked heat or affection. Lacking heat was impossible between you and Finnick.

A lot of time passed before either of you even contemplated pulling away from one another. Finnick was inside you for what must have been a good half hour after you had both finished. It felt close. Deeply intimate. He held you in his arms, his hands mapping out various parts of your body with unhurried measure as you lay beneath him, lazily yet affectionately making out with warm, reddened lips.

There were quiet giggles and heated words whispered between you that would have prompted another session had either of you been graced with the energy.

But it was late. The remnants of the sun had long since disappeared beneath the horizon, dimming the sky to a deep dark blue, the world's only source of illumination being the stars casting their sparkling light on the rippling water.

It was a new moon.

Eventually, you ended up laying over his chest, legs strewn across his as you both faced the ocean. Your head rose and fell with each breath Finnick took and it felt unreal. 

You were momentarily worried your infatuation with him had grown too out of hand and you had imagined the whole day, or perhaps, the entire time you had known him. That it was all a figment of your vivid imagination.

Then, his warm hand slid into your own, which was draped across his stomach, and you knew that this, the newfound relationship between you and Finnick, was undeniably and rapturously real.

He slowly lifted them together above your bodies, palms flat against one another. There was a notable size difference between them—his palm was large and calloused with long fingers that squared off at the tips, meanwhile, your own fist could probably fit into his palm.

Your fingers danced delicately together as you both watched from below. He traced the length of your fingers with his fingertips; followed the etches in your palm, and turned your hand to explore the protrusions of your knuckles. There was a certain gentle curiosity in his touch, similar to that of someone who was discovering the act of human connection for the first time.

"I don't know if I can walk home," you whispered.

Finnick lowered your interlocked hands to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles before placing them back on his stomach. "I'll carry you."

"For an entire hour?"

"I'll manage," he said, "I've got muscles."

You scoffed quietly to yourself, smiling. "Ok, big strong man."

"Says the girl who needs to be carried home."

"Well, you are kind of the one to blame for that."

You tilted your head to glance up at him and found exactly what you were expecting to see. He was wearing a proud grin, all apple cheeks and crinkled eyes. It was something you had come to adore, even though sometimes it was out of arrogance.

Your head turned to rest back on his chest. You watched as his thumb caressed slow circles over your knuckle.

"What you said before," you began, "is it true? Do you really... love me?"

The heart beating beneath your ear genuinely sounded like it skipped a beat. You imagined that was a good sign, though your nerves were still a little frayed. What if he had only said it because of the heat of the moment?

A beat went by. "I've been trying to tell you ever since I first wove the mat for you," he confessed, his voice quiet yet holding the weight of the history that made up your friendship.

There it was—the truth laid bare. Despite hearing the words, it didn't really change anything. You suspected deep down you knew the entire time; you were just too self-doubting to accept it. To accept that Finnick Odair, the crown jewel of Panem, had fallen in love with you, an ordinary girl from District Four who just so happened to meet him at a secret beach.

Although, there was a sensation you remember upon first meeting him. That instinct that had told you to stay instead of running away, as any logical human being would do upon being approached by a stranger in the middle of nowhere. That instinct, despite sounding utterly ridiculous, caused you to believe that perhaps it was fate.

Maybe you were destined to meet. Maybe it didn't matter that he was a nationwide celebrity, nor you a simple town girl. Maybe your souls were entwined from the start and, one way or another, you would have met anyway.

Maybe.

"That's a long time," you said.

He laughed. "Yeah, well, I thought you would've gotten the hint by now."

And you couldn't help but join him. You thought you were the one who was deranged out of their mind. Here Finnick was telling you he had spent an entire year trying to confess his love without you even realising.

"I'm sorry it took me so long."

"It's alright," he said, earnestly. "I'd say it worked out pretty well. I mean, look where your obliviousness got us."

You smiled. Your legs were tangled with Finnick's; his arm was holding you tightly against his bare upper body, and his fingers were lovingly tracing over yours. Yeah, you were pretty grateful for your obliviousness sometimes. A new pair of underwear might have been something to consider, though.

A silence settled between you, comfortable, peaceful. Being in Finnick's embrace almost made you forget entirely about the reality of your existence—the Games, the dominion over Panem, the chaotic environment back home. It was the reason you had set off last year in search of a place away from society.

You had now found that the escape you were looking for wasn't a place or a hidden paradise, but a person. It was Finnick.

"Finn?"

"Yeah?"

The trees and palm leaves danced in the light breeze. Waves lapped on the shore.

You angled your head back to look at Finnick and felt him pull you closer. His expression was a picture of relaxation and contentment. His eyes gazed down at you, glimmering with the reflection of scattered stars in the night sky, just like the sea in front of you.

He seemed to already know what you were going to say. Always the mind reader.

"Say it, sweetheart." The corners of his lips twitched expectantly.

Sweetheart. Oh, how could you have ever felt for him in any other way?

"I love you too."

His face broke into one of the happiest smiles you had ever seen.

NIGHT OF THE EVENT | 9:07 pm | the president’s mansion

“You’re staring. Hard.” Cinna’s voice cuts through your thoughts. You blink—once, twice—before dragging your gaze away from the blonde across the ballroom. Finnick Odair, bronzed like a god and dressed like… a lost tourist in a couture accident.

“I’m repulsed,” you mutter, swirling your wine like it might wash the image from your mind.

Cinna chuckles beside you. “It’s not that bad. His regular stylist caught something, so they called in a last-minute replacement.”

“That doesn’t explain the silly armor. Or the belt. Or—” you pause, squinting, “whatever’s happening with those shoes. Honestly, I’d rather marry Caesar Flickerman than be caught dead in that outfit.”

Cinna bursts into laughter. “That’s dramatic. Even for you.”

“Am I wrong?”

“…No.”

You smirk, then murmur almost to yourself, “Kiss, Marry, Exile.”

Cinna raises an eyebrow. “What?”

You nod subtly toward the crowd. “A game. I’ve been playing it all night. One to kiss, one to marry, one to exile. Based entirely on what they’re wearing tonight.”

He leans in, intrigued. “Go on.”

“Kiss Cashmere, her dress tonight? Chef’s kiss. Marry Caesar, strictly for the money. Not because that afterburner suit was anything special, but it was expensive. And exile Finnick, obviously. Because those shoes are a war crime.”

Cinna snorts into his drink. “New article in the making?”

You glance over your glass with a sly smile. “Not a bad idea.”

—

AFTER THE PARTY - 4:32 AM

Your heels hit the floor with a dull thud as you kick them off by the door, barely missing the pile of other shoes you’ve promised to organize. The sequins from your dress still itch at your shoulder, and your head is pulsing with the ghost of champagne and Capitol noise. You groan, tugging your hair free from its pins as you cross your penthouse in a daze, grabbing the green juice you left in the fridge like a peace offering to your liver.

By the time you sit at your desk, the sun is rising.

“Marry Caesar,” you mumble to yourself, cracking your knuckles. “Kiss Cashmere. Exile Finnick Odair.” You pause, let the silence settle for a second, then let out a quiet, amused exhale.

You open your laptop. The keys feel too loud in the morning stillness, but your fingers move fast, your kind of fast. That special buzz crawling up your spine that only happens when the words are sharp and the target’s golden.First, a title. Something simple. Something cruel.

KISS, MARRY, EXILE: Capitol Gala Edition

And then, you begin to write.

—

liked by effietrinket, thecinna, and 352,829 others

@/thecolumnist: had an amazing time last night. between mingling with panem’s finest, gossiping with Cinna, and dodging a few questionable accessories, i may have come up with something new for the next article. let’s just say: it’s a game. and some of you won’t like how it ends. dropping at 8pm tonight. xx.

view all 2,194 comments

glimmerglow: WAIT WHAT DO YOU MEAN A GAME??

district1style: omg what i’m so here for it

fashionfiend44: i’m scared and obsessed already

caesarsnumber1fan: WE’RE READY

effietrinket: already know this is going to be amazing!☺️ liked by author❤️

odairnation: omg??? finnick was there too. PUHLEASE tell me you saw how good he looked

↳ thecolomnist: oh i saw him alright!

thecinna: curious to see who survives your little game. i’ll be reading 👀🖤 liked by author❤️

caesarflickerman: should i be excited or nervous? either way, i’m clearing my schedule 💅✨ liked by author❤️

30 MINUTES BEFORE POSTING | 7:30PM

Writing it was easy. Super easy. Judging or critiquing has always been your thing. How else would you have made it this far in the industry?

The words seem to flow naturally to you, especially when you start on his outfit. He’s incredibly handsome, you’ll give him that. Annoyingly so. But his fashion choices? Consistently offensive. Sometimes, they can’t even be considered outfits. A few draped straps of silk. A sheer shirt that might as well be invisible. And don’t get you started on the fishing net debacle.

People fawn. They drool. They repost his photos like he’s some kind of divine art piece.

You, on the other hand, find it repulsive. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. You’re not convinced whether it’s the outfit that irritates you, or the way he wears it with that smug little grin, like he knows exactly how much people are looking.

Either way, your article nearly writes itself. And by the time you hit publish, you’re already imagining the chaos it’s going to cause.

POSTED | 8PM

Immediately, it blows up. Notifications flood in faster than you can refresh. Twitter, Instagram, your inbox, even the private channels reserved for Capitol elites. Comments range from breathless admiration to dramatic fan threads dissecting every word, every phrase, every deliberate bit of venom dipped in velvet. People live for this. For you.

And you? You’re no stranger to it. You can’t deny the sly smile that tugs at the corner of your mouth as the attention pours in, the kind that says you knew exactly what you were doing. You always do.

Your articles are highly favored for a reason. You don’t just write, you weaponize. A critique from The Columnist is both a death sentence and an invitation to play. You toe the line between elegance and destruction like you were born to walk it in heels. And today’s piece? A flawless blend of fashion, Capitol politics, and a certain veiled jab at the nation’s favorite son with sea-green eyes and a mouth that won’t stop smiling.

They eat it up.

Screenshots circulate. Anonymous sources speculate. Threads are spun. The Capitol spins right along with them, and in the center, you sit, perfectly unbothered, sipping something expensive and sparkling while chaos unfolds under your name.

Everything was going just how you wanted it to.

But then you see it.

His tweet. No, tweets.

Finnick Odair’s tweets.

Directed towards… you??

Your jaw drops slightly, not in shock, not really, more in amused surprise. You weren’t entirely expecting him to bite back, and definitely not as quickly as he did. A part of you wonders if he had been watching your account. Waiting. Watching. Refreshing your page like everyone else.

You laugh under your breath, shaking your head.

Of course he saw it. Of course he had something to say. He’s Finnick Odair, the Capitol darling, ego the size of Panem, and apparently, no stranger to the art of digital sparring.

Still. You can’t let him think he’s rattled you.

So you do what you do best.

You ignore it. For now.

You let the comments stew. Let the netizens pick it apart. Let the theories spread, is it flirtation? A feud? A PR stunt? You say nothing, offer no clarification, no clever response.

There’s another event this weekend. One of those glittering, self-important Capitol galas where everyone pretends to be effortless while calculating every move. You’ll be there. You’re always there. And you’re sure he’ll be there too.

He always shows up when the cameras do, and this time, you’re more than happy to let him.

THE NIGHT OF THE EVENT | 7:29 | PRESIDENTS MANSION

You chose the dress with intent, not to provoke, not to seduce, but to remind. You are to be watched.

It’s sleek and architectural, high-collared with sharp shoulders that taper into a body-hugging silhouette the color of spilled ink. Black, but not boring. The fabric catches the light, glinting violet and navy when you move. The bodice is structured, almost armor-like, while the hem trails behind you like smoke. Understated, elegant, a quiet kind of power.

Hair swept up. Lips painted a careful red. No statement earrings. Just a single ring, the one that always draws attention, because you never explain it.

The Capitol is in its usual state of pre-gala panic. Stylists barking orders, assistants sprinting down marble hallways, glitter clinging to the air like pollen. Outside, Peacekeepers mill around the perimeter, tension buzzing just beneath the surface. Someone mutters that Snow has issued a last-minute “reminder” for guests to remain celebratory, gracious, and “ideally sober.” It’s ignored. No one stays sober very long at these parties. The thought of it is almost laughable.

Your car rolls up just late enough to matter.

The flash of cameras begins the moment your foot hits the carpet. Reporters call your name, questions already flying about the article, the tweet, the tension, the dress. You offer only a glance and a faint smile, ducking your head with the practiced grace of someone who knows better than to give them what they want.

Inside, the mansion is glowing, warm gold, soft candlelight, the scent of champagne and fresh orchids in the air. Violin music drifts from a balcony overhead. Everyone is polished to perfection.

You barely make it two steps into the foyer before—

“Darling!” Effie Trinket descends like a parade float, decked out in soft metallics and structured ruffles. She clasps your hands with too much excitement, her grin edged with gossip. “I must say, you’ve caused quite a stir this week,” she says brightly. “Which, of course, means you’ll be right at home tonight. Now, come see where they’ve put you. It’s delightful.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Delightful?”

Effie nods, leading you toward the ballroom doors. “I thought it was absolutely hilarious. Snow sure knows how to stir things up! This will have the press talking for days.” She lets out a soft laugh, squeezing your hand in hers.

And sure enough, as you’re guided to your seat, you spot him almost immediately, standing across the long, polished table, right across from your seat. He’s hasn’t settled in his chair yet, but he has a glass in hand. Finnick Odair, flawless smile, eyes already on you.

You watch him carefully, all that effortless confidence as if the whole gala was his personal stage. His suit is… well, something.

It’s midnight blue, sleek and tailored, sure. But then…there’s the collar. Oversized, exaggeratedly high, almost comically flared like something out of an old-fashioned naval uniform, which, knowing Finnick, is probably no accident. The lapels are embroidered with gold thread in intricate swirling patterns, some kind of fancy fish or sea creature, maybe? It’s hard to tell if it’s elegance or satire.

Beneath, his crisp white shirt sports a cravat instead of a tie, a glossy silk affair twisted in a way that screams both old-world charm and deliberate flamboyance. The cuffs have silver cufflinks shaped like tiny tridents, District 4 pride, no doubt, but they catch the light and sparkle like little disco balls.

His trousers are sharp, but they have a subtle shimmer under the ballroom lights, like he’s wearing liquid fabric. And those shoes, polished to a mirror shine, but with oversized bows on top, almost clownish if it weren’t for the confident way he wears them.

He’s clearly having fun with this. Or maybe sending a message. And when his eyes meet yours, there’s a flicker of challenge, or maybe amusement. Honestly you can’t really tell, and it bothers you. You can’t decide if he’s mocking the Capitol’s obsession with grandeur, or mocking you.

He looks away for a moment, pulling his chair out and taking his seat before meeting your gaze once more. Hraises his glass slightly, like a toast, or a dare.

You sit. You don’t look away.

The clink of cutlery and glassware fills the room in a soft, elegant rhythm. Waitstaff move like ghosts, pouring wine, delivering small plated courses with the precision of performance. Laughter floats down the table from a group of minor socialites discussing something absurdly expensive and unimportant.

You smile politely at whoever’s seated to your right, some designer’s cousin, you think, but your eyes wander. You’re aware of him in that way you hate: without meaning to. Finnick Odair, lounging in his seat like it was made for him. Elbow resting on the armrest, chin in his hand, a lazy sort of confidence draped over him like the perfectly tailored suit he’s wearing.

You think it might be custom. Subtle ocean tones in the stitching. Fitting, of course. Although you’ve been sitting here for at least an hour by now, he still hasn’t said a word to you. Not yet. But you catch him watching, not constantly, not enough to draw attention. Just often enough that you feel it.

Effie has planted herself at the left of the table, guiding conversation with her usual chirp and glitter. You say all the right things. Smile at the right times. Laugh gently when appropriate.

Then, in a lull, his voice cuts through the table. No one seems to notice, they’re all too busy with their own conversations. Gossiping away the night.

“So,” Finnick says, casually swirling his wine. “Do I need to submit my wardrobe to you in advance now, or do you prefer the element of surprise?” Your fork pauses just slightly above your plate.

You glance up, slowly.

A few people chuckle, but you’re unsure if they actually picked up on what he said or if they’re laughing at their own conversations. You offer a polite smile, tilting your head.

“That depends,” you say, voice light. “Are you asking for my approval, or just worried about making the list again?”

He leans back in his chair, smiling wider now. “Just curious. You seemed very invested last time.”

“Only because your outfit gave me so much to work with,” you reply, taking a sip from your glass.

A small silence between you and him follows —the kind that crackles with something unspoken. Then, soft laughter from his side of the table. The people closest to you have apparently picked up on the conversation, and they give their own slight chuckle as they realized what they’ve just witnessed.

You go back to your food like nothing happened.

But when you look up again, his eyes are still on you. He doesn’t appear angry nor rattled, but rather interested. And honestly? That might be worse.

Dinner spills into the ballroom in a flurry of silk and perfume, the entire evening swelling into its second act like clockwork. Music drifts upward from a live quartet tucked behind crystal drapery, their instruments blending traditional waltz with something more indulgent, more decadent, exactly the kind of hybrid tune the Capitol adores. All around you, the elite gather and glide into place, as if choreographed from birth. Laughter rises like champagne bubbles. The air hums with old money, old secrets, and tonight’s polished spectacle.

You don’t join the crowd.

Instead, you step into the periphery, letting yourself fade just enough behind a marble column near the bar, where the shadows are kinder and the vantage point is clear. This is your favorite part, the post-dinner unraveling. When drinks loosen tongues, when heels start to wobble, when the cracks begin to show. You sip something light and expensive, the kind of thing you wouldn’t drink if it weren’t free, and let your eyes drift across the room like a hunter surveying the field.

Effie appears beside you, delicate and glowing like a doll come to life. She’s wrapped in a frothy gown the color of sea foam and diamonds, her hair sculpted with alarming precision. “Still no dance?” she asks, her voice feather-light and curious.

You tilt your head. “Not unless I’m close to blacking out.”

She laughs as though that’s charming. You suppose, in this world, it is.

And you do what you do best, observe.

There’s a sponsor’s wife dressed like a tropical bird, barely able to walk in platform heels that rise like monuments to poor taste. A young rising actress wearing head-to-toe gauze that does nothing to hide the fact she’s tripping over her own hem. A tribute escort whispering too closely to a Capitol official who is very married. You aren’t even trying, and already you have the bones of a column. It’s effortless.

Then, out of nowhere, a voice glides into your ear, smooth as silk and sharpened by amusement.

“I hope you know you nearly cost me a client.”

You blink, turning instinctively toward the sound, and nearly choke on your drink when you see him—Cassian Merel. The Cassian Merel. Icon, designer, Capitol tastemaker, the man whose fall collection inspired two riots and a perfume line. Tonight he’s dressed in an emerald suit so sharp it might be illegal, the fabric catching light in subtle waves of texture, as if sewn from envy itself. His signature gold hair is perfectly windswept, his smile lazy and wolfish.

You know how to keep your cool. You’ve built an entire career on it. But his presence unsettles something in you.

He gestures lightly with his coupe glass. “Your article last week—the line about my spring line looking like upholstery for rich ghosts?” His brows lift. “Devastating. And accurate. I fired three interns after I read it.”

You part your lips to respond, unsure if he’s leading with sarcasm or genuine admiration, but he cuts in again, that same smirk tugging at his mouth. “You’ve got a cruel eye. I like that. Keep writing the truth, as brutal as it is. The Capitol needs a little fear.”

He lifts his glass to you in a mock toast, and then he’s gone. Just like that. Swallowed back into the crowd, as though he hadn’t just made your entire week.

You stand there a beat too long, glass still halfway to your lips, pulse a shade quicker than before. There’s a smug heat rising in your chest, pride you don’t dare show on your face.

Effie glances over with narrowed eyes. “Well, someone’s glowing.”

You take a sip, trying to hide the smile curling at the corners of your mouth. “Just enjoying the view.”

But of course, the moment can’t last long.

A sharp voice cuts through the buzz near your shoulder, this one higher, thinner, and altogether less welcome.

“Columnist, darling,” drawls Sabine Lex, one of the Capitol’s more persistent socialites and your least favorite kind of subject. “I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t mention my name in your last piece. Surely that was an oversight?”

You turn slowly, offering her a smile that doesn’t touch your eyes. “Not at all.”

Sabine’s jaw twitches slightly, though her own smile stays firmly plastered in place. She’s dressed like a walking chandelier, crystals dripping from her sleeves, her neckline, even her lashes. It’s too much, but that’s never stopped her before. She leans closer, voice dripping with venomous sweetness.

“Well. I’m sure you’ll correct that mistake next time. I’d hate for people to think you only write about disasters.”

“I only write about what’s interesting,” you reply, sipping from your glass again. “But I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Sabine huffs a breath of a laugh, like she doesn’t care, but she absolutely does. And when she turns on her jeweled heel and disappears into the crowd, you don’t bother hiding your smirk.

Effie stifles a giggle behind her hand. “I adore when you get like this.”

“I’m not getting like anything,” you murmur, adjusting the fall of your sleeve. “Some people just write their own headlines.”

But even as you slip back into your quiet position along the wall, you feel it—his presence.

Across the ballroom, Finnick Odair is still very much here. Still very much avoiding you.

You’ve caught only glimpses of him since dinner, always at the edge of the room or behind some Capitol elite, never lingering long enough to meet your eye. And you, perhaps out of pride, or something less dignified, haven’t sought him out either. You’re not sure what you’d say if you did.

So you both orbit each other in silence, unspoken words hanging like smoke between you, the weight of that tweet still pulsing beneath the surface.

But tonight, there will be no confrontation. No war of words. Not yet.

You watch the glittering room spin around you, sip your drink, and let the story write itself.

The air is thick with perfume and ambition, and somewhere beneath the surface, you can feel the undercurrent of carefully choreographed chaos. It’s intoxicating.

You don’t bother to smile at the crowd. Instead, your eyes flicker across the sea of faces, sharp and deliberate, each one a potential headline in the making. This is your favorite part—the subtle game of categorizing, a Capitol pastime disguised as casual observation.

You find a thrill in this: finding ones who will be kissed, those destined for marriage, and of course, the inevitable exiles, those you’ll mercilessly dismantle with a few well-chosen words.

Your gaze first lands on the senator’s wife, glowing with that brittle kind of charm polished over years of Capitol life. She’s laughing too loudly at a joke that wasn’t funny, trying to mask the sharpness in her eyes. Kiss. Maybe. She’s the sort who could keep a scandal at bay with enough smiles and whispers.

Near the edge of the dance floor, you spot a young stylist, his hair slicked back and his grin too wide to be entirely sincere. Marry, you decide immediately. Ambition wrapped in tailored suits, eager to climb higher but not yet dangerous.

Then, across the room, you find the perfect exile: the hovercraft tycoon, Marcellus Vane. His tailored jacket strains at the seams as he loudly regales a group of sycophants with stories that don’t quite add up. Too loud, too careless. The kind of man who thinks power will shield him from consequence—exactly the kind you love to take down.

You take a slow sip of your drink, the edges of your lips twitching into a faint smile.

The game is already in motion.

And somewhere in the back of your mind—no matter how hard you try to focus—there’s that persistent, ridiculous image.

Finnick Odair. Those absurd, stupid heels with huge bows. That impossible, smirking confidence.

You roll your eyes. Not tonight.

Tonight, you have a story to write.

AFTER THE EVENT | 2:27AM | PENTHOUSE

Back in your penthouse, the city sprawled out beneath your window like a glittering labyrinth, you sank into your chair, the buzz of the gala fading into a distant hum. The night’s performances, the calculated smiles, the subtle betrayals—they all wove themselves into your mind like threads waiting to be unraveled.

Your fingers found the keyboard, and the familiar game took shape, sharp and precise.

Kiss: The senator’s wife, her charm a practiced mask worn a little too tightly, eyes flickering with hidden calculations.

Marry: The young stylist, polished and eager, a safe bet whose ambition hasn’t yet tipped into danger.

Exile: The tycoon who filled the room with loud boasts and careless arrogance, certain that power could shield him from any consequences.

You type the words with a cool detachment, each sentence a scalpel peeling back the veneer of Capitol glamour.

No distractions. No hesitation.

Just the cold, clear eye of the journalist ready to expose the cracks.

liked by thecinna, glimmer1, and 281,292 others

@/thecolumnist: another night for the books...or perhaps, the next article. stay tuned xx ;)

view all 17,393 comments

glimmer1: beautiful as always. loved seeing you last night. mwah. liked by author❤️

thecinna: Always raising the bar. Can't wait to read it. liked by author❤️

finnickswifereal: i wonder if finnick will be mentioned again ↳ snowswhitebeard: surely not. two back to back mentions would be insane behavior.

10 MINUTES BEFORE POST | 7:50PM | PENTHOUSE

Ten minutes before the article goes live, you sit at your desk, fingers poised just above the keyboard, the soft glow of your tablet casting shadows across your face. The room is quiet except for the hum of the city outside, a distant murmur of life that feels worlds away from this moment.

Your thoughts swirl. Strategic, sharp and restless.

This isn’t just another piece. It’s another move on the board. Every word carefully crafted, every sentence designed to land with precision. You can feel the weight of anticipation building, like a held breath ready to be released.

You think about the people waiting—those who’ll devour your words, the ones who’ll clutch their pearls, the ones who are waiting to see if they were mentioned in the newest article.

You take a steadying breath. 7:58. One last read-through. Then…

Your thumb slides across the screen. Posted. The game moves forward. And you’re already three steps ahead.

Now, you’re curled up on the chaise in your penthouse, one leg tucked under the other, the silk of your robe catching against the light. The glass in your hand is sweating slightly, something cold and sweet, untouched because your phone has your full attention.

The tweet is still climbing. Hundreds of replies, even more retweets, and the article link, your article, is being passed around like contraband.

You scroll with one finger, slow and lazy, your lips tugging up as the praise pours in.

“INSANEEEE. I just KNOW Caesar is eating this up. He loves this type of stuff.”

“The Columnist really said ‘try harder.”

“Omg HELLO?? Her comment about his suit and how she wished she would’ve had bleach for her eyes? im crying.”

Cinna’s tweet makes you pause. You reread it more than once, not because you need to, but because it’s good. Thoughtful. Smart. Kind. You smile a little to yourself, your chest warm with something you’ll never admit out loud.

You let yourself enjoy it. The validation. The rush. The quiet power of knowing people are hanging on your words. You earned it. Every snide remark and cleverly worded exile.

WEEKS LATER | 10:29PM | PENTHOUSE

Its been weeks now.

Maybe longer, but you’ve stopped counting. Time folds differently when your words are going viral on a Capitol-wide scale. What started as a cheeky social commentary has become the conversation. Everyone’s playing it now. Kiss, Marry, Exile has spiraled far beyond the confines of your column, into party games, hashtags, even late-night talk segments.

You saw someone do it once with different eras of President Snow’s life.

Baby Snow got “kiss.” Age 18-22 Snow got “marry” (along with some other vulgar words that repulsed you beyond words) and current Snow got “exile forever and ever amen.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or delete your entire brand.

Either way, the momentum hasn’t slowed. If anything, it’s grown teeth. And so have you.

Your inbox is stuffed with event invitations. People linger just a little longer in your orbit now, like proximity might make them next week’s “kiss.” or “marry.” You hear your name whispered when you walk into rooms, sometimes followed by laughter, sometimes dread. Everyone wants to be close enough to get noticed, but not close enough to get exiled.

And Finnick?

He holds the record.

Of the 23 installments you’ve published, he’s been exiled in thirteen of them.

The comments always explode when he’s featured. Half of the readers call it justice. The other half act like it’s a personal attack. But no matter the response, one thing is always true: Finnick Odair pulls clicks.

He always has.

Sometimes you wonder if he knows. If he keeps a running tally, if he circles the exile like a little badge of honor. Or if he’s just waiting, biding his time until he can strike back with something clever and cutting and just a little too personal.

But lately?

He’s been quiet.

No tweets. No petty quips. No reactions at all.

And somehow, that’s the most unnerving part.

—

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He definitely isn’t subscribed to your column. And he absolutely doesn’t get the push notifications the second a new article drops.

That would be pathetic. Obsessive. Ridiculous.

(And yet—every Sunday evening, around 8pm, somehow, his schedule clears)

It irks him. Not the stuff thats trending online as people rank his different eras, he’s been ranked before. Over and Over.

But it’s you.

It’s the way you write about him, so specific, so perfectly tailored to get under his skin.

“Finnick Odair arrived in what can only be described as nautical chaos.”

“His outfit seemed to ask the age-old question: what if a sea captain had a midlife crisis in a jewelry store?”

“I would exile him for the shoes alone, but the necklace really sealed the deal.”

He read that one three times.

It drives him insane, how easy you make it seem. How casually you tear into him like you know him, like it costs you nothing to shred what’s left of his image into something Capitol-charming and empty and shiny. He doesn’t even know what bothers him more: that it’s clever, or that it’s true.

And he thinks about it constantly.

When he’s getting dressed.

When someone mentions your name.

When he walks into a room and people glance at him like they’re already mentally deciding whether to kiss, marry, or exile him on the spot.

And yeah. Maybe he’s been exiled thirteen times.

He’s counting. He pretends he’s not, but he is.

(He also pretends he doesn’t check if you mention him, and he definitely pretends it doesn’t bother him when you don’t.)

He tells himself you’re just doing it for the attention. The drama. The numbers.

And still, when he lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling of his apartment with nothing but the sound of traffic below, your words loop back through his head like a curse he can’t shake.

You’re clever. Vicious. Effortlessly cool. And, God help him, you’re starting to live in his mind rent-free.

He sees the tweets.

Not just yours, though those are always the sharpest, the ones that land hardest, but everyone else’s, too. They pile in like vultures circling a wounded show pony. People picking apart his outfits, mocking the drape of his shirt or the weight of a necklace he forgot he was even wearing. Some Capitol influencer retweeted your article with a zoomed-in shot of his cufflinks and the caption, “no bc what is THIS.”

He should laugh.

He used to.

But lately?

Lately it’s different.

Lately it feels like the conversation has shifted, like he’s no longer the charming rogue everyone loves to tolerate, but the joke that keeps on giving. And no matter how many parties he shows up to, how many smiles he fakes, the story is no longer his.

It’s yours.

You’ve hijacked the narrative and made it art. Clever, biting art. The kind the Capitol eats with a silver spoon and reposts a thousand times.

And he?

He’s tired of being reduced to a fashion critique with legs.

So he opens his phone. A habit he broke months ago, back when he stopped caring if anyone noticed him for more than his body and a smile. His thumb hovers over the app— Instagram. He hasn’t posted in… what, four months?

He scrolls through his camera roll until he lands on the photo. The one he took just a few days before the first Gala. Before the first article dropped, before everyone decided his accessories and fashion choices (well, his designers) were public property.

He hadn’t posted it then. Maybe because part of him knew what it looked like. Maybe because part of him wanted to be noticed for more than the visual chaos.

But now? Now it’s perfect.

His shirt is white, made of something silky and just reflective enough to catch the light. The sleeves are dramatic, billowing, cuffed in soft gold. The neckline plunges low, too low, if you ask most Capitol critics, and his chest is dusted in layered chains: silver, obsidian, even one sharp glint of green that doesn’t match anything, just because he can.

Rings cover nearly every finger. His pants are fitted. His expression? Bored. Sharp. Dangerous.

He looks expensive and impossible and mildly unbothered, like a man who’s read every article written about him and didn’t flinch once.

But you know better. And maybe that’s the point.

He uploads it without flinching.

liked by brutusd2, thecolumnist, and 829,029 others

@/finnickodair: exiled in print but always on your mind.

view all 183,292 comments

districtdollie: HER LIKING THIS??? INSANE WORK. INSANE!!!

finnickdilf: omg hello welcome back king

haymitchsgumdrop: if being exiled means looking this good then sign me up

peetabread: this is so messy of u i love it

—

Your jaw slackens the moment the post loads.

Finnick Odair, silent for months, not a single photo or story or petty tweet, has reemerged. And of course, he doesn’t just post a casual photo. No, he posts this: a low shot, deliberate and infuriatingly well-framed. He looks good, annoyingly good. The shirt is deep and dramatic, open at the chest just enough to feel like a statement. The sleeves are cuffed, the jewelry still excessive but… balanced somehow. Intentional. The entire look sits on the edge of being ridiculous and impossibly cool.

But it’s not the outfit that makes your stomach tighten.

It’s the caption.

Exiled in print but always on your mind.

Your breath catches before you can stop it. It’s bold, more bold than you expected. Not just a subtweet. Not a passive dig. This is deliberate. Designed to sting a little. A performance meant just for you.

You stare at it for longer than you should, phone cradled in your palm, thumb hovering like it might do something on its own. Your thoughts spiral, too quick to catch. Is he mad? Mocking you? Or worse, is he enjoying this?

Still, the stylist in you can’t help it. The outfit works. Begrudgingly, you can admit it’s probably one of his better looks in recent memory. And maybe that’s why your thumb finally taps the heart. A like. Nothing dramatic. Just a professional nod of appreciation.

Admiration for the fashion. That’s all it is.

The second you hit the button, your notifications light up. Comments. Tags. People noticing. Reacting. The air shifts, and you suddenly feel like you’ve given him something, even if it’s tiny. Even if it doesn’t matter.

Your phone buzzes again, a new message sliding into view at the top of the screen. Effie.

THAT SATURDAY | 7:21PM | SPECIAL EVENT

The second you step into the ballroom, you’re already searching for him.

You don’t even pretend otherwise.

You’ve told yourself it’s for research. For the column. For the next Kiss, Marry, Exile piece that’s already half-drafted in your mind ever since his little Instagram stunt. That caption, “Exiled in print but always on your mind”, still echoes in your head like a taunt you haven’t figured out how to answer.

You’re not obsessed. You’re a writer. A professional. And if your gaze just happens to drift across the room every few seconds, it’s purely out of curiosity. Strategy. Definitely not nerves.

You’ve already imagined what he might be wearing, something dramatic, probably. Over-styled, definitely. Maybe another nautical disaster with too many rings and something shiny at the throat. You’re already drafting one-liners in your head, your mental notes cruel and clever and just biting enough to stir a reaction.

But then—

You spot him.

And every word disappears.

He’s standing near the center of the room like he owns it, the soft golden light from the chandeliers slipping down the smooth lines of his chest and the sharp cut of his jaw. The first thing you see are the leather pants. Fitted. Black. Absolutely criminal. They stretch over long legs and leave very little to the imagination.

His shirt, if it can be called that, is silk and barely opaque, loose and open at the collar like he got halfway dressed and decided it was enough. And the pearls. Draped across his collarbone like they were poured there on purpose. They swing gently as he moves, catching the light and drawing your eyes down the slope of his chest.

It’s unfair. It’s intentional.

And the worst part is—he knows it.

Because before you can even recover from the sight of him, he moves.

Not away. Not across the room.

Directly toward you.

Your pulse stutters.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause for effect. No lingering glances or drawn-out tension. He walks like this was the plan all along. Like you were the destination.

The music hums low. Voices blur. And your whole body sharpens into awareness.

And now he’s here, stopping in front of you, standing just close enough to make your breath catch and your brain stall.

He steps closer, that slow, confident smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His voice drops just low enough for only you to hear.

“Hope you brought a pen. I dressed for the column.”

You meet his gaze without blinking, a slow, sharp smile curving your lips. “You dressed like that and expected not to be written about?” The words hang between you, playful but loaded, a challenge wrapped in velvet. He chuckles, eyes sparkling with mischief and something darker beneath the surface.

“Well, now you’ve got your material.”

He leans in closer, close enough that you can catch the faint scent of the ocean mixed with something sharper, cologne, maybe, or just the way he carries himself. His eyes never leave yours, daring you to keep up.

“You know,” he says, voice low, “I was starting to hope you’d run out of things to say about me. That maybe you’d finally admit defeat.”

You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head like you’re entertaining a foolish notion. “Admit defeat? Please. You underestimate my capacity for creativity. Especially when you make it so easy.”

Finnick smirks, that cocky tilt returning. “Is that what you call it? Creativity? I thought it was obsession.”

You don’t bother denying it. Instead, you let your gaze flicker around the room, as if noting the throng of well-dressed Capitol citizens who haven’t yet noticed your little exchange. “Maybe a little of both. You’re fascinating, after all.”

He laughs softly, a sound that’s part amusement and part something darker. “Fascinating enough to be exiled thirteen times, apparently.”

The weight of that stings for a fraction of a second before you recover, leaning back slightly. “And yet here you are. Still standing. Still causing a scene.”

Finnick’s smile widens, a flash of teeth, like he’s daring you to say more. “You’re trouble.”

“Maybe. But you’re not complaining.”

He reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. “Not yet.” The gesture shocks you, your breath catching for a moment.

There’s a pause then, thick and charged, before the orchestra swells and someone nearby calls for attention. He straightens, glances around like the moment never happened, then fixes you with a final, smoldering look.

“Enjoy the party, Columnist.”

“Enjoy the headlines.” You reply, voice low.

With that, he turns and disappears into the crowd, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts, and the unmistakable certainty that this dance is far from over.

MID-EVENT | 11:54PM

The party has settled into that sweet middle stretch, guests just tipsy enough to say things they shouldn’t, reporters weaving between gold-dripped gowns and half-finished drinks, the music swelling in elegant, forgettable waves.

You’ve stationed yourself near one of the marble pillars, a flute of champagne in hand, surveying the room like it’s prey. The wheels are already turning. You’re mentally collecting details, who’s had one too many, who’s swapped clothes mid-event, who whispered what into whose ear. The next column is practically writing itself.

But then you hear it.

Not just your name, though that would’ve been enough to make your ears perk. It’s the voice that says it.

Smooth, confident, infuriatingly amused.

“Her? Oh, she’s dangerous. But smart. Sharp enough to make you regret not behaving. I mean, I’ve been exiled thirteen times now.” A pause. A chuckle. “But I can’t really complain… she’s got great taste. And legs.”

You turn. Eyes narrowing.

The holo-screen mounted near the bar is flashing live coverage, interviews with the victors, the glowing chyron reads.

And there he is.

Finnick. On camera. Shirt still scandalously unbuttoned, pearl strands glinting beneath the lights, that same lazy grin stretched across his face like he owns the whole city.

The interviewer asks something you miss, but his answer cuts through the room like a dart made of glitter and spite.

“She pretends not to like the attention, but we both know she lives for it. Don’t you, sweetheart?”

Your stomach drops.

Sweetheart.

He said it on live Capitol television. With cameras. With half the city watching. With you standing there, absolutely frozen.

The laughter that follows—gentle, indulgent—burns worse than the word itself.

Your grip tightens around your glass, lips parting slightly as you watch him flash that camera one last smile, toss a flippant wink, and walk away like he didn’t just detonate a bomb in the middle of your evening.

You swallow the fire rising in your chest.

That’s it. That’s the moment. The exile was inevitable, but now? Now it’s personal.

Your phone buzzes once. Then again. And again.

You don’t even have to look. You already know who it is.

You sit your phone down, eyes scanning the room as you see people whisper and point.

Oh, he’s definitely paying for this.

AFTER THE EVENT | 1:39AM | PENTHOUSE

You sit back in your chair, silk robe slipping off one shoulder as your fingers glide across the keys. This one writes itself. Fueled by fury, champagne, and the ghost of the word “sweetheart” still echoing in your skull.

It starts as a whisper.

Then a sentence.

Then the headline forms. It’s sharp, and clean, yet also delicious.

KISS: Johanna Mason.

For wearing a full velvet suit and punching a reporter in the same night. The range. The drama. The sheer feral elegance. I’ve never seen someone elbow a camera and look better doing it. Honorable mention: her boots. I don’t think they’re technically legal.

You pause only to grin. The next one is obvious.

MARRY: Peeta Mellark.

Wore a soft brown suit with a matching linen tie, and asked if I’ve ever wanted to learn how to bake. The answer is yes. Always yes. Gentleman. Golden boy. Will likely frost your birthday cupcakes and also build you a bread oven.

And then. The one. The name your readers wait for. The one they’ll screenshot, repost, and quote into oblivion.

You crack your knuckles. And type.

EXILE: Finnick Odair.

For reasons already clear to the public and now permanently archived in print. For the leather pants. For the pearls. For looking me in the eye and calling me sweetheart on live television.

Consider this a formal declaration: exile status has been reinstated. Do not pass go. Do not collect applause. Can someone please confiscate his jewelry. For public safety.

You sit back, rereading the paragraph. The grin that spreads across your face is slow, wicked, and deeply satisfied.

It’s way too early to post this article. Your regular scheduling is at 8pm on Sunday evenings, but with how everything went down tonight, you can’t help yourself.

You click publish.

Then text Cinna:

“Kiss: velvet. Marry: bread. Exile: war.”

And with that, you toss your phone to the side, shut your laptop, and crawl into bed.

—

2AM | FINNICK’S PENTHOUSE

It’s late. Too late for anything productive.

2 AM.

Finnick’s sprawled across his bed, still dressed from the party. His shirt is unbuttoned halfway down, the sleeves rolled, his tie tossed somewhere near the foot of the bed. The leather pants…yeah, still on. Too much effort to remove. One pearl earring dangles from his left ear, the other lost in a champagne-fueled blur hours ago.

His room is quiet except for the soft hum of the city below and the dull blue glow of his phone in his hand.

He’s not really doing anything. Just scrolling. Aimlessly. The way you do when your body is exhausted but your mind refuses to quit. He’s already checked the news once. Twice. He saw his own name trending, again. Not shocking. The fallout from tonight was inevitable.

Still, he’s surprised when he gets the notification.

The Columnist just posted a new article.

His brows furrow. “Now?” he mutters.

She never posts this early. Her usual publishing window is Sunday evening, an intentional, calculated drop, like she wants the entire Capitol to have their tea with a side of tension.

But this? 2 in the morning? That’s emotional. That’s pointed.

He should ignore it. Let it sit. Let her words wait.

But his thumb is already tapping the link.

The page loads slowly, just long enough for him to feel the weight in his chest. The familiar knot that always comes before reading her words.

And then, there it is. His name. His exile. Again.

He skims Johanna’s bit—velvet, violence, applause. He almost smiles. Peeta gets a pass, as always. But Finnick?

Exile: Finnick Odair.

For reasons already clear to the public and now permanently archived in print. For the leather pants. For the pearls. For looking me in the eye and calling me sweetheart on live television.

He huffs a low laugh and drops the phone on his chest. “You’re welcome,” he murmurs to the ceiling.

But he picks it back up. Of course he does. The article’s trending. His name’s trending.

And then, there it is.

A tweet. Liked over a thousand times already.

“She pretends to hate him but we all know she’s obsessed. Classic enemies to lovers bait.”

His lips twitch.

He shouldn’t laugh. He shouldn’t like it. But—

He clicks the heart before he can stop himself.

And just like that, he’s given them more fuel.

He tosses the phone to the side with a sigh, scrubs a hand through his hair, and finally lets his eyes fall closed. But he knows sleep isn’t coming.

Not when she’s still on his mind.

END OF PT.1

—