Untitled

This is just a little blurb I wrote. I thought it was really cute, so I thought why not post it on Tumblr! Hope you enjoy it! Let me know if I should turn it into a book!!

I’m swaying and dancing in the arms of my boyfriend, Newt. The song is slow and graceful, the fire is burning bright and elegant, the trees sway in the breeze, the noise of the wind a comforting melody, the sun setting like a painting. Like a once in a lifetime view of a gorgeous sunset. Like the world is about to end when the sun sets, when it disappears and the color of the sky fades with it.

I never thought I'd be here, in the arms of my beloved, surrounded by nature and music, and nobody else. Staring into the eyes of my home. Those dark brown eyes, making me fall in love. Again and again. My head resting against his shoulder while his hands stay on my waist, guiding me through the dance, letting the weight of my worries dissipate as I relax with the ongoing scene.

Tears sneaking out my eyes, though I don't know why. Newt pulling away to brush my tears away with his thumb, like I was made of glass, before picking me up and taking me inside. I think I'm home. I don’t think I have to worry. I think I’m at peace.  I think everything will be okay.

But what you want comes so slow and it goes so fast. It was a picture perfect moment. I should’ve known it wouldn’t last. I should’ve known it would end. I should’ve known it wasn’t even real. The music and the sound of the wind start to fade, the warmth of my beloved starting to disappear, the bright light of the fire and sun melt away. I open my eyes. It was just a dream.

Your Newts girlfriend and Minhos little sister (adopted) This is a very funny one.

The Glade was unusually quiet that afternoon… at least until Thomas and Teresa opened their mouths.

You were sitting on a crate beside Newt, your legs draped over his lap as he absentmindedly drew little circles on your knee. Everything was peaceful.

Then Teresa walked by Thomas, bumped his shoulder, and purred:

“Baby?”

Thomas immediately turned around like he’d been waiting his entire life for that moment.

“Yes, babygirl?”

The ENTIRE Glade froze.

Newt blinked. Minho choked on air. Frypan muttered something about “these dramatic shanks,” and you just lost it.

You sat up straighter, cleared your throat, and repeated in the exact same voice Thomas used:

“Yes, babygirl?”

The imitation was so perfect it echoed.

Everyone BURST into chaotic laughter. Even stern Gally had to walk away because he was snorting like a dying pig. Teresa shoved Thomas and muttered something about never speaking again. Newt actually leaned his forehead on your shoulder because he couldn’t breathe.

Later That Day…

You, Newt, and Minho sat in your usual hangout spot by the Map Room. Minho stretched his arms dramatically.

“Alright, I’m gonna be right back,” he said.

“Okay,” you replied casually.

The moment Minho turned around the corner, Newt leaned in slowly, eyes warm, smile soft, the whole romantic setup—

And then Minho’s voice cut through the air like a siren:

“You know I can see you right?”

You didn’t even flinch. You kept staring at Newt and muttered:

“No you can’t.”

Newt immediately broke, falling back against the wall laughing so hard he nearly tipped over. Minho gave you a betrayed big-brother look and pointed at his own eyes like:

“I SEE EVERYTHING.”

Even Later… Chaos Continues

The three of you were chilling again, Minho sprawled on the ground like he hadn’t slept in ten years.

“Hey,” he mumbled, “can you make me a sandwich?”

You nodded politely.

Minho nodded back, trusting you completely.

Then he fell asleep.

Like, instantly.

Ten minutes later he jerked awake, blinking like a confused owl.

“Oh—sorry. I fell asleep waiting for you to make me a sandwich.”

Without hesitation, without remorse, you said:

“Go back to sleep and starve.”

Newt exploded. He was laughing so hard he had to grab the side of the bench to stay upright.

Minho grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at your face with the strength of a very offended older brother.

“YOU LITTLE MENACE!”

You just shrugged.

Newt nearly cried laughing.

Another Jess Mariano!! I hope you like!

Stars Hollow was asleep. The whole town felt like it held its breath at night — no car sounds, no chatter from the diner, not even the hum of Luke’s coffee machine downstairs. Just silence.

Jess lay awake staring at the ceiling, one arm folded under his head. He wasn’t sure what had woken him — probably nothing. He didn’t sleep much lately. Too many thoughts. Too many things he didn’t want to think about.

Then he heard it.

Soft. Barely there. A sound from your room.

At first, he thought maybe you were just talking in your sleep. But then it came again — a quiet, shaky noise that didn’t sound like sleep at all.

Crying.

Jess sat up immediately.

He hesitated at your door, hand hovering above the knob. You’d always hated when people barged in. But the clock on the wall ticked — 2:07AM — and something about that sound made it worse. The kind of hour where it felt wrong for anyone to cry alone.

He turned the knob gently and pushed the door open.

The room was mostly dark, just the dim light of the streetlamp outside spilling through the curtains. You were sitting up in bed, hugging your pillow tight against your chest, tears glinting down your cheeks.

Jess’s chest tightened.

“Hey,” he whispered, stepping inside. “Hey, what’s going on?”

You jumped slightly, quickly wiping your face. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” He sat down on the edge of your bed, frowning softly. “Nightmare?”

You hesitated. “Kind of.”

Jess leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head. “It was about Mom.”

That one sentence was enough. He didn’t ask for details. He didn’t have to.

You looked so small in that moment — smaller than he remembered. Not twelve, not strong, not the tough little sister who always pretended everything was fine. Just tired.

“She was yelling again,” you whispered, voice shaking. “And then she left. I tried to call her, but the phone didn’t work. I just… I woke up and thought it was real.”

Jess’s throat tightened.

He wanted to tell you it was just a dream. But he knew better. Sometimes dreams weren’t really dreams — they were just memories replaying themselves.

He reached out and brushed your hair back from your face, his fingers careful. “Hey. She’s not here, okay? You’re safe.”

You nodded, but your lip trembled anyway.

“I don’t like thinking about her,” you murmured. “But I miss her. I don’t even know why. She made us feel like we didn’t matter.”

Jess swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

You looked up at him. “You miss her too, don’t you?”

He froze. He didn’t answer for a while. The clock ticked again — loud in the silence.

Finally, he nodded. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

You frowned. “Even after everything?”

Jess gave a small, sad smile. “Missing her doesn’t mean I forgive her. It just means I remember what it felt like when she wasn’t like that.”

You blinked slowly, taking that in.

Jess glanced toward the window. “You know what’s weird?” he said quietly. “Sometimes I think about her and I get mad, and then I think about you, and I just… I’m glad we got out. ’Cause it means you won’t have to go through what I did.”

You looked at him, eyes shining. “You went through more, didn’t you?”

Jess shrugged — his version of admitting it. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” you said, small but firm.

He smiled a little at that — that stubborn little spark that always reminded him you were stronger than you thought.

“Tell you what,” he said finally, leaning back against the headboard. “Next time you have a dream like that, wake me up, okay? Don’t just sit here freaking out.”

“I didn’t wanna bother you.”

“You’re not a bother,” Jess said instantly. The way he said it made you look up. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “You never could be.”

That seemed to quiet something inside you.

You slid over a little, pulling your blanket up to your chin. “Can you stay for a bit?”

Jess hesitated, then nodded. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out on top of the blanket beside you, one arm tucked behind his head.

“You should sleep,” he said softly.

You closed your eyes. “Only if you do too.”

He smiled faintly, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling.

“Deal.”

The clock ticked on — 2:31 now — but the sound didn’t bother him anymore. Not while your breathing evened out beside him. Not while you finally looked peaceful again.

He stayed awake a while longer, listening to the rain tapping softly against the window, and thought about how some things — the bad memories, the guilt, the anger — would always linger.

But then he looked at you. And for the first time that night, it didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Another Jess Mariano!!!!!!

The fight with Luke had been bad. Like—really bad. Voices raised, doors slammed, and a mug shattered somewhere in the middle of it all. Jess didn’t even remember what started it. Probably school. Or work. Or just… him being him.

By the time he stomped upstairs, his pulse was still pounding. He shoved his door open, threw his jacket on the floor, and sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the wall like it might blink first.

He didn’t mean to yell at Luke. He just— No, he always “just.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, dragging in a shaky breath. The apartment was too quiet now. That sharp kind of quiet that comes after yelling. He thought Luke had gone back to the diner, probably to cool off.

But then, beneath the faint hum of the refrigerator, Jess heard something else.

Something small. A muffled sound. Almost like… crying.

He frowned and turned toward your door. It was closed, the light off underneath. For a second, he hesitated — part of him telling himself to just leave you alone. But something about that sound— He knocked softly.

No answer.

He pushed the door open a crack.

The room was dim, just the faint blue light of your little bedside lamp glowing against the wall. You were sitting on the floor beside your bed, knees tucked to your chest, headphones in, tears glinting on your cheeks. You didn’t even look up when he walked in.

Jess froze. For once, he didn’t have anything to say.

He crossed the room quietly, crouched beside you, and gently tapped your shoulder. You flinched, pulling your headphones down. The song leaking out was slow, sad — something soft, maybe The Shins or Elliott Smith. Jess recognized the kind of music people put on when they don’t want to feel alone in their head.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You okay?”

You sniffed, looking down. “You and Luke were fighting.”

Jess winced. “Yeah. Guess we were.”

You didn’t answer. You just stared at the floor, picking at the seam of your pajama pants.

He sat down next to you, back against the wall. The two of you sat there in silence for a while, the air heavy but… calm.

“I hate it when you guys fight,” you finally whispered.

Jess nodded slowly. “Yeah. Me too.”

“It makes me feel like everything’s gonna fall apart again.”

That stopped him cold.

He turned his head to look at you, eyes softening. “Hey… nothing’s falling apart, okay?”

You shrugged, wiping your cheek with the back of your sleeve. “That’s what Mom used to say before she’d leave for a week.”

Jess’s chest tightened.

He didn’t know what to say to that — because he remembered those weeks too. The empty fridge, the way he’d make you mac and cheese from a box just to keep you fed. The nights you’d sleep on the couch because you didn’t want to be alone in your room.

He swallowed hard. “I’m not her.”

“I know.”

“I’m not leaving,” he said quietly. “Even when I screw up.”

You nodded, still not looking at him. A tear slipped down your face, catching the light. Without thinking, Jess reached out and brushed it away with his thumb.

“Hey,” he murmured. “You don’t have to hide in here when we fight, okay? I know it’s loud and stupid, but… you don’t have to hide.”

“I didn’t want to make it worse,” you whispered.

“You won’t.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the rain starting outside — soft at first, then harder, tapping against the windowpane.

Jess leaned his head back against the wall, sighing. “This whole place sounds like it’s about to drown.”

You gave the smallest laugh — tired but real.

He smiled faintly, glancing sideways at you. “There it is. Knew I could get you to laugh.”

You sniffled, half-smiling through it. “Barely.”

“I’ll take it.”

He nudged your shoulder gently. “C’mon. Move over.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“’Cause I’m not leaving you sitting here in the dark, and I’m too lazy to go back to my room.”

You sighed but shifted, letting him sit beside you on the floor. He pulled your blanket off the bed and threw it over both of you.

The two of you sat there listening to the rain, your head eventually resting against his shoulder.

After a while, Jess whispered, “You know… sometimes I yell because I don’t know how to say things right. I mess up. But I’m never mad at you. Ever.”

You didn’t say anything — you just leaned into him a little more. That was answer enough.

When Luke peeked in later that night to apologize, he found both of you asleep on the floor, the blanket tangled around you, Jess’s arm wrapped protectively over your shoulders.

And for once, there was no storm left in the room — only quiet.

This is a shorter one, I hope you like it, I haven't done a lot (or any) Jess Mariano ones before, so I hope you like! (Btw hints at eating disorder and deppresion).

The diner was loud. It always was in the mornings — coffee cups clinking, Kirk talking way too much, the bell over the door ringing every three seconds. But Jess’s attention wasn’t on the noise downstairs. It was on the silence upstairs.

You hadn’t come down for breakfast. Again.

Luke had made pancakes, the kind you actually liked — chocolate chips shaped into a little smiley face like he thought you were still five. But your plate was untouched. Jess had knocked once, twice, gotten a faint, “I’m not hungry,” and left it alone.

Except now Luke was pacing behind the counter. “She hasn’t eaten all week, Jess. You notice that?” Jess looked down at his book. “Maybe she’s not hungry.” Luke frowned. “No kid’s not hungry for five days.” “She’s not a kid.” “She’s twelve.” Jess shut the book. “Exactly.”

But the thing was — Luke wasn’t wrong. You hadn’t been eating. Or talking. Or… doing much of anything lately. Even at school, Rory said you spent most of lunch sitting under a tree, drawing instead of hanging out with anyone.

Jess told himself it was just the move. The adjustment. New town, new people. You’d be fine. You always were.

Still, when he got home that afternoon, the silence hit him again — heavy and cold. You were sitting on your bed, knees pulled up, a sketchbook in your lap. The room was dim; you hadn’t even turned the light on.

He leaned against the doorway. “You planning on hibernating forever, or just ‘til winter’s over?”

You didn’t look up. “Not funny.”

He sighed, stepping inside. “Luke’s threatening to call a doctor because you’re not eating his pancakes. You know that’s, like, the ultimate insult, right?”

You flipped another page. He caught a glimpse of the drawing — two people standing on a street corner. One looked like him. The other was you. Both looked… small.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

It was the automatic kind of “yeah.” The kind you said to make someone go away. But Jess didn’t move. He sat down on the edge of your bed, elbows on his knees.

“You haven’t really been talking lately.”

“I don’t have anything to say.”

He studied you. The shadows under your eyes. The way your fingers fidgeted with the pencil, like you needed something to do with your hands.

“You’re not eating, you’re not sleeping, you’re barely talking. You think I’m not gonna notice?”

You bit your lip. “You’ve got Rory. You don’t have to worry about me all the time.”

That one hit harder than you probably meant it to. Jess looked at you for a long moment, his voice quieter when he spoke again.

“Hey… don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you don’t matter.”

You stared at the drawing, eyes shiny but stubborn. “I’m not trying to.”

“Yeah, you are,” he said softly. “And it sucks, because I know exactly what that feels like.”

Silence again. Then your voice, barely above a whisper: “Mom used to forget to make dinner some nights. I’d just tell her I wasn’t hungry. I guess I still say it now. Even when I am.”

Jess swallowed. He hadn’t heard you talk about your mom in weeks. He wanted to tell you she didn’t deserve to make you feel that way. He wanted to fix it. But he knew what it was like — to be stuck between missing her and hating her.

So instead, he reached over and took the sketchbook gently from your lap, setting it on the nightstand.

“Come on,” he said, standing up. “Let’s go downstairs.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Tough. You can sit at the counter, draw if you want. I’ll make sure Luke doesn’t hover.”

You hesitated, then sighed and got up, trailing behind him down the stairs.

Luke looked up from wiping a table, about to say something, but Jess shot him a look that said don’t.

You sat at the counter, silent. Jess placed a plate of pancakes in front of you — no smiley face this time, just plain, warm, simple.

You didn’t eat much. But you took a few bites.

And when Luke turned his back, Jess saw you glance up at him — just for a second — and whisper, “Thanks.”

He shrugged, pretending not to care, but his chest felt tight in a way he didn’t quite understand.

Maybe Luke was the one who gave you a roof. But Jess? Jess was the one who’d make damn sure you didn’t fall through the cracks.

Hii it's been a LONG time sense i've done a Harry Potter universe one so here we go!!!

The Gryffindor common room was almost entirely dark, the fire burned down to its last embers. I had thought I was alone, curled up on the couch with tears streaming silently down my face. The quiet of the castle after hours always felt heavier, pressing in on me until it broke me down again.

The portrait door creaked open, and I froze, swiping at my eyes as if I could erase the evidence. But then I heard his voice—low, surprised, hesitant.

“(Y/N)?”

George.

I stiffened, keeping my back to him. “Go away, George.”

But he didn’t. His footsteps came closer, slow and careful, until I felt the weight of his presence just a few feet away.

“I didn’t know you were still up,” he said softly.

The dam inside me cracked. My chest ached, my throat raw. I spun around on the couch, glaring at him through wet lashes. “Of course I’m still up. You think I can just sleep after everything? After you—” My voice broke, the words tumbling out louder now, ragged with pain.

He looked startled, but didn’t back away. “After I what?”

I shot to my feet, fists clenched at my sides, my voice echoing off the stone walls. “You think you can walk in and out of my life like I’m some sort of fucking train station?”

The words shattered the silence. My breath came fast and shaky, my tears spilling too quickly for me to wipe them away.

George flinched, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t look away. He let the silence stretch for a moment before his voice, broken and raw, cut through it.

“I never stopped loving you…”

The words hung between us like something dangerous. My chest heaved, my sobs harsh and uneven.

“What’s the difference, George?” I choked out, shaking my head. “You weren’t there. You chose her.”

He winced as if I’d struck him, his freckles pale against the firelight. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Yes it was,” I said, my voice cracking. “Every time you looked at her instead of me, every time you laughed with her like I didn’t exist—I felt it. And now you stand here and tell me you never stopped loving me? Do you have any idea what that did to me?”

His eyes shone, pain flickering in them. He took one hesitant step forward, then another, as if approaching a wild creature that might bolt. “I made the wrong choice,” he whispered. “I thought I was protecting you from… from me. From everything. But all I did was break you. And I broke myself, too.”

I shook my head, tears burning. “I can’t do this again. I can’t let you back in just so you can leave when it gets hard.”

George’s hand lifted, trembling, but stopped inches away as if waiting for permission. “Then tell me to go and I will. But if you still feel even a fraction of what I do—just tell me there’s a chance. Please.”

George’s hand was still hanging in the air, trembling, waiting for me to take it. My heart twisted, but my anger burned hotter than anything else.

“There’s not a chance, George,” I spat, my voice hoarse from crying. “You can’t keep coming into my life begging to get back with me and then break up again. You can’t keep doing that. I’m done. Do you hear me? I’m done. I’m fucking done.”

My voice cracked but I didn’t stop, tears blurring everything. “I can’t keep doing this with you. I gave you multiple chances. I kept believing you’d change, that this time would be different. But it never was.”

I hadn’t even noticed the movement behind me until the hush fell over the room. Dozens of eyes were on us—half of Gryffindor House gathered on the stairs and clustered near the walls, drawn by the shouting. Whispered murmurs rippled through the crowd, but no one dared speak too loud.

I turned back to George, my whole body shaking. “You can go to hell.”

The words hit him like a Bludger to the chest. His face crumpled, his hand dropping uselessly to his side. For a long, painful second, he just stared at me—eyes glistening, lips parted like he had something else to say but couldn’t find the words.

The silence pressed in around us, thick with tension. Even the fire seemed to have gone quiet, the only sound my ragged breaths.

Finally, George swallowed hard, his voice breaking as he said, “If that’s what you want.”

He turned, shoulders hunched, and pushed his way through the crowd. Gryffindors parted wordlessly to let him pass, their eyes darting between us, unsure who to comfort, who to follow.

And then it was just me, standing in the middle of the common room, shaking so badly my knees nearly gave out, tears falling faster than I could catch them.

Hermione’s POV

The common room was so silent after George left that the sound of (Y/N)’s sobs felt deafening. I didn’t even hesitate—I hurried down the stairs and knelt in front of her before anyone else could move.

“(Y/N), it’s alright, I’m here,” I whispered, reaching out and gently pulling her into my arms. She didn’t resist, just collapsed against me, shaking with the force of her crying. My own heart ached watching her break like this.

I smoothed her hair back from her face, whispering the way my mother used to when I was little. “You don’t have to hold it together right now. Just let it out. I’ve got you.”

Her fists were bunched in my robes, clutching me like I was the only solid thing left in her world. I cast a sharp glance at the other Gryffindors watching—half curious, half concerned. “Don’t just stand there gawking,” I snapped. “Go on, upstairs!”

A few flushed and scattered, but others lingered, whispering still. I turned my full attention back to (Y/N).

“You don’t deserve this,” I said firmly, my own voice thick with emotion. “You don’t deserve to be someone’s second choice. You’ve been strong for so long, but you don’t have to be tonight. You’re safe. I promise.”

Her sobs eased only slightly, enough that she could breathe against me, and I held her tighter, rocking her gently by the dying firelight.

Ron’s POV

I watched George storm out of the common room, and before I could think twice, I was on his heels. He moved fast, shoving through the portrait hole, his jaw tight and his fists clenched like he was ready to punch the wall.

“Oi! George!” I called after him. He didn’t stop, so I jogged to catch up, grabbing his arm. “What the bloody hell was that about?”

He jerked free, glaring at me. “It’s none of your business, Ron.”

“The hell it isn’t,” I shot back. “She’s my friend. You can’t just—Merlin, you had the whole common room staring. What did you do to her?”

His face twisted, pain etched deep into every freckle. For a moment I thought he might tell me to shove off again, but instead he raked a hand through his hair and muttered, “I screwed up, alright? I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was protecting her. Instead, I just… destroyed everything.”

“Protecting her?” I frowned, trying to make sense of it. “From what?”

George’s voice cracked. “From me. From the mess I make of everything. From the fact that I don’t know how to stay when things get hard.”

I stared at him, taken aback. He looked more broken than I’d ever seen him. And this was George—always laughing, always making a joke of everything. But now he just looked like a bloke who’d lost the one thing he truly wanted.

“Well,” I said, quieter now, “seems to me she doesn’t need protecting. She just needed you not to leave.”

George’s eyes flickered with guilt, and for the first time, he didn’t have a comeback. He just leaned against the stone wall, breathing like it hurt.

The Next Morning

When I finally dragged myself down to breakfast, the Gryffindor table was buzzing louder than usual. Word of the argument had spread across the castle like Fiendfyre, and I could feel eyes on me from all corners of the Great Hall.

I sat down between Hermione and Harry, trying to ignore the whispers. Hermione gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, but it was Harry who leaned close, lowering his voice so only I could hear.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re fine,” he said quietly. “I saw you last night. I know you’re not.”

My fork trembled in my hand. “Harry, I can’t keep falling apart in front of everyone. They’re all staring.”

“Let them stare,” he said firmly, surprising me with his sharpness. “You’ve been there for me every time I’ve gone through hell—whether it was Dudley, or Quirrell, or bloody Chamber of Secrets. I’m not about to let you go through this alone.”

My throat tightened. I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I just nodded. He gave me the smallest smile, then turned his attention to his plate like nothing had happened, shielding me from the dozens of prying eyes around us.

Hermione caught my eye and gave me a look that said see, we’ve got you. And for the first time since last night, I felt like maybe I wasn’t going to shatter completely.

Later That Day – Transfiguration

Of course, fate wasn’t about to make things easy.

Sitting two rows behind me in Transfiguration was George Weasley. Every scrape of his quill, every shuffle of his chair—it was impossible not to notice him. When I raised my hand to answer Professor McGonagall’s question, I caught him looking at me. Not the mischievous, teasing look he used to give me when I outsmarted the class, but something hollow, something guilty.

I held his gaze for a moment before tearing it away, my pulse hammering in my ears.

Harry, from the next row down, noticed. He glanced between the two of us, his jaw tightening.

When class ended, he didn’t hesitate. He marched straight up to George, standing squarely in his path. “You need to stop looking at her like that,” Harry said bluntly.

George blinked, startled. “Like what?”

“Like you want her back,” Harry shot back, his voice low but sharp. “You had your chance. You made your choice. You don’t get to make her hurt all over again just because you’ve decided you regret it.”

George’s expression faltered, the fight draining out of him. “I do regret it,” he admitted quietly. “More than anything.”

Harry’s eyes flicked back toward me, lingering for a moment before he turned back to George. “Then maybe the best thing you can do for her now is leave her alone.”

George didn’t answer. He just stood there, jaw tight, as I brushed past them both, clutching my books so tightly my knuckles turned white.

The Attack

The first scream echoed down the corridor, sharp and chilling. At first I thought it was Peeves causing trouble again, but then the sound of crashing glass and the unmistakable crack of a spell ripped through the castle.

Students surged in every direction, panic flooding the air. Shouts of “Death Eaters!” sent my heart lurching into my throat.

I tried to run with the others, but before I could even reach the stairs, the air around me grew suddenly colder. My breath fogged in front of me, the warmth leeching from my bones.

“What—what’s happening—?” I gasped, clutching the wall.

And then I saw it. A cloaked figure, gliding forward with unnatural slowness. Its rattling breath filled my ears, and an awful, crushing hopelessness pressed down on me. My knees buckled, and I couldn’t even lift my wand properly.

It was like drowning in despair. Every happy memory, every spark of warmth, gone. I couldn’t fight it. I couldn’t breathe.

But then a voice, hoarse and desperate, rang out behind me.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

A brilliant burst of silver light cut through the suffocating darkness, scattering the dementor back into the shadows. A stag charged forward, luminous and fierce, before dissolving into mist.

I collapsed to the ground, shivering, my chest heaving. Through the blur, I saw him. George. His wand still raised, his face pale and furious.

“Merlin’s sake—(Y/N)!” He ran to me, grabbing my arm, pulling me to my feet. “Come on, we’ve got to move—”

But another explosion rocked the hall. A curse flew past us, scorching the wall, and before I could duck fully, the edge of it caught me along the side. White-hot pain tore through my ribs, and I cried out, stumbling.

“Bloody hell,” George muttered, hauling me upright. “You’re bleeding.”

He half-carried me as we ran, spells and screams echoing through the corridors. I barely registered anything except the burning in my side and the weakness in my limbs from the dementor.

Finally, George shoved open a broom closet door and pushed me inside. He slammed it shut behind us, plunging us into darkness.

I collapsed against the wall, gasping, my hand pressed against the sticky warmth at my side.

“Stay awake,” George said quickly, crouching in front of me, his face etched with panic. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, alright?”

But my eyelids were so heavy, every breath shallow and weak. His voice felt far away.

“(Y/N)—” he pleaded, his hand hovering near mine but not quite touching. “Don’t you bloody give up on me, please. Not like this. Not after everything.”

I tried to respond, but the words slipped away. My head lolled against the wall, and the world went dark.

The Hospital Wing

When I woke, the first thing I noticed was the sterile scent of potions and the soft white sheets beneath me. My side ached sharply, but the bleeding was gone—my hand brushed against stitches under the bandages.

I blinked against the light. The curtains around the bed were drawn, muffling the sounds of Madame Pomfrey scolding someone a few beds away.

And then I saw him. George, slouched forward in a chair beside me, his head resting in his arms on the edge of the bed. His hair was mussed, dark circles under his eyes, but his hand was curled loosely near mine, as if he’d fallen asleep mid-vigil.

I shifted slightly, and his head snapped up, his eyes widening when he saw me awake. Relief washed over his features so strongly it almost broke me.

“Thank Merlin,” he whispered, voice rough. “You scared the bloody life out of me.”

My name is Y/N Y/L/N and i'm Finnick Odairs girlfriend.

It's the reaping for the 75th hunger games, i'm on the podium and so is Finnick. Finnick is the only male victor of district 4, but for girls. There's me, Annie, and Mags. Mags is the sweetest old lady alive, barely. I knew if she went in the games, she wouldn't come back. Annie is me and Finnicks BEST friend. But she also wouldn't, couldn't, survive another hunger games. That leaves me. I promised I would volunteer for them, but I also promised Finnick I wouldn't volunteer. If Finnick knew what I was going to do, he'd flip out. So I didn't tell him. I'm standing on the podium, Annie on my right, Mags on my left, Finnick all the way on the other side, and Drusilla Sickle in the middle announcing who's going to die. Some of the crowd looks angry some look sad, others just look....happy. Happy that they aren't at risk that they aren't going to die this year. Drusilla pulls a name from the girls bowl. She looks relieved about who's on the paper. Then after a moment she calls out, looking at us girls.

"Mags Flannagan" She says and Mags starts to walk over but I stop her.

"I volunteer as tribute'" I say, and without giving Mags any time to stop me I quickly walk over to Drusilla. Nobody looks surprised. Nobody but Finnick. I don't look at him knowing he's either mad at me or hurt by me. But I catch a quick glampse of him from the corner of my eye. Hurt.

"Give a hand for our female tribute for the 75th hunger games" She says and claps into the mic but nobody else claps. She pulls a name from the male bowl, which she shouldn't even do that, there's only one name in there.

"Finnick Odair" She says. Finnick waistes no time and walks up toward Drusilla and faces me. He has his mask on so everybody thinks he's proud to be in the hunger games again. He shakes my hand and then we walk out. This time they don't let us say our goodbyes. We go straight to the train. When we're in private. Finnick looks at me without the mask. His sea green eyes staring at me with hurt. That look breaks me, i've seen it before, but never used on me. That look makes me want to shrink into a inch and go out the door and never come back. I don't give him the satisfaction of making me feel that way. I put on my mask, hard, cold, confident.

"You've never had to use your mask with me" Finnick says. I respond instantly

"You've never had to give me that look before either" I say coldly.

"You promised you wouldn't volunteer" Finnick says.

"I promised them they wouldn't die" I say.

"You don't get to say who dies and who lives" Finnick says. "You cant predict that" He says.

"No but I can guess and I can guess pretty damn well. Mags is a 80 year old women, she would die like that" I say snapping my fingers. "And she would drag you down cause you'd do anything to protect her, so she might've ended up killing you too. And Annie would break. She would quite literally break being in the arena again." I say "I'm young, and i'm brave, and i'm not mad. I can survive again. And if I had the chance to save Annie and Mags I would do it over and over and over again" I say "I know I promised you I wouldn't but did you really expect me to keep that promise? Did you really expect me to let Mags or Annie die knowing I could've done something to prevent that?" I ask. And for awhile Finnick didn't answer.

"No" He said finally. "but I didn't expect you to lie either" He says and stands up and walks out of the cabin and to his room on the train. I don't stop him. I let him. We've gotten in fights before alot of them. We'll be fine after this one. Or Atleast I thought. The next day we still aren't at the Capitol yet still stuck on the same small clostrophic train. It's breakfast me and Finnick are sitting on the opposite sides of the table.

"What has you guys being so cold to each other?" Asks Drusilla. "You two are inseparable" Drusilla says.

"Yea well. Guess not anymore" I say and get up and walk to my cabin in the train, leaving my unfinished food on the table. I don't see Finnicks face. But I hear Drusilla and Finnick talking at the table after.

That night i'm in my room when Finnick enters.

"Hey" He says simply and sits next to me on my bed. I feel like the world got colder when he entered. But I couldn't be the reason we break up.

"Whats up" I say instead. Still laying on my bed staring out the window. The train stopped and i'm staring at a gorgeous landscape. With beautifully green tall tree's, green grass, mountains. The sun is resting right in-between two mountains as it sets. The sky is a gorgeous orange pinkish color kinda like a ombre. I remember trying to paint a scene like this when I was younger. Now I wish I just had a camera.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't of expected you to do that, but, you have to understand where i'm coming from" Finnick starts. "I also, I just didn't expect you to be the person to break a promise, you've never done that before" Finnick says.

"I will break a promise when it comes to peoples lives" I say.

"I know, I should've thought that, I shouldn't of made you promise to do that either, but I was just so scared of losing you. Last time you were in the games, you barely survived" Finncik said.

"I was younger, I was 12 I wasn't trained with my weapon, and I didn't know anything about anything" I say "I've grown, i've gotten stronger" I say.

Hiiii, i've wanted to do this one for a little bit so voila! btw in this story YOUR Peter Parkers younger sister. Enjoy!

Ryan’s arm was the only thing keeping me upright as we stumbled down the hall. He knocked on our apartment door, his knuckles echoing in the quiet night. My head spun, and I giggled at nothing.

The door swung open. Peter stood there, and the look on his face could’ve shattered glass. His eyes went wide, jaw clenched, voice already rising.

“Jeez, relax, dude. It’s not like I killed someone,” I slurred, laughing at my own words.

Peter’s glare shifted from me to Ryan. “Ryan, I swear to God—she’s fourteen!” His voice cracked, furious. He yanked me gently but firmly from Ryan’s arms.

Ryan held his hands up. “I didn’t know she was gonna get this drunk, okay? We were just having a little fun—”

“Fun? Look at her! She’s sick out of her mind!” Peter snapped, and before Ryan could say another word, Peter slammed the door in his face.

His arm stayed tight around my waist as he guided me to the couch, muttering under his breath. “What were you thinking?”

“I waaasss haavvvinngg fffunnn,” I mumbled, words dragging together.

Peter sighed, grabbed my favorite plush blanket from the armrest, and tucked it around me. “Go to bed.”

That was all it took. My eyelids dropped, and I passed out almost instantly.

Sometime later, my stomach churned violently. I bolted upright and staggered to the bathroom. The moment I knelt down, everything came up.

“Oh God, Y/N,” Peter’s voice broke through as he rushed in. He crouched beside me, gathering my hair back out of my face, one hand rubbing circles on my back.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out between waves.

“Hey, no. Don’t apologize. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?” His voice was soft, gentle in a way that made my chest ache.

When it was finally over, he helped me rinse, brush my teeth, and guided me back to the couch. This time, he didn’t leave—he sat close until sleep dragged me under again.

The smell of pancakes woke me. Sunlight filtered through the curtains. Peter was at the stove, spatula in hand.

“Hey,” he said when he noticed me stirring. “I made pancakes.”

My voice was scratchy. “What time is it?”

“Eleven-thirty. You slept in.” He carried a plate over, sitting across from me on the couch. His serious expression returned.

“We need to talk. About last night.” He exhaled slowly, shoulders heavy. “Y/N, you’re only fourteen. You shouldn’t be anywhere near drinking—especially not with a guy like that.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” I muttered.

“I know you’re sorry,” he said, voice softening. “But you scared me. You didn’t come home until way past midnight. That guy—he reeked of alcohol and cigarettes. He put you in danger, Y/N. You didn’t even tell me you were going out. I was—” His voice faltered. “I was scared for you.”

I looked down at my hands, guilt burning in my stomach worse than the hangover.

“Just… promise me you won’t ever do that again. Please.”

I nodded. “I promise.”

His shoulders eased a little. “Good. Now let’s eat.”

A tiny laugh slipped out of me, and Peter cracked the smallest grin. The air felt lighter, but I could still feel the weight of his care pressing into me—a weight that, deep down, I didn’t mind carrying.

I hope you guys love this one! For context i'm Tony Stark's daughter. Peter Parker's girlfriend!

The battlefield of Earth was chaos — broken sky, dust, and fire swallowing what remained of hope. You stood beside your father, Tony Stark, heart hammering as Thanos pushed forward. Peter was just a few steps away, mask torn, blood on his face, looking at you like he wanted to freeze time.

And then it happened — the gauntlet slipped through the struggle, into your hands. Your father’s eyes went wide.

“Y/N, no—!” Tony’s voice broke, as if the air itself had betrayed him.

The Infinity Stones pulsed, burning through your veins like molten light. Your body shook, but you tightened your fist. Peter stumbled toward you, reaching out.

“Y/N, don’t—please. We’ll find another way!” His voice cracked, and the tears in his eyes nearly shattered your resolve.

But there wasn’t another way. Not in this war. Not with the armies of Thanos still standing. You gave your dad the faintest smile — the same stubborn grin he wore when he made the impossible look easy.

“I love you, Dad. And I love you, Pete. This is the only way.”

The last thing you whispered, just for Peter: “It’s okay… you’ll be okay.”

And then, with everything you had left, you snapped.

The Dust Settles

The battlefield fell silent. Thanos and his army dissolved into ash, their screams lost to the wind. Victory… but at a cost.

Your knees buckled, the power of the Stones tearing through you. You collapsed, gauntlet smoking, your skin scorched from the energy.

Tony was the first to reach you, sliding across the dirt, hands trembling as he cupped your face. His armor split away, desperation in his eyes.

“No, no, no… baby girl, stay with me. Please, Y/N.” His voice broke into pieces. He’d been Iron Man, the genius, the savior — but now he was just a father begging for one more second.

Peter dropped beside you, choking on his sobs. His hands fluttered uselessly, afraid to hurt you more. “Y/N—hey, it’s me, it’s Peter, okay? Stay awake, please. You’re gonna be fine, you hear me? We’ll fix this—”

You coughed, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Peter… you’re… you’re safe. That’s all I wanted.”

His forehead pressed against yours, tears falling freely. “No! You don’t get to say goodbye, okay? We’re supposed to have… a life. Together. You can’t—please, Y/N.”

Your father swallowed hard, trying to hold himself together for you. “You’re stronger than me. Stronger than I ever was. I’m so damn proud of you.” His voice cracked. “I love you… 3000.”

The pain in your chest turned into warmth as you looked at them — your dad and Peter. The two people who had been your entire world.

With your last ounce of strength, you smiled weakly. “I love you… both.”

Your eyes fluttered closed.

Aftermath

Whether it was the Stones’ mercy or sheer luck, your body slipped into unconsciousness instead of death. The medics of Wakanda rushed in, Shuri barking orders as you were carried away on a stretcher, gauntlet pieces falling from your scorched hand.

Tony stood frozen, staring after you as they worked to stabilize your body. His chest ached with guilt — this wasn’t supposed to be your burden.

Peter clung to your hand until they pulled him away, whispering through sobs: “I’ll wait for you. However long it takes.”

The world had been saved. But for Tony and Peter, the real battle had just begun — waiting, hoping, praying that you would wake up again.

This is a shorter one. It's reader x Peter Parker (MCU version) I really hope you like it.

The compound was unusually quiet.

Well, quiet for the Avengers HQ.

The fluorescent lights above hummed softly, and the occasional beeping from Tony’s tech cluttered the silence. Natasha Romanoff sat at the long table in the common room, arms crossed, eyes flicking between the glowing screen in front of her and the hallway.

She was waiting for you.

Again.

You’d been skipping rest days, forgetting meals, and brushing off every concerned look she and Peter gave you. At first, she chalked it up to a rough training cycle or anxiety before a mission — they all went through it. But this? This had been going on for too long.

She tapped her comm device and mumbled, “FRIDAY, where’s Y/N?”

"Approaching the common room, Agent Romanoff," the AI answered politely. "Vitals elevated. Sleep deprivation nearing critical."

Critical.

Natasha stood just as you stumbled into view.

Your eyes were glassy, rimmed red. Your hair was messy, like you’d barely combed it. You were clutching a thick file of mission briefs, holding it too tight, like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Natasha said carefully, stepping forward. “You okay?”

You blinked at her like she was speaking another language. And then your eyes locked onto Peter across the room — your boyfriend, hunched over some gadget, his head snapping up the second he saw you.

“Peter,” you croaked.

He was on his feet instantly, closing the distance.

You didn’t even look at Natasha anymore. Your voice was quiet and shaky, almost slurred from exhaustion. “Peter, the words on the page are vibrating... and I can’t make them stop.”

Peter’s heart sank.

You looked down at the papers in your hand like they were foreign objects, your brow furrowed in confusion. “I forgot how to read. Can you read it to me, Peter?”

He took the file gently from your hand, setting it aside without even glancing at it. Then he cupped your face, thumb brushing the dark circles under your eyes.

“Y/N,” he said softly, “baby, you’re exhausted. You need to go to sleep right now.”

You blinked up at him again, tears just beginning to form. “But—”

“Nope. Not a discussion.” He gave you that soft, loving-but-firm tone that only Peter Parker could pull off. “C’mon. Bed. Right now. I’ll carry you if I have to.”

Behind you, Natasha sighed, relieved but still worried. She exchanged a glance with Peter — the kind that said thank you and don’t let her out of your sight.

Peter guided you gently out of the room, his arm around your waist, whispering, “I’ll read you a bedtime story, okay? No more vibrating words. Just rest. I’ve got you.”

And he did.

Always.

HIIII. It's been a little while sense I've posted so I decided to post this LONG one. tyyyy

It’s been a week. A whole week since the dreams started. I don’t know why they began, or what exactly set them off—maybe it was that news report from District 2, or that loud storm a few nights back. Or maybe they were always waiting, just under the surface.

Every time I closed my eyes, I was back there. Not me, really—but somewhere dark and twisted. A room, a scream, sometimes waves crashing so loud they sounded like bombs. Faces. Some I recognized from stories Dad told me. Some I didn’t. All of them haunted.

So, I stopped sleeping.

At first, it wasn’t hard. I just stayed up reading. I kept the lights off and used a flashlight under the covers. Then the flashlight died. So I paced. I drew. I stared at the ceiling and counted the cracks in the paint.

That was two nights ago.

Now my eyes sting when I blink too long. My limbs feel like they’re full of heavy sand, and I get dizzy if I stand too fast. But still, I don't sleep. Not even for a second. Because I know what’s waiting if I do.

I’ve been careful, though. Real careful. During the day, I act like everything’s fine. I even laughed at breakfast this morning, when Dad told me one of his dumb Capitol jokes. He smiled, that crooked, sea-swept grin of his that makes most people melt. But me? I could barely focus on his face.

I think he’s starting to notice.

Tonight, after dinner, he gave me that look. The one where his brows pinch a little and he tilts his head, like he’s trying to read between the lines of what I’m not saying.

“You okay, guppy?” he asked, using the nickname he gave me when I was five and tried to race him in the ocean.

I nodded, maybe too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Maybe you should go to bed early tonight,” he said casually, but his voice was too light—like he was trying not to scare a fish away.

I shrugged and mumbled something about homework. Then I disappeared into my room.

And now here I am, 1:47 a.m., sitting at my desk, staring at the moonlight crawling across my floor. My eyelids keep twitching. My fingers shake if I try to hold a pencil.

There’s a knock at the door. Gentle. Three taps. I freeze.

“Sweetheart?” Dad’s voice. Soft, but serious.

I don’t answer right away. I want to pretend I’m asleep, but I know he’ll see right through it. He always does.

The door creaks open. He peeks in, and even in the dark I can see the shift in his face when he notices the lamp still on, the papers scattered across the desk, the dark circles under my eyes.

He steps inside. Quiet. Calm. Like he’s approaching something wounded.

“You haven’t been sleeping, have you?”

My stomach twists. I don’t answer.

He kneels beside me, gently takes my hand in his. His fingers are rough from fishing nets and training, but his grip is warm.

“I know what it’s like,” he says after a moment. “The dreams. The kind that don’t leave you alone, even when you’re awake.”

I glance at him. His eyes are distant, looking somewhere past me. Somewhere deep.

“I had them too, after the war. After Snow. After... everything.”

My throat tightens. I want to tell him I’m fine. That I don’t need help. But the words won’t come.

“I thought if I didn’t sleep, they’d go away,” I whisper. “But now... I feel like I’m the nightmare.”

He pulls me into a hug. Tight. Safe.

“You’re not,” he says, voice firm. “You’re my daughter. You’re real. And I promise, you don’t have to face this alone.”

I bury my face in his shirt. He smells like salt and sea and home.

And for the first time in a week, I let my eyes close.

Just for a second.

Title: The Deep End

I knew something was wrong three days ago.

It wasn’t anything loud—just the absence of noise. You were quiet at breakfast. Too quiet for a twelve-year-old with enough sarcasm to rival Johanna Mason. Your hands trembled a little when you picked up your spoon. You laughed when I teased you, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

I’ve seen that look before. I used to see it in the mirror.

I didn’t want to push. Not at first. Maybe it was a bad dream. Maybe just a rough night. But then it was two nights. Then three. Then your eyes started carrying that glassy, faraway look — like you weren’t really in the room with me anymore.

Tonight, I waited by your door until I was sure you weren’t asleep.

When I stepped in, the desk lamp was still on. You sat there, slumped over a notebook, like your body had forgotten how to rest. You looked like you were drifting just above the surface, ready to sink.

“You haven’t been sleeping, have you?” I asked.

You froze. Like I caught you stealing from the Capitol food carts again when you were six.

You didn’t answer.

So I crossed the room, knelt beside you, and took your hand — small, cold, shaking. Too much like mine used to be.

“I know what it’s like,” I told you, heart breaking with every word. “The dreams.”

You didn’t have to explain. I saw it all. The exhaustion, the fear. The way your shoulders curled in like you were trying to make yourself small enough to disappear.

You whispered something then. Just seven words.

“I feel like I’m the nightmare.”

No, my girl. My beautiful, brave little girl. You’re not the nightmare. You’re what pulled me out of mine.

So I told you the truth. That you weren’t alone. That we’d face this together. And when I picked you up and laid you in bed, you didn’t argue.

You fell asleep with my hand in yours.

It didn’t last long.

I woke to the sound of screaming.

Not the kind kids make after a bad dream. No—this was deeper. Guttural. Like something inside you was trying to escape. I ran into your room and found you thrashing, tangled in the sheets, gasping like you were drowning.

Your eyes were wide open, but I could tell—you weren’t here.

“Hey, hey, hey—guppy, it’s me,” I said, trying to reach you without scaring you more. “It’s Dad. I’ve got you.”

You kept clawing at your arms, your chest, like you were trying to tear something off you.

Then you screamed again. Loud. Raw.

I grabbed your wrists gently, held them still.

“Breathe, sweetheart. Look at me. Come back to me.”

Your whole body was shaking. You were sobbing, gasping, hyperventilating so hard your lips were turning pale.

So I did what my Annie used to do for me.

I wrapped my arms around you, tight but safe. Anchoring you to something real.

“Count with me,” I said softly. “In for four. Hold. Out for four.”

It took a few tries. But you started to follow. Your chest rising and falling against mine. You clung to me like a lifeline.

When your breathing slowed, you curled into me, still crying but quieter now. I brushed your hair back, kissed the top of your head.

“You’re safe,” I whispered. “It was just a dream. You’re safe now.”

You didn’t speak. But your hand gripped the edge of my shirt and didn’t let go.

So I stayed there. All night. Holding you. Keeping you above water.

I’d face a hundred nightmares if it meant you’d never have to face another one alone.

Because I’ve been there. And I got out.

And now… I’ll get you out too.

Your Perspective – Morning

The first thing I notice is that it’s too quiet.

Not quiet like peaceful — quiet like the silence after a storm, when everything’s still soaked and broken but pretending to be okay.

My eyes burn when I open them. My pillow’s damp. My arms ache. My chest feels tight, like I was holding my breath for hours.

Dad’s still here.

He’s sitting in the chair by my bed, one arm resting on the mattress, his head tilted like he was trying to stay awake and failed halfway through. His fingers are still wrapped around mine. Like he never let go.

I wish I didn’t remember everything. But I do.

The dream. The panic. The screaming. Him holding me like I was going to disappear. And worst of all — the look on his face when he found me.

I didn’t want him to know.

I didn’t want to be another thing he had to fix.

But now he knows. And I feel... small. Exposed. Like someone opened me up and left all the sharp parts out in the cold.

I sit up slowly, trying not to wake him. But his eyes open anyway.

“Told myself I’d stay awake,” he mumbles, rubbing at his temple. “Guess I lost that battle.”

I try to make a joke. “You’re getting old.”

He snorts. “Watch it, guppy. I still remember how to throw you in the ocean.”

But the smile doesn’t last. He’s watching me carefully. Too carefully.

I look down at my lap.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I whisper.

“You didn’t,” he says instantly. Then he sighs. “Okay — maybe a little. But not in the way you think.”

“I just didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“Why?”

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t know why. Because I don’t want to be weak. Because if he saw it, it would mean it’s real.

He squeezes my hand again. Not like he’s holding me back — like he’s holding me up.

“I’ve seen a lot of nightmares,” he says. “You’re not one of them.”

I bite the inside of my cheek.

“Can we… not talk about it right now?”

He nods. “Alright. Not right now.”

But I know him. And I know he’s not letting it go.

Finnick’s Perspective – Morning

I should’ve known sooner.

I did know. But I told myself it was just stress. A growth spurt. Maybe a moody phase. Something harmless. Something I wouldn’t have to confront.

Because if it was more than that — if it was what I feared — then it would mean she inherited more than just my eyes.

It would mean the darkness didn’t die with Snow. It passed on. In whispers. In shadows. In genes.

When she woke screaming last night, it nearly stopped my heart. The way she clawed at herself, gasping for air, sobbing like she was being torn in half — it was too familiar.

It was me, twenty years ago. Alone. Afraid. Thinking no one could ever understand.

I won’t let her live like that. Not for another second.

This morning, she tries to act normal. Cracks a joke. Hides behind sarcasm like a shield. But her eyes are red, and her voice shakes when she thinks I’m not listening.

When she says, “I didn’t want you to see me like that,” it hits me harder than any whip or blade ever did.

Because she’s twelve. And already thinks her fear is something to be ashamed of.

I want to tell her everything. That healing isn’t weakness. That nightmares are just bruises from battles inside the brain. That she doesn’t have to earn my protection — she already has it, just by being mine.

But she says, “Can we not talk about it right now?”

And I see myself in that question. I see the way I used to say it to Mags. To Annie. To anyone who got too close to the broken parts of me.

So I nod.

“Alright. Not right now.”

But I don’t let go of her hand.

Because she might not want to talk yet. But she’ll never have to face this alone.

Not while I’m still breathing.

Finnick’s Perspective – Night Two

I was afraid it would happen again.

I watched her all day. She tried to smile, tried to joke, tried to act like last night never happened. But the cracks in her voice, the way she flinched when she got too quiet — they told the truth.

She’s not okay.

She didn’t say a word about it. I didn’t push. I just stayed close. Watched from the corner of the room while she did her homework. Made her favorite soup for dinner. Sat with her until she yawned and said she was “really tired tonight.” I almost believed her.

I let her go to bed. Told myself maybe the worst was over.

But I didn’t sleep.

I sat outside her door with a mug of cold tea, legs numb, eyes fixed on the shadows stretching down the hall.

And then it started again.

The scream tore through the walls like a cannon blast.

I was in her room before I could breathe.

She was thrashing — harder than last time. Sheets in knots around her legs, hands flailing wildly, nails dragging down her arms and chest, deep enough this time that—

Blood.

“Hey—HEY—baby, no, no, no—!”

I grabbed her wrists, gently but firm, just enough to stop her from tearing herself open more.

Her eyes flew open, wild, blind. She was gasping, choking on panic. Her skin ice-cold and drenched in sweat.

“It’s me—it’s DAD—come back to me, come back—”

She couldn’t. Not yet.

She was sobbing so hard her whole body shook. Her hands wriggled in my grip, trying to claw again, even with me right there. I shifted behind her, wrapped both arms around her trembling frame, held her tight against my chest.

“Breathe with me,” I whispered, voice cracking. “Please. In—one, two, three—hold—out—one, two, three…”

Her breath wouldn’t come. I could feel her heart hammering against my chest like it was trying to escape.

I looked down—blood smeared across her arms, scratches raw and angry. One still oozing.

And that’s when something in me cracked.

Because I’ve seen enough blood to fill oceans. I’ve caused some of it. I’ve lost people to it.

But seeing it on her? Seeing it come from her own hands—because of fear— Because of something inside her that she couldn’t outrun?

I’ve never known a worse pain.

I held her until her breathing evened out, until her tears slowed, until her head finally rested against my chest like the fight had left her completely.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice hoarse.

I kissed her temple.

“You don’t ever have to be sorry for hurting, baby. Not with me.”

I bandaged her arms. Cleaned the scratches. Stayed up with her the rest of the night, stroking her hair while she shook in my arms.

I would carry every nightmare if I could.

But for now, I’ll just carry her.

Your Perspective – Night Two

It happened again.

Worse this time.

I don’t remember the dream exactly — just flashes. Screams that weren’t mine. Cold water. Hands grabbing. Something breaking over and over. And then I woke up with blood on my arms.

My arms.

I couldn’t stop. My fingers wouldn’t stop moving, clawing, scratching, digging at the skin like something was underneath it, like I could pull the fear out if I just—

Then Dad’s voice. Loud, panicked, calling my name like I was disappearing.

And I was.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t feel anything but the stinging in my skin and the ice in my lungs.

Then—his arms. Around me like steel, keeping me from tearing myself apart. Holding me against him like I was something precious, not broken.

He didn’t yell.

He didn’t flinch at the blood.

He just breathed with me. And eventually… I found my way back.

When I could finally talk, all I could say was “I’m sorry.”

And he didn’t even let me finish the word.

I wanted to ask him if he hated this. If it hurt him to see me like this. If I was scaring him too much. But I couldn’t speak anymore. Not without breaking again.

He cleaned the blood. His hands were steady, even though I could see the tightness in his jaw, the shine in his eyes.

I don’t think he slept at all.

Neither did I.

But at least I wasn’t alone in the dark.

Finnick’s Perspective – Two Days Later

Livi hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in over a week.

Not since the nightmares started. Not since I found her screaming and clawing at her own arms like she was trying to rip the fear out.

The scratches are healing, but barely. I bandage them every morning, and she won’t meet my eyes when I do. Like she thinks it’s her fault. Like she thinks she failed me.

She hasn’t said a word about the dreams since that night. And I haven’t pushed. Because I know what it’s like to be shoved when you’re already trying not to drown.

But the truth is… I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.

I can’t fix this.

I can hold her. I can breathe with her. I can stay up all night beside her bed until the sun rises and she pretends she slept fine.

But I can’t reach her when she’s locked in those nightmares. And that kills me.

I hadn’t planned to say anything to Annie. She’s already carried too much — me, the war, her own pain. And Livi means everything to her. If she knew what was really happening, if she saw how far our daughter was sinking—

She’d break. Or worse, blame herself.

But today… she notices.

We’re in the kitchen. I’m making tea. My hands are shaking.

Annie steps in behind me and places a hand gently on my back. She always moves like the tide — soft but inevitable.

“She’s not sleeping, is she?”

I freeze.

“What?”

“Livi.” Her voice is calm. Not accusing. Just knowing. “She looks like you used to. After the Games.”

I swallow hard.

“She’s just having some dreams. It’s… probably nothing serious.”

“Finnick,” Annie says. Quiet, but sharp. “I know what ‘just dreams’ look like. You used to scream so hard in your sleep, I’d wake up gasping too.”

I turn, finally looking at her. The worry in her eyes cuts deep.

“I didn’t want to tell you. I thought maybe I could handle it—”

“You don’t have to handle it alone.”

And that breaks me.

Because I’ve been holding this together with frayed rope and shaking hands, pretending I’m not terrified. Pretending I don’t hear her sobbing into her pillow. Pretending the blood on her arms doesn’t take me straight back to the worst parts of my life.

“I don’t know how to help her,” I admit. My voice is low. Barely there. “She won’t talk to me. She’s scared. She thinks she is the nightmare.”

Annie steps forward and wraps her arms around me. And I realize I haven’t let anyone hold me in a long time.

“She’s not,” Annie whispers. “And neither were you. But she needs more than love right now, Finn. She needs someone who understands how to help her through this.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

“We’ll find someone,” she says. “Someone who knows trauma. Dreams. Panic.”

“Therapy?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

“Yes. And maybe more. Whatever she needs.”

“I don’t want her to feel broken.”

“She does feel broken, Finnick. But that doesn’t mean she is. And getting help doesn’t make her weak.”

I rest my forehead against hers, heart heavy.

“She’s only twelve,” I whisper.

“I was twelve when they took my father,” Annie replies. “We don’t get to choose when the darkness finds us. But we do get to choose who walks through it with us.”

I close my eyes. Nod again.

And for the first time in days, I feel like maybe… just maybe… we’re not sinking.

Livi’s Perspective – The Talk

I heard them talking.

Not everything — just enough.

I was on the stairs. They didn’t know I was there. I wasn’t trying to spy, not really. I just… couldn’t sleep. Again.

Their voices drifted out from the kitchen, low and serious. I could tell by the way Dad said my name — like it hurt to say it. Like he was holding a piece of glass in his mouth.

“She thinks she is the nightmare.”

He said that.

About me.

He wasn’t wrong. Not entirely.

But hearing it out loud felt like getting punched in the chest.

And then Annie said it. The word.

Therapy.

Like I was some broken puzzle they couldn’t solve on their own.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t yell.

I just turned around and went back upstairs before they saw me.

He came to my room later.

Knocked, waited, then opened the door quietly — like he was afraid I’d vanish if he stepped too hard.

“Hey, guppy,” he said, sitting on the edge of my bed. “Can we talk?”

I shrugged, curling tighter under the blanket.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I lied. “Just tired.”

He gave me that look again. The one that sees straight through me.

“I know what you heard,” he said softly. “Me and Annie, earlier.”

I stayed quiet.

“I just want to help,” he continued. “And sometimes... love isn’t enough. Sometimes we need more. Someone who knows how to help with this kind of pain.”

“Someone else, you mean,” I muttered.

His face shifted, like he’d stepped on something sharp.

“Not because I don’t want to help,” he said. “Because I don’t want you to carry this alone.”

I sat up. Crossed my arms. “I don’t need therapy.”

“Okay,” he said, slow and calm. “Can you tell me why?”

“Because I’m not crazy,” I snapped.

He winced, just a little. “No one said you were.”

“They’ll just sit there and ask a bunch of questions I don’t wanna answer. Stare at me like I’m some broken Capitol doll.”

“They won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

He sighed. Rubbed a hand down his face. “You’re right. I don’t. But I do know what it’s like to think you’re too messed up to fix. I know what it’s like to think the only way to survive is to stay silent.”

I looked at him, finally. “Did you do therapy?”

He nodded. “Eventually. After the war. After the Games. After… a lot of things.”

“Did you hate it?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “I hated saying things out loud that I hadn’t even admitted to myself. I hated reliving things. I hated crying in front of strangers.”

“So why’d you keep going?”

“Because I wanted to stop drowning,” he said. “Because I wanted to be the kind of dad you deserve.”

That one got me.

I looked down at my hands. At the faint lines on my arms, almost healed now. But not really.

“What if I don’t get better?” I whispered. “What if this is just how I am now?”

He reached over and pulled me into a hug — one of those long, silent ones where he didn’t try to fix it. He just stayed.

“Then we face it. Together. Every day. But you will get better, Livi. Not because you have to. But because you’re not alone anymore.”

I didn’t say yes.

But I didn’t say no, either.

And I didn’t pull away from the hug.

Not this time.

Finnick’s Perspective – The Breaking Point

I was lying awake again.

I hadn’t really slept since the first nightmare. Not really. Not the kind of sleep that lets you rest. I just closed my eyes and listened — for a shift in the sheets, a gasp, a cry.

Tonight had been quiet. Too quiet. I almost thought, Maybe this time—

Then the scream shattered the silence.

My heart didn’t even get a chance to catch up. I was out of bed and in her room in three seconds flat.

She was thrashing again — worse than before. Sheets ripped from the bed, pillow flung across the room. Her body jolting like something was trying to rip out of her skin.

“LIVI!”

Her hands — god, her hands — they were clawing again, tearing into her arms like she was trying to dig her way out. Blood. Fresh. Too much.

I dove across the room and grabbed her wrists. Gently. Firmly.

“It’s me! It’s me, baby, you’re safe—Dad’s here—I’ve got you—”

But she wasn’t hearing me. Her eyes were wide open, staring straight through me. Her breathing was ragged, broken, each inhale a desperate gulp of air that didn’t seem to reach her lungs.

“Livi. Look at me. Come back.”

Nothing.

She started kicking, fighting, screaming again — and not like a scared little girl. Like someone being hunted. Like someone dying.

“LIVI!”

I wrapped my arms around her from behind, locking her against my chest the way I had before, holding her hands in mine to stop the bleeding, trying to anchor her to this moment, to this room, to me.

“You’re not there anymore,” I whispered, breath shaking. “You’re not in the dark. You’re here. You’re home. You’re safe.”

I started rocking her, slow and steady, whispering anything I could think of.

“Breathe with me, okay? In, two, three—hold. Out, two, three—come on, sweetheart, stay with me…”

Her chest hitched. She was choking on sobs. Her whole body convulsed.

My shirt was soaked with sweat and blood and tears, but I didn’t care.

“I’ve got you,” I whispered again. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

She gasped once — sharp and sudden — then finally, her body slumped. Not unconscious, but emptied. Like she’d been running for miles inside her own head and finally collapsed.

She wasn’t screaming anymore.

But she was bleeding.

I eased her down onto the floor, cradling her in one arm while I grabbed the emergency kit I kept under her bed now. I wiped away the blood gently, my hands trembling as I cleaned the reopened wounds.

Some were shallow.

Some weren’t.

“Shh… I’ve got you,” I kept whispering, because I didn’t know what else to say. “I’ve got you, guppy. I promise.”

Annie appeared in the doorway, pale and wide-eyed, robe half-on, hair a mess.

“Is she—?” her voice cracked.

“She’s breathing,” I said, barely holding it together. “But it’s worse.”

She knelt beside me, brushing Livi’s hair back, her eyes already glistening with tears.

“We need more than help,” I said quietly. “We need someone now.”

Annie nodded, already pulling out her phone, already making calls. No hesitation. No questions. Just action.

Because this — this — wasn’t just trauma anymore.

It was a danger. To Livi. To her body. To her mind.

And I’d burn down the whole world if it meant saving her from it.

Finnick’s Perspective – Emergency

The cuts wouldn’t stop bleeding.

I did everything I could. Pressure. Clean bandages. Even some of the medical tricks they taught us during the war — tricks for when you had nothing but adrenaline and duct tape and a dying rebel in your arms.

But this was different.

This was her.

And it was her own hands that caused it.

Annie was on the floor beside us, gently stroking Livi’s hair as she slipped in and out of half-consciousness. Her face was pale. Her lips were cracked. Her arms… raw and red, the bandages already soaking through.

“I’m calling the emergency counselor from the District’s trauma unit,” Annie whispered, clutching her phone like it was the last lifeline we had. “She’s listed for crisis situations. I’ll have them send someone. Now.”

My mouth was dry. “Do we have to send her to a facility?”

“Maybe not overnight. But we need someone trained to assess her. This isn’t safe anymore, Finn.”

I looked down at my daughter — my fearless, stubborn, sea-eyed girl — and felt something inside me collapse.

Because she wasn’t fearless right now.

She was just… small.

And bleeding.

And broken in a way I couldn’t reach with just words and bedtime hugs anymore.

The trauma counselor arrived within the hour.

Livi had fallen into a fragile, groggy state — not asleep, not fully awake. Her skin clammy. Her breathing shallow.

When the woman — Dr. Cardell — stepped inside, she didn’t look shocked by the blood. She didn’t flinch at the crying. She just went straight to her knees and began talking to Livi in a voice I hadn’t heard in years.

Low. Steady. Like she’d walked through hell before, and knew the exact tone to take so someone didn’t bolt.

“Hi, Livi,” she said gently. “My name is Mara. I’m just here to help, okay? You’re safe. Your dad and Annie are here. You’re not in trouble. We’re going to take care of those arms, and then we’ll talk about what’s next.”

Livi blinked slowly, eyes unfocused. Her lips moved, but no sound came.

“She’s fading,” I said quietly.

“She’s in shock,” Mara nodded. “We need to stabilize her. Physically, then emotionally.”

“I don’t want to send her anywhere,” I admitted. “But I will if it’s what she needs.”

“We won’t make any decisions without her consent unless it becomes a safety risk,” she said. “But… tonight? She needs to be monitored.”

I swallowed. Hard.

“You mean a hospital.”

“Just for a short stay. One night. Maybe two. Not a cold Capitol ward — a trauma-informed center. Private room. Calming staff. No locked doors unless she tries to harm herself again.”

I looked at Livi.

She wasn’t screaming anymore. But she looked so lost.

I leaned down and brushed the hair from her eyes.

“Guppy,” I whispered. “You’re here. With me. Can you look at me?”

Her eyes fluttered open, barely. Then filled with tears.

“I’m sorry,” she croaked.

“You don’t ever have to be sorry for hurting,” I said, kissing her forehead. “But I need you to let us help you. Tonight was serious, baby. You’re bleeding. Your body’s exhausted. You’ve been so brave — too brave.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared past me, somewhere far away.

Then she whispered, barely above breath:

“…am I going to a hospital?”

My chest tightened.

“Just for a night or two,” I said. “To help your body rest. To keep you safe. I’ll be right there the whole time.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I don’t want to be locked away…”

“You won’t be,” Mara said gently. “This is different. It’s not punishment. It’s not isolation. It’s protection. Just until you can breathe again without it hurting.”

Livi turned her face toward my chest, weak but trembling.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“You won’t be,” I said, voice breaking. “Not for one second. I promise you.”

Thirty minutes later, I carried her into a specialized trauma center.

She was too weak to walk. Too dazed to cry. But she never let go of my shirt.

And as they wheeled her into a private room with soft lights and warm blankets and staff who knew this darkness…

I sat beside her.

Held her hand.

And whispered the same promise I made the day she was born:

“I’ve got you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Livi’s Perspective – Waking Up

The first thing I feel is cold.

Then pain.

A sharp, burning sting in my arms, like fire crawling just under the skin. My whole body aches. My chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and filled with cement. I try to move, but my limbs are too heavy.

I open my eyes slowly, and—

This isn’t my room.

Everything’s too quiet. Too clean. There’s no posters on the walls, no ocean breeze from the window, no creaky floorboard by the closet that always squeaks when I step on it.

I panic.

I sit up fast, way too fast. My arms scream with pain. My heart pounds like it’s trying to beat its way out of my chest.

Where am I where am I where am I—

I look down.

My arms are wrapped in fresh white bandages.

My shirt’s been changed — I’m wearing something soft, loose. Hospital clothes. There’s an IV in my hand. Wires, machines. A nurse’s tray near the door.

Then I see it:

My dad.

Asleep in a chair right next to me, legs curled up, arms crossed, head slumped to the side. He looks like he hasn’t slept in years. Like someone carved the weight of the world into his back.

But he’s here.

That slows the panic a little. Not much. But enough to breathe.

Still, my voice comes out like gravel.

“Dad?”

He jerks awake like someone dropped a bomb.

His eyes lock on me immediately. Wide. Alert. Relieved.

“Livi—hey—hey, baby, I’m here,” he says, already out of the chair, crouched by my bedside, holding my hand like I’m something breakable.

“Where am I?” I whisper.

“You’re safe. You’re in the District Trauma Center. Just a short stay,” he says, brushing hair from my forehead. “You had another nightmare. You were bleeding… a lot. You scared the hell out of me.”

I blink, trying to piece it together. Images flicker in my head. The dream. My hands. My screams. His voice, far away, trying to pull me out.

“I hurt myself again,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just nods.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

“It just… happens. I can’t stop it.”

He squeezes my hand. “That’s why we’re here. So we can learn how.”

I look around the room again. Everything’s so white. Soft. Too perfect. Like a dollhouse made for broken things.

“I hate it here.”

“I know,” he says. “But it’s not forever. Just until your body’s strong again. And there are people here who can help with the rest.”

I look down at my arms.

Bandaged.

Ugly.

Wrong.

“I don’t feel real.”

“You’re real,” he says gently. “You’re here. And you’re so much stronger than you think.”

I close my eyes. Not because I’m tired. But because it hurts to see myself like this — through his eyes, through the room, through the memory of the blood.

A quiet knock sounds at the door.

A woman steps inside — not wearing a doctor’s coat. Soft sweater, kind eyes, clipboard against her chest like a book.

“I’m Mara,” she says. “We met last night, but I don’t think you remember. That’s okay. I’m just here to talk. Only if you want to.”

I look at her.

Then at Dad.

Then at the IV.

And I don’t say yes.

But I don’t say no.

I just whisper, “Can he stay?”

Dad looks at her, almost pleading.

Mara smiles gently. “Of course.”

He sits back down beside me, hand in mine.

And I breathe.

Still scared.

Still lost.

But not alone.

I REALLY hope you guys LOVE this one!! It took me HOURS and I hope you LOVE IT!!!

I sat on the edge of the dock, legs dangling over the water, the sea breeze tugging playfully at my braid. Emmy was beside me, chewing on a strand of seagrass like she always did when she was bored or thinking hard. The afternoon sun had turned the waves a soft golden color, like the scales of a fish just before it disappears under the surface.

"I really hope he finds some peace," I said, not looking at her.

Emmy blinked. “Who? Finnick?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I mean… he’s been through more than anybody should. He was only fourteen when they threw him into that arena. Fourteen.” My voice cracked a little, even though I tried to sound normal. “That’s only two years older than us.”

Emmy didn’t say anything. She just watched the water.

“He deserves peace. Real peace,” I went on, fiddling with a bit of rope in my lap. “Not just surviving. Not just pretending. Real love. A place to rest. Someone to hold his hand without cameras watching.”

“Do you think that’s even possible? In Panem?” Emmy asked.

I shrugged. “Maybe. I hope. I think he deserves someone who sees him. Not the Capitol’s golden boy. Just Finnick.”

There was a long silence. Gulls cried overhead, circling above the fishing boats.

Then Emmy whispered, “You’re not like most kids.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t say that. I am a kid. I just… I listen. I see things.”

A few days later, Emmy and I were sitting under the nets behind the fish cleaning shed when it happened.

“They’re holding hands,” I gasped, pointing through a gap in the nets.

Emmy squinted. “Who?”

“Finnick and Annie!” I practically shrieked, nearly knocking over a bucket of shells.

“Ohhhh,” she said, catching on.

“Emmy. They’re SO cute together. Like, ridiculously cute.” I started rambling before I could stop myself. “I mean—look at them! The way he looks at her like she’s the only person in the whole world. And how gentle he is. And she smiles around him like she’s not afraid for once. That’s peace, Emmy. That’s what I meant!”

Emmy giggled. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m just right,” I said proudly. “I’m glad he finally found peace in her. I’m glad he found a girl he loves—someone he could lean on, you know?”

Emmy raised an eyebrow. “Lean on?”

I nodded quickly, my voice getting faster with excitement. “Yeah, like… when the world is too heavy and he can’t stand on his own, she’s there. He’s been everyone’s anchor, now she’s his. Isn’t that just... the best?”

I was so caught up in my Finnick-and-Annie monologue that I didn’t even notice the soft footsteps behind us.

“You talk about me a lot,” said a voice.

I spun around so fast I smacked my head on the netting.

There, standing just a few feet away, was Finnick Odair. And Annie Cresta, clinging softly to his arm, smiling like she had the sea tucked behind her eyes.

My face turned red. Like, sunburn-red. Maybe redder.

“I—I—uh—” I sputtered.

Finnick grinned, but not the Capitol grin. Not the fake one. This was real. Tired and warm.

“Thank you,” he said gently. “You’re wiser than most adults I know.”

Annie leaned closer and whispered something to him, and he laughed—quiet and easy.

“You two are my favorite,” I blurted out. “I mean—not like, in a creepy way. Just—I admire you. Both of you. You make me believe there’s still good things left.”

Finnick’s eyes softened. “Keep believing that, Coral.”

Then he winked, and they walked away, hand in hand, disappearing down the dock.

Emmy stared at me like I had just grown gills.

“Coral,” she whispered, “you made Finnick Odair laugh.”

“I know,” I whispered back, dazed. “This is the best day of my life.”

[Coral]

They were holding hands again.

I practically exploded.

Emmy and I had just finished untangling crab traps, but when I saw them—Finnick and Annie—walking by the shoreline, his jacket wrapped around her shoulders and their fingers laced together like vines—I dropped the trap in the sand and grabbed Emmy’s wrist.

“There! Look! LOOK at them!”

Emmy groaned. “Oh no, here we go again.”

“Emmy, I swear, if they ever break up, I will stop believing in love. Forever.” I was already rambling and couldn’t stop. My words came in waves, fast and full of feeling. “They deserve each other. They’re amazing. Just look at the way he looks at her! Like… like she’s his whole world. Like nothing else even exists.”

Emmy rolled her eyes, but I caught the smile sneaking onto her face.

“And Annie,” I went on, “Annie gets him. She’s not scared of what he’s been through. And Finnick—he’s finally happy. Like truly happy. You can see it.”

I smiled so wide my cheeks started to hurt.

[Finnick]

“She’s at it again,” I whispered, watching from where Annie and I stood just past the fishing sheds.

Annie tilted her head. “Coral?”

I nodded, pointing toward the dock where the little girl in the green tunic was waving her arms dramatically and talking a mile a minute to her friend.

“She’s been talking about us all week,” I said, lips twitching into a grin. “Mostly me, actually. Says she’s going to stop believing in love if we ever break up.”

Annie laughed softly, her fingers tightening around mine. “She’s sweet. And bright. She watches people the way you used to when you were a kid.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “It’s strange. She sees through everything. Like… she knows things she’s too young to know.”

Annie nodded. “Maybe that’s just how we grow up in District 4 now.”

I sighed. “I hope she doesn’t have to grow up the way we did.”

We watched Coral for a while longer. She was grinning so hard now it looked like her face would split open from happiness. Emmy was clearly overwhelmed, but Coral didn’t care.

“She’s our biggest fan,” Annie said with a crooked smile.

I chuckled. “She’s our only fan.”

“Not true,” Annie murmured. “She just says what the others are too scared to.”

[Coral]

“I mean, really! Finnick’s been through so much,” I gushed, practically bouncing on my toes now. “And Annie too! But somehow, they found each other. That’s fate. That’s, like, magic.”

“You said that yesterday,” Emmy pointed out.

“I meant it yesterday,” I snapped, but gently. “And I mean it even more today. I saw the way he brushed a piece of hair behind her ear earlier. My heart melted, Emmy. MELTED. He looks at her like she’s the only thing holding him together.”

Emmy gave me a skeptical look. “How do you even notice this stuff?”

I just shrugged. “I pay attention.”

[Annie]

“She thinks you’re in love with me,” I said, nudging Finnick with my shoulder as we walked past the docks again.

He laughed, a real laugh, not the rehearsed Capitol one.

“She’s not wrong,” he replied, and I blushed even though I’d heard it before.

We paused near the end of the pier. The ocean breeze picked up, and I turned toward Coral, who was sitting cross-legged with a sketchbook in her lap now, humming and scribbling like her life depended on it.

“She sees something good in you,” I whispered, “even when you forget it’s there.”

Finnick didn’t answer for a long time.

Then: “She reminds me that I’m still human.”

[Coral]

I think maybe they know I’m watching them.

But I don’t care.

They deserve to be admired. Not like the Capitol does it—with fake lights and costumes and forced smiles—but for real. For the way they hold each other gently, like they’re made of glass. For the way Finnick listens when Annie talks, like every word is a treasure. For the way Annie walks lighter when he’s beside her.

They make me believe there’s still good left in the world.

And as long as they’re together, I think I’ll keep believing.

[Finnick]

“She’s smiling again,” I murmured.

Annie leaned against me, both of us watching Coral from a distance.

“She believes in us,” Annie said.

I looked at her. “So do I.”

[Coral]

It was a perfect morning — the kind where the sea was calm, the sun was gentle, and the breeze didn’t feel like it was trying to take your skin off. Emmy and I ran down to the beach like we always did after chores, barefoot and laughing.

“I saw them yesterday,” I told her as we laid our nets out to dry. “Finnick and Annie. Holding hands. AGAIN.”

Emmy sighed. “Coral, you’ve said that four times this week.”

“Because it matters,” I said dramatically. “Emmy, he smiled. A real one. Do you know how rare that is? He used to smile like someone told him to. Now he smiles like his heart remembered how.”

Emmy rolled her eyes in that way she always did, but she was listening. I knew she was.

“And Annie,” I said, grinning wide, “she looked up at him like he was the only safe thing in the world. Like she didn’t have to be afraid anymore. They’re so good for each other.”

I dropped to the sand, arms flung wide, my voice growing softer. “They finally found something the Capitol couldn’t touch. Each other.”

That’s when I heard footsteps.

Not the soft kind.

The sharp kind.

I looked up — and my stomach dropped like a rock into the sea.

[Finnick]

“She’s here again,” I said quietly, standing beside Annie behind a stack of fishing crates.

Annie smiled. “And she’s talking about us. Again.”

We listened.

Coral’s voice carried over the waves, full of that same fierce passion. I caught the words safe, real smile, Capitol can’t touch, and my chest tightened.

“She believes in us more than we do,” Annie whispered.

I smiled, but it faded fast when we both saw the man marching toward her. Broad shoulders, weathered skin, anger in every movement.

“Is that her—?”

“Dad,” Annie said instantly. Her voice dropped. “I’ve seen him before. He’s... not gentle.”

We didn’t move. Just watched.

[Coral]

“Dad?” I said, trying not to let my voice tremble. “What are you doing here?”

His shadow fell over me and Emmy like a stormcloud.

“You said you were gonna be working,” he snapped. “But you’re just sitting here flapping your mouth with your little friend? No wonder no work gets done around here!”

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” I stood up quickly, brushing sand off my hands.

“Your mother would’ve done better!” he barked, and my chest squeezed tight.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t cry either. I just grabbed the rope pile, my fingers shaking as I started sorting knots and loops. My mouth was shut so tight it hurt.

“You motherf!cker,” he muttered, venom low in his voice. “When you get home, we’re talking about this.”

Then he stormed off down the beach.

I kept working. Because that’s what you do.

You don’t talk back.

You just work.

[Annie]

My fingers curled around Finnick’s arm. “Did you hear what he just said to her?”

“I heard,” he said, voice flat and furious.

“She’s just a little girl, Finnick.”

“She’s just like we were,” he murmured. “Too much weight. Too young.”

Coral was back to working with the ropes, jaw tight, eyes unfocused. Emmy sat next to her in stunned silence, clearly wanting to say something but not knowing how.

“I want to go to her,” I whispered.

“Not yet,” Finnick said. His voice was shaking.

[Coral]

I didn’t look up. I didn’t want anyone to see my eyes glassy with tears I wasn’t letting fall.

He always brings up my mom.

It’s not fair.

I didn’t ask to be left with a storm of a father and memories I never got to make.

I just kept wrapping the rope. Over. Under. Loop. Knot.

Emmy reached for my hand, but I pulled it away gently. Not mad. Just tired.

[Finnick]

“She needs someone,” Annie said, voice breaking.

“I know,” I said.

“She needs to know she’s not invisible.”

I stared at the small figure bent over the nets, her shoulders too tense for someone so small. “She’s seen everything, Annie. And she still chooses to love. To hope.”

“Then maybe it’s time we told her we see her, too.”

[Coral]

The sun was warm, but I felt cold from the moment I woke up. I’d woken with a bruise on my shoulder—the kind that didn’t come from accidents. I pulled my shirt tighter around it, hoping no one would notice.

Emmy and I made it to the beach like always. I was already rambling about Finnick and Annie before I even saw the water.

“You won’t believe it, Emmy!” I said, voice bouncing. “Yesterday, I saw them holding hands again, but this time... I swear they were about to kiss! Like, their faces were this close.”

Emmy smiled, but I could tell she was worried about me. Probably because I talked nonstop, like if I stopped, I’d break.

That’s when I saw him.

Dad.

My heart froze. I stiffened, shoulders snapping straight. I pulled the shirt even tighter over my shoulder, hoping the bruise was hidden well enough.

Without a word, he came over and shoved a folded letter into my hand.

I unfolded it. The words hit me like a wave crashing.

Your mother passed away this morning.

“No! NO! THIS ISN’T FAIR!!” I screamed, tears flooding my face, blurring the words on the paper.

“Stop shouting!” Dad’s voice was cold, hard. “Life isn’t fair! Now get over it!”

Before I could react, he grabbed me by the collar of my shirt.

When he let go, I stumbled back and ran—away from everyone, away from the yelling, away from the pain.

I didn’t stop until I reached the private cove. The one nobody I know ever comes to. It was quiet, safe, and for once, I let my tears fall without shame.

[Finnick]

“She looks like she’s breaking,” Annie said softly as we watched from the shadow of the cliffs.

I clenched my fists.

I’d seen Coral before, glowing with hope and fierce admiration, but now… now she was shrinking under something no child should carry.

Then her father appeared.

I hadn’t noticed him before. But the way he moved—like a storm—didn’t belong here.

When he handed her that letter, my heart stopped. I saw the moment her world cracked.

And then the scream. The shout—so raw and real it felt like it shook the earth beneath us.

Her father’s grip on her collar was the last straw. I wanted to move in. To protect her. But Annie stopped me.

“She needs space,” she whispered.

I swallowed the anger rising in me.

“We’ll be here,” I said. “Always.”

[Annie]

I watched Coral run. Her small frame disappeared toward the cove, tears trailing like tiny rivers on her cheeks.

My heart ached.

I thought of all the pain I’d carried—of the times I hid in the shadows, of the fear I swallowed to survive.

And here was Coral, a girl barely twelve, forced to carry a grief she never asked for.

Finnick put his arm around me.

“We have to do something,” I said.

He nodded slowly.

“But first,” he whispered, “let her have this moment. Then we’ll find her. We’ll help her.”

The ocean roared below, a reminder that life can be wild and cruel.

But even the wildest waves calm eventually.

And so will Coral.

[Coral]

After that day, I stopped talking so much.

I still went to the beach with Emmy, but instead of rambling like a storm, I worked. I tied nets, cleaned ropes, hauled crates — anything to keep busy and keep my head from spinning.

At night, I wrote in my diary. Pages and pages about Finnick and Annie — about their hands clasped like they were never letting go, about the way Finnick’s eyes softened whenever he looked at her. I drew little hearts around their names, and even taped a tiny photo I’d secretly taken of them laughing together.

“I hope I find a love like theirs someday,” I wrote one night, “So quiet, so strong. So real.”

“They’re so cute!” I giggled in another entry, filling the page with hearts and stars and scribbles.

But no matter how hard I worked or how quiet I stayed, Dad found reasons to yell.

Every day a bruise. Every day a new shout.

I stopped telling Emmy about it.

I stopped telling anyone.

[Finnick]

“She’s different now,” Annie said softly as we watched Coral from behind the dunes.

“She doesn’t talk much,” I replied. “She works like she’s trying to make herself invisible.”

I caught sight of the diary Annie held carefully in her hands, its pages filled with neat handwriting and drawings—mostly of us.

I’d never felt so exposed and honored at once.

“She still believes in love,” Annie said, her voice cracking.

“She’s brave,” I said quietly. “Braver than me.”

[Annie]

I sometimes read Coral’s diary when she leaves it behind, her pages full of hopes and dreams.

Her words—about love, about us—are a reminder that even in the darkest places, light finds a way in.

But my heart breaks knowing the pain she hides.

Every bruise, every yell, it’s not fair. Not for a girl who sees so much good in the world.

One day, I whispered to Finnick, “We have to do more than watch.”

He nodded.

“We will,” he promised. “But she needs to trust us first.”

[Coral]

Some nights, I sit by the fire, diary open on my lap, writing about Finnick and Annie like they’re my secret lifeline.

Maybe one day, when my heart isn’t so heavy, I’ll tell them.

For now, I just hope they keep watching.

Because knowing they’re there… that’s enough.

[Coral]

Emmy had been pestering me all morning.

“Coral,” she whispered, tugging on my sleeve as I knotted a rope for the fifth time in a row. “Please just talk to me. Say something. Anything.”

I didn’t look up. My hands worked fast, calloused fingers flying like the sea had trained them.

“Please?” she whispered again. “I miss your voice.”

I sighed. I didn’t mean to hurt Emmy. She was the only one still trying.

So, I spoke.

“My dad is signing me up for tribute training.”

Emmy froze.

“What?”

“He wants me to volunteer next year,” I said flatly. “I’ll be thirteen.”

The silence between us swelled like a rising tide.

I didn’t add that he’d said “Maybe if you die, you’ll be worth something to this district.” I didn’t say how he threw the training schedule at me like a punishment, or how he said, “You want to be like Finnick Odair so bad? Fine. Go die like him.”

I just tied the rope tighter.

[Finnick]

“Did you hear that?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Annie and I had just sat behind the old stone wall by the docks, like we did sometimes. Close enough to watch Coral, far enough not to spook her.

We hadn’t meant to listen. We’d never meant to listen.

But we heard her.

“He wants me to volunteer next year.”

I felt something cold settle in my chest. It was the same cold I’d felt in the Capitol when they told me how they’d use me, break me, own me.

“She’s twelve,” Annie whispered. “Twelve.”

“She thinks her only way out is through the arena,” I said. “She’s going to throw herself into that hell because it’s better than her home.”

I wanted to stand. I wanted to run to her.

But I didn’t. Not yet.

Because when someone’s been silenced like that, you don’t just barge in and talk. You listen first.

You watch.

And when the time is right, you catch them before they fall.

[Annie]

Coral’s voice was different now. Older. Like the waves had sanded it down.

She was so brave it hurt to look at her.

So we stayed hidden behind the wall, watching her face as she said things no child should say.

“She writes about love like she still believes in it,” I whispered to Finnick. “But her life is nothing but violence.”

“We have to stop this,” he said. “Now.”

I nodded.

Because this wasn’t just about watching anymore.

This was about saving her.

[Coral]

“I’m fine,” I said to Emmy, forcing my voice steady. “If I’m trained, I’ll survive. Just like Finnick.”

But even I knew that wasn’t true.

I wasn’t strong like him.

I was just a girl with bruises under her shirt and love stories in her diary.

But I didn’t cry.

Not yet.

Because Emmy needed me strong.

And maybe Finnick and Annie were still out there. Still watching.

And maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t let me go through this alone.

[Coral]

The village was asleep, but I wasn’t.

I slipped out like a shadow, silent and barefoot, carrying only my worn-out diary tucked under one arm.

The moonlight painted silver paths across the ocean, and the waves whispered secrets only I could hear. I sat down on the cold sand, knees tucked to my chest, and opened to a blank page.

The wind was strong tonight, but I wrote anyway. My fingers shook, but the words poured out like they’d been waiting all day.

Dad says I should be more like Finnick.

He says I should “stop being so soft” and “make myself useful like him.”

But Finnick was forced into everything. He didn’t ask for pain. And I don’t think he’d ever want it for someone like me.

I paused, brushing a tear off my cheek before it could stain the page.

He’s sending me to the Games, because I talk about Finnick and Annie too much. Because I love love too much. Because I smile too much. Because I’m too much.

And maybe it’s not such a bad idea. If I go, maybe I die in the arena. If I stay, maybe I die slowly anyway.

Maybe the Capitol would be faster.

My hand trembled as I stopped writing. I pressed the pen to the page, wanting to write “Help me”—but the wind picked up hard and suddenly the pages tore free from my grip.

“No!” I gasped, scrambling to my feet, chasing the fluttering book.

The diary flew toward the rocks.

Toward the cliffs.

Toward them.

[Finnick]

We were walking. Neither of us could sleep. Not since we heard Coral’s voice yesterday, shaking but steady, talking about the Games like it was her way out.

I didn’t expect to see her here tonight, alone on the beach.

But what I didn’t expect more… was the diary.

It landed at my feet with a soft thud, pages open like it had something to say.

I bent down and picked it up.

Annie’s hand went to my arm. “Finnick…”

I read the page.

Each word felt like a punch. Like looking into a mirror I didn’t want to face.

“If I stay, maybe I die slowly anyway.”

I looked up—and saw her running, desperate, panicked.

[Annie]

She didn’t see us at first.

She only saw the wind. The dark. Her diary slipping away.

But when she looked up, her eyes locked onto Finnick’s — and she stopped cold.

We saw everything in her face: the panic, the embarrassment, the terror of being seen.

“Coral,” I said softly, stepping forward with the diary in my hands. “It’s okay. We read it. We understand.”

She didn’t speak. Her arms folded tight across her chest, like she could hold herself together if she just squeezed hard enough.

I walked slowly toward her, holding the book out.

“You don’t have to go to the Games,” I said gently. “And you don’t have to disappear to be heard.”

[Coral]

I stood frozen.

They read it. They read it.

All the stuff about dying. About how I was “too much.” About how I thought the Capitol might be better than home.

My face burned. I wanted to melt into the sand.

But then Finnick knelt down in front of me, holding the book like it was something sacred, not shameful.

“I didn’t survive the Games to watch kids like you be thrown into it,” he said. His voice was low, rough. Real.

“You see love in me and Annie?” he asked. “Then let us show you that love doesn’t abandon. Not this time.”

And just like that—

I cried.

Really cried.

Not quiet tears.

Not hidden.

Not careful.

I cried because someone finally saw me.

And they didn’t look away.

[Coral]

I wiped my tears fast, almost angry at myself for crying in front of them. I wasn’t supposed to be soft. Not anymore.

“I’m fine,” I said quickly, my voice still cracking. “I’ll go home. I can handle it.”

Annie and Finnick exchanged a look — one of those quiet, wordless conversations I always admired.

“You don’t have to go back tonight,” Annie said gently. “You could… stay with us.”

I shook my head too fast. “I—I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not,” Finnick said. “We’ve got room, Coral. You won’t be in the way.”

“I have chores in the morning,” I lied.

“Then we’ll wake up early,” Annie said, a small smile in her voice.

I crossed my arms, heart thudding. “My dad’ll notice.”

Finnick raised an eyebrow. “Will he care where you are, or will he just look for someone to blame?”

That stung, because it was true.

I kicked at the sand with my toe. “I don’t want pity.”

Annie stepped closer, brushing hair out of my eyes like a sister would. “It’s not pity. It’s love. It’s what you keep writing about.”

That almost undid me again.

I swallowed hard. Looked at the diary clutched in my hands.

“…Just for one night,” I mumbled.

[Finnick]

Getting Coral to say yes was harder than surviving the Games some days.

She was tough — that quiet, defensive kind of tough — the kind you learn when no one protects you but yourself.

But she came.

She didn’t speak much on the walk back. Just kept her arms folded and her head down, her fingers gripping that diary like a lifeline.

When we got to the house, Annie fixed her tea and laid out blankets. I sat across the room just to give her space.

She didn’t want hugs. She didn’t want sympathy.

But she needed presence.

So we gave her that.

Eventually, she sat on the couch, legs tucked under her, eyes flicking between us.

“You… really read my diary?” she finally asked.

I nodded. “Every word.”

“You didn’t think it was dumb?”

“No,” Annie said softly. “We thought it was beautiful.”

“…You’re not mad I followed you and took pictures and stuff?”

I smiled. “You made me sound like a decent human being. That’s hard to do.”

She snorted. Barely. But it counted.

[Annie]

That night, she didn’t cry again.

She didn’t talk much either.

But she let me put a blanket around her shoulders.

She let Finnick bring her warm bread.

And when she thought we weren’t looking, she smiled—tiny, shy, like she forgot how to do it and was trying again.

“You can stay as long as you need,” I whispered before we turned in. “Even if it’s forever.”

She didn’t respond.

But when I peeked in before bed, she had fallen asleep curled on the couch, her diary open beside her, one hand resting gently on the page.

[Coral]

The house was quiet. Safer than anywhere I’d ever been.

I didn’t know what to do with that kind of safety.

But as I drifted to sleep, I thought:

Maybe this is what real love feels like.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just there.

[Coral]

The ocean was still gray with early light when I woke.

The house was quiet — a different kind of quiet than home. This quiet didn’t feel like something waiting to snap. It felt... soft. Like I could breathe for once.

But then I heard it.

The voice.

“CORAL!”

It echoed down the beach like thunder, sharp and furious.

I bolted upright.

No. No. Not here.

I slipped off the couch fast, careful not to wake Annie or Finnick. Threw on my old shoes. Clutched my diary like a shield. And ran.

By the time I reached the dunes, I could see him — red-faced, storming across the sand, drawing attention.

People were starting to notice. To look.

I ran up to him before he could start shouting even louder.

“I’m here,” I panted. “I’m sorry. I just—”

CRACK.

The slap came so fast I didn’t see it coming. My head snapped sideways. My ears rang.

The worst part?

It wasn’t in the kitchen.

Or behind closed doors.

It was here. In public. In the open.

“You ran away from me?!” he screamed, grabbing my collar. “HUH?! ANSWER ME!”

Tears stung my eyes — not just from pain.

But from the shame.

The humiliation.

Because now everyone knew.

[Finnick]

I heard the yell from inside.

And then Annie screamed my name from the doorway.

We ran.

We weren’t even halfway down the steps when I saw it:

Coral.

Her father.

His hand.

Her face turned in the wind.

The collar of her shirt bunched in his fist.

Something inside me broke. I didn’t even think — I just ran faster.

“Hey!” I shouted, louder than I’d ever shouted in my life. “Let. Her. GO.”

[Annie]

It felt like the world went still.

Coral didn’t move. She just stood there, red cheek, wide eyes, collar clutched in her father’s hand like she was an object.

People were watching now. No one was pretending they didn’t see.

And Finnick — I’d never seen him like that. He looked like a storm in human skin.

He got between them fast, stepping right in front of Coral.

“Touch her again,” he said low and dangerous, “and I swear, you’ll know what it felt like to be in that arena.”

[Coral]

I’d never seen anyone stand in front of me like that.

Never.

Finnick’s back blocked the sun, and Annie rushed to my side, pulling me gently back, wrapping her arms around me like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just a thing to be dragged home and yelled at.

My dad froze.

He looked around and saw people staring. For the first time ever, he saw he wasn’t in control.

“This isn’t your business, Odair,” he spat.

“She made it mine,” Finnick said without blinking. “You made it public.”

[Finnick]

I didn’t punch him.

Not because I didn’t want to.

But because Coral was standing behind me. Watching.

And the last thing she needed was another man turning violence into an answer.

“She’s staying with us,” I said, quiet but firm. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”

“You don’t have that right.”

“Then try the Peacekeepers,” I said. “Let them hear why your daughter’s got bruises all over her body. Go ahead. We’ll come too.”

His mouth opened.

Then shut.

He didn’t say another word.

Just turned and walked off, the crowd silently parting around him.

[Annie]

Coral stood still in the sand, hands trembling.

“You okay?” I asked gently, touching her arm.

She didn’t answer.

She just looked up at Finnick like he was something impossible.

“Why’d you do that?” she whispered.

Finnick knelt beside her.

“Because you never deserved to stand there alone.”

[Coral]

Living with Finnick and Annie felt like living in a dream I didn’t know how to believe in yet.

Their house was small, but it felt big because it wasn’t full of yelling. It was full of light. And warmth. And laughter that didn’t feel like it came with a knife in its pocket.

They didn’t hover. They didn’t ask a million questions.

They just made space.

And I existed in it, like I was allowed to.

I slept on their couch, curled up in a blanket Annie had made when she was younger. Finnick always made too much tea and pretended it was an accident. Annie would leave quiet notes near my diary, little hearts or doodles or quotes that made me smile when no one was looking.

I was still quiet. Still guarded. But my chest didn’t feel like it was going to crack in half every time I took a deep breath.

[Annie]

We didn’t push her.

We didn’t have to.

She was healing — slowly, quietly — like wildflowers pushing through cracked concrete.

But that night… something shifted.

There was a storm offshore. Wind blew in wild and sharp. A shutter rattled hard, and one of the old beams groaned near the window.

We all jumped.

But Coral froze.

Not like someone startled.

Like someone terrified.

[Coral]

The sound — it sounded too much like the front door slamming when he was angry.

Like footsteps in the hallway before the yelling started.

I panicked. I couldn’t breathe.

I kicked off the blanket, struggling to pull myself upright. My shirt twisted as I moved, and the sleeve slid all the way up to my shoulder.

I didn’t notice.

But they did.

[Finnick]

I stood to check the window.

But stopped cold.

Annie saw it too. We both did.

Coral’s arms were exposed — just for a second — but it was enough.

Bruises. Deep ones. Faded ones. Fresh ones.

Not even an inch of clean skin.

My hands curled into fists.

Not at her.

At what had been done to her.

[Annie]

I didn’t say anything.

I just walked over slowly and knelt beside her on the couch.

She froze when she realized. Eyes wide. Terrified. Her hands flew to her sleeves.

“I—I didn’t mean for you to see—”

“You don’t have to hide,” I whispered.

Her lip trembled.

She opened her mouth to argue. Then closed it.

“I know what it’s like to carry things that no one else sees,” I said gently. “But you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

[Coral]

I couldn’t stop the tears this time.

Not the quiet kind.

The shaking, gulping kind.

I curled in on myself, ashamed, humiliated, relieved — all at once.

But then I felt them. Annie’s arms around me. Finnick sitting close, not saying a word, just there.

They didn’t say “it’s going to be okay.”

They didn’t say “be strong.”

They just stayed.

[Finnick]

“You’re not broken,” I whispered when her sobs started to slow. “You’re bruised. There’s a difference.”

She looked up at me.

Her eyes — red, swollen, but still full of something that hadn’t died yet.

“I thought if I told anyone,” she said, “they’d stop looking at me the same.”

“I don’t see you differently,” Annie said softly.

I nodded. “Me neither.”

“If anything,” I added, “I see you more clearly.”

[Coral]

That night, they brought me tea again.

I drank it with shaking hands, wearing short sleeves for the first time in front of anyone but myself.

And they never looked away.

They never flinched.

They just loved me through it.

This one might be a little confusing at first so let me clear some things up. Y/N's Peeta's little sister, Finnick is Y/N's father figure, Katniss is basically Y'N's sister.

The sky crackled purple above the jungle as the fog crept in—slow at first, like it was deciding which of us to kill first.

"Run!" Katniss’s voice was hoarse from shouting. "Go, go—don't stop!"

I ran, legs aching, lungs burning, tears mixing with sweat as the fog chased us, hissing as it touched the trees. I was the smallest—twelve years old and not meant to be here. But the Capitol didn’t care. They thought throwing a child into the Quarter Quell would make better television.

Peeta tried to scoop me up, but Finnick beat him to it.

“I’ve got her!” Finnick’s arms were strong and warm despite the fear in his eyes. “Keep moving!”

The fog was alive, burning everything it touched. We’d seen what it did to a butterfly—a second of contact and the poor thing shriveled, its wings crumbling like ash. I knew if it touched me, I wouldn’t make it.

But I was too slow. Even in Finnick’s arms, even with his speed, it caught us.

My leg—just the edge—brushed against the white cloud.

It was enough.

The pain was like a thousand needles stabbing into my skin, burning deeper, deeper, like it wanted to melt me from the inside. I screamed. Finnick tripped trying to shield me, and we tumbled hard into the brush.

Peeta’s voice was behind us, panicked. “Y/N! No, no—oh God, Katniss—she’s burning—”

Katniss knelt beside me, her face pale with horror. I could barely see her through the pain. The fog had blistered half my leg, and the skin looked wrong—red, bubbling, some of it already blackening.

“I can’t—I can’t move,” I whimpered. “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts—”

“I know, baby,” Finnick said, cradling my head like he used to when I had nightmares back home. “I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay.”

But I saw the look he gave Katniss.

He didn’t believe that.

Katniss swallowed hard. “We need water. Beetee said it can neutralize the venom, like with Johanna—get to the beach.”

Peeta was already trying to lift me again, but I cried out. “No—don’t touch my leg—it hurts—please—”

“Shhh,” Katniss soothed, tearing part of her shirt. “Okay, okay. Just hold still, Y/N. We’ll carry you together.”

They worked fast, wrapping me in makeshift cloth, trying to keep my burned leg from touching anything. My eyes kept fluttering. I was so tired, so dizzy. The pain was drowning me.

Finnick carried me again, sprinting toward the water. I could hear his breath—sharp, desperate. “Stay with me, Y/N,” he kept whispering. “You’re not leaving me, sweetheart. You’re not allowed to.”

We reached the shore.

Katniss and Peeta were beside us instantly, helping lower me into the water. I screamed again as the ocean touched the burns, but the pain faded—slightly. The venom hissed away like smoke on firewood. I sobbed, gripping Finnick’s hand like it was the only thing anchoring me to the world.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said again, over and over. “You hear me? You’ve got too many people who love you.”

I didn’t die that night. But something inside me changed.

I wasn’t just Peeta’s little sister anymore. I was a Victor’s shadow. I was a child the Capitol tried to break. And I wasn’t going to forget.

HIIIII, I really hope you enjoy this one!! Remember i'm always up for reguests so if you have any reguests let me know!

The sea had always been Coral Odair’s safest place.

It cradled her thoughts, tucked her fears between the tides, and whispered stories of her mother’s strength and her father’s victories. When she swam, she forgot how many people stared at her in the marketplace, whispering “That’s Finnick’s girl.” She forgot the nightmares, and the strange silver box that had arrived on her doorstep last week without a sender’s name.

It was only when she came back to shore that she remembered everything.

“Coral! Lunch!” Finnick’s voice echoed from the little cottage near the dunes. His tone was warm, but behind it—like always—was that current of worry.

She padded up the sand, dripping saltwater and dragging her fishing net behind her. Her dad met her at the porch with a towel and a lopsided grin. His green eyes were just like hers—sea-colored and sharp.

“I saw you go under for almost a minute,” he said, wrapping her in the towel. “New record?”

“Fifty-seven seconds.” Coral looked down, avoiding his eyes. “I’m working on it.”

Finnick ruffled her tangled hair and led her inside.

The kitchen smelled like fish stew and toasted bread. Annie was out visiting her sister in District 6, and Coral was glad. Her mom worried more than Dad, and lately, Coral didn’t want anyone looking too closely.

Because the box hadn’t been the first gift.

It started three weeks ago—on the anniversary of the Capitol’s fall. A small bouquet of white roses had been left on their windowsill. Coral hadn’t thought much of it at first. Maybe a peace offering. A remembrance.

Then came the letter.

Written in perfect calligraphy. No return name. No address. Just the words:

“Beauty like his doesn't disappear. It lives on in her. I remember everything.”

Coral hadn’t told her parents.

She should have. But part of her didn’t want to scare them. Another part didn’t want to believe it herself.

Chapter Two: The Festival

District 4’s Summer Tide Festival was supposed to be the happiest day of the season. Coral wore a white dress with seashell buttons and walked through the crowded streets, tugging on her dad’s hand whenever someone tried to stop them for a photo.

“You know,” Finnick whispered with a wink, “your pouty face is starting to look exactly like mine when I was your age.”

She tried not to smile. “Gross.”

He laughed.

That’s when she saw it—across the square, on a booth table beneath a netted awning. A box.

Silver. Just like the first one.

Coral stopped. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

“Coral?” Finnick followed her gaze. “What is it?”

But before she could answer, a woman bumped into them. Hard.

Coral stumbled.

“Sorry,” the woman murmured quickly, her hood drawn low over her face.

She disappeared into the crowd, but not before Coral saw something in her hand.

Another note.

Chapter Three: The Net Tightens

That night, Coral finally told her dad everything.

The roses. The notes. The box.

Finnick didn’t yell. He didn’t even look surprised. Instead, he pressed his hands together, resting his forehead on them like he was praying.

“Dad?” Coral whispered.

“There were… people,” he said slowly, “in the Capitol. Sponsors. Fans. Some of them weren’t just obsessed with the Games. They were obsessed with the Victors.” His voice tightened. “Some of them wanted to own us.”

He looked at her then, green eyes full of fear.

“They never got the punishment they deserved. Not all of them.”

Chapter Four: The Attempt

It happened two days later.

Coral had wandered away from the boardwalk to buy a carved driftwood charm when someone grabbed her arm from behind.

Strong fingers.

A sweet smell—roses and some thick Capitol perfume.

She screamed.

The world turned sideways. People shouted. Then came her father’s voice—like a thunderclap.

“GET AWAY FROM HER!”

The person ran. Dropped the note. Vanished into the crowd like smoke.

Coral didn’t remember the next few hours. She only remembered her dad holding her, rocking back and forth in the sand, whispering, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, you’re safe.”

But Coral didn’t feel safe.

She didn’t feel anything but cold.

Chapter Five: Aftermath

Weeks passed.

Coral stopped swimming.

She didn’t go to school. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t even eat much unless her father begged her.

Because someone had gotten close. Because the war, it seemed, wasn’t over.

Not for her.

HII, I really hope you guys like this!! ENJOY!

The sun glinted off the ocean like coins tossed by gods. Coral Odair ran barefoot along the warm, salt-washed planks of the dock, laughing as her friends scattered behind crates and barrels. Today, they were in the Arena.

“We need a sponsor gift!” called Neran, ducking behind a crate stacked with fishnets. “Pretend it’s bread!”

“I already gave you bread!” shouted Maysi, who played the Capitol. “You have to do something dramatic if you want more!”

Coral dove behind a broken hull, heart pounding with delight. “Tribute from District 4,” she whispered under her breath, gripping a driftwood spear. “Still alive. Still fighting.”

They called it Playing Hunger Games. It had started harmlessly—pretend battles, alliances, dramatic deaths. None of them had ever seen a real Arena. The Games had ended before they were born.

But the stories never left.

That day, Coral was in the final three. Neran and Maysi were hunting her. She sprinted across the sand toward an overturned boat, laughter bubbling in her throat—

And then Neran tackled her from behind.

“You’re dead!” he crowed, pressing a stick to her ribs. “Got you! Right in the heart!”

Coral froze.

The world stopped.

The laughter vanished from her lips. Her body felt cold. Suddenly the sand wasn't sand—it was ash. The water was red. The sunlight flickered like firelight. Screams echoed, but no one around her had made a sound.

She couldn’t breathe.

“Coral?” Neran's voice was uncertain now. “It’s just the game…”

But Coral was no longer there.

In her mind, the Arena closed in. Trees towered over her. Voices called out—screams, cries, cannon fire. Faces flashed before her eyes—bloody, frightened, dying. A boy fell from a net. A girl’s neck snapped against a rock. The smell of blood and sweat and fear filled her nose.

But she’d never been in the Games.

She had never seen them.

So why did she remember?

Finnick found her hours later, curled up beneath the pier, shaking.

She didn’t speak at first. She couldn’t.

He gathered her gently into his arms, pressing his salt-scarred hand to the back of her head, rocking her like he had when she was small.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re safe. You’re here.”

But Coral only trembled harder.

“Were you there?” she finally asked, voice hoarse. “In the Arena? Was it… like that?”

He stiffened.

She looked up at him, wide-eyed, terrified. Not of him. Of something else. Something he knew too well.

“You weren’t,” he said gently. “But I was.”

“Then how do I know what it’s like?” she whispered.

He had no answer.

That night, Finnick sat on the porch of their little sea-green cottage, staring at the moonlit waves. The Games were gone, yes. But their ghosts lingered.

He had fought so Coral wouldn’t have to know fear.

But somehow, the fear had still found her.

The stories. The memorials. The whispers. The scars. Trauma had passed through him like a current—and now, without warning, it had found her.

It lived in the way he flinched when nets tangled around his wrists. In the way he kept knives too close to his bed. In the tightness of his voice when talking about the Capitol.

And now it lived in his daughter.

The next morning, Coral didn’t want to play.

Neran came by with a stick bow and a crooked smile. “Wanna be allies today?”

Coral shook her head.

Finnick knelt beside her on the dock. “You don’t have to play,” he said.

“I don’t want to ever again,” she murmured.

He touched her shoulder gently. “Good.”

She looked up at him, blinking. “Good?”

“There’s nothing good about the Games,” he said softly. “Not even pretending.”

Her lip trembled. “Then why did we think it was fun?”

“Because no one told you what it really was.”

He wrapped his arm around her and held her as the tide rolled in—father and daughter, survivors of a war that never quite ended.

End.

Scene: Coral's Nightmare (Late night, District 4, Odair Cottage)

The wind howled outside the windows, but inside, everything was still. Moonlight poured in through the open shutters, casting pale light across Coral’s bed. She lay tangled in her sheets, her brow furrowed, her breathing starting to quicken.

Then—

Her legs jerked. Her hands twitched.

And the dream began.

It was the Arena again.

But this time, it wasn’t just her.

Everyone she knew was in it—Maysi, Neran, her teacher, the woman who sold bread at the market, even Annie. All of them on platforms, circled around a twisted Cornucopia. It was built of bones. Human bones.

Coral looked down. Her feet were bare. Her fingers clutched a dripping trident made of barbed hooks.

Across from her, her father—Finnick Odair—stood on a platform. His mouth moved, shouting something, but no sound came out. Blood ran down his face.

She opened her mouth to scream—but the horn blared.

Everything exploded.

Water became fire. The sky cracked open. The sea turned to glass, slicing their feet. Screams filled the air like birds. Coral ran, her heart pounding—but there was nowhere to run.

A cannon fired.

And another.

And another.

Children dropped like dolls, arms twisted, necks broken.

Coral tripped over someone—Neran. His eyes were open, empty, his face pale. She crawled back, but fell into a pit, sliding into darkness.

Now the Arena had changed.

It was a beach, but not like District 4. The sand was red. The waves hissed like snakes. And something was watching her.

A hovercraft descended—massive, humming, blindingly bright. It opened.

Inside was her face. Her own face, on a screen, projected over the whole sky.

"KILL OR BE KILLED."

"FINNICK'S DAUGHTER. THE FAVORITE."

"MAKE HER BLEED."

The voices chanted in time with the cannons.

She turned—and saw her friends coming at her. Maysi. Neran. All with weapons. All with blank, silver eyes.

She begged.

They didn’t stop.

Maysi raised a sword and slammed it down—

Coral screamed.

Not a soft cry, not a startled gasp. A full-bodied, lung-shattering, soul-splitting scream.

Finnick was out of bed before his brain even caught up. He nearly tripped over a chair in the hallway, flung the door open—

Coral was sitting upright in bed, eyes wide open, clawing at her own arms. Her face was soaked in tears and sweat. Her throat was raw from screaming.

“NO! NO NO NO NO—DON’T—DON’T MAKE ME—DADDY?!”

He rushed to her, but she shrank away.

“Coral, it’s me! It’s Daddy! I’m right here—look at me, sweetheart, look at me.”

She didn’t hear him.

She was stuck inside it.

Her body shook, every breath a sob. She kicked at her sheets like she was trying to swim through them, or escape them. Her voice cracked as she begged the air:

“Please don’t make me go in. Please—I didn’t mean to win, I didn’t mean to—don’t kill me—please don’t kill me—”

Finnick sat on the edge of the bed and gently tried to gather her, but she twisted in his arms, thrashing.

“I’m here,” he whispered, over and over. “You’re safe, you’re safe, Coral. It’s not real. It’s not real. Just a nightmare. I’ve got you.”

But she was deep in it.

It took almost twenty minutes of him holding her while she screamed, fought, begged. He rocked her through it, heart breaking with every cry.

When she finally collapsed against his chest, he felt how fast her little heart was pounding—like a bird trapped in a cage. She was soaked with sweat, shivering despite the summer night.

“Am I dead?” she whispered.

“No,” he said immediately, brushing hair from her face. “You’re alive. You’re here. Right here with me.”

She looked up, her eyes haunted. “Why does it feel so real?”

He swallowed. “Because trauma doesn’t wait for permission. And pain doesn’t always come from the places you think it will.”

“I saw you die,” she choked. “And I couldn’t stop it.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment. “That’s how I used to dream, too.”

They sat in silence for a while, Coral trembling in his lap. He rocked her slowly, humming the lullaby Annie used to sing. The one about the ocean and the stars and a pearl that never cracked.

Eventually, Coral’s sobs slowed.

But sleep wouldn’t come.

Not for her.

Not for him.

An hour later, Coral was still awake, curled up under a blanket on the couch. Finnick sat beside her with a cup of warm tea, his arm around her shoulders.

“I don’t want to ever sleep again,” she murmured.

“I know,” he said. “But you will. And next time, I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

She nodded, voice barely a whisper. “I think the Games are still alive. Just…in us now.”

Finnick didn’t argue.

Because deep down, he knew she was right.

HIII, I really hope you guys like this one! I kinda ran out of ideas, so this one might not be my best but.....

"The Sting"

The ocean was clear that morning, impossibly blue, like glass pulled tight over something secret.

Coral Odair dove in headfirst, following her father’s flick of the hand. Twelve years old, and already her lungs could hold as long as his, already she could read the language of currents and fish schools, already she loved the sea with the same aching loyalty as Finnick.

They were deep—deeper than usual—near the edge of a reef shelf Finnick had called “the old drop,” where sunlight strained to reach the bottom. He said the best shells got stuck down there, too heavy to be pulled back by the tides.

Coral drifted lower. Something caught her eye—a gleam beneath a ridge.

She didn’t see it until it was too late.

Pain bloomed across her leg—sharp and searing, a thousand needles lighting up her nerves. Her scream was swallowed by saltwater. The jellyfish floated above her, trailing a luminous, whisper-thin web of stingers that shimmered like moonlight. Beautiful. Deadly.

Finnick turned fast.

He saw her thrashing, bubbles breaking from her mouth, the telltale red welts already spreading across her thigh. He reached her in seconds, pulling her upward with all the force of a former Victor.

She blacked out before they broke the surface.

Coral drifted.

Not in the ocean, not anymore.

She was small. Hiding behind the curtain in the Capitol apartment. Listening to voices she shouldn’t.

A name: Snow.

Another name: Johanna. Then: “He used me, Annie. Over and over. I wasn’t a person. I was a weapon they dressed up in gold.”

Coral tried to move, but her limbs felt heavy. Too heavy.

She woke once, somewhere dry. Her skin felt like it was burning off. A weight pressed on her chest. Her leg… it was fire. Everything else was fog.

She heard voices, arguing. A woman—Auntie Johanna?—saying, “You should’ve never taken her that deep.”

Finnick’s voice: “I checked the currents. It was supposed to be safe.”

Then: “I can’t lose her, too.”

The dark pulled her back.

Recovery was slow.

The medics said she was lucky. The jellyfish was rare, the kind you usually only see floating miles out, barely alive but lethal. A shallow sting might’ve meant pain. This one had wrapped around her like a vine.

Days passed in the infirmary on the District 4 coast. Her leg swelled, turned strange colors. The venom ravaged her nerves. The fever took her mind.

She dreamed of him—her father—young and frightened. Not the man who carved driftwood animals for her bedside. Not the laughing, warm fisherman who could charm an entire market square.

In her dreams, he was silent. Blank-eyed. Drenched in blood or perfume. Or both.

When she finally stayed awake for more than an hour, her father was asleep, slumped in a chair beside her bed, a week’s stubble on his face and a salt-stiff shirt hanging from his frame.

“Dad,” she croaked.

His eyes snapped open. He was at her side in seconds, brushing her hair back like she might vanish.

“You’re okay,” he breathed. “You’re okay, Coral.”

“I’m not,” she whispered.

He stilled.

“You lied to me,” she said, voice raspy but sharp. “You said the Capitol made you famous. You didn’t say they used you.”

He didn’t deny it.

She turned her head away, throat tight. “I saw things. I don’t even know if they were real. You were… smiling, but not happy. You were hurting people. Or letting them hurt you.”

Finnick sat back, suddenly looking older than he had during the Games.

“You were dreaming,” he said carefully.

“But it was real, wasn’t it?” she said. “The parts I heard you and Mom whispering about. About Snow. About... what they did.”

He exhaled slowly. “Some of it. Enough.”

Tears threatened again, hot and confusing. “I don’t know what to believe. You tell people stories. And you leave things out.”

Finnick leaned forward, his voice thick. “I left them out because I wanted you to have something better. I didn’t want you to carry what I had to.”

“I’m your daughter. I carry it anyway.”

The room was silent, the only sound the slow, mechanical drip of IV fluid.

Finally, Coral reached for his hand. It was scarred. Calloused. Human.

“Am I going to be okay?” she asked.

He nodded, though his eyes stayed haunted. “Your leg will heal. Might take a while. But you’ll swim again. You’ll dive again.”

“And the dreams?”

He hesitated. “Some might stay. But I’ll be here when they do.”

She stared at him for a long time.

“Tell me the real stories,” she said. “Not the Capitol ones. Not the bedtime ones.”

He nodded, once. “Okay.”

Then, softly, “But only if you promise to tell me yours too.”

Weeks later, they stood ankle-deep in the tide. Coral leaned on a carved driftwood cane he had made her—painted blue and green like sea glass.

She stared at the water.

And then, slowly, took a step forward.

Heyyyyy, Thank you guys Soo much for starting the read! (ChatGPT helped)

The sea hadn’t moved in days. That’s what it looked like to Coral Odair, anyway.

She sat curled up on the old wicker chair in the corner of her room, the one that creaked when you leaned too far to the left and had a faded blue cushion that smelled like salt. Outside her window, the ocean sprawled endlessly, gray and churning, but it might as well have been a painting. Coral hadn’t moved from that chair in three days. Maybe four. Time had stopped meaning anything.

She hadn’t eaten.

She hadn’t drunk anything except the tears that dried on her lips when she wasn’t fast enough to wipe them away.

And she hadn’t said a word. Not to her father. Not to anyone.

The sunlight through the window tried to reach her, a soft golden line that crossed her bare feet and warmed nothing. Gulls cried over the surf. The wind moved the curtains like they were reaching for her. But Coral didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Her eyes were locked on something only she could see.

Downstairs, Finnick Odair paced the kitchen. His footsteps were heavy, anxious. He'd already knocked three times that morning.

“Coral,” he called, voice cracked with exhaustion and something worse—fear. “Coral, can you please just... say something?”

No response.

He sighed. “I know you’re in there. I know you’re hurting. I’m not asking you to tell me everything, just... let me in, sweetheart. Please.”

But the girl in the chair didn’t answer. Her green eyes—his eyes—were vacant, swallowed by shadows. She remembered her dreams too vividly. Or maybe she wasn’t dreaming at all anymore. Just seeing it over and over.

The Capitol had fallen. The war was over. People kept saying “You’re safe now.”

But they didn’t know what safe meant. Not really. Not when the silence in her head screamed louder than bombs. Not when her mother—Annie—sat in her own kind of sadness, in a room with the door always cracked, humming lullabies to someone who wasn’t there.

Sometimes Coral wondered if she was disappearing too.

The door creaked open just slightly—her father again. He didn’t come closer, just stood in the threshold, worn and quiet.

“I love you,” he said.

That hurt more than anything.

Because she didn’t feel worthy of it. Not when she felt so broken inside. Not when she couldn't even speak. What could she possibly say that would make anything better? That she saw someone die and now she can’t stop seeing it? That the sound of thunder made her stomach twist like knives? That she hated the pity in everyone's eyes when they looked at her like she was some cracked glass doll?

She wanted to be strong, like her dad had been. Like he still was. But she felt small and hollow.

Finnick didn’t leave this time. He sat down on the floor, just outside the door. Quiet. Waiting. Not asking anything. Just being there.

And that… that was almost worse than yelling. It was love without demand. It was safe.

A tear slid down Coral’s cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

She didn’t speak. Not yet.

But her foot twitched—just slightly—pulling away from the sunlight line on the floor.

It was the smallest movement. Barely anything.

But it was something.

And Finnick, outside the door, felt it.

"Outside the Door"

Finnick's Point of View

There was no sound coming from Coral’s room.

Again.

Finnick stood outside her door, hand hovering just above the smooth wood. He could hear the ocean beyond her window, the slow groaning of the tide against the rocks. The same sea that had always meant home. Healing. Escape.

Now, it just felt cruel.

He knocked once. Softly. Like maybe if he was gentle enough, she’d open up. Like maybe love could fix the kind of damage war left behind.

“Coral?” he tried, his voice thick. He hated the way it cracked now, how even speaking her name felt like dragging glass through his throat. “You in there, baby girl?”

Of course she was. She hadn't left that room in days.

She hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t slept—not really. Not since…

He rubbed a hand down his face, then through his hair, still damp from the sea. Salt and sweat and guilt clung to him like another skin. He’d seen trauma. Had worn it like armor. Had peeled it off in layers when Annie touched his face and told him he was still a person.

He knew what it looked like.

And now he was watching it grow behind the eyes of his daughter.

A child.

His child.

The worst part wasn’t the silence. It wasn’t even the stillness—how she sat there like she was afraid to breathe wrong. The worst part was not knowing what had broken her. Not exactly. Something during the final days of the rebellion. Something she saw. Something she felt. Something no twelve-year-old should have been near.

He tried not to think of how she used to laugh. How loud it was. Like wind rushing over waves.

Now her voice was gone.

Finnick sank down outside her door, back to the wall, long legs stretched in front of him like they had no bones left in them. His trident leaned forgotten against the hall table downstairs. He didn’t need it here. There were no enemies in this house.

Only pain.

And silence.

“I’m right here,” he said. “Just in case you forgot.”

Still nothing.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “You don’t have to talk. I’m not gonna force it. I just… I need you to know that I’m not going anywhere. Ever. Not unless you tell me to.”

He thought of the time he'd been locked in his own mind. The sleepless nights. The days where he didn’t eat. The way he hated the sun for shining when so much inside him was dark. And then Annie had come, humming nonsense songs and leaving shells on his nightstand like they were spells. She hadn’t asked him to speak.

She just loved him until he could remember how to love himself.

“I used to do this too, you know,” he said, unsure if she was even listening. “Stare at the ocean like maybe it’d swallow me up. Like maybe I deserved it.”

His voice got quieter.

“But you don’t. Coral, you don’t deserve what’s inside your head right now. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were just a kid caught in something terrible. And I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop it from touching you.”

A gull cried in the distance. The wind shifted.

And then…

A sound.

So small he almost missed it.

The creak of wicker. The faint scrape of her foot shifting on the floor.

Finnick’s eyes flew open, heart thudding. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

She hadn’t spoken.

But something had moved. Inside that room. Inside her.

And it was enough.

He pressed his forehead gently to the door, eyes wet and grateful.

It was enough.

"Tidepool"

Coral, Still Not Speaking

The sun rose again.

Coral knew it had, because the light moved differently on the floor. It was gold now, not silver. Morning, not night.

She hadn’t moved since yesterday. Or maybe it was the day before.

Her throat ached, but not from thirst. It ached from holding everything in. From not screaming.

There was a tightness in her chest, a weight so dense it felt like her lungs forgot how to open. Her hands were wrapped around her knees, arms shaking—not from cold. From effort. Like holding herself together was harder than anything else.

People always talked about surviving. Like it was some bright, burning thing. Like it was brave.

But Coral didn’t feel brave. She felt… left behind. Like the war ended and took everything with it, and she was the leftover thing no one knew what to do with.

Her dad still came to the door. Every day. Every hour.

He stopped asking her to talk. Stopped asking her to eat. He just sat there.

Sometimes he’d hum the songs she used to like. The ones he’d taught her when she was little—sea shanties with nonsense lyrics and too many verses. She remembered them. She remembered sitting on his shoulders, laughing so hard she dropped her seashell necklace in the tide. He’d dived in after it like it was treasure.

But now she couldn’t laugh. Couldn’t even try.

She didn’t deserve it.

Because when she closed her eyes—even for a second—she saw it again. The explosion. The child who didn’t get back up. The smell of smoke. The way the world cracked in half and told her, "You are never going to be normal again."

And she believed it.

So she didn’t sleep.

Didn’t drink.

Didn’t eat the soup her father left outside the door, still warm, with the bread that used to be her favorite.

None of it mattered. Her body was there, but she wasn’t in it anymore.

Finnick, Again

He sat at her door, head resting against the frame.

He’d cried three times already today. Quietly. Angry at himself. Angry at the world.

He was Finnick Odair. Victor. Rebel. Soldier.

But he couldn’t save his own daughter.

She was slipping through his fingers like sand, and he had no idea how to hold on.

The tray of untouched food sat beside him, growing cold.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Okay. You’re not ready. That’s fine.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small. A smooth, flat piece of driftwood. He’d carved a tiny seahorse into it with his knife—clumsy, but still recognizable. Coral used to love seahorses. Said they looked like creatures from dreams.

He placed it gently on the floor, just inside her door. Close enough to see, but not close enough to scare her.

“No pressure,” he whispered. “Just... thought you might want company.”

He sat there until the hallway grew dark.

Until the food was stale and cold.

Until his back ached.

And still, Coral didn’t move.

But when he finally stood and walked away, what he didn’t see was this:

Her fingers twitched.

Just once.

Toward the seahorse.

But then she pulled her hand back, curling into herself again.

"The Breaking Point"

The Next Day

The morning was strange.

Too quiet.

Even the birds outside her window sounded far away, like they were singing through glass. Coral didn’t realize she’d started swaying until her cheek pressed against the cold windowpane, breath fogging the glass in short, shallow bursts.

Her arms were heavy.

Her mouth, dry as paper.

Everything inside her felt distant. Blurry. Like she was floating above the room and watching herself disappear.

Then black.

No sound. No thought.

Just the sudden, terrifying weightlessness of falling.

Finnick

He heard the thud before he heard his own heartbeat crash into his ears.

“Coral?”

He didn’t wait.

The door slammed open and hit the wall. His heart seized when he saw her—curled on the floor, collapsed like a doll dropped too hard. Skin pale, lips cracked, eyes closed.

“Coral!”

He dropped to his knees, voice shaking. “No, no—baby, come on—”

He gathered her into his arms. She was light. Too light. Fragile in a way that made his chest split open.

She didn’t respond at first. Her head lolled against his chest, body limp.

“Come on, sweetheart, please. Wake up. I’m right here. You’re okay. Just wake up.”

And then— A breath. A gasp. Her fingers clenched into the fabric of his shirt.

She was awake.

And she was sobbing.

Not the quiet, controlled kind. This was guttural, raw, unstoppable. Her entire body shook with it, like the pain had been building for days, and now there was no way to hold it back.

Finnick held her tighter.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, over and over, tears pouring down his own face now. “I’ve got you. It’s okay. Let it out. I’ve got you.”

Coral pressed her face into his chest, sobbing harder, hands clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping her anchored.

“I saw her die,” she choked out. “She was just a kid—just a little kid—she was running and then she—she—”

Finnick closed his eyes, his whole body trembling with the force of her grief.

“She looked like me,” Coral whispered. “Same eyes. Same hair. And I didn’t help her—I just stood there and I—” She gasped again, swallowing air like she couldn’t breathe.

“I’m sorry, Daddy, I’m so sorry, I didn’t do anything, I—I couldn’t move—I just watched her die—”

“No,” he said firmly, gently pulling her face up so he could look her in the eyes. “No, Coral. Listen to me. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But she—” “She died because of them, not because of you.”

“I should’ve saved her—”

“You were a child,” he said, voice shaking but certain. “You still are. And you were in a war. You froze. You were scared. That’s not your fault.”

She clung to him tighter.

“I hate it,” she whispered. “I hate remembering. I hate sleeping. I hate how quiet it gets. I hate me.”

“Don’t say that,” he said immediately. “Don’t you ever say that.”

“I’m not like you,” she cried. “You survived and you fought and you saved people. I couldn’t even move.”

Finnick held her close and pressed his forehead to hers. “You are exactly like me. You survived something no one should have to. And you’re still here. That’s not weakness, Coral. That’s strength.”

She didn’t answer. Just cried harder. But now her arms were around his neck. Now she was holding back.

And for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t silent.

Later That Night

Finnick sat by Coral’s bedside, watching her sleep.

Finally sleep.

She looked small. Hollowed out. But she was breathing steady, wrapped in blankets, hand still loosely curled around the carved seahorse he’d left.

He knew it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. There would be nightmares. Guilt. Healing that came slow, like water smoothing stone.

But this was the beginning.

Not of forgetting.

But of surviving.

Together.