Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Okay, Fishbait,” Trent says as he drops his tray onto the table with an exaggerated sigh, the sound clattering through the nearly empty dining hall. “I sacked Mags’ fruits and now I present to you a very thought-out array of your choosing.”

I glance down, and my eyebrows lift. The tray is covered in bright, perfect pieces of fruit—arranged in a rainbow line, from deep purple grapes to the yellow of peeled mango, the red of sliced strawberries, all the way to a tiny green lime wedge at the end.

A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Mags is going to kill you.”

“She can send me the bill later,” Trent says with a grin that doesn’t bother pretending to be remorseful. “I figured we should have a snack, given that this year’s already… interesting.”

He’s not wrong.

A volunteer from District Twelve emerged this morning. A girl—sixteen, maybe seventeen—stepped forward to take her little sister’s place. The reaping crowd went silent when she shouted her sister’s name. I still remember the way the sound caught in her throat, that desperate, trembling “I volunteer as tribute!”

It doesn’t happen often. And never from Twelve.

Trent shakes his head as he picks up a grape, rolling it between his fingers. “Call me crazy, but I think that girl from Twelve might win. There’ll finally be another victor. I mean, it’s been, what? Twenty-four years since the last one?”

Haymitch Abernathy.

The name comes easy—everyone learns it in school. He was sixteen when he won. The first victor from Twelve in forty years. But what people talk about most isn’t the victory—it’s the Quarter Quell twist.

Mags once told me about it on one of those gray, rainy afternoons when the sea wind made the walls hum. Quarter Quells are awful. The first Quell, everyone from each District had to vote on who to send into the Games. The second Quarter Quell, every district sent double the tributes. Twice as many children. Twice as many bodies in the arena. I can still remember the look in her eyes when she told me—how she went quiet for a long time after, staring at the rain like it was washing away ghosts.

Next year will be another Quell. I can already feel the dread curling inside me, cold and heavy. I don’t even want to imagine what the Capitol will come up with this time.

“Haymitch wasn’t the first victor,” I say finally, nudging a slice of mango with my finger. “Remember?”

Trent blinks. “Bold of you to assume I paid attention in school, Cresta.”

I roll my eyes, smiling despite myself. “It was a girl.”

He squints at me. “Not ringing any bells.”

“Lucy Gray,” I say, and the name tastes strange on my tongue, like something half-forgotten.

Trent just stares blankly. “Now you really lost me.”

“Mags told me about her,” I explain, picking at a grape. “We barely learned about it in school, but Mags remembers watching it. She said Lucy Gray sang before the Games started. And after.”

“Well, that was what? 1ADD?” he jokes, grinning.

I smack his arm, though not hard. “No, idiot. It was the tenth Games.”

He laughs, and the sound echoes faintly around us, soft and familiar. For a moment, the weight of the Reaping fades—the fear of what’s coming, the distant screams of another arena—and all that’s left is fruit in rainbow order and the warmth of someone who still knows how to make me laugh.

Trent grabs the remote and flicks on the TV. The screen hums to life, bathing the small room in a pale blue light. The Capitol seal flashes for a moment before dissolving into the image of Caesar Flickerman, all glitter and teeth.

“Of course,” Trent mutters, sinking deeper into his chair, “we can turn it off when the Games start, or we can skip over the bloodbath. Mandatory viewing my ass.”

I smile faintly, grateful for the way he says it—like it’s just a choice, like we have control over any of this. “Thank you.”

He grins, eyes catching the flicker of light from the screen. “Don’t mention it, Fishbait.”

We must’ve missed the start, because the girl from District Two is just finishing her interview. She’s everything you’d expect—polished, confident, her curls arranged perfectly, her voice steady as she says she’s “honored” to represent her district. It’s all so rehearsed. I can almost see the Capitol eating it up.

Then Caesar announces the boy from Two, and the crowd erupts in cheers before he even steps onstage.

“Oh my god,” Trent mumbles, leaning forward, “why is he… big?”

He’s right. The boy looks enormous—broad shoulders, muscles that move like coiled rope beneath his skin, and that same trained, dangerous ease the Careers always have. Even through the Capitol’s glittering presentation, there’s something brutal about him. He’s the kind of tribute sponsors love—young, handsome, deadly.

“Maybe I talked too soon,” Trent mutters. “He might win.”

I don’t answer right away. My gaze stays fixed on the screen, watching how easily the boy smiles, how Caesar laughs like they’re just two old friends having a chat instead of a man and a child about to send himself to die.

The applause thunders again, echoing faintly through our small house, and for a moment I feel that familiar hollow ache in my chest—the one that comes every year when I remember what the stage really means.

Caesar’s laughter fades as the screen flashes with the Capitol emblem again. The crowd roars somewhere off-screen, and then his voice booms through the speakers, smooth and familiar.

“And now, from District Four!”

My stomach twists a little. Ours.

It always feels different when it’s our turn—when the tributes on the screen are kids who could’ve passed me in the market, or fished along the same pier, or shared a class a year ago.

Caesar keeps talking, his voice all charm and polish, but my mind drifts.

Arnav. That’s the boy this year—twelve years old. I still remember his face from the reaping, the way his hand trembled when he reached for his mother. He looked so small standing on that stage, so lost. Too young for the arena. Too young for all of this.

And then there’s Kaia. Seventeen. The girl who volunteered.

I didn’t know her well, but everyone knew of her—bright, restless, always saying she wanted to see the Capitol at least once before she died. I just never thought she’d mean it like this.

Kaia steps onto the stage now, the lights catching on her sequined dress. She looks beautiful. Her hair has been curled into waves like ocean foam, her smile practiced. She doesn’t look afraid. Not yet.

The camera pans closer as she laughs at something Caesar says, tossing her head back, eyes glinting like she’s already halfway to victory. I can almost hear Mags’ voice in my head, soft and heavy: That kind of confidence doesn’t last long once you’re in there.

Trent leans his elbow on the table, watching the screen. “Well,” he says under his breath, “at least she looks like she’s enjoying herself.”

I don’t respond. I can’t. My throat feels tight, my heart unsteady.

Because I’ve seen this part before—the smiles, the glitter, the laughter. I know what comes next.

And I can’t stop thinking about Arnav. The way he looked up at Kaia when she volunteered, like he thought maybe she was saving him. Maybe she believed it too.

But there’s no saving anyone once you step inside that arena.

“So, Kaia,” Caesar begins, all charm and glitter, his smile wide enough to light up the entire stage. “How are you liking your stay so far?”

Kaia sits perfectly straight in her shimmering sea-green gown, her hands folded in her lap like she’s practiced this a hundred times. “Oh, I love it,” she says brightly. “Everything is so glamorous here.”

Her voice wavers only slightly on the last word. The Capitol audience doesn’t notice. They never do.

Caesar laughs his famous, echoing laugh, the kind that sounds like it’s been polished to perfection over the years. “That’s certainly one word for it! I bet District Four is beautiful as well!”

Kaia nods, her face glowing under the lights. “Yeah, I mean, it’s amazing to look out your window and see all the bright flowers and waves. There’s a lot of beautiful things in Four.”

She’s right. There’s no place like home.

Caesar turns to the crowd with a sly smile. “You’re certainly right—a lot of beautiful things come out of District Four. Take Finnick Odair, for example!”

My heart jumps.

For a moment, I forget to breathe.

The camera cuts to Finnick sitting in the mentor’s section, and the room feels smaller somehow, like all the air has been pulled toward the screen. He looks caught off guard at first—his eyes widening just slightly—but the mask slips into place almost instantly. A charming smile. A lazy wave. Then, a wink.

The crowd erupts, laughing and cheering as though they’ve all shared some private joke with him.

I frown. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, not really. I’ve known him long enough to see the difference. His shoulders stay tense, his hand lowering just a fraction too quickly once the camera moves on.

The broadcast cuts back to Kaia, who’s blinking fast, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift in attention. She gives a nervous little laugh that barely fills the silence Caesar leaves her.

Trent chuckles beside me. “Poor girl. Tough act to follow.”

I nod faintly, though my gaze stays glued to the screen.

Because no matter how many times I see Finnick on television—smiling, teasing, performing for them—it still feels strange. Like watching someone I know disappear behind a reflection that looks like him but isn’t.

And somewhere deep down, a quiet thought slips through before I can stop it:
How long can he keep pretending before it breaks him?

Caesar leans forward with that dazzling grin of his, clearly trying to pull Kaia back into the moment. “Now, Kaia, I heard you have a special skill that might help you in the arena, is that true?”

Kaia brightens, grasping for footing again. “Oh—yes! I can swim really well. I mean, everyone from Four can, but I’m fast. Really fast.”

The audience applauds, polite and amused, and Caesar claps his hands together like she’s just promised them all a show. “Well, we’ll be rooting for you, sweetheart. Give our love to the waves!”

She waves as she leaves the stage, smiling with perfect Capitol poise. But when she disappears behind the curtain, I can almost imagine her face relaxing—her chest rising as she finally lets herself breathe again.

The applause from Kaia’s exit fades, replaced by Caesar’s smooth, practiced voice. “And now, let’s meet the youngest tribute from District Four… Arnav!”

My stomach twists. Arnav. The boy who got reaped. Barely twelve.

He steps onto the stage, and I catch the tremble in his small shoulders even from across the room. His hands fidget at the edge of the podium, fingers twisting together, eyes darting nervously at the audience before landing on Caesar.

“Hello there, Arnav,” Caesar begins, his grin still dazzling. “How are you finding your first visit to the Capitol?”

Arnav swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It’s… it’s very big,” he says, voice cracking just a little. The Capitol laughs politely, like it’s cute rather than heartbreaking.

Trent mutters under his breath, “Poor kid…”

I don’t respond. My eyes are fixed on him. I can see the way he’s trying so hard to stand tall, to be brave, and it makes my chest ache. He’s so small in that sea of lights and glitter, like a fish tossed onto dry land.

Caesar leans closer, his voice playful but kind, like he’s coaxing a kitten. “And do you have any special skills that might help you in the arena, Arnav?”

He nods quickly. “I… I’m good at swimming. And I can hold my breath for a long time.”

There’s a flicker of pride in his eyes, but it’s quickly swallowed by fear. He looks so young, so aware of the weight of what he’s just admitted. The Capitol cheers again, but the sound is hollow to me. I can’t help but imagine the arena—the water, the traps, the games.

Trent leans back in his chair, shaking his head. “No chance he makes it far, I think.”

I can’t speak. I can only watch Arnav try to smile, trying to be a good little tribute, trying not to cry in front of the glittering cameras and the crowd that doesn’t care.

The screen shifts slightly, showing his small, nervous wave as Caesar wraps up. And in that moment, I feel the weight of it all—the unfairness, the fear, the innocence being forced to stand on a stage like a grown-up.

And I hate it.

Because I know, even if no one else does, how fragile he is. How little time he has before the Capitol’s world crushes him.

The interviews continue, one after another, and Trent keeps up a running commentary beside me. “And here’s the girl from District Five. Don’t get distracted by her hair—she’s deadly, mark my words.”

I let out a small laugh. It helps—his voice is a tether to something normal in the midst of all this grimness.

The screen flashes with each tribute, Caesar asking the same questions, forcing the same smiles, but Trent keeps things lively. “District Six boy looks like he’s ready to hide away,” he mutters, and I snort despite myself.

“From District Eleven… Rue!”

The camera pans to the stage, and a little girl steps out. She looks impossibly small against the glowing Capitol lights—barely twelve, maybe. Her dress is soft blue, petal-like, flowers in her hair. She looks more like someone heading to a spring festival than the Hunger Games.

Trent falls quiet.

“She’s just a kid,” I whisper.

Rue smiles nervously at Caesar as she sits down. Her feet don’t even touch the ground; they dangle, swinging just a little.

“So, Rue,” Caesar says, his voice softer now. “You’re one of our youngest tributes this year, aren’t you?”

She nods, hands clasped neatly in her lap. “Yes, sir.”

“What are some of your strengths, sweetheart?”

She thinks for a second, then says with quiet, careful honesty, “I’m very difficult to catch. So, if they can’t catch me, they can’t kill me.”

The audience coos. They think it’s charming.

But my chest aches.

Trent exhales slowly beside me. “That’s—” he starts, then stops. He runs a hand through his hair, a rare crack in his usual composure. “That’s awful,” he mutters finally. “She’s just—she’s—”

I nod faintly. “I know.”

Rue talks about her district, about picking fruit, about the mockingjays that sing back to her in the orchards. She even laughs once, a small, bright sound that doesn’t belong here. The Capitol eats it up.

Caesar smiles warmly. “You’ve got quite the spirit, Rue. And that’s something no one can take away from you.”

She nods again, polite, trying so hard to be brave. “Thank you.”

The crowd cheers as she waves goodbye, the camera following her small frame as she disappears behind the curtain.

Trent doesn’t say anything for a while. The silence stretches, heavy, before he finally clears his throat. “If that kid doesn’t make it out, I’m gonna—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “I just… can’t imagine Mags watching someone like her.”

Neither can I.

I picture Rue running through the woods, too light to leave footprints, her laughter echoing through the trees. I wish I could believe her words—if they can’t catch me, they can’t kill me—but I know the truth too well. In the arena, nothing beautiful stays alive for long.

When the boy from District Eleven finally steps onto the stage, Trent leans forward, practically bouncing in his chair. “My god—he’s huge!”

I glance at the screen, and it’s true. Even taller than the District Two boy. Broad shoulders, long arms, a body that could probably pull a fishing net by himself and then some. I swallow hard. The size and presence of these older tributes makes my chest tighten—they’re not children anymore, not like Arnav.

Trent shakes his head. “Sponsors are gonna fight over this guy.”

I can only nod, though a small part of me still clings to memories of Arnav’s trembling hands.

And then… the screen flashes red.

Katniss Everdeen.

She steps onto the stage in a red dress that shimmers and Trent lets out a low whistle. “I wonder if this dress will outmatch her first one.”

I can’t help the shiver that runs down my spine. I think back to the Games’ opening ceremony—the tributes stepping out from the chariots, the long black miner-style outfits lit on fire as they paraded before the Capitol. For years, all the tributes had been dressed in the same drab coal miner uniforms, nothing to distinguish them. And then that year, District Twelve had gone bold, stepping into the spotlight with black outfits that suddenly burned with light.

And now… red. Bright, alive, impossible to ignore.

The audience cheers, but I don’t look at them. My eyes stay fixed on Katniss. She moves with a confidence that doesn’t feel forced—like the fire on her dress isn’t a costume at all, but a part of her.

And just like that, the nickname slips through my mind, carrying weight even now: Girl on Fire.

I glance at Trent, whose jaw is slightly slack, his usual teasing smirk gone for a moment. “Wow,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I think the Capitol just found their new obsession.”

I nod silently, trying to ignore the tight knot forming in my chest. The girl looks so small and yet so alive, so dangerous in her own way. She’s a spark, and I know sparks can start wildfires.

She looks nervous. So nervous. The way her fingers fidget at her sides, the slight tremble in her shoulders, the way her eyes dart from the crowd to Caesar—it’s all painfully obvious. So much so that when Caesar leans forward and speaks to her, she doesn’t respond.

“What?” she asks, voice small but clear.

The crowd erupts in laughter, the kind that seems to roll over her like a wave. I flinch, imagining how it must feel to stand there, the center of everyone’s eyes, and be laughed at.

“I said, that was quite an entrance you had in the tribute parade,” Caesar repeats, flashing that wide, polished grin. “What were you thinking?”

She stays quiet for a couple of seconds, like she’s measuring her words, and then finally mutters, “I was just… hoping I wouldn’t burn to death.”

The audience roars again, this time with delight. Even Trent chuckles, shaking his head. “Bold honesty,” he mutters.

“I have to say,” Caesar continues, leaning closer as if sharing a secret, “when you came out during the chariot ride… my heart dropped.”

“Mine too,” Katniss smiles, almost shyly, and there’s something in the curve of her lips that makes my chest tighten. She’s small, but there’s fire in her. Real fire.

“Tell me,” Caesar presses on, “were those flames real?”

Katniss nods. “Yes,” she says, voice quiet but firm. She pauses for a heartbeat before adding, “I’m wearing them today. Would you like to see them?”

The audience practically leaps to their feet in eager agreement. I can feel the energy in the room spike, the air thick with excitement.

With a deep, steadying breath, Katniss stands and begins twirling. The ends of her red dress ignite as she spins, flickers of flame catching the stage lights, reflecting in the wide eyes of the Capitol audience. The fire seems almost alive, dancing along the fabric like it was always meant to be there.

“There’s no way people are ignoring District Twelve now,” Trent whispers, awe softening his usual teasing tone.

A few seconds later, Katniss settles back into her chair, her face flushed from the display, but still holding herself with that strange mix of vulnerability and quiet power.

“I want to ask you a question,” Caesar says, leaning in again, voice lowering, “about your sister.”

I watch her freeze, just for a moment, before she slowly nods, giving him permission to continue.

“I think I can speak for many of us when I say we were very moved when you volunteered for her in the Reaping,” Caesar explains. “Did she say bye to you?”

Katniss nods again, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah.”

“What did you say to her?”

She stays quiet for a few heartbeats, eyes fixed on some invisible point just beyond the stage. Then, her voice comes, barely above a whisper: “I told her I’d try to win… for her.”

And in that moment, the weight of it all presses down—the sacrifice, the fear, the courage. My throat tightens.

“And so you shall, my darling,” Caesar says, his voice warm and reassuring. He stands, taking her hand in his, holding it out like a gift to the audience. “Katniss Everdeen, everyone!”

The crowd explodes, applause and cheers filling the hall like a wave, and I watch Katniss straighten her shoulders, hand raised just enough to acknowledge them, the fire in her dress flickering as if to echo the fire in her heart.

The applause for Katniss hasn’t even faded before Caesar gestures toward the podium again. “And now, from District Twelve… Peeta Mellark!”

The boy steps forward, and I immediately notice the difference. Calm, smooth, effortless. There’s a warmth to him, a natural charisma that makes the audience lean in even before he speaks. I can’t help it—I have to admit it to myself—he’ll definitely get sponsors.

Trent nudges me, a grin creeping across his face. “Oh… yeah. He’s got it. You can feel it, can’t you?”

I nod faintly, my eyes glued to the screen. Peeta waves, gives that easy smile, and the crowd seems to melt in response. Even the Capitol’s glittering, impossible energy can’t compete with the way he just… is.

Caesar launches into his usual friendly questions, the back-and-forth playful, teasing. Peeta responds smoothly, laughing at just the right moments, answering honestly but not too much, charming without seeming like he’s trying. I watch, fascinated, feeling a strange mix of awe and unease.

Finally, Caesar leans forward, his grin widening, eyes sparkling. “There must be a lucky girl back home for you, Peeta.”

Peeta shakes his head, voice modest. “Not really.”

Caesar frowns, mock disbelief flashing across his features. “I don’t believe that for a second!”

Peeta pauses, then admits, a faint blush rising along his cheeks, “I… I’ve had a crush on a girl for forever, but I don’t think she even recognized me… not until the reaping.”

The audience leans in, silent now, waiting for his confession. Caesar claps his hands together, delighted. “Then here’s what you do! You go out and win the Games, Peeta! And when you come back, that girl will have no choice but to go out with you!”

Peeta smiles faintly, polite but restrained. “I don’t think that’ll be much help,” he says softly. “She… she came here with me.”

My chest tightens. I catch Trent’s reaction immediately.

He gasps, eyes wide, jaw slack, and then throws his hands into the air like he’s just witnessed a miracle. “Oh my god! No way! He’s talking about Katniss!”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. He bounces slightly in his seat, as if the news has physically lifted him off the couch. “She came with him!” he shouts again, pointing wildly at the screen. “This changes everything! Everything! Did you see that, Annie? That’s—oh my god—that’s huge!”

Peeta doesn’t flinch, doesn’t raise his voice. He stays calm, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his lips, polite but reserved. Meanwhile, Trent’s arms are waving like flags in a storm, leaning forward, leaning back, leaning forward again.

“I—oh! Ohhhhhh—this is so much better than I imagined!” Trent continues, pacing in place now, still pointing at the screen. “She’s here with him! The girl on fire is with him! I can’t—oh my god! Can you even imagine the sponsorships? The Capitol is gonna explode! He’s practically a walking goldmine, Annie!”

I can’t stop a soft laugh from escaping. His excitement is infectious, even if it’s ridiculous. I glance back at the screen—Peeta’s calm composure in contrast to Trent’s theatrics makes my chest ache in a weird way.

Trent spins around in a circle. “And the look in his eyes, Annie! He’s thinking about her! Like, she’s the only person here! Do you see that?! Ohhh, this is so good! It’s like Finnick with you all over again!”

I smile at the mention of Finnick. Peeta’s smile is faint, polite, but there’s something in it, subtle, almost imperceptible—a softness reserved only for her. My throat tightens. I know, even with all the glitter, all the cameras, all the Capitol hoopla, that he isn’t performing. This isn’t a show for him.

Trent jumps up entirely now, practically standing on the couch. “No! No way! This is insane! He just admitted it! He’s in love with her! And she… she’s his tribute partner! Oh my god!”

I glance at him again, shaking my head but smiling despite myself. He’s so dramatic, so ridiculous—but somehow, it makes the whole thing easier to watch. Easier to bear, somehow, knowing someone else is just as caught up in the absurdity of this spectacle as I am.

Trent throws himself back onto the couch, clutching his hair like he’s just witnessed history being made. “Annie, do you even understand what just happened? He confessed his love on national television! The Capitol is going to lose its collective mind!”

He grabs one of the fruit slices from earlier and waves it around for emphasis. “This isn’t just a crush anymore—this is, like, star-crossed lovers level stuff! They’re going to eat this up!”

I laugh quietly, shaking my head. “You sound like Meliae.”

He gasps in mock offense. “Excuse me, I have taste! This is the best twist the Games have had in years. It’s got everything—drama, romance, forbidden love, death! I mean, come on, this is gold!”

“Tragic gold,” I murmur.

Trent points at me like I’ve just given him the winning idea for a headline. “Exactly! Tragic gold! You get it, Fishbait.” He flops backward again, still buzzing with energy, while on the screen, Caesar is wrapping up Peeta’s interview, laughing his bright, booming laugh that somehow makes my stomach twist.

The audience is roaring—clapping, cheering, standing on their feet like they’ve just witnessed something heroic. The camera pans to Katniss briefly, and even from where I’m sitting, I can see the stunned look on her face. It’s subtle, but it’s there—shock, confusion, something else beneath it that’s hard to name.

Trent presses a hand to his chest, still breathless. “You realize this means the Capitol is going to market the hell out of them now, right? Oh, they’re going to spin this into some romantic epic. The Boy with the Bread and the Girl on Fire—tell me that’s not the perfect headline.”

I can’t help but smile faintly. “It does sound like one.”

He tilts his head toward me, smirking. “You think it’s real?”

I hesitate. My gaze lingers on the screen—on Peeta, his polite smile fading as he exits the stage, head slightly lowered, shoulders drawn in.

“I don’t know,” I say quietly. “But it felt real.”

For a moment, Trent doesn’t speak. He just sits there, watching me, the flickering light from the screen reflecting in his eyes. Then he lets out a soft whistle. “If it is real,” he says, “then that girl better fight like hell. Because if she doesn’t, this is going to break the Capitol’s heart—and ours too.”

I swallow, the words catching somewhere in my chest. On the screen, Caesar waves to the crowd, declaring the interviews over. The music swells, lights flash, and the image fades to the Hunger Games insignia.

Trent groans, sinking deeper into the couch. “Well, that’s it. Tomorrow we watch them die.”

The words hang between us.

I stare at the darkened screen, my heart aching in a way I can’t explain. Maybe it’s for Rue. Maybe it’s for Katniss and Peeta. Or maybe it’s for all of them—every tribute who ever smiled on that stage, pretending they weren’t already ghosts.

Trent finally breaks the silence, quieter now. “You think they’ll make it out?”

I don’t answer right away. My hands twist together in my lap.

“I hope one of them does,” I whisper.

Trent frowns. “Well, either way, it’s doomed love. Katniss wins, Peeta dies. Peeta wins, Katniss dies. Unless they allow them both to live, but that’s just wishful thinking.”

===

Trent’s voice is gentle now, stripped of all the usual dramatics. The television’s light flickers across his face, painting him in pale blue and gold.

“Annie, I’ll turn it off,” he says softly.

I shake my head, eyes fixed on the screen. “No.”

He hesitates, shifting beside me. I can feel him watching me instead of the Games, his usual energy dimmed. “Fishbait, really, it’s okay,” he says quietly. “I don’t care if I don’t know what happens—”

“I want to see what happens with Katniss and Rue,” I interrupt. My voice sounds smaller than I expect.

The words hang there for a moment, swallowed up by the quiet hum of the TV.

There’s something in my chest I can’t name. Hope, maybe. Or something that feels like it—fragile, trembling, almost too small to hold onto. After everything that’s already happened, after watching Kaia’s cannon fire echo through the forest and seeing Arnav’s photo fade into the sky that night, I shouldn’t have any hope left. But I do.

Trent nods, slow and understanding. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Just say the word and I’ll turn it off.”

He leans back into the couch, not saying anything more. The faint sounds of the arena fill the room—rustling leaves, distant birds, the occasional heartbeat of the Capitol’s suspenseful music.

On the screen, Katniss moves carefully through the forest, her bow drawn. She looks exhausted, streaked with dirt, her eyes darting around like a hunted animal’s. For a second, the camera catches Rue in the distance—small, quiet, her smile faint as she signals with a whistle.

Trent sighs softly beside me, and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am.

They look so young.

I wrap my arms around my knees, pulling them close, trying to steady the shaking in my chest. Watching is torture. But not watching feels worse.

Because even if it’s foolish, even if it’s impossible, I want to believe that maybe—for once—two people in that arena can find something that isn’t death.

Something like kindness.

Something like hope.

The screen flickers again — smoke, fire, and the sharp sound of an explosion echoing through the arena.

Trent sits up a little straighter, eyes narrowing. “Wait, wait—what was that? That wasn’t a cannon, right?”

“No,” I say quietly, leaning forward. “It’s her. Katniss.”

Onscreen, the camera follows her as she crouches low, sprinting through the woods, her braid whipping behind her. The smoke clears just enough for us to see the ruined pile of supplies — the Careers’ hoard — blown apart, food and weapons scattered across the forest floor.

Trent lets out a low whistle. “She did it. She actually did it. She blew them up.”

He sounds amazed, almost proud. I feel the same flicker inside me — something warm and trembling — the tiniest spark of victory in a place that doesn’t allow it.

“Maybe this is it,” Trent says, his tone lighter, hopeful for the first time in days. “Maybe she actually—”

And then we hear it.

“Katniss!”

It’s Rue.

Her voice cuts through the trees — high, terrified, desperate.

Trent freezes mid-sentence.

My stomach drops. “No.”

The camera jerks violently, switching angles too quickly — chaos, leaves, running. Katniss’s bow is already in her hand, her breathing frantic as she races through the woods toward the sound.

“Come on,” Trent whispers under his breath. “Come on, come on—”

But the forest feels endless. Rue’s cries echo again, fainter this time, fading into silence.

The sound of my own heartbeat fills my ears. I press my hand to my mouth, my chest tightening so hard it hurts.

Trent’s voice is barely audible now. “Please let her be okay,” he murmurs.

The screen flickers again — Katniss bursts into the clearing.

And then we see it.

Rue, tangled in a net, struggling weakly.

Katniss reaches her quickly. She gets the net off of Rue, helping her get up.

The Career boy appears behind her, spear in hand.

“No!”

It happens too fast for either of us to process — Katniss’s arrow flies, striking true, but she’s too late.

The camera zooms in just as Rue is taking the spear out of her stomach.

I don’t even realize I’m crying until I feel it — tears slipping silently down my cheeks.

Trent reaches for the remote but hesitates, staring at the screen. “Say the word, Fishbait,” he says, voice shaking.

I can’t.

I just whisper, barely audible, “Not yet.”

Because if I turn it off now, it’ll feel like I’m letting the Capitol erase her too.

The room is silent except for the faint sounds of the forest and the broken sobs of a girl who isn’t there anymore.

Katniss drops to her knees beside her, hands trembling as she reaches out. “Rue…”

The little girl’s eyes flutter open, barely. “You blew up the food?” she asks, voice thin and fragile.

Katniss nods, choking out a sound that’s not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. “Yeah,” she says, her voice breaking. “I blew it up.”

Rue smiles, just faintly. “Good.”

My heart feels like it’s splintering. I can’t look away.

Katniss takes Rue’s hand and starts humming—a song, soft and shaking, one I don’t recognize. It’s almost too quiet to hear, but the melody threads through the trees like sunlight slipping through branches. Rue blinks slowly, her breathing uneven, and then—

Bang.

The cannon echoes, deep and final.

Trent jerks like he’s been struck. I can’t move.

Katniss flinches, her whole body curling forward as if she could somehow protect Rue from what’s already happened. She presses a trembling hand over Rue’s eyes, whispering something we can’t hear. When she finally pulls her hand away, Rue’s face looks peaceful. Still.

Katniss sits there for a moment, shoulders shaking. Then she stands, wiping her face roughly with the back of her hand. Her jaw sets in that same fierce, stubborn way I’ve seen before.

She disappears off-screen for a moment, and when she returns, she’s carrying flowers. Bright ones—white, pink, yellow. She kneels again, arranging them carefully around Rue’s small body. One by one, until the little girl is surrounded by color, by softness, by something that doesn’t belong in the arena at all.

Trent’s voice comes out in a whisper. “She’s making it beautiful.”

I nod faintly, unable to speak. My eyes sting, but I don’t wipe them.

Katniss places the last flower, then leans down to kiss Rue’s forehead. She whispers something else, inaudible, then steps back, staring down at her work through a veil of tears.

The camera lingers on the image—the girl, the flowers, the forest bathed in dying sunlight.

Katniss finds a camera and lifts up three fingers before walking away.

Neither of us say anything for a long time. The silence feels sacred.

===

 

Time blurs after Rue’s cannon.

The arena keeps moving, but I stop watching as closely. I don’t want to anymore. I tell myself it’s because I’m tired, because I’ve had enough of death for one year, but the truth is simpler: I can’t stand it. The blood, the cheering, the way people bet like it’s all a game that ends when the screens fade to black.

Trent still watches. Every night, every broadcast. He leans forward with this quiet intensity that makes my chest ache. I’ll walk past the TV and hear his voice—soft, sometimes angry, sometimes whispering to no one—arguing with the camera, with the Capitol, with the odds.

And every time I try to look away, something keeps pulling me back.

Katniss still alive. Peeta still breathing.

Two people who aren’t supposed to be.

For the first time in a long time, it feels like maybe something good could happen. Like maybe there’s a sliver of light left in this place that’s supposed to be nothing but dark.

When the announcement comes, I’m halfway down the hall, trying to convince myself I don’t care anymore. But Trent’s shout makes me stop cold.

“They said—wait—they just said—” He scrambles closer to the screen, nearly tripping over the coffee table. “Annie, you have to see this!”

I sigh, but something in his voice—something disbelieving and desperate—makes me walk back.

Claudius Templesmith’s voice booms from the speakers, smooth and rehearsed as always. “Attention, tributes: a rule change. There may now be two victors—if both come from the same district.”

Trent’s mouth falls open. “That means—” He turns toward me, eyes wide, gleaming with something like hope. “That means they can both win. Katniss and Peeta. They can both win!”

For a second, I forget to breathe.

Katniss, the girl who sang to Rue. The girl who buried her in flowers.

Peeta, who looked at her like she was something holy.

It’s too much to believe in. Too fragile. But Trent’s face—lit by the flicker of the screen, his smile breaking through weeks of exhaustion—makes me want to believe it too.

Hours pass. Days maybe. I stop pretending not to care. We both stay up late, watching every flicker of the cameras. Watching them find each other again. Watching them fight to stay alive.

Then—finally—when the District Two boy falls, when his cannon echoes across the arena—Trent jumps to his feet, hands gripping his hair.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, laughter breaking through his shock. “They won! They both won!”

His voice fills the room, wild and full of disbelief.

I stare at the screen where Katniss and Peeta cling to each other, trembling, bloodied, but alive. The Capitol anthem swells in the background, but it feels… wrong, somehow. Too polished for something that feels this human.

Trent laughs again, almost crying now. “Can you believe it? They actually did it!”

I don’t answer right away. My throat’s tight.

Because for the first time since Rue’s cannon, since my own Games, since everything—I feel it too.

Hope.

Small and trembling, but real.

“Yeah,” I whisper, voice shaking. “They did.”

I find myself remembering every detail.

How Katniss found Peeta, half-dead, bleeding out by the riverbank. The way her hands shook when she pressed that salve to his leg, whispering things like she could will him back to life. How she risked everything to get him medicine, to keep him warm, to keep him here.

And then… the cave.

The Capitol broadcasted every second of it, of course. Every kiss, every trembling laugh. Every moment that felt too private, too tender to belong to anyone but them. Peeta’s voice, soft and unguarded; Katniss’s cautious smile, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to feel something good.

Even Trent stopped making jokes then. We just sat there, quiet, watching.

And for the first time since my own Games, I thought maybe—just maybe—love could survive this place.

But then—

“Attention, tributes. There’s been a slight rule change. The previous provision allowing for two victors of the same district has been revoked. There may only be one victor.”

The air leaves the room all at once.

Trent freezes. His mouth hangs open for a moment before he shouts, “What—what no!” He jumps to his feet, clutching his hair like he could pull the words back out of the air. “No! This isn’t fair, dude! You can’t just—” He turned toward me, wild-eyed. “They won! They already won!”

My heart drops straight through me.

On the screen, Katniss and Peeta stare at each other, shock and horror flashing across their faces. The cameras zoom in cruelly, milking the moment, showing us every ounce of pain.

Trent’s voice breaks. “They can’t do this! They can’t!”

But then Katniss moves—slowly, steadily. Her expression hardens, jaw set like she’d made up her mind. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small handful of dark berries.

Nightlock.

The same poison they’d talked about days before. The same poison that killed another tribute.

She holds out half to Peeta. He looks at her—really looks at her—and something passes between them. Not panic. Not even fear. Just… understanding.

Trent whispers, “No way… no way they’re actually gonna—”

On-screen, they each hold out their handful. The camera zooms in on the purple-black fruit trembling in their palms.

“On three,” Katniss mumbles.

“One.”

“Two.”

They raise their hands together—

“Stop! Stop!”

A voice echoes over the arena.

Trent screams, practically falling over the couch. “Oh my god!”

“I present to you, the victors of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games: Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark!”

Trent erupts.

He starts shouting, jumping, spinning in circles. “They did it! They did it! I told you they’d do it!” He grabs my shoulders, shaking me so hard I nearly fall over. “Annie, can you believe this?! They beat the Capitol! Oh my god!”

I laugh—actually laugh—and for a second, I can’t tell if I’m crying too.

On the screen, Katniss and Peeta cling to each other as the hovercraft descends. Bloodied, shaking, half-broken—but alive.

And somehow, watching them, it doesn’t just feel like they’d survived the Games.

It felt like, for the first time in a long time, we had too.

Chapter Text

It’s been a couple of days since the Seventy-Fourth Games ended. The footage still replays on Capitol channels—Katniss and Peeta holding hands, the nightlock berries between them, the moment they changed everything. But Trent and I keep the TV off. I think we’ve both had enough of it for now.

Instead, we’re at the kitchen table, the warm afternoon light spilling across the cards between us. The sea breeze sneaks through the open window, making them flutter slightly. Trent groans as I lay down another winning hand.

“You’re cheating,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes.

“I’m not cheating,” I say, trying not to smile.

“You’re absolutely cheating.”

“I’m just better.”

He throws his hands up dramatically. “You’re like some kind of card shark, Fishbait. It’s terrifying.”

“You’re just bad at this game.”

He leans forward, grinning mischievously. “Or maybe you’re too distracted by how charming I am.”

I don’t even look up. “You wish.”

We keep going for a few more rounds—each one ending the same way: Trent losing and acting like the world is ending. Then, halfway through another hand, he squints past me toward the window and gasps.

“Annie, what’s that over there!”

I don’t look up. “Nice try.”

“No, seriously!”

“Trent.”

He leans forward, waving his hand frantically. “No, actually—look!”

I sigh, ready to roll my eyes again, but something in his tone makes me hesitate. He’s not teasing.

When I finally turn, I see what he sees.

Out on the path leading to the house, two figures are slowly making their way toward us. Mags—her hair wild from travel, her pace steady but slow—and Finnick beside her, his bags in his hands.

For a moment, I just stare. My chest tightens, like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

I don’t even think—I just leap from my seat, heart hammering so fast it hurts. My chair scrapes against the floor as I sprint toward the front door.

“Annie!” Trent calls, but I’m already moving.

I throw the door open, the warm breeze hitting me full on, carrying the faint scent of salt and sun. And there they are—Finnick, really Finnick, walking toward me.

His eyes catch mine, and suddenly he’s running too. He drops the bags he’s been carrying without a second thought, letting them thud to the ground, and his arms open wide.

I don’t hesitate. I run straight into them, and the moment our bodies meet, he lifts me off my feet. The world tilts and spins for a second as he twirls me around. My laughter bursts out, full and unrestrained, and Finnick’s laughter joins in, blending perfectly with mine. The wind whips through my hair, tangling it with his, the late afternoon sun catching every strand and making it glint like gold.

He spins me faster, careful to keep me in his arms, and I can feel the strength in his grip—the kind that makes the world feel steady even when you’re spinning through it. My hands clutch his shoulders; his hands stay firm at my waist. We’re laughing, gasping, completely lost in the moment, and it feels like nothing else exists but the two of us.

Then, slowly, we stop spinning. Our chests are pressed together, our breaths mingling, hearts still hammering. Finnick leans in, just a fraction closer, and I tilt my head up.

And then our lips meet.

It’s soft at first, hesitant, testing, the kind of kiss that’s been building through months of separation and worry. But then it deepens, and suddenly it’s not soft anymore—it’s full of all the relief, the joy, the fear that we’ve carried, the unspoken words that only this moment can say. My hands press into his shoulders, nails digging just slightly, and Finnick’s arms tighten around me, holding me like he never wants to let go.

The world blurs around us—the sounds of the waves, the rustle of the trees, Trent’s frantic cheers in the distance—but it doesn’t matter. There’s only this: the feel of him, the taste of him, the steady heat of his body pressed against mine.

When we finally pull back just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against mine, and we’re both laughing again, soft and breathless.

“I missed you,” I whisper.

Finnick smiles, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I missed you too.”

I hear Trent’s footsteps pounding up the path, and I grin. “Trent’s coming.” I say, stepping aside.

“Finnick!” Trent shouts, launching himself at him and wrapping him in a bear hug. Finnick laughs, barely able to hold his balance, and I take the chance to move toward Mags, pulling her into a warm hug.

“You’re home,” I murmur against her shoulder.

“I’m home,” she replies softly, patting my back.

Finnick goes to pick up the bags he dropped, but Trent insists on carrying a bag so Finnick can have a completely free hand to hold mine. I let him, smiling as our fingers interlace.
The four of us—me holding Finnick’s hand, Mags at my side, Trent juggling bags and muttering about how heavy they are—make our way back to the house, laughter spilling into the evening air. The sun is low now, gold and soft, painting everything in that warm light that always makes District Four look like it’s glowing. The smell of the sea drifts through the breeze, mingling with the faint salt on Finnick’s skin and the scent of home—our home.

Finnick squeezes my hand every now and then, like he still needs to make sure I’m real, and each time, I squeeze back. His thumb traces slow, lazy circles over the back of my hand, and it’s all I can do not to smile so hard my cheeks hurt.

Mags keeps pace beside us, her small frame steady and certain despite the long trip. Every few steps, she looks up at Finnick like she’s taking stock of him, like she wants to see for herself that he made it back in one piece.

Trent huffs behind us, adjusting one of the heavier bags on his shoulder. “I swear you people pack like you’re moving the whole district,” he grumbles, but there’s no bite in it. He’s smiling, too—bright and relieved.

The house comes into view just as the first stars start to appear over the water. The sight makes my chest tighten a little, the familiar shape of it—the crooked shutters, the worn steps, the flowers Mags planted months ago now blooming in soft waves of color. It feels like peace.

“I can make dinner,” I offer automatically as we reach the door, turning toward the kitchen before anyone can argue. “You’ve both been traveling all day.”

Mags stops me immediately, her hand gentle but firm on my arm. “No, Annie. I want to.”

She glances between Finnick and me, and there’s a playful spark in her eye that makes me feel fourteen again. “You two have been through enough. Go sit. Relax. Let an old woman feel useful.”

Finnick chuckles, leaning down to kiss her temple. “You’re more than useful, Mags.”

Trent drops one of the bags onto the floor with a dramatic groan. “If she’s cooking, I’m officially staying. You can’t keep me away from a Mags meal.”

Mags just shakes her head, amused. “Good. You can set the table then.”

I laugh softly, glancing at Finnick. His hand finds mine again almost without thought, his thumb brushing lightly against my skin. There’s a look in his eyes—soft, content, full of something quiet and unspoken that makes my heart ache in the best way.

For the first time in a long while, the house feels alive again. The laughter, the warmth, the smell of the sea seeping through the open window—it feels like everything broken is, just for tonight, whole again.

Finnick’s thumb keeps tracing slow, soothing circles against my skin, grounding me in the kind of peace I almost forgot existed. The house feels alive again — Mags’ quiet humming from the kitchen, the clatter of Trent setting plates down, the smell of herbs and saltwater and something warm baking.

It’s like the air itself exhales.

“I missed you,” I murmur, my voice soft but certain.

He turns a little, eyes finding mine. There’s a look there — one that makes my chest ache and my heart settle at the same time. “I’m back now,” he says, his voice low and tired and full of something tender.

I nod, but the words feel fragile in my throat. “You promise?”

He smiles, that slow, real one that starts small and spreads all the way to his eyes. “Always.”

For a few seconds, I just look at him. Memorizing the lines of his face, the new faint shadows under his eyes, the warmth that never really left them. My fingers find his jaw, my thumb brushing along the stubble there. He leans into my touch, just barely.

“You don’t get to leave again,” I whisper.

He laughs softly, the sound rumbling against me. “I wouldn’t dare.”

I let out a shaky breath, half a laugh, half something else. “Good.”

We sit there like that for a while — just breathing, holding, existing — until he speaks again. “How was Trent while we were gone?”

That makes me smile. “Good,” I say. “Better than good. He… stayed here the whole time. Made sure I wasn’t alone. He’d make me tea in the mornings, tried to cook dinner—though most of the time it was me who had to save it.”

Finnick chuckles quietly. “That sounds like him.”

“He really did try,” I say, my tone softening. “He’d tell me stories about you two when you were younger. The time you got caught stealing bread from the harbor stalls. Or when you convinced him he could catch a jellyfish with his hands.”

He laughs again, a little louder this time, and it feels like sunlight breaking through. “He actually told you that one?”

“Every detail,” I say, grinning. “Even the part where you made him think it was his fault.”

Finnick shakes his head, still smiling. “He never forgave me for that.”

I rest my chin on his shoulder, watching the golden light spill through the window. “He really took care of me, Finnick. I don’t think I would’ve handled it as well if he wasn’t here.”

“I’m glad,” he murmurs, his voice gentler now. “He’s always been better at that than he gives himself credit for.”

We fall quiet again. The air smells like home — salt and pine and something cooking we’ll eat together soon.

Then, from the kitchen, Trent’s voice calls out, “Dinner’s ready—assuming you two haven’t fallen asleep over there.”

Finnick lets out a soft laugh, the vibration running through his chest and into mine. “Almost,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to my temple before standing and holding out his hand.

“Come on,” he says with a grin that finally looks like the one I remember. “Before Mags decides to eat without us.”

I take his hand, the warmth of it solid and familiar, and together we walk toward the kitchen—toward the smell of food, the promise of laughter, and the fragile, beautiful peace we’ve both fought so hard to find.

As we walk toward the kitchen, I hear Mags scolding Trent for sneaking a bite before everyone’s ready, her voice sharp but full of laughter. Finnick squeezes my hand, his thumb brushing over the back of it like he’s reminding himself I’m real.

We step into the light spilling from the kitchen doorway. Mags looks up and smiles at us both, eyes glimmering with a quiet pride that says she’s seen too much and somehow still believes in good endings. Trent beams when he sees Finnick, lifting a plate like a trophy.

“There they are!” he says. “About time—you were gonna make me eat all of this myself.”

Finnick chuckles, guiding me toward the table. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

We sit, shoulders brushing, knees bumping beneath the table, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the silence that follows isn’t heavy or haunted—it’s warm. The kind that hums between the clink of silverware and the sound of people you love breathing beside you.

Mags passes me the bread, Finnick serves the fish, and Trent starts telling a story that makes no sense but has everyone laughing anyway.

It isn’t perfect. It never will be. But as Finnick’s hand finds mine again under the table, his thumb drawing lazy circles against my skin, I realize perfection isn’t what I’ve been craving.

It’s this.

The smell of dinner. The sound of laughter. The feeling of home.

The fragile, beautiful peace we’ve both fought so hard to find.

“I just gotta say,” Trent begins, motioning with his fork like he’s about to give a speech. “This year was a wild one.”

Mags chuckles, pouring herself a bit of tea. “You can say that twice. I mean, who would’ve known Finnick and Johanna would stop being friends?”

“I mean, yeah, like her dress—” Trent stops mid-thought, blinking. “Wait, what?”

I turn to Finnick, my fork pausing halfway to my mouth. “You stopped being friends?”

Finnick exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. “We had an argument a couple months ago,” he says. “But we made up now. We’re fine again.”

“Well, you know, if you ever need your best friend,” Trent says, lifting a hand dramatically to his chest. “I’m right here.”

Finnick lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not replacing you, idiot,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “It’s just… nice to finally have someone to hang out with in the Capitol. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have made it through the Games as a mentor after you won, Annie.”

I can’t help but smile. “Tell her thank you for me.”

Finnick scoffs, a low chuff escaping him. “She’d kill me if I said anything remotely sweet to her.”

“You know what was also sweet?” Trent says, grinning like he’s been waiting for the segue. “That whole Katniss and Peeta arc. I mean, who would’ve guessed?”

“Yeah,” Finnick mumbles, stabbing absently at his food. “Incredible.”

Trent barrels on, oblivious to the flat tone. “I remember sitting there when Peeta announced that absolute plot twist on national television. I was like what! No way! I mean, it quite literally felt like a fever dream. And then they almost killed themselves together? And they became the first duo-victors?”

“You should’ve seen the mentor room when that happened,” Mags chuckles, eyes glinting with amusement. “It was loud.”

Trent snorts. “I’d kill to be a fly on that wall when it happened. I mean, it was never heard of. Literal star-crossed lovers!”

“Yeah,” Finnick says quietly, his tone sharper this time, his fork dragging across his plate. “Really genuine.”

The room softens a little, the laughter tapering off. Trent looks over at me, eyebrows raised, and I feel my frown deepen. I reach out and rest a hand gently on Finnick’s shoulder.

“I’m feeling some… tension from your tone, Odair,” Trent says finally, trying to make it light but sounding more cautious than before.

Finnick sighs. “You’re telling me you actually believe in their love?”

The words hang there, heavier than they should be.

Trent hesitates, fork hovering in midair. “Well… yeah,” he says, uncertain. “Don’t you?”

Finnick doesn’t answer right away. He just sits there, his fork still in his hand, eyes fixed on the plate in front of him. The light from the kitchen lamp hits his face in that soft, golden way that makes every tiny shift of emotion visible—the subtle twitch of his jaw, the tension building in the line of his shoulders.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low. Careful. “I’ve seen the Capitol make people say and do things they don’t mean,” he says. “You’d be surprised what looks like love when someone’s desperate enough.”

Trent blinks, confused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Are you telling me they faked it?”

Finnick exhales sharply through his nose, setting his fork down with a faint clatter. “Peeta? I don’t know,” he admits, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe he’s genuine. He looked like it.” He pauses, eyes narrowing faintly in thought before he shakes his head. “But Katniss? There’s no way she loves that boy.”

His tone isn’t cruel—just heavy, like he’s carrying too many ghosts in the space between his words.

Trent lets out a disbelieving laugh. “You really think she was pretending? After everything? The cave, the berries—come on!”

Finnick’s mouth pulls into a grim line. “That’s exactly what I mean. Using love like that—pretending it’s some fairy tale—it only reinforces what Snow already believes.” He glances up, meeting my eyes briefly before looking away again. “It reminds him that love works best as a weapon.”

The air goes still.

Mags stops mid-motion, hand on her cup. Even Trent, who never quite knows when to stop talking, seems to lose his words.

“Finnick…” I start softly, but he only shakes his head, his expression distant.

He leans back in his chair, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the kitchen walls. “The Capitol loves a good story,” he says finally, voice quiet. “But they love control even more. Katniss doesn’t know it yet, but she just gave Snow both.”

Trent’s the first to break the silence, of course. He always is.

“Okay, but—come on,” he says, pointing his fork toward Finnick like he’s trying to build a case. “You can’t fake that. You saw how she looked at him, right? The way she panicked when he was hurt? That wasn’t just for show.”

Finnick doesn’t look up. He just pokes absently at what’s left on his plate, jaw still set tight.

“I mean,” Trent continues, undeterred, “maybe it started as an act, but something had to be real by the end. You don’t volunteer to die together if there’s nothing there. That was—” he searches for the word, eyes bright with stubborn disbelief, “—love. It had to be.”

Finnick lets out a short laugh. Not the kind that comes from amusement, but from something sharper, more bitter. “You’re forgetting what kind of show this is, Trent. People die on camera every year, and the Capitol still finds a way to make it romantic.”

Trent’s jaw goes slack, his fork clattering against his plate as he sets it down. The room feels heavier now, the air thick and still. Even Mags, who’s been quietly listening, watching, doesn’t move—her eyes fixed on Finnick, unreadable but filled with quiet understanding.

“That’s not fair,” Trent says finally, shaking his head. His voice is low now, almost pleading. “You can’t just assume everyone’s pretending because the Capitol twists things. Not everyone’s like—” He stops abruptly, his eyes flicking to me, like he’s realizing too late what he’s about to say.

Finnick’s head tilts, his gaze steady and sharp. “Like me?”

Trent swallows hard. “I didn’t mean—”

“No,” Finnick cuts in, his tone softer but heavier somehow, like every word is being dragged out from somewhere deep. “You’re right. You’re not wrong to think that. But you also haven’t seen what the Capitol does when they get a hold of love.”

He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, shoulders curving inward as if the weight of his words is pulling him down. His expression is unreadable—too controlled, too still. “They take something pure, something real, and they twist it until you don’t recognize it anymore. They turn your heart into a product. Your pain into entertainment. And when you’ve got nothing left to sell, they move on to the next story, the next body.”

His voice doesn’t rise, but it doesn’t need to. The quiet carries more anger than shouting ever could.

No one says anything. The only sound is the faint clink of Mags’ spoon as she sets it down beside her bowl, her lips pressed thin.

Trent looks at him, all the color drained from his face. “So you really think Katniss was just… playing along?” he asks, his voice small now. “That everything between them was fake?”

Finnick exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face before resting it against the table again. “I think,” he says quietly, “she did what she had to do to stay alive.”

He looks up then—first at Trent, then at me. The hardness in his eyes softens, replaced with something weary, something that aches to be understood. “I don’t blame her for that. None of us should. But…” His jaw tightens, his next words barely more than a whisper. “To stand there, to hold those berries in her hands, to make a game out of the one thing I have left—love—it just reinforces Snow’s logic.”

He shakes his head, voice trembling ever so slightly as the wall in his tone begins to crack. “She played the Games with those berries. Her punishment is going to be pretending. Pretending to love that boy until the Capitol gets bored of her story.”

He glances down at the table again, his hand curling into a fist. “My punishment for loving?” His throat bobs as he swallows. “It’s being Snow’s slave.”

The room falls silent. Even Trent, who never seems to know when to stop talking, looks like he’s run out of words. The only sound left is the ocean—the slow, rhythmic pulse of waves against the shore, seeping through the open window like a heartbeat that refuses to care about anything that happens inside this house.

Finnick leans back in his chair, shoulders slumping as if something heavy has finally given way. He runs a hand through his hair, the motion tired, almost absent. “I just hope their little story redirects the spotlight for me for a while,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, drained of the earlier sharpness. “I want to have actual free time.”

Mags gives him a look that’s somewhere between sympathy and disbelief, as if she knows exactly how impossible that wish is. Trent frowns, shifting in his seat. “You really think they’ll let you go that easily?”

Finnick gives a humorless laugh. “No. But I can hope they’ll get distracted for a while. Maybe if everyone’s too busy watching Katniss and Peeta, the Capitol won’t be knocking on my door every time they want something beautiful to ruin.”

The words hang there, bitter and hollow. He doesn’t look at any of us when he says them, just stares at the table, fingers tracing the grain in the wood as if he’s trying to ground himself.

Mags reaches over and squeezes his arm gently, and for a second, Finnick’s expression softens. But it fades just as quickly, the exhaustion settling back in his face like a shadow he can’t shake.

Trent opens his mouth to say something—something meant to comfort, probably—but no words come out. Instead, the four of us just sit there, the smell of salt and dinner and quiet grief filling the space, while the ocean outside keeps moving, endless and indifferent.

===

A couple hours later, the house has gone still. The only light comes from the moon spilling through the curtains, pale and soft, brushing across the floorboards. Mags is asleep in the room down the hall and Trent left not long after dinner, promising to come back soon.

Now it’s just Finnick and me.

I sit on the edge of the bed, legs tucked beneath me, listening to the quiet hum of the ocean outside. Finnick’s in the bathroom, the sound of running water and clinking glass faintly echoing. When he finally steps out, his curls are damp and there’s a tiredness in his eyes that hasn’t lifted since the conversation at dinner.

He hesitates by the doorway for a moment before coming closer, rubbing at the back of his neck like he’s working up to something. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For making dinner awkward.”

I glance up, surprised. “You didn’t.”

He huffs a small laugh, sitting beside me. “I did. I could feel the air go cold the second I opened my mouth.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “Trent didn’t deserve that. Neither did you.”

I study him for a moment—the tension still in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch like he’s still in fight mode. “You didn’t say anything wrong,” I tell him softly. “You just… told the truth.”

He exhales through his nose, the sound tired. “Yeah, well, truth doesn’t make for great dinner conversation.”

I reach out, brushing my hand against his arm until he finally looks at me. His eyes meet mine, and for a second, the guardedness drops. What’s left is just exhaustion, guilt, and something tender underneath it all.

“Come on,” I say after a moment, tugging at his hand. “Let’s sleep. You’ve spent enough time thinking tonight.”

He chuckles quietly, the sound low and familiar. “Yes, ma’am.”

He doesn’t say anything after that. His thumb moves lazily against my back, tracing invisible patterns, until the motion slows and stills.

Soon his breathing deepens, his chest rising and falling in that steady rhythm that always lulls me to sleep. It’s soft and steady, like the ocean outside, and I find myself timing my breaths with his without meaning to. The moonlight spills across the sheets, catching in his hair, in the faint scars that never really faded, in the curve of his mouth that still softens when he sleeps.

I stay awake a little longer, just watching him—listening to the quiet, committing every piece of it to memory. The safety. The warmth. The impossible gentleness of it all.

There was a time when I didn’t think we’d ever have this—when the Games felt like a curse we’d never escape, a sentence that followed us home. And maybe it still does, in ways that don’t show. We may never be the same as when we were fourteen. We may never be those kids again—the ones who thought the world was simple, who thought the Capitol was far away, who didn’t yet understand what it meant to be broken and still keep living anyway.

We went into the arena, and we came out different. We did and saw things no child should ever have to endure. We learned how fragile everything really is—how quick the light can disappear.

And yet, somehow, here we are.

We’re different people now, shaped by something cruel and irreversible. Our way of seeing the world is one that only a handful of people could ever understand. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to talk to anyone else—why “fine” is always easier than the truth. Why silence sometimes feels like the only language that makes sense.

But tonight, with Finnick’s heartbeat steady against mine, I think about how lucky I am to have found something that still feels real. Maybe this—this small, quiet thing—is our victory. Not the crowns, not the interviews, not the performances. Just this. Surviving long enough to find peace in another person’s arms.

Even the unluckiest people, it seems, can have something turn in their favor.

I shift closer, my fingers brushing against his hand, and let my eyes fall shut. The world outside keeps moving—waves crashing, wind whispering through the palms—but in here, everything is still.

If the world ended right now, I think, I wouldn’t ask for anything more.

So whether Katniss and Peeta’s love may or may not be true, I know mine and Finnick’s is.

I wouldn’t change it any other way.

Chapter Text

Finnick, Trent, and I make our way through the sun-warmed, salt-scented streets of District Four, moving through clusters of vendors calling out prices, boats being unloaded, children darting around barefoot. The late-afternoon light hits everything in gold, and the sea breeze threads through our hair like it’s greeting us personally.

Finnick’s hand is locked with mine, fingers intertwined, our joined hands swinging lightly between us. Every now and then his thumb brushes my knuckle—absent, gentle, instinctive. It roots me in place even as the world bustles around us.

“Finn, remember when Ronyn was racing you and when he went to stop, he tripped?” Trent says, laughing as we pass a familiar old fishing bush where they used to hide during games.

Finnick lets out a low chuff. “With a mouthful of leaves. He swore he broke his nose.”

Trent grins, shaking his head as if he’s reliving it. “Have you spoken to Ronyn or any of them recently? You know how we used to be. You, me, Eric, Ronyn, and Marin. Practically glued together.”

Finnick’s expression shifts—barely, but enough. The playful ease fades just a fraction. “No,” he says, brows knitting slightly. “They don’t talk to me anymore.”

Trent slows, confused. “What?”

Finnick shrugs, like it’s obvious, like it’s old news that nobody else should be surprised by. I tighten my hold on his hand, squeezing once, grounding him.

“Trent, they don’t like me anymore,” he says, voice flat but not cold—more resigned than anything. “You’re the only one I talk to.”

Trent stops walking for a second, staring at him like the words don’t make sense in the same sentence. “But they used—”

“They used to like me?” Finnick finishes, his tone soft but edged with something brittle. “Yeah. That was before I got the reputation I have now.”

He kicks a stray pebble off the path, eyes focused ahead. The market noise swells briefly—vendors shouting over one another, nets slapping against wooden tables, gulls screeching overhead. It fills the silence in a way that feels almost pointed.

“They don’t want to be associated with me,” Finnick continues quietly. “A lot of people from school, too. I mean…” He lets out a humorless puff of air. “Sometimes girls from our old classes come up to me, but it’s just because I’m the Capitol Darling.”

The words taste bitter in his mouth. I can hear it.

“I don’t care to entertain them like I have to in the Capitol,” he adds, giving my hand another soft squeeze. “I have more than I need with Annie.”

My cheeks warm. Trent notices, but he doesn’t tease. He’s too focused on Finnick—on processing the idea that their old friend group simply… evaporated once Finnick became something shiny to the Capitol and shameful to everyone else.

Trent shakes his head, almost under his breath. “I didn’t know they were like that,” he murmurs. “I thought we were all still… us.”

Finnick lets out a quiet, almost tired laugh. “Yeah, well,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Things change.”

“Damn, who knew the mighty Finnick Odair would only have two friends and a girlfriend? And one of his friends he only sees a month out of the year?” Trent says, tossing a dramatic hand in the air as we weave through a line of shoppers. “Who would’ve thought?”

The word girlfriend sticks to me—not in a sharp, startling way, but in a soft, settling one. Like the warmth of sun on skin. Finnick and I never sat down and labeled anything; it just happened between us, all quiet and natural, like breathing. But hearing Trent say it—hearing it out loud—makes something fuzzy and fluttery bloom in my chest. I sneak a glance at Finnick, but he’s unfazed, thumb brushing mine like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Finnick snorts and rolls his eyes. “Don’t forget Chaff and Haymitch. Two forty-year-olds with bottles in their hands.”

“Oh, right—your little circle you talk so fondly about,” Trent teases. “How’s Chaff anyway? I had to do a report on him, and let me tell you, there was no information on the guy.”

I blink. “We had to do that?”

 

“That actually brings me to my other point,” Trent says suddenly, halting so quickly that Finnick tugs me into his chest to keep me from colliding into Trent’s back. His hands steady my waist for half a second before he lets go, but the ghost of his touch lingers.

Trent turns toward us with exaggerated betrayal written all over his face. He plants his hands on his hips—full dramatic performance. “I’m never forgiving you guys for making me go to school alone. First Finnick leaves at the ripe old age of fourteen—and then Annie at seventeen. I had to endure the last year of school with no backup, no distractions, no comedic relief. Alone.”

“You poor, suffering soul,” Finnick deadpans.

“Thank you! Someone acknowledges it!” Trent waves at a passing fisherman who glances at him like he’s unhinged. “Do you understand I had to sit through Mr. Carrow’s math class without either of you to make fun of his moustache with me?”

I laugh, remembering that awful, lopsided moustache that looked like it wanted to escape his face. “You could’ve made fun of it alone.”

“It’s not the same!” Trent insists, pointing between us with both hands. “I was abandoned. Emotionally. Academically. Socially.”

Finnick nudges him with his shoulder. “You survived.”

“Barely.”

He keeps walking afterward, arms crossed dramatically, but a smile tugs at his mouth—one he can’t quite hide.

Finnick squeezes my hand again as Trent regains his dramatic composure and resumes walking, muttering about abandonment and betrayal. We fall back into step behind him, weaving through a row of fish stalls where the air smells like salt and seaweed.

“You know,” Finnick says under his breath, glancing at Trent’s sulking back, “he’s going to milk this for years.”

“You wound me,” Trent says, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest like Finnick has dealt him a fatal blow. “Truly. Right here. Mortal injury.”

“Trent,” I laugh, “you’d need basic social skills before anyone marries you.”

He spins around, walking backward again, one eyebrow raised. “Wow. Both of you coming for me today. Incredible. I survive two years abandoned by my so-called best friends, and this is the thanks I get.”

Finnick slides his arm around my waist without even thinking about it, pulling me a little closer as we walk. “You make it very easy,” he says.

“Please,” Trent groans. “You missed me so much you replaced me with a bunch of middle-aged alcoholics. I would so much as say—”

“Annie! Annie Cresta!”

My entire body goes rigid. The sound of my name—sharp, desperate, too familiar in the wrong way—freezes me in place. Instinct drags me into Finnick’s side before I can think. He responds instantly, tightening his arm around my waist, shielding without making it obvious.

Trent’s joke dies in his throat. His head snaps toward the voice, brows pulling tight.

Two girls come hurrying down the boardwalk toward us, stepping around people with practiced confidence. Their clothes are immaculate—beach dresses that look too expensive for casual wear, hair curled and glossy, jewelry that catches the fading sunlight. Their smiles are wide. Too wide. Like knives pretending to be ribbons.

Something about them feels wrong—the way their eyes seize onto me like they own a piece of my past, the way they wave too excitedly, too forcefully. Finnick’s fingers flex on my waist, subtle but sharp. Trent shifts forward half a step, bracing himself like he’s expecting a wave to hit.

“Annie!” one of the girls calls again, breathless as they stop in front of us. Her voice is high and sugary, but the sweetness is brittle—forced. “We knew it was you. Oh my god, look at you!”

I blink at them, confusion knotting in my chest.

Their faces blur with something old and unpleasant—like seeing a childhood drawing you thought you’d thrown away.
They’re smiling at me like we were best friends.

“Oh my gosh, Annie, you don’t remember us?” the taller one chirps, stepping in closer—too close.

Finnick subtly angles himself, keeping me a shielded half-step behind him without showing his teeth. Trent crosses his arms, glaring, already unimpressed.

“I…” I manage, voice small without meaning to be. “I don’t.”

The shorter girl reaches out suddenly—like she’s going to touch me, grab my arm, stake some weird claim.

Finnick moves before I can.

His hand lifts, gentle but firm, intercepting her wrist without ever actually grabbing her. Just blocking. Creating a clean, unmistakable line.

“I wouldn’t,” he says softly—but the softness isn’t friendly.

Both girls freeze.

Neither of them expected him to step in. Maybe they didn’t even acknowledge he was there.

“Um…” the tall one stammers, eyes darting to Finnick. “We were just saying hi.”

“Then say hi,” Finnick replies. “From there.”

“Annie, seriously, you don’t remember us?” the shorter girl asks.

There’s something uncomfortably familiar about them.

“Oh my god,” Trent mutters.

The taller girl turns to him like she just realized he was there. She stares at for a couple seconds. “Hurley, is that you?”

Trent gives them a tight-lipped smile.

“Wait then that means…” the shorter girl’s words fade out as she looks at Finnick again.

The shorter girl’s eyes widen like she’s just fit a puzzle piece into place.
Her gaze flicks between Finnick, Trent, and me with a dawning, breathless realization—one that makes my stomach twist.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, her voice pitching high with disbelief. “So you’re… you’re Finnick Odair.”

Her tone turns syrupy, too sweet in that practiced way I remember from school hallways—girls who sharpened their kindness into a weapon. And even though I don’t fully recognize her face, something inside me remembers the feeling.

Finnick doesn’t acknowledge it. Not directly. But I feel the way his body shifts—just enough to put himself slightly in front of me. A subtle shield.

The taller one straightens her shoulders, like she suddenly cares about how she’s standing. “We knew Annie before she was…” Her eyes drag down me, up me, landing on Finnick again. “…all this. Remember? You were always with her.”

All this. I don’t even know what that means. Or maybe I do, and I just don’t want to think about it.

Finnick’s hand tightens at my waist—not painfully, just grounding. His voice stays mild, but there’s steel under it.

“Then maybe you should be a little more careful how you talk to her.”

Both girls flinch at that. They weren’t expecting him to defend me. They weren’t expecting him to know me beyond what the Capitol broadcasts.

“We didn’t mean anything by it,” the shorter girl says quickly, hands raised like she’s proving her innocence. “It’s just… you know. It’s weird seeing you again. You look different.”

Different. Broken.

“It’s the hair,” the tall one adds, giving a nervous laugh. “And the… whole thing. You’re, like… a Victor now.”

The word hits me like a tap to a bruise—small, but sharp.

Trent snorts loudly. “Wow. Incredible observation. Maybe next you’ll tell us the ocean’s wet.”

The shorter one scowls at him the way she used to in school, annoyed that he isn’t playing along with whatever script she’s written in her head.

“Look,” she says, switching her tone to something gentler—something she probably thinks sounds genuine. “We didn’t mean to freak you out. We were just excited. It’s been years, Annie. We thought you’d be happy to see us.”

Finnick glances down at me—checking, not pushing. Letting me decide if I want to speak or walk away or pretend none of this is happening.

But my voice won’t come. Not the right words. Not any words.

The tall girl watches me struggle for a moment, her smile faltering. “You really don’t remember us?”

A tiny shake of my head is all I can manage.

Their faces fall—not with hurt, but with offense. As if my forgetting them is the worst thing that’s ever happened to them.

“Oh,” the shorter girl says, and the sweetness drains from her voice so quickly it’s almost dizzying. What’s left is thin, brittle, and edged with judgment. “Well. I guess Capitol life changes people.”

The way she says it—Capitol life—isn’t neutral. It’s an accusation. A blame she doesn’t understand she has no right to cast.

Finnick’s inhale is subtle, but I feel it through the hand he still has around my waist. Controlled. Calculated. Like he’s measuring the exact number of words he could say without tearing someone apart.

He doesn’t get the chance.

Trent jumps in like someone just fired the starting cannon. “Yeah,” he announces, clapping once—too loud, on purpose. “Okay! Reunion over! Thanks for stopping by, ladies. Annie appreciates the nostalgia trip but we’re gonna head out now. Bye!”

He waves with the flourish of someone who has absolutely no intention of lingering a second longer.

But the taller girl steps forward before we can turn.

“Annie, it’s Selkie and Delphine, remember?”

The names hit like pebbles thrown into a still pond—tiny impacts that send ripples through memories I’ve spent years burying.

Selkie.

Delphine.

Suddenly it’s not their faces I recognize, but the feeling of them. Lunch tables that felt isolating. Snickers behind palms. Standing at the tide pools while they told me I was doing everything wrong, that I was too slow, too quiet, too strange.

The prickle in my spine, that instinct to shrink away—not from fear, but from exhaustion. That familiar heaviness of knowing they were never truly friends. That the smiles were masks and the whispers were not.

It all comes back in a slow, sickening bloom.

They’re older now. Different clothes, different posture. But the dynamic—the imbalance—slides back into place like it never left.

“Oh,” I mutter.

It’s all I can manage.

A single syllable that tastes like salt and old humiliation.

Selkie’s mouth twitches, like she’s waiting for the rest of my reaction to show up late.

“That’s it?” she asks. “Just… oh?”

Delphine folds her arms. “Wow. You weren’t this rude before the Capitol.”

A laugh slips out of Trent—one sharp, disbelieving puff of disbelief. “Okay,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is getting embarrassing. For you, not us.”

Selkie’s jaw tightens. “We’re just trying to talk to her.”

“And she doesn’t want to talk,” Finnick says, calm in that way that is somehow more dangerous. “She doesn’t owe you familiarity you never earned.”

Delphine scoffs. “We were her friends.”

Something hot flashes through me—old anger I never let myself name.

“No,” I say quietly. “You weren’t.”

The word hangs in the air like a snapped thread.

Both Selkie and Delphine blink—slow, confused, almost offended.
Like I’ve delivered the wrong line in a script they wrote for me years ago.

I don’t know what they were expecting.

Tears?

An apology?

Some breathless, grateful excitement that they remembered my name after everything?

But not this.

“Annie, don’t be like that,” Delphine says, her voice tightening around forced sweetness. “We’re just trying to talk.”

“I think it’s best if you two leave,” Finnick says.

He doesn’t raise his voice.
Doesn’t posture.
Doesn’t need to.

Just the firm, quiet finality in his tone makes both of them go still.

Selkie breaks first.

She rolls her eyes with a dramatic scoff. “You’re always trying to defend her,” she says, looking Finnick up and down with something acidic simmering behind her smile. “That’s probably the only reason you’re still friends.”

Trent mutters, “Oh, this is gonna be good,” under his breath, like he’s already bracing for the explosion.

Delphine steps forward with a little strut—chin lifted, smirk sharpened to a point. “Well, you know what, Finnick?” she says, her voice sugarcoated with spite. “Annie had a huge, embarrassing crush on you when we were younger.”

The words drop between us like a stone.

Silence falls—thick, stunned, suspended.

The ocean murmurs behind us. A gull cries in the distance. A breeze rustles the palm leaves overhead.

No one speaks.

Delphine looks so pleased with herself it’s almost painful.

Trent holds back a snort so violently he nearly chokes, pressing a fist to his mouth. His eyebrows shoot up so far they practically disappear into his hairline.

Selkie crosses her arms, waiting for me to crumble. Waiting for embarrassment.
Waiting for fourteen-year-old Annie to resurface—small, insecure, easily humiliated.

That probably would’ve embarrassed me.

If it was nine years ago.

Instead, it just feels distant. Like she’s holding a memory that doesn’t even belong to me anymore.

Finnick blinks once, letting the words hang.

“She probably still has a crush on you,” Selkie adds, a mischievous little lilt to her voice, clearly trying to embarrass me.

Finnick, though… he grins. A slow, amused smile that makes my chest tighten just a little. He leans just slightly closer, hand brushing mine as if to punctuate his point. “Yeah…” he draws out, voice playful, teasing, “I sure hope she does.”

I roll my eyes, trying to hide my smile.

“What?” Delphine sputters.

Trent snorts. “Oh my god, you two. Read the room.”

Selkie and Delphine, exchange another nervous glance, clearly unsure how to respond. Neither of them seems capable of embarrassing me—they just fumble, awkward, teeth slightly bared in forced smiles. Finnick’s presence, calm and confident, completely shuts down their attempts.

I glance at him, heart softening despite the absurdity of all this. The street, the harbor air, the two girls staring like they’ve walked into the wrong play—all of it fades a little under the way Finnick looks at me, amused and fond in that quiet way only I ever get to see.

“You really like doing that, don’t you?” I mutter.

He winks, still holding my hand lightly—not hidden, not flaunted, just there. Warm. Reassuring. “Keeps life interesting,” he says, voice dipping just enough to make my stomach flip.

I can’t help it—a tiny smile slips out before I can stop it.

Behind us, Trent throws his head back dramatically. “Well, this has sure been a blast,” he announces, clapping his hands together like he’s trying to dissolve the tension with pure sarcasm. “Can’t say I enjoyed it. In fact, I think I lost a couple brain cells. You two”—he points between Selkie and Delphine—“are just as insufferable nine years later. Wow. Amazing. Fantastic consistency.”

Selkie’s jaw drops.

Delphine looks like she’s trying to decide whether to be offended or pretend she didn’t hear him.

Finnick snorts quietly, shoulders shaking once in amusement, and his thumb brushes the back of my hand in a subtle, grounding sweep—almost like he’s checking if I’m okay. I am. More than okay.

Trent gives them each a slow, exaggerated up-and-down look. “Anyway…” he drawls, “as much as I’d love to stay and watch this continue to crash and burn, we’re gonna take our leave now.”

Selkie finally manages to sputter, “We—we were just being friendly—”

“Sure you were,” Trent cuts in. “Like a shark’s friendly. Love the enthusiasm, though.”

Finnick stifles another laugh.

I take a quiet breath, feeling the last threads of tension ease from my shoulders. Finnick’s hand squeezes mine once, gentle and steady, and for a brief moment I forget why these two girls ever mattered at all.

They don’t now.

Not anymore.

Selkie’s mouth twists, like she’s scrambling for something—anything—to claw back control of the situation. “Well… well maybe we just wanted to see how Annie was doing,” she says, voice shrill with forced sweetness. “Not our fault she’s suddenly too good to remember people.”

Finnick’s fingers tighten on mine—not in anger, just a silent reminder that he’s here. That I don’t have to flinch under it.

Delphine crosses her arms, chin jutting. “You changed a lot,” she adds. “Capitol life will do that, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Trent deadpans, “surviving a murder arena really changes a person. Wild, right? Who could’ve predicted that.”

Selkie opens her mouth again, but this time Finnick steps forward just a fraction—barely a shift, but enough to make both girls instinctively lean back.

“You two should go,” he says, tone soft but unyielding. “Before you say something you regret.”

Delphine scoffs, though her bravado cracks at the edges. “Wow. Really protective, aren’t you?”

Finnick smiles—pleasant, polite, and edged like a knife. “Always.”

Selkie’s eyes flick to our joined hands. For the first time, she really sees it—the way his thumb traces slow circles against my skin, the way I lean into him without thinking, the way he doesn’t bother to hide any of it.

Her face drops.

“Oh,” she breathes. A little stunned. A little horrified. “You two are… actually…?”

Trent bursts out laughing. Loud. Too loud. “Finally,” he says, throwing his hands in the air. “Welcome to the conversation, Selkie, so glad you could join us.”

Delphine looks like she’s swallowed seawater. “You’re… dating? Like—dating dating?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Surprising?”

“Um, yeah,” Selkie blurts. “Because Annie never—she wasn’t—she didn’t—we didn’t—”

“Know her?” Finnick supplies gently. “You didn’t know her.”

Selkie shuts her mouth.

Delphine looks away.

And for the first time—maybe ever—I don’t feel small around them. I don’t feel like the girl they used to poke at or whisper about or twist into something she wasn’t.

I feel steady.

Safe.

Seen.

Finnick squeezes my hand again. “We’ll be going now,” he says softly, already guiding me away.

Trent follows, tossing a little wave over his shoulder. “Okay, bye! Loved the awkward energy! Let’s never do this again!”

Behind us, Selkie and Delphine stand frozen on the path—like the past just slipped right through their fingers, and they don’t recognize the girl walking away from them anymore.

Maybe because she isn’t the same one.

Not even close.

We don’t speak for the first few steps.

The ocean hums in the background, waves rolling in lazy, rhythmic pulses against the shore. Finnick’s hand stays clasped around mine, warm and grounding, like he’s anchoring me without making a show of it.

Trent walks a half-step ahead, muttering under his breath, “I swear, every time we go anywhere… anywhere… there’s drama. It’s like the universe sees us and says, ‘Oh, perfect, let me ruin your day.’”

Finnick huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re the one who wanted to come out tonight.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think we’d run into them.” Trent shudders dramatically. “They used to give me nightmares. That tall one once tried to convince you I stole your lunch money.”

“That was in third grade,” I say softly.

“Yeah,” Trent grumbles, “and she still looks like she’d do it again.”

Finnick glances sideways at me, scanning my face like he’s checking for cracks—any sign that the encounter rattled me more than I let on.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

I nod, though it’s not entirely true. My chest feels… weird. Not heavy, not tight. Just strange. Like something quietly shifted inside me.

“I’m fine,” I say. “It was just weird seeing them again. Weird hearing them talk like nothing ever happened.”

Finnick’s jaw tightens. “People like that don’t remember the damage they do,” he says softly, almost too quietly for Trent to hear. “But you don’t owe them the version of you they expect.”

“You know,” Trent adds thoughtfully, “I’m kind of impressed. They really thought they could embarrass you.”

“They tried,” Finnick says. “They failed.”

“They crashed and burned,” Trent corrects.

Finnick looks down at me, eyes warm, teasing. “Besides,” he says quietly, “you already know I like you. There’s nothing for them to expose.”

Heat flares in my cheeks.

Trent throws his hands up. “Gross! Disgusting! PDA makes me break out in hives, please stop.”

Finnick laughs.

And for the first time in a very long time, being seen—really seen—doesn’t feel terrifying.

It feels like finally stepping out of someone else’s shadow.

“I’m just glad,” Trent interrupts loudly, clapping his hands together like he’s trying to break the tension by force, “that you didn’t punch either of them.”

Finnick’s head snaps toward him. His brows lift, incredulous. “Why would I punch them?”

We go dead quiet. Trent looks at me. I look at Trent. Even the air seems to hesitate.

Finnick glances between us, confused and—somehow—offended. “What?” he demands. “Seriously. What?”

“You can’t seriously be asking that,” Trent says, staring at him like he’s grown a second head.

Finnick rolls his eyes so dramatically it’s practically a performance. “I don’t punch people, Trent.”

More silence. Painful silence.

Trent raises a slow, pointed eyebrow. “Are we going to ignore what happened to Eric and Murphy?”

Finnick freezes. I can see the exact moment he realizes the trap, the very specific “oh no” that flickers behind his eyes.

Trent leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “It’s… kind of well-known, man. You have terrible impulse control when it comes to Annie.”

His mouth drops open slightly. “I do not.”

Trent snorts. “You tackled Eric to the ground.”

“That was—” Finnick starts, indignant.

“And Murphy,” Trent continues mercilessly, “you were shoving him around.”

Finnick sputters. “He was practically harassing Annie!”

“Yes,” Trent says slowly, as if addressing a child, “and then you threw him into fruit crates.”

I press my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing—not because it’s funny, but because Finnick looks genuinely baffled that anyone could possibly interpret his actions as anything other than normal, rational behavior.

He gestures helplessly. “They deserved it!”

Trent raises both hands. “No one’s arguing that.”

Finnick turns to me, looking betrayed. “Annie?”

I pat his arm gently. “Love… you do get a little… intense.”

He blinks. “Do I?”

Trent and I both answer at the same time:

“Yes.”

Finnick straightens, trying to salvage whatever little dignity he thinks he has. “I protect the people I care about.”

“That’s the problem,” Trent says. “Your version of ‘protect’ is, like… one notch below setting the place on fire.”

Finnick’s mouth drops open. “I don’t have bad impulse control.”

I rest a hand on his arm, gentle. “Love… you absolutely do.”

He looks at me, narrowing his eyes just slightly—not offended, just checking if I’m joking.

I’m not.

He sighs, defeated. “I don’t think I like this intervention.”

Trent pats him on the shoulder like he’s consoling a toddler. “Intervention? No one planned this. It just happens naturally when you start pretending you aren’t one step away from body-checking half the district.”

Finnick shoots him a glare. Weak. Harmless. “I dislike you.”

“No, you don’t,” Trent says, unfazed. “Because Annie likes me, which means by extension you have to like me. Those are the rules.”

Finnick opens his mouth—then closes it.

Mostly because Trent is right.

I bite back a smile, but it breaks through anyway.

The boardwalk lights cast a soft glow across the sand, and the three of us fall into a quieter rhythm, steps in sync.

Behind us, the voices of Selkie and Delphine fade into the night—tiny, distant, irrelevant.

Ahead of us, the ocean keeps rolling.

Chapter Text

“And then guess what Chaff responded with?” Finnick says, sprinkling sugar into a mixing bowl. The sunlight from the kitchen window catches the granules, making them sparkle faintly. “Can you pass me an egg?”

I lean over and hand him the egg, my fingers brushing his briefly. “What did he respond with?”

“He told me an alligator got him during the final showdown,” Finnick says, cracking the egg with a practiced snap into the bowl, the yolk sliding smoothly into the mixture. “Swam right up and took the whole arm in one bite and that’s how he lost his arm.”

I snort from my perch on the countertop, the sound light and airy. “He has a flair for the dramatic.”

“Story of knowing him,” Finnick says, slowly folding the flour into the ingredients, the dough gradually thickening under his hands. “It’s never a dull moment with him and Haymitch.”

“I can only imagine,” I say, smiling, watching him work. The way he moves is almost meditative, careful and precise, yet somehow playful, even when mixing dough.

“And then, when Johanna went to officially meet him, he told her he hacked his own arm off and fed it to the wolves,” he continues, swirling the wooden spoon through the mixture.

I snort again. “What did she think?”

“I think she actually believed him for a couple seconds,” Finnick explains, trying but failing to suppress a smile, his eyes lighting up. “It wasn’t until Mags took mercy on her and told her he was messing with her.”

“It must’ve been fun seeing her confused,” I say, leaning forward slightly, resting my chin on my hand.

“Yeah, well, it was only a few moments of bliss,” he says with a soft chuckle, “because eventually the conversation moved on and, unbeknownst to me, I apparently talk about you a lot.” He rolls balls of dough and carefully places them onto a tray, the rhythm of the motion calming.

“Did you now?” I ask, an amused smile tugging at my lips.

Finnick chuffs, a warm, teasing sound. “Apparently. I talked about you so much Johanna thought I had some sort of medical issue. I hadn’t even realized it, if I’m being honest.”

I watch him for a moment, the light in the kitchen catching the soft gold flecks in his hair, making it almost glow in the warm morning sunlight. His tone is playful, but there’s a tenderness underneath—a quiet warmth that makes my chest feel light and full, like I’m floating just slightly.

“Well,” I say softly, “I hope it was all good things.”

“I assure you,” he replies, leaning just slightly closer, hand brushing the edge of mine on the counter, “only the best things.”

He shifts slightly, rolling the last ball of dough between his palms, the motion soothing and rhythmic. “Johanna didn’t know we were together at the time,” Finnick continues, his voice lowering just a fraction, intimate and conspiratorial. “But I guess my face gave it away when she called me out for talking about you every five seconds. I had to tell her about the whole argument… and then, well, when I finally kissed you before you went into the arena.”

I glance up at him, heart softening further. “What did she say?”

“Well, you know Johanna,” Finnick says, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he carefully arranges the dough on the tray. “She teased me relentlessly. Mags betrayed me—didn’t even come to my rescue.”

“Wow, how dare she,” I reply, mock-serious, leaning slightly against the counter.

“I was cornered, love,” Finnick says with a soft laugh as he kneels to slide the tray of cookies into the oven. The warm heat brushes against my hands as I lean over the counter, resting my palm lightly on the edge that protrudes just above the oven so he doesn’t bump his head. “I could do nothing but just sit there as Haymitch and Chaff joined in on the supposed fun, chuckling and shaking their heads at me.”

I can’t help but smile, imagining it all—the laughter, the teasing, the warmth of those small moments. The kitchen smells of sugar, butter, and sugar. The oven hums quietly, filling the room with a soothing warmth. And for a moment, I feel it—the quiet bliss of simply being here with him. The world shrinks to this small, safe space where nothing can touch us, where the only thing that exists is Finnick moving around the kitchen with flour on his fingers and sunlight on his skin.

He stands up, hands braced lightly on the counter as he leans toward me. Before I can react, he plants a quick kiss on the corner of my lip—soft, warm, almost shy in a way that makes my stomach flip. The kiss lingers for half a heartbeat, like he wants to savor it just a little more, before he pulls back.

“I just love talking about you,” he murmurs, voice low and sincere.

His eyes meet mine, and there’s something in them that makes my heart slow, makes the world feel quieter. A warmth that settles deep in my chest.

“Every time,” he continues, voice soft but steady, “there’s something new to say. Something I remember. Something I miss.”

My breath catches—not with surprise, but with that deep, steady warmth that always comes when he lets the softness slip through the cracks of his teasing.

“Well,” I murmur, the smallest smile touching my lips, “I’m glad you don’t get tired of it.”

Finnick huffs a soft laugh, stepping closer so his hip brushes my knee where I sit on the counter. “Never.”

I stay perched on the counter, legs swinging lazily, as Finnick wipes down the flour-smeared countertop. Golden afternoon sunlight pours through the kitchen windows, catching in the soft dusting of sugar on his hands and hair, making everything glow like it’s dipped in honey.

“You always make a mess when you bake,” I say, a teasing lilt in my voice, though I can’t hide the smile tugging at my lips.

He glances at me, flour on his cheek, and grins. “It’s part of the charm, isn’t it? Adds character to the kitchen.” He shakes his head, smearing a little more flour into the sink, but there’s a playful gentleness to him, not a trace of frustration.

I reach over, brushing a stray sprinkle of sugar from his shoulder. “You know, it doesn’t bother me. Honestly… it makes this feel like home.”

“That’s the point, love,” he says as he wipes down the counter. “We get to make our own little space here. No chaos, no Capitol cameras, no deadlines—just this. And also good thing Mags is at Hudson and Nellie’s right now. She wouldn’t appreciate the mess.”

He leans against the counter a little closer, just enough that I feel the easy, comforting warmth radiating from him. The afternoon sun catches the faint gold flecks in his hair, making him look like he’s glowing. And for a little while, it feels like nothing else exists but this—the laughter, the small talk, the quiet, blissful normalcy of just sitting here with Finnick.

“I could sit here forever,” I murmur, voice soft, almost reverent, “just… watching you.”

Finnick glances up, a slow smile spreading across his face, and leans just a little closer. “Yeah?” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s warmth underneath it that makes my chest tighten. “You know… I like that. You sitting there, all perched up like you own the place.”

I grin, rolling my eyes but letting a small laugh escape. “I don’t own it. I just… like watching you act like you do.”

He chuckles, brushing a hand through his flour-speckled hair. “Well, I guess we both get what we want then. You get the view, I get to pretend this kitchen is mine for a little while longer.”

The sunlight shifts slightly, casting long, golden streaks across the countertop and our legs, and for a moment, the world feels impossibly still. No worries. No chaos. Just him, me, and the quiet hum of the oven warming the cookies.

I lean back slightly, stretching my arms behind me, and Finnick notices. He tilts his head, a playful glint in his eyes. “You comfy up there, or should I fetch a throne for you?”

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “I’m good. Don’t overdo it—wouldn’t want to steal all the magic of the moment.”

He stops wiping for a heartbeat, just watching me, and I feel that familiar, grounding warmth—the kind that says no matter what else happens in the world, we have this. We have these quiet afternoons, these fleeting, perfect hours that feel entirely ours.

I sink a little further into the counter, letting my back rest against the wall, watching Finnick move around the kitchen. The way the sunlight catches the strands of his hair, the faint dusting of flour on his cheeks, the easy curve of his shoulders as he leans over the sink—it all feels like a scene carved out of time just for us.

He glances over his shoulder, catching me looking, and tilts his head with that lazy, teasing smile. “You know,” he says softly, “you’ve got a way of making me feel like the luckiest man alive just by… being there.”

My chest warms, and I can’t help the soft smile that spreads across my face. “You make it too easy,” I murmur, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Even when you’re making a mess. I like spending time with you.”

Finnick laughs, the sound low and warm, like sunlight itself could carry it. He sets the dish towel down and sets his hands on my waist from where he’s standing, tugging me slightly closer. “Time itself would be meaningless if I couldn’t spend it beside you.”

The afternoon light pours across his face, turning his eyes a soft sea‑green that glows at the edges. His smile is small, almost shy—one he saves only for me, in moments like this when the world is quiet and he doesn’t have to perform for anyone.

“You’re glowing,” I say softly, and he laughs again, this time quieter, gentler.

“That’s you,” he murmurs, nudging his nose against mine. “You make everything feel warmer.”

His words settle into my chest, deep and slow, filling all the spaces that used to ache. The kitchen smells of sugar and butter, the oven hums softly, and the sunlight wraps around us like a blanket. Finnick’s thumbs draw small circles at my waist, not pushing, not asking—just holding me close, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I could stay right here forever,” I breathe.

Finnick’s hands tighten just a little, a tender, instinctive pull. “Then stay,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “For as long as you want. For as long as you’ll have me.”

I lean up slightly, feeling the pull between us, the gentle warmth of his breath against my face. Finnick tilts his head closer, and I close my eyes, ready to let the world melt away for a moment.

Then—ding!

The timer on the oven screams, shattering the quiet bliss.

Finnick groans, burying his face in his hands for a second. “Worst timing ever,” he mutters, voice muffled but full of playful frustration.

I can’t help it—I laugh, soft and melodic, leaning back slightly on the counter. “Guess the cookies aren’t letting us have our moment, huh?”

He shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Apparently not.”

Finnick moves to the oven, carefully pulling out the tray of perfectly golden cookies with a mit. The rich, buttery smell fills the kitchen again. He sets them on a plate and brings it over to me, holding it out like a small peace offering.

“Truce?” he asks, voice teasing but warm.

I take a cookie, still smiling. “Truce,” I agree.

I take another bite, letting the sweetness melt on my tongue, and glance at Finnick. He’s leaning back against the counter, crumbs on his fingers as he gestures wildly with his cookie, telling some story about a ridiculous mishap with Johanna during mentoring.

“And then—can you imagine?—she actually shoved me into a fountain,” he says, shaking his head with a grin. “Completely drenched. I had to walk back awkwardly due to how wet my clothes were.”

I laugh, soft and warm, watching his expressions shift with every word. The way his eyebrows furrow just so when he’s emphasizing a point, the little smirk that tugs at his lips—it’s impossible not to be completely absorbed.

“What did you do?” I ask, taking another cookie.

“I was joking around too and…” he starts, nodding at me, eyes glinting with mischief and affection. “I may or may not have accidentally pushed her into a bush. So we both had to walk back to Mags, Chaff, and Haymitch with drenched clothes and twigs. I think Jo might’ve had a pinecone stuck on her clothes, too.”

I feel my chest swell a little. I don’t need fireworks or drama—just this: him talking, me listening, the sunlight warming the kitchen, the scent of sugar lingering in the air.

“What did they do?” I ask, leaning closer, fully caught up in the story.

Finnick chuckles, crumbs catching in the corner of his grin. “They thought we went through some sort of hurricane,” Finnick says, suppressing his laugh slightly. “I probably would’ve thought the same thing.”

I bite my lip to keep from smiling too widely. I could sit here forever, listening to him ramble, hearing him laugh, sharing cookies, letting the world outside fade away.

“You really can talk forever, can’t you?” I murmur.

He grins, leaning just slightly closer so his shoulder brushes mine. “I could, if you let me,” he says, voice soft now, but still teasing just enough to make my heart flutter.

I just smile, leaning back, content. Let him talk. Let the cookies crumble. Let the afternoon stretch out golden and slow, and let this—just this—last.

I watch him talk for a moment, completely absorbed, when suddenly Finnick’s gaze shifts to me, a sly glint in his eyes. “You know,” he says, voice low and teasing, “I think you might have been plotting against me all along.”

“Me?” I raise an eyebrow, trying to keep a straight face.

“Yes, you!” he insists, wagging a finger at me. “All those cookies… clearly a distraction so you could—”

Before he can finish, I grab a napkin from the counter, crumple it into a ball, and toss it. It sails through the air, hitting him squarely on the head. I bite back a laugh, holding it tight in my throat, eyes sparkling.

Finnick freezes for a split second, then slowly turns to look at me. That slow, knowing smile spreads across his face—almost menacing, almost like he’s plotting his revenge.

“I see how it is,” he says quietly, counting on his fingers now. “Five… four…”

My chest skips a beat. I grin and bolt. Feet pounding against the floor, I race out the front door, laughter spilling freely from me. The warm afternoon air hits my face as I sprint, hearing Finnick’s boots slapping against the wood behind me.

“Annie, get back here!” Finnick shouts, but his tone is full of amusement, chasing me relentlessly.

As I round the corner, I spot Mags coming back from Hudson and Nellie’s, carrying a small basket of something from their house. Finnick skids to a halt, eyes catching hers.

“We’ll be right back!” he calls over his shoulder, giving Mags a quick, cheeky grin before diving back into the chase.

I can’t stop laughing, the sound trailing behind me, mixing with Finnick’s teasing shouts as the afternoon sun gilds everything in gold. The world feels impossibly light and full, and I run with abandon, just him and me, and nothing else matters.

I don’t stop. Not even when the cobblestones of the Victor’s Village give way to the wider streets of District Four. My lungs burn a little from laughing so hard, but I can’t slow down—not when Finnick is right behind me, grinning like the world itself has become a game.

“Get back here!” he calls, his voice carrying that teasing edge that makes my stomach flip.

“Not happening!” I shout back, weaving between clusters of townspeople. Crates of fish, baskets of bread, and hanging signs blur past me, and I barely dodge a startled vendor who mutters something about “kids these days.”

Finnick’s hand nearly grazes mine when he lunges forward, and I twist, laughing as I duck under a low awning. He stumbles for a second, flour from a nearby stall puffing up like smoke, but he rights himself, still grinning, still chasing.

We burst into the town market proper, and now it’s chaos. Shoppers squeal as we swerve past, nearly bumping into carts of fruit and piles of fish. Some scowl at us; others laugh quietly, clearly entertained by two victors behaving like children. I weave between a basket of oranges and a stall selling shiny new trinkets, barely avoiding Finnick’s grasp.

“Gotcha!” he shouts, lunging forward again.

I twist just in time, spinning past a group of women who shake their heads with amused annoyance. My shoes slap against the cobblestones as I dart left, then right, diving through narrow gaps between stalls. The sun casts a warm glow over the chaos, turning the market into a playground of gold and color.

Finnick’s laughter echoes behind me, low and teasing, and I feel a thrill run through me. I can hear the soft thud of his footsteps, his quick breathing, the brush of wind as he swings past me, reaching, always reaching.

“Not today!” I call, yanking myself through a narrow alleyway. I glance back: his grin hasn’t faltered, and those golden flecks in his hair gleam in the sun.

He’s relentless. He rounds the corner at full speed, almost catching me by the shoulder. I twist, practically flying past him, and he lunges, just grazing my sweater. I laugh so hard it hurts.

“Finnick! You’re cheating!” I yell, ducking under a hanging sign.

“Cheating?” he calls back, voice full of mock indignation. “I’m just keeping up!”

We tear through the market, over cobblestones, past busy shoppers, dodging stalls and carts like the world itself has shrunk to just the two of us. People shout, laugh, or shake their heads as we sprint past. I nearly tumble over a crate of fish, and Finnick catches my hand, pulling me upright, and we both laugh so hard that I’m sure we sound insane.

We keep running, the market fading behind us, cobblestones giving way to a narrow path lined with wildflowers and soft patches of grass. My legs ache, but I don’t care—I can hear Finnick’s laughter behind me, chasing me relentlessly, and it spurs me on.

“Not today, Finnick!” I yell, swerving around a small tree, heart hammering from exhilaration and joy.

“Just wait, love!” he shouts back, close enough now that I can feel the whoosh of air from his sprint.

I glance over my shoulder and see his familiar, determined grin. He’s gaining, and I know I can’t outrun him much longer. My breath comes in shallow, ecstatic gasps.

And then it happens.

His hand brushes mine as he lunges forward, trying to tag me, and we both stumble over the uneven ground. Time slows for just a moment—my feet slip on the soft grass, and Finnick twists instinctively, trying to catch both of us.

We fall backward together, rolling into a patch of grass dotted with tiny wildflowers. Finnick manages to twist so that he lands first—but somehow, in the motion, we end up turning, and I find myself beneath him.

For a second, the world seems suspended. I’m laughing, breathless, tears of pure joy running down my cheeks, and Finnick’s laugh is mingling with mine, low and warm, vibrating through his chest into mine.

Then, he freezes. His eyes widen ever so slightly, and for a heartbeat, the world feels like it narrows to just the two of us lying in the grass.

“Woah,” he breathes, sitting up just a little, but still leaning over me, the weight of him gentle but grounding.

I tilt my head, brushing a strand of hair from my face, and laugh nervously. “What?” I murmur, trying to read the look on his face as I shift slightly onto my hands, the grass and wildflowers tickling my arms.

There’s a quiet, almost reverent pause in his movements, the usual teasing sparkle in his eyes softened into something warmer, more tender.

“Nothing,” Finnick says finally, clearing his throat, but there’s a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his lips, like he wants to say more, like the words are sitting on the tip of his tongue, teasing him.

I tilt my head, brushing a strand of hair from my face, and squint at him playfully. “What was it?” I ask, my voice soft, carrying that mix of curiosity and teasing that always seems to slip out when I’m near him.

Finnick hesitates for just a moment, as if savoring the pause, the warmth of the sun, the wildflowers brushing against our arms. Then he exhales, eyes glinting with amusement and something tender beneath it.

“Nothing, nothing,” he murmurs, but there’s a catch in his voice, a softness that makes my chest tighten. “I just… I fell in love with you all over again. No big deal.”

I freeze for a heartbeat, the words wrapping around me like the gentlest embrace. The flowers sway lightly in the breeze, the sunlight dusting his hair and face, and for a second the whole world feels still, like it’s just him and me lying here, hearts quietly echoing each other’s.

I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face, slow and soft. “You’re impossible,” I murmur, laughing quietly, but it’s the kind of laugh that’s full of love, full of warmth, the kind that can’t hide how my heart is tumbling over itself.

Finnick grins, that teasing sparkle returning to his eyes, but it’s gentle this time, patient, like he’s letting the moment linger. He leans a fraction closer, his hand brushing against mine, and I squeeze back, letting the silence speak for us, letting the world fall away entirely.

Finnick’s smile lingers—soft around the edges, almost disbelieving—as if he’s still trying to reconcile the fact that this moment is real, that I’m here beneath him, surrounded by flowers and sunlight and laughter that hasn’t quite faded from the air.

The breeze rustles the grass around us, a quiet hush, like the world is leaning in to listen.

“You say I’m impossible,” he murmurs, still hovering above me, his hand braced beside my shoulder in the grass. “But you’re the one making it very hard to think right now.”

I laugh under my breath, the kind of small, warm laugh that I only ever give him. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” he says, eyes flicking briefly to the way my hair fans around me, then back to my face with a look so full of awe it steals a bit of my breath. “Lying here like that. Not fair, love.”

My cheeks warm, but I don’t look away. I don’t want to. “You tackled me.”

“I chased you,” he corrects gently, grinning. “You’re the one who ran straight into a field of flowers like it was an invitation.”

I swat at his arm lightly. “You were chasing me!”

“I was trying to make it dramatic,” he says, pretending to be offended. “And clearly it worked.”

The laughter between us softens into something quieter, something that hums just beneath the skin. Finnick shifts, lowering his weight so he’s closer—not touching me, not yet, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. His hand finds my cheek, thumb grazing my skin in a touch so gentle it almost doesn’t feel real.

The sunlight catches in his eyes, turning the green to something warm, something golden.

“Annie…” he whispers—so soft, like the word itself is fragile, precious.

My breath stirs, my hand rising to rest over his where it cups my cheek. “Yes?”

For a heartbeat, he just looks at me. Fully. Tenderly. As if this moment—this silly, joyful, breathless chase through town—has ended in something he’d been waiting for without even realizing it.

Finnick leans in, slowly, giving me every chance to pull away.

I don’t.

Our lips meet softly—warm, careful, but full of a feeling that’s been building all afternoon, maybe longer. The kiss is sweet, unhurried, like sinking into sunlight. Like letting the world go quiet around us.

When he finally pulls back, just a fraction, he rests his forehead gently against mine.

“That,” he breathes, smiling against my skin, “is what I meant.”

I smile up at him, fingertips brushing his jaw. “Then you should fall in love with me all over again more often.”

His answering laugh is quiet, warm, and full of something that feels like forever.

He squeezes my hand once, gently. “We should probably head back before Mags thinks we actually ran away.”

“Technically… we did.”

“Then we’ll run back.”

He stands and offers me his hand, eyes bright, smile soft and sure.

“I’ll run everywhere,” he says. “As long as it leads back to you.”

Finnick helps me up, his fingers curling around mine with that familiar, easy confidence—as if holding my hand is the most natural thing in the world. When I’m steady on my feet again, he doesn’t immediately let go. Instead he dusts a few stray petals and bits of grass from my hair, lingering a moment longer than necessary, like he’s memorizing the sight of me here.

“Much better,” he murmurs, brushing one last flower from my shoulder with exaggerated care.

I raise a brow. “Are you sure? You looked pretty overwhelmed a minute ago.”

He scoffs, looking away like he’s trying to hide his smile. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Oh, please. You literally said—”

“Nope,” he interrupts quickly, squeezing my hand as if to physically stop me from finishing. “We’re not revisiting that. Ever.”

I laugh, warm and breathless. “Fine. For now.”

He shoots me a bright, boyish grin—one of the rare ones he hides from most people. Then, with a little tug of my hand, he starts walking backward toward the road.

We fall into step side by side as we approach the market path again. The sounds of the town drift around us—vendors calling out prices, nets rustling, waves hitting the docks just beyond the buildings. But even with all that noise, everything between us feels strangely quiet. Peaceful.

Finnick bumps his shoulder lightly into mine. “You okay?” he asks softly, voice dipping into something gentler.

“More than okay,” I say, looking up at him. “You?”

He nods, a soft flush rising to his cheeks, the kind that only ever happens when he’s truly happy. “Yeah. I… I think today’s one of the good ones.”

We walk a little more—he keeps our hands linked, swinging them gently with each step like we’re still running, still laughing, still weightless in that field.

We pass a small stand selling early winter oranges, the smell bright and sharp in the cool air. Finnick steals one with a wink and slides a coin onto the counter before I can say anything. The vendor calls after us, amused. Finnick just shrugs, peeling the fruit with easy fingers as we walk.

“Here,” he says, offering me a slice.

I take it, brushing his hand as I do. The citrus is sweet, tangy, perfect.

He watches my reaction like he’s waiting for a verdict.

“It’s good,” I say. “Really good.”

“Good,” he echoes softly, and though he smiles, something in his eyes goes deeper—warm and content and sure.

We keep walking, eating slices off the same orange, brushing shoulders every few steps.

And for the first time in a long time, it feels like the world isn’t something we’re trying to survive—

It’s something we’re allowed to live in. Together.

Finnick pops another orange slice in his mouth and talks around it, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. “You know, I used to come down here when I was younger. Before… everything. Before I knew too much.” His eyes track the curve of the shoreline, the gulls dipping and calling overhead. “I’d count boats and pretend every one belonged to me.”

“Oh?” I ask, smiling. “Planning to run away even back then?”

He grins. “Always. But don’t worry—I’d bring you with me.”

“You didn’t even know me.”

He bumps my shoulder. “Details.”

We walk past a group of kids splashing at the water’s edge, their laughter loud and bright. A few adults glance our way—some slightly annoyed when I accidentally brush past them, others staring with soft, amused smiles. Maybe because of the orange slices. Maybe because we look like we’ve been laughing for hours. Maybe because Finnick Odair is holding my hand like he never intends to let go.

Finnick squeezes my fingers lightly. “You know, when you laugh like you did earlier—when we were running—I swear the whole district looks different.”

“Oh really?”

“Mm-hmm,” he says, very serious. “Ten percent more beautiful. Minimum.”

I snort. “You’re terrible.”

He looks offended. “I’m romantic.”

“You’re something.”

He nudges me again, pretending to be wounded, but he’s smiling—sun-soft, easy, utterly unguarded. The kind of smile he only ever has in moments like this, when the world isn’t pressing in from every direction.

Finnick nudges a tiny shell with the tip of his foot, sending it skittering over the sand. It hops twice, lands near a knot of rope, and settles. He watches it for a moment—too long for it to just be about the shell—then exhales softly.

“You know, Annie…” he says, voice quieter, pulled from something honest inside him. “I don’t think we were ever really friends.”

My brows lift, a small frown tugging at my mouth. “What?”

He glances over at me, then away again, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. The sunlight paints a soft glow along the line of his jaw. “I mean—we were, in a way,” he says, trying to shape the thought into words. “I loved being around you. I liked talking to you. You felt safe. Familiar. Like I knew you even when I didn’t.”

He shakes his head slightly, as though none of that is quite what he means.

“But…” he continues, his tone dropping into something almost shy, almost boyish, “I think we really just fell in love the day we met. Even if we didn’t admit it.”

The world feels warm all over, sun and sea and him. I stop walking without thinking. Finnick stops too, turning to face me fully now, still holding my hand. His thumb brushes my knuckles once, slow, like he’s steadying himself.

He looks—earnest. A little nervous. Completely sincere.

“Finnick…” I breathe, but the rest gets lost.

He steps closer, just enough that our shoulders nearly touch. “I’m serious, love,” he murmurs. “There wasn’t a moment where I was figuring out whether or not I liked you. I just… did. Instantly. Completely. Like it was already decided.”

The waves crash softly behind us, steady and rhythmic. The world seems to hush around the two of us—the distant market noise, the gulls overhead, even the breeze.

His gaze softens, warm enough to melt something in my chest. “I kept telling myself we were becoming friends. That I was taking it slow. But every time you smiled at me, or said my name, or even just breathed near me…” He laughs under his breath, shaking his head again. “I think part of me already knew.”

My heart feels full, impossibly soft. I squeeze his hand, unable to stop the smile that rises.

“So,” he finishes with a gentle shrug, “maybe we pretended to be friends at first.”
He leans in just a little, eyes bright. “But really? Annie… I think we loved each other from the start.”

The afternoon sun glows around us, warm and golden, like even the light agrees.

I blink at him, a soft laugh catching in my throat. “That’s not how that works.”

“Isn’t it?” Finnick nudges my shoulder with his. “You scared me at The Stones like you’d already lived a hundred lives, and I—” He exhales, almost embarrassed. “I just knew then, even if that anxious, oblivious fourteen-year-old me didn’t.”

My stomach does something warm and painfully sweet.

“That’s ridiculous,” I murmur, but my voice comes out too soft to sound convinced.

He grins like he knows it.

We keep walking, the tide licking closer to our feet now, the breeze carrying the scent of salt and sun-heated wood. Behind us, gulls shriek and circle, diving for scraps left behind by fishermen. Ahead, the ocean stretches wide and glittering, unbothered by everything we’ve been through.

Finnick brushes his fingers against mine—just barely, like he’s testing a wire between us for tension.

“And you?” he asks lightly, though his voice gives him away. There’s a softness underneath it, a held breath. “When did you fall in love with me?”

My face warms immediately. “I didn’t.”

He stops walking like I’ve just kicked his entire ego in the shins. His hand flies to his chest.

“You didn’t?”

I roll my eyes, but the heat in my cheeks betrays me. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely devastated,” he insists, staggering a single step as though he might collapse on the sand. “Crushed. Ruined. Heart in tatters—”

“Finnick,” I huff, but I’m smiling now. I can’t help it.

He peers at me over the edge of his theatrics, eyes bright with mischief but searching for something real.

I let out a breath.

“I didn’t fall in love with you,” I say quietly.

His eyebrows lift, the dramatics fading just slightly.

“I already was,” I admit, the words slipping out more gently than I expect. “Before I knew what any of it meant. Before I had a name for it. Before I realized that’s what it was.”

Finnick freezes—not a hint of teasing left. His mouth parts a little, like the wind has been knocked out of him in the softest possible way.

The waves crash, the afternoon sun slants across his face, and for a heartbeat he looks young—not the boy the Capitol made him, not the charming victor—just the boy who used to look at me like the world tilted a little when I smiled.

“You…” he starts, voice low, disbelieving in the tender way. “Annie, you were already—”

I shrug helplessly, toes curling into the sand. “I think I loved you before I realized I could.”

His breath leaves him in a quiet, astonished laugh. No showmanship. No dramatic collapse.

He just looks at me like I’ve handed him something fragile and priceless.

“Then,” he murmurs, stepping close enough that our shadows melt together, “I think that might be the most unfair head start anyone’s ever had on me.”

And he’s smiling—not wide, not flirtatious—just softly, like he’s finally found the part of the story he’s been missing.

“I don’t think anything with us was ever… ordinary, Annie,” he says. “Even before we knew what it was. It always felt like—” He searches for the word, brow furrowing slightly. “—like something I’d been waiting for.”

The breeze pulls at his hair; he doesn’t notice.

He waits—really waits—for me to say something. Finnick Odair, who always knows the right line, the right smile, the right timing… stands there with his breath held like my answer is the one variable he can’t predict.

The breeze shifts again, brushing past us, but the space between our bodies doesn’t move. It feels fragile, holy, like stepping forward or stepping back would both be irreversible.

I swallow, the sound loud in my own ears. “I didn’t know you were waiting,” I whisper.

His eyes soften in a way that makes my heart twist. “I didn’t, either,” he admits. “Not at first. Not until it kept… happening. Every time I saw you. Every time you laughed. Every time you looked at me like you could see right through whatever version of me I was pretending to be that day.”

He lets out a breath, tired and relieved all at once. “I didn’t understand why it felt different. I just knew it did.”

The sun dips lower, painting everything in amber, and we stay like that, suspended in the quiet perfection of the moment—our fingers intertwined, hearts syncing without a word, letting the world fade away around us. The waves lap at the shore in a lazy rhythm, a backdrop to the blissful, gentle truth that we belong to each other.