summary: your stylist must hate you, putting you into a corset so tight. thank god finnick odair is there to save you
warnings: female reader, finnick and reader are friends with implied feelings, mentions of capitol people being awful people, finnick being a sweetheart, no use of y/n
: ÌÌâ masterlist
If there was one thing you were certain of, it was that you hated Capitol parties. They were always extremely extravagant, filled with the most obnoxiously unaware people you had probably ever met. Being a Victor was nothing less than a major pain in the ass. You lived, but you also lived with the pains of the Capitol and Snow breathing down your neck every five seconds.
It wasn't uncommon for Victors to be invited to parties in the Capitol. It was actually rather unusual for them not to be invited. After all, they were the real Capitol stars. So, here you were, drinking some bubbly liquor that tasted incredibly awful in comparison to any other drink, fake smiling and laughing with some socialites who wouldn't leave you alone for more than two minutes at a time.
Their stories were very unimpressive. Dull and lifeless, like how someone stepped on a bug while shopping, or how another ate so much they had to throw up six times. Stories from the Districts were always better. Folk stories or real, it really didn't matter. At least they were interesting and not about something stupid like fashion or gossip.
The worst part of the whole night was that your stylist must've hated you. You wore some long, pirate-esque, flowy skirt with the most painful heels that had ever been made along with the tightest corset you'd ever worn. It was squeezing all of your insides in all the wrong ways. If you turned the wrong way or breathed too hard, it really hurt. You were sure if you bent over, you'd crack your ribs. It was torturous to be wearing such a thing.
You managed to laugh at all their jokes, share stories back and forth, and pretend to be interested just long enough to tolerate the pain. But now it was becoming a little bit too hard to manage. It felt like you could no longer breathe normally. You were all too aware of your breathing. If you stopped thinking about it, there was a chance you'd stop completely, at least, that's what you convinced yourself. Your fake smile seemed harder to keep up as a socialite finished their story.
"Honestly, isn't that just the most terrible thing you've heard?" You fake laughed, nodding along as best as you could with your circumstances and disinterest. "I mean, I couldn't imagine anything more awful that a broken heel!" How ignorant. Ever heard of The Hunger Games?
"I would have thrown a fit it if were me," another socialite said, seeming very remorseful.
A different one nodded, "Truly the most nightmarish ending to your evening."
As you stood there, you wondered if it could it be possible that the corset was getting tighter. There was no possible way it could have been, but it sure felt like it. The squeezing was becoming incredibly unbearable. Every little breath ached your ribs and sides. You were positive there would be bruises in the corset's place tomorrow. Maybe the injuries you'd sustained during your Games a few years ago weren't so bad seeing as you were sure you were about to suffocate and die right there on Snow's courtyard.
"The only nightmarish ending I can think of is leaving this party without a lovely lady on my arm." It was like the heavens had graced you with Finnick's presence. If you could have released a breath of relief, you probably would have. "Good evening, ladies, gentlemen," Finnick turned to you, giving you a small smile. You returned it, strained, but you returned it.
Oh, sweet Finnick. He was your best friend. His presence was so comforting no matter where you were. It was times like these you wondered how he could just waltz over when you needed him the most. You weren't sure how he did it, but you were damn thankful that he did. You were hoping he would get the hint that something was wrong without needing to raise all hell to make it obvious.
"I can't see you having a hard time leaving without a gorgeous, lucky woman on your arm," the first socialite said to Finnick. She must've hoped it was her. "After all, you are our Golden Boy."
Finnick chuckled, smiling with those gorgeous teeth of his. "Well, someone has to keep the standards high."
"I'm sure you won't have trouble leaving here with a lucky man, either, darling." Your eyes shot over to the third socialite who had addressed you. You could barely breathe, let alone speak anymore.
"I'm sure I won't." Your voice felt strained. Did it sound strained? You hoped it didn't. The last thing you wanted was to look like you were suffering.
Finnick, however, could sense the tone in your voice from a mile away. You were his friend, after all. Probably his best one if he was being honest. The sharp nod you gave, the raised, airy tone to your voice were all very worrisome signs. His eyes searched your face for answers you tried to hide from any prying eyes. However, the way you tugged down at the bottom of your corset was.. something. Were you anxious, uncomfortable, upset? Finnick couldn't place it. There were just too many missing details. He knew something was wrong. It was like putting together a puzzle without looking at the picture on the box.
The conversation continued onwards. Eventually, you found yourself leaning into Finnick's hand that moved to softly rest on your lower back. You couldn't decide if it was for comfort or in case you passed out from lack of oxygen. You assumed it was for comfort. The good news was that if your face turned blue, you'd match the shades of your outfit for the night. If you considered that good news. Maybe it wouldn't look all that displaced after all.
Only one singular minute had passed and you quickly realized that not even Finnick's welcomed gesture would be enough to help you. You felt yourself begin to panic, the worst possible thing you could do in this situation. The more you panicked, the more your breathing would increase. That would only cause yourself more pain and frustration, not to mention it would double your anxiety. What a horrible domino effect that would be.
Keeping your cool was becoming impossible. You tried to hold as still as a statue to keep from moving and upsetting the corset more, but it was proving very difficult. Holding your breath wasn't really an option here, so the only thing to do was try and remain calm.
When the first very sharp pain radiated through your ribs, you knew you were done for. You sucked in a very noticeable breath, thankfully, only Finnick had heard. The conversation had continued, but the words had fallen deaf to your ears. It had been long forgotten amid your growing panic.
"Ah," Finnick said, abruptly pausing the conversation, "we completely forgot, but we're meant to meet with the president. If you'll excuse us." Finnick was pushing on your lower back, now. He guided you through the crowd, up some stairs and into one of the first open rooms he could find. The moment you were inside, you pressed on your stomach, trying to give yourself comfort, but ultimately failing. "What's wrong?" Finnick quickly asked, approaching you with worry in his expression. "Sweetheart, talk to me."
Now you were positive you couldn't talk. Your head felt dizzy and your tongue felt numb. You shook your head, tears brimming your eyes as you scratched at the corset. Finnick's eyes were darting to your hands and back to your face over and over, trying to understand what you were trying to convey to him.
You opened your mouth, trying to find words, but all you could manage was an awful wheeze. Your lungs and throat burned like fire. You were sure your face was turning red. Finnick's eyes widened as he quickly grabbed your shoulders, turning you around so your back was facing him. You felt his hands on your back again, but this time, they had a mission. Finnick grabbed a hold of the ribbon of your corset, not so much as grunting as he tore it apart.
The moment the ribbon tore, you gasped, sucking in as much air as you could as you fell to your knees, holding the front of the corset to your chest as you heaved, the air feeling so incredible that you took note to never take breathing for granted. Finnick was by your side in a heartbeat, hand on your back rubbing soothing circles on your now exposed skin. "It's okay, you're okay. Slow, deep breaths. Don't rush, nice and slow." His voice slowly worked the panic out of your system, your inhales deep, but exhales shaky and unsteady.
"I couldn't breathe," your voice was soft, almost as if talking were still too much to handle, "every breath hurt."
Finnick nodded, "I know, honey. I know, it's alright now. You're okay." You looked up to Finnick, watching his expression. He no longer looked panicked, but he still looked just as worried as before. "Do you need anything? Water?"
You shook your head. "Sit with me? Please?"
The two of you sat against the couch, sitting on the floor looking utterly exhausted. It was obvious the night had worn you both out, from the socialization to your near suffocation. Your head fell over, leaning on Finnick's shoulder as his head rested on top of you own.
"Do you want to go sailing tomorrow?" Finnick quietly asked. "I heard the waves will be perfect. You can bring that book you're reading and we can have lunch."
"That sounds nice," you hummed, "I'd like that a lot."
After a few more quiet minutes, you realized both of your absences would start to look rather suspicious. You both knew that it was long past time to go back to the party, but the silence you shared was too nice to give up just yet.
"Thank you for saving me," you thanked, looking over and up at Finnick.
He shook his head with a soft exhale, "You don't need to thank me. I'm just glad I got you up here in time." Finnick slowly stood up, holding your head as he stood so you wouldn't fall over. He held out a hand to help you stand up.
"Wait, I can't go back out there like this." You could. The Capitol people would love it. Seeing you holding the corset onto your chest to cover yourself. You knew deep down that the position you were in would make the people go wild for you. It was the kind of attention you weren't looking for. The kind of attention you never looked for.
Finnick didn't hesitate to take off his poet shirt, leaving his upper half bare, besides his shark tooth necklace. He didn't even need a second thought. The moment you started to speak, he knew what you were going to say. It was an easy choice for him to make. He would do anything to protect you.
Denying Finnick's kindness wasn't something he'd let you turn down, so you accepted. Finnick turned around while you put it on, only turning back around when he heard you fumbling with the sleeves. He helped roll them up so they weren't as long, while you began to tuck it into your skirt.
"You'll get cold," you commented worriedly, remembering what the chilled breeze had felt like on your own skin not too long ago.
"Then stay with me and keep me warm," Finnick replied, a small smile on his face. You chuckled airly, smiling back at him. "You look beautiful. They'll think we both just did a small wardrobe change. And that's what we'll tell them if they ask. I doubt they will. Capitol isn't all that observational."
You looked at Finnick, biting your bottom lip, "I wish we didn't have to go yet." You wished you could stay in this room with Finnick all night. Unfortunately, that was no option.
He seemed to agree based on the way his smile turned lopsided. "Just think about all the fun we'll have tomorrow. The waves, the wind, us. I'll even bring us some coconuts to crack open."
"And my book," you insisted. "I'll read it to you."
"My favorite activity," Finnick nodded. He held his hand out to you, "C'mon, honey. Let's get this night over with." His offer was easily understood, even if he didn't say it. Let's get this night over with together.
summary ۶ৠyou're suspicious over finnick's sudden clinginess.
warnings ۶ৠallusions to finnick's prostitutions, finnick's awfully clingy
word count ۶ৠ2.5k
author's note ۶ৠmi bday special cuz im officially an adult in 42 mins ( ïœĄïŸĐïŸïœĄ)
Thereâs a shift in the air.
You could feel it from a thousand miles away. Hell, itâs like you have a sixth sense when it comes to Finnickâan internal alarm that goes off the second something is off with him. And this morning, it rang the moment you woke up.
Finnickâs arms were wrapped too tightly around your waist, his body practically fused to your back, his nose buried so deep in the crook of your neck it felt like he was trying to melt into you. You didnât even have to open your eyes to know: heâs hiding something.
The problem is, you canât figure out what.
It started with how hard you had to work just to get him out of bed. He clung to you like a lifeline, whining and pouting like a lovesick teenager. His sea-glass eyes held a look that was too intense for just morning cuddles, and when you cupped his face and asked what was wrong, he only gave you this goofy, love-drunk smile before pressing soft, distracting kisses to your lips. âBreakfast can wait,â he mumbled, flipping you over with too much ease for someone who looked so emotionally frazzled.
Then came the kitchen.
Your house is small, especially the kitchen, tucked into your inherited little wooden beach cottage, filled to the brim with mismatched pots and hanging herbs. Two people donât fit in there, not without bumping hips and brushing armsâand Finnick? He was practically glued to you. Wherever you moved, he followed, hands around your waist, his head nestled in the crook of your neck again like he was trying to memorize your scent.
It wouldâve been sweet if you werenât so damn hungry. And if you werenât still recovering from the thirty minutes of relentless affection earlier.
At one point, you spilled batter down your shirt from how many times you bumped into him.
That was the last straw.
You turned around, firm hands on his broad shoulders, brows raised in tired disbelief. âBaby,â you said, tone edged with warning. âWill you please just sit here and look pretty?â
He let out an exaggerated huff but nodded quickly the second your brows lifted higher, that signature âdonât test meâ look youâve perfected over the years. He pressed a kiss to your noseâloud and wet and obnoxiously smugâand plopped himself down in one of the wooden chairs with a dramatized sigh. You backed away slowly, eyes narrowed, watching him as if he might leap right back up again the second you turned around.
He sat there like nothing was wrong, like he hadnât been acting weird as hell since he got back last night.
Now itâs afternoon, and youâre curled up in the pink nook by your bedroom window, knees tucked under your chin, your fingers holding a book youâre not really reading. Youâve been trying to research flowers for your garden. Finnick built you a greenhouse just last monthâwhite picket fence and everythingâbecause you mentioned once, half-asleep, that you wanted to grow your own vegetables. Tomatoes. Garlic. Onions. Anything so you wouldnât have to keep hauling yourself down to the market every few days.
It took him a day and a half to build it. Just showed up grinning with dirt on his cheeks and a ribbon tied to the gate latch.
But today, your mind canât focus on gardening.
You keep replaying everything from the moment you woke up. The bed. The kisses. The slow, almost too tender sex. The shared showerâwhere Finnick insisted he wash your hair. The way he kept looking at you like you might disappear if he blinked too long. Heâs always been affectionate, yes, but this was different. This wasnât just clingy. This was like he was terrified.
He finally left the house an hour ago to swim, saying something about not missing his daily laps. It took you twenty-five minutes to get him out the door. He kissed you repeatedly. Begged you to come with him. Told you it wouldnât be fun if you werenât there. And when you refusedâbecause, frankly, the ocean is freezing and youâre not trying to die todayâhe pouted like a child and dragged his feet all the way down the porch.
You shake your head, trying to will the thoughts away. Surely, if it were something serious, Finnick wouldâve told you by now. Heâs never kept things from youânot since the night he finally told you what the Capitol really made him do during those long absences. Not since he looked you in the eye and admitted the truth with shaking hands and a voice that barely held together.
You didnât flinch, judge or looked at him differently. You just held him. Because you were glad that he let you in. That he trusted you enough to share the darkest parts of himself.
You love Finnick. That much is undeniable. Sometimes you think about where youâd be if you hadnât met him two years agoâand the image is always darker. He pulled you out of a hole you didnât even know you were sinking into after your parents died in the fire at District 4âs fish market. It was a freak accidentâtook several others too, including Finnickâs uncle, the last family he had.
So yeah. Itâs an understatement to say youâre worried about him.
You glance down at your notebook and realize, with a tired blink, that youâve scribbled âcauses of Finnickâs sudden clinginessâ instead of âcauses of pest infestations in a garden.â
Your pen stills, and you blinkâonce, then againâstaring down at the page as the weight of it all finally settles in. Even now, with two rooms and a closed door between you, you can still feel himâhis presence like gravity tugging at your chest.
Before your thoughts can spiral deeper, the door creaks open and Finnick steps into the room.
Heâs a mess. A towel is draped over his head, soaked and sliding halfway down his neck. His bronze skin is glistening with seawater, droplets trailing down his bare chest and soaking into the waistband of his shorts. Heâs left a winding path of damp sand from the hallway, every step tracked in prints that smear slightly with each move he makes. His feet are bare and his curls are still dripping, little beads of water falling onto the wooden floor.
You stare at him from the window nook, frozen for a second, your book slipping slightly from your lap.
He looks at you like he hasnât seen you in years.
Then, without a word, he crosses the room, moving with that same effortless grace he always hasâexcept this time itâs less like a flirtation and more like a need. When he reaches you, he doesnât pause or ask permission. He just climbs right in, damp and heavy and all saltwater heat, stretching himself across your curled-up body like he belongs there. Like he has to be there or heâll unravel.
You grunt under the sudden weight, your hands instinctively bracing against his slick shoulders. âFinnickââ
He silences your protest with a peppering of kisses across your face. Cheeks, nose, forehead, chin, lipsâhe leaves no space untouched. Each kiss is frantic, uncoordinated, wet with ocean and something deeperâsomething you still canât name.
âI missed you,â he mumbles between kisses. âGod, I missed you. I was only gone for an hour and I missed you.â
âFinnick,â you laugh breathlessly, tilting your head back as he continues his unrelenting affection. âYou were literally justâhey! Youâre soaking the cushion!â
âDonât care,â he mutters into your neck, arms wrapping tight around you like you might disappear if he lets go. âYou smell better than the ocean.â
âFinnick,â you say again, softer this time. Thereâs a flicker of something uneasy in your chest, something too big to ignore anymore.Â
You push him back just enough to see him clearly, your hands moving up to cup his cheeksâfirm, steady, squishing them together until his lips pout in that ridiculous way that practically begs to be kissed. It takes everything in you not to give in to the urge.
Instead, you hold his gaze.
His sea-green eyes blink at you, wide and soft, still wet at the lashes.
âWhatâs wrong, baby?â you finally ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
Finnick blinks at you, lips still squished between your palms. He gives a pitiful little hum, eyebrows raised innocently like heâs got no idea what youâre talking about.
âNothingâs wrong,â he says, words slightly muffled through his puckered mouth. âI just love you, thatâs all.â
You narrow your eyes. âMmhmm.â
He tries to lean forward again, aiming another kiss at your jaw, but you tighten your grip on his cheeks and pull back just enough to stop him.
âNope,â you say firmly. âWeâre not doing that.â
His brows knit together, the pout deepening. âDoing what?â
âYou trying to distract me with kisses and charm so you donât have to answer.â You tilt your head, voice still teasing but firm beneath it. âWe can sit like this for the rest of our lives if we have to. Iâll hold your face hostage, Finnick Odair. Donât test me.â
A beat passes.
Something shifts in his expression. The smile fades. His mouth relaxes under your hands, and his eyesâthose heartbreakingly beautiful eyesâdrop slightly, losing the usual glint of mischief. He swallows hard, and when he looks back up at you, itâs like something inside him finally gives way.
âI had a dream,â he says quietly, almost like heâs ashamed of it. âLast night. You died.â
The words hit you like a jolt, but you donât move, donât flinch. You just keep your hands on his face, grounding him.
âYou died,â he repeats, voice cracking slightly. âAnd it felt so real. I woke up andâI couldnât breathe. I thought I lost you. I thoughtâGod, it was so stupid, but I couldnât stop thinking about how I waste so much time just⊠assuming youâll always be here.â
He leans into your touch then, like he needs it to keep going.
âI realized I canât do that. I donât want to waste a single second. I donât want to go another day without making sure you know how much I love you. How much you mean to me. Because if something happened to you and I didnât say it enough or loud enough or clear enoughâŠâ
His voice trails off, and then he breathes outâsoft and hoarse, like the weight is finally leaving his chest.
âIâd rather spend one tomorrow with you, making sure you know I love you,â he whispers, âthan a thousand tomorrows without you⊠and never get the chance to say it.â
You stare at him, heart squeezing painfully, lips partedâbut the words donât come. Not right away. Because what do you even say to that?
You donât say anything right away. You just release his face with the gentlest touch, then open your arms and pull him into youâtugging him into your chest like you're trying to shield him from the very world that haunts his dreams.
He doesnât resist. He folds into you like a tide pulled home, arms locking tightly around your waist, his cheek pressed into your shoulder. He holds you like he thinks you might vanish again. Like itâs your last night together. And it breaks something inside you.
You run your fingers through his still-damp hair, slow and steady, the same way someone might soothe a frightened animal or calm a child after a nightmare. He trembles once. Just once. But you feel it. And it makes your chest ache.
âFinnick,â you murmur softly, lips brushing the shell of his ear, âI know you love me.â
His arms stiffen slightly, like heâs unsure if youâre just saying it to soothe him, but you pull back just enough to see his face, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.
âI know it,â you repeat, firmer now. âNot just because you say it. But because you show it.â
You smile faintly, eyes locked on his. âYou built me a greenhouse in less than two days just because I said I wanted to grow tomatoes. You kiss my forehead every time I fall asleep reading. You get up before sunrise to untangle my wind-chimes when the sea breeze knots them up. And when you think Iâm not lookingâŠâ Your voice catches a little. You look at me like I hung the stars in your sky.
His eyes are glossy now, red at the rims, but he doesnât look away. You donât let him.
âYouâve already told me you love me a hundred different ways, Finnick. Even when you donât say it.â
You rest your forehead against his, nose brushing his as you close your eyes. âSo next time you have a dream like that⊠just wake me up. You donât have to wait. You donât have to hold it in. I want to be the person you can fall apart with. Okay?â
Finnick nods, slow and silent. And then he kisses youânot with urgency this time, not to dodge or distractâbut like heâs memorizing the shape of forever on your lips.
Itâs warm and slow and almost shy, like heâs still trying to believe youâre real. His lips move against yours with a tenderness that steals your breath, his hands trembling slightly as they cradle your waist, holding you like something precious. Like something breakable. Like heâs scared he might crush you if he holds too tightly, but terrified youâll slip away if he doesnât.
You kiss him back just as slowly, threading your fingers into his damp curls and brushing your thumbs over his cheekbones, tasting saltâmaybe from the ocean, maybe from him. Neither of you pulls away. Time stops. The only sound is the faint ticking of the old wall clock in the corner and the hush of waves crashing somewhere in the distance, just beyond the house.
When you finally part, itâs only because you both need to breathe. Finnick leans his forehead against yours again, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours.
âI donât want to lose you,â he whispers. âEver.â
âYou wonât,â you whisper back, just as fiercely. âYouâve got me. For as long as you want me.â
His eyes flutter open. âForever, then.â
You smile, tears burning quietly at the edges of your vision. âForever sounds just right.â
He pulls you in again, tucking your head under his chin, wrapping himself around you until you can barely tell where you end and he begins. His heart beats against yours like itâs trying to speak a language only the two of you understand. The silence that follows isnât awkward. Itâs full. Heavy with everything that didnât need words.
You stay like that for a while. Wrapped in each other. The sun dipping lower through the bedroom window, casting everything in a soft amber glow. Outside, the waves keep crashing. Inside, heâs holding you like heâll never let go again.
when the thought of a finnick odair prequal makes me ill but I desperately want people to understand how upsetting this man's life was. I'm sick of people looking at his capitol persona in catching fire and seeing that as the basis of his character. rather than the man who worked tirelessly for the rebellion, who gave his life for the cause, the man who cried constantly for months when his love was taken, who held her hand and never let go when she came back, the man who had multiple suicide references in the books. Finnick Odair lived and died tragically
One part of Katniss' character that I think is underrated is her lack of anger towards the undeserving.
While she does have a lot of misconceptions (especially of D2, imo), she never has full-on hatred for those who are victims, too. With Cato, she was full of fear and sometimes payback, but she was never hateful towards him. He was tortured, too. Finnick, at first, she was just uncomfortable and assumed he was full of himself, but she never hated him. These are characters that she was so sure would kill her, but she still never had any true hate towards.
Katniss' anger is justified to those she feels it for (Snow), and when it is hatred, she knows where it needs to go and who it's for.
link to the request â pregnant reader in the quarter quell
Hearing your name get called for the games a second time was probably the second worst moment of your life.
The worst being when your name lingered in the air and no one volunteered to take your place even though you were seven months pregnant.
You canât blame them- if you were in their position you wouldnât volunteer either. It didnât make it hurt any less, especially when Finnickâs name was called after yours.
And here you are now, in the arena. One hand cradles your belly, the other holding tightly onto a spear while you survey your surroundings for enemies. Finnick is behind you, wound up more tightly than youâve ever seen him in your life.
You canât help but feel bad for him- heâs facing losing his girlfriend and his baby when just weeks ago you two were living in complete bliss.
âHow is he?â Finnick asks quietly, though you know the cameras and hidden microphones will be able to pick up on his words.Â
When you appeared on Caesar Flickermanâs stage, pregnant belly on display, the audience was shocked and appalled. You have the feeling now, however, those same audience members are giddy wanting to know what your fate will be.
As far as they know, there can only be one survivor in these games.
âAll good,â you hum, rubbing a hand over your bump. âAll is fine.â
You turn around to look at Finnick only to see him with a deep frown on his face. âGood. We just need to find Johanna. She should be with Wiress and Beetee.â
You nod. The original plan was for you to separate off by yourself, but Finnick vehemently opposed that idea. You tried to remind him that you won your games before, that youâve taken down nearly a dozen people on your own in the bloodiest battle at the Cornucopia that Panem has ever seen, but he didnât want to hear it.
So now youâre hiding in the jungle, waiting for the rest of your alliance to arrive.
âSounds good to me. I think Iâm gonna sit for a minute- my back hurts,â you say easily. You canât complain or else Finnick will actually lose his mind and tear down the arena piece by piece.
You would love to see that, but you know itâs not conducive to the plan.
As predicted, Finnick is all over you, touching you everywhere he can get his hands on. âSit, lovely. Iâll keep an eye out for us.â
You roll your eyes fondly. âI can take care of myself.â
Finnickâs large hand rests on top of your large bump. âAnd Iâm taking care of you and my baby.â
You lean back into him and close your eyes for one single second. You tell yourself you shouldnât let your guard down, even with Finnick watching over you, but itâs so hard not to.
âWeâre going to need to go back to the Cornucopia at some point,â you gently remind your lover.
âAnd youâll stay safely away from anything thatâs happening, my love,â he says, leaving no room for argument.
Heâs softer now, more calm about you being in the games again than he was just a few weeks ago. Itâs almost hard to imagine that your Finnick was tearing up your living room and threatening past victors and now here he is, gently rubbing circles onto your skin.
Now that you know thereâs a future for the two of you somewhere where the elite of Panem canât hurt you, it makes life a little bit easier.
