You’re sitting by the window, sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains, catching on the pale ridges of old wounds across your arms and shoulders. Scars. Some faded, others angry and pink. You trace one with your fingertip, jaw clenched.

You didn’t cry during the Games. Not once.

Now, you can’t seem to stop.

The door creaks softly behind you—Finnick doesn’t knock anymore. He doesn’t need to. His presence is a quiet thing, like the tide slipping in, steady and familiar.

“Y’know,” he says gently, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed but eyes soft, “I used to hate mine too. Tried to scrub ‘em off once. Saltwater helped… but not the way I hoped.”

You don’t answer right away. He crosses the room slowly, crouching in front of you.

“Can I?” he asks, hand hovering.

You nod.

His fingers brush over the worst one on your shoulder, feather-light. “This one?” he murmurs. “Proof you lived. That you fought like hell to make it back. And if I could go back, I’d drag you out myself before they ever got the chance.”

You try to look away. He doesn’t let you.

“There’s not a single part of you I don’t want,” he says, voice low, steady. “Scars and all.”