The Capitol adores Finnick. They fawn over him, drape themselves over his arms, whisper sweet nothings as if he’s theirs to claim. You’re used to it, the way he plays along, flashing that easy, practiced smile. But tonight, as you sit beside him at yet another glittering Capitol gathering, you notice the way his grip tightens around his glass.

Because this time, the attention isn’t on him.

It’s on you.

A stranger—some Capitol elite with too much perfume and not enough self-awareness—leans too close, their laughter too familiar, their fingers brushing your wrist as they murmur something meant only for you. You barely react, offering a polite but distant smile, but Finnick… Finnick doesn’t like it. His whole body goes still, his knuckles white against the crystal stem of his glass. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t interfere, but you feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

The moment the night is over, he doesn’t let you stray far. The second you step into your shared quarters, his hands are on you—urgent, possessive. You barely get a breath before he’s tilting your chin up, his lips finding yours in a kiss that’s desperate rather than sweet. It’s not the Capitol charm, not the act he wears so well. It’s real.

His hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, like he needs proof that you’re still his. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, his breath uneven. “They don’t get to have you,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough with something close to frustration. “No one does. Just me.”