Finnick was the type of guy who just had people gravitate to him, his golden hair and winning smile, but you’d firmly decided you weren’t going to fall for the Capitol’s other sweetheart. You weren’t affected when he talked to other girls, dated them or kissed their hand, and no, you weren’t thinking about him— you absolutely were. You thought about him in your free time, him, your best friend, you thought about how he kissed your hair and made you feel safe— stop.

He’d never been more head over heels for a girl in his life either, but you seemed to have something against the idea of being with him, which is why he’d just been talking to a girl at a party the Capitol threw. How was he supposed to know you’d storm off? Well, that much was kinda obvious, but the hell was your problem? You seemed to be allergic to him, so why were you so pressed?

“So,” He started, closing the door to your Capitol suite, deadpan, folding his arms and raising an eyebrow. There was a pull from those pretty baby blues, you were tempted to drool over his specimen of a body in that suit, over his voice, his gentleness— holy shit, you were done for.

“Are you gonna admit it, now?” Finnick asked, and, yeah, he wanted you to admit that you loved him just as much as he loved you, but obviously, that was too much to ask. He got vertigo from how much he loved you, but you kinda had the irresistible urge to push him away— that pissed him off a lot. Like, a lot.

For someone who’s not obsessed with him, you’re sure getting pressed because of him talking to a random bimbo chick at a Capitol party. What the hell gives, here? You shouldn’t be intimidated, here, that’s simply pure, utter bullshit.