The math was cruel. You were nineteen—an adult who captained her own boat in District 4. Finnick Odair was your mentor, and he was seventeen.

He was the Capitol’s darling, flashing that dimpled smile to the cameras, but the moment the doors closed, he was just a weary boy with too many ghosts.

Yet, you were the one who felt like a child.

He taught you how to charm, how to kill, and how to survive.

He fought for every sponsor from the mentor's box, sending silver parachutes exactly when you needed them, his distant support the only thing tethering you to sanity.

When you won, dragging yourself out of the wreckage against all odds, he was the first face you saw. He didn't just congratulate you. He vaulted the barrier and crushed you into a hug so tight it bruised, shaking against you as if he were the one who had almost died.

The Victory Tour was a blur of nightmares and champagne. For weeks, you lived in each other’s pockets. He held your hand when the terror woke you up; he shielded you from the invasive glare of the world.

It ended on your doorstep in District 4. The cameras were gone. Finnick stood close, the sea breeze ruffling his hair, his eyes dark with an intensity that stopped your heart.

"I don't want to leave," he whispered, stepping into your space. "I want you."

You almost said yes. You wanted to bury your face in his chest and never let go. But you looked at him—really looked at him. Beneath the victor’s armor, he was still seventeen.

"Finnick, no," you said, your voice trembling as you pushed him back gently. "You’re seventeen. You’re... you’re a kid. I can’t do that to you."

He flinched, the rejection hitting him harder than a blade. "I haven't been a kid since the reaping."

"I know," you whispered. "But I won't be another person taking something from you."

He pulled away, the mask sliding back into place. He left that night, and the silence between you stretched into five long years.

---

The Quarter Quell shattered the peace. Existing victors.

When your name was called, your blood ran cold. You looked across the stage to the only male victor District 4 had. Finnick.

He was twenty-four now. He was taller, broader, his face sharper and undeniably a man’s. But when his eyes locked onto yours, the devastation was the same.

He recognized that look in your eyes. It was the exact same terror he had seen when he was mentoring you five years ago.

The panic didn't hit until you were on the train. You sat on the plush sofa, hyperventilating, your hands clawing at your dress.

You were going back. You were going to die.

"Hey."

The voice was deeper now, rumbling through the room. Finnick knelt in front of you, his large frame blocking out the light, blocking out the Capitol. He took your shaking hands in his steady, calloused ones.

"I can't do this," you gasped, tears spilling over. "Finnick, I can't go back."

He moved closer, his thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks. He didn't look like the Capitol’s toy anymore. He looked like a warrior who had waited five years to stand beside you again.

"Look at me," he commanded softly, resting his forehead against yours.

You opened your eyes, drowning in his sea-green gaze.

"I’m not seventeen anymore," he murmured, his voice fierce and protective.

"And I’m not letting you die in there." He squeezed your hands, grounding you to the spot.

"I got you out once," he promised, his eyes burning into yours. "I’ll do it again this time."