the ocean was quieter this morning. soft waves curled onto the shore, humming against the sand just outside the open kitchen window. the salt-kissed air drifted through the gauzy curtains as sunlight poured across the tile floors of your cottage. your feet were bare, your hair slightly messy from sleep, and your hands moved gently as you poured pancake batter into the pan.

the house still smelled like flowers. leftover petals from the bouquets were scattered across the wooden table, a veil still tossed over one of the chairs. the wedding had been small — just friends who felt like family — but it had meant everything. and now it was the morning after, just you and him, wrapped in the warmth of the life you'd finally built.

it had been a long road to get there — the kind of peace you didn’t think you’d ever see. after the war ended, after snow fell and the rebellion cracked the world open, there had been silence. then choices. then freedom. the hunger games were gone. officially abolished. no more reapings. no more victors made out of children.

you and finnick had disappeared from the districts not long after. just like katniss and peeta. none of you had anything left to prove. you’d fought, survived, bled. and now it was time to live.

your beach cottage sat so far off the map it might as well have not existed. and that was exactly how you wanted it.

you didn’t hear him come in, not at first. finnick had walked down the hallway, yawning, wearing the soft shirt you always stole from him. his eyes were heavy with sleep, hair a wild halo around his head.

he paused in the living room, gaze sweeping over the mountain of wedding gifts that cluttered the couches — handwritten cards from katniss and peeta, some slightly inappropriate gag gifts from johanna, a sleek little invention from beetee wrapped in four layers of metallic paper.

but none of that mattered right that second. because his eyes found you.

you, standing in the golden light of the kitchen. you, humming softly as you flipped a pancake. you, barefoot in the house that was now his home. you, who had somehow chosen him through everything.

he leaned against the doorway, watching for a while. just breathing it in. this was real. no cameras. no sponsors. no survival strategy. just the woman who drove him crazy and made him feel safe in the same breath.

there was no need to say anything. no war to plan for, no fear to brace for. just the soft sizzle of the pan, the smell of vanilla and sugar, the distant cry of a gull outside.

you were his kind of woman. you always had been. fierce and gentle all at once, stubborn as hell, and still the softest place he'd ever fallen. he still didn’t know how he got so lucky. how you'd followed him into fire and now, here, into peace.

he moved toward you slowly, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, pressing a kiss to the curve of your shoulder. you startled slightly, then smiled, leaning back into his chest. his hands splayed over your stomach, grounding himself in the feel of you.

“you’re my kind of woman...” he whispered against your ear, voice low and rough from sleep.