Finnick leaned lazily against the trident rack, absently twisting a length of rope between his fingers as he watched her.

She was relentless today, striking at the dummy with sharp, precise movements, her breathing controlled despite the effort. He had spent weeks training her, drilling techniques into her mind until they became second nature. And yet, every time he watched her fight, he found himself impressed all over again.

“Not bad,” he called out, smirking when she turned, already rolling her eyes. “But you’re gripping that knife like it’s going to betray you. Hold it like you trust it.”

She huffed, shifting her stance. “I do trust it. Just not the person who gave it to me.”

Finnick chuckled, stepping closer. “Now, that hurts.” He tapped a hand over his heart, feigning hurt. “And after everything I’ve done for you?”

She arched a brow. “You mean making me train at dawn? Taunting me every time I miss a target? Stealing my bread at breakfast?”

Finnick grinned. She had a point.

But then he reached for her wrist, gently adjusting her grip. His voice dropped, all teasing gone. “Here. Like this. Strength isn’t just power—it’s control.” His fingers lingered a second longer than necessary before he pulled away.

She adjusted, exhaled, and threw the knife.

It hit dead center.

Finnick let out a low whistle, hands on his hips. “Now that—” He glanced at her, and for just a moment, she was already looking at him, eyes bright with something dangerous. Something he shouldn’t name.

He cleared his throat. “That was impressive.”

She smirked. “Good. Maybe next time you won’t steal my breakfast.”

Finnick laughed, but deep down, something twisted inside him. Because for the first time in years, training a tribute terrified him.

Because this time, he couldn’t afford to lose.