Finnick was sprawled across her couch like he owned the place, one arm draped over his face, the other lazily tossing a small seashell in the air and catching it again.

“You’re going to break something,” she warned, glancing up from where she was untangling a fishing net.

Finnick scoffed. “Please, I have excellent reflexes.”

As if to prove his point, he tossed the shell higher—only for it to completely miss his hand and hit him square in the forehead.

She snorted. “Excellent reflexes, huh?”

Finnick groaned dramatically, rubbing his forehead. “You know, as my best friend, you’re legally required to show concern for my well-being.”

She rolled her eyes. “Since when am I your best friend?”

Finnick gasped, clutching his chest like she’d stabbed him. “Excuse me? After everything we’ve been through? The mentoring? The trauma bonding? The late-night existential crises? And you’re telling me I don’t hold the coveted title of best friend?”

She smirked, tying off the last knot in the net. “I never said you weren’t my best friend. I just don’t remember agreeing to be yours.”

Finnick was silent for a long moment, then—very seriously—he muttered, “This is the worst day of my life.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” he shot back, grinning as he finally sat up.