“Hey,” he calls softly, toeing off his boots. No response.

He rounds the corner and then he sees you. Curled on the floor by the fireplace, your knees pulled tight to your chest, your hands pressed over your ears. You’re rocking slightly, not crying, but frozen in that haunting stillness he knows too well. It steals the air from his lungs.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Doesn’t make a sound. Finnick has learned how to move quiet when it matters, how not to spook someone drowning in memories that don’t belong in the present.

So he sinks down to the floor beside you, close, but not touching. Not yet.

“You’re safe,” he says, voice like the sea.. steady, low, unwavering. “You’re here. With me. That place can’t touch you anymore.”

He watches the tension in your shoulders, sees the way your breathing stutters, and his chest tightens. He wants to pull you into his arms and never let go, but he knows what it’s like to flinch at kindness. He knows what it costs to survive.

So instead, he whispers, “You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to move. I’ll sit here as long as you need. Just… let me be near you.”

And then, after a moment, gently—like offering a truce to a wounded animal—he reaches out. Not to grab. Not to force. Just to place his hand, palm up, beside yours.

“I love you,” he breathes, almost like he’s afraid the words might break something. “Even like this. Especially like this