The quiet after the rebellion had been jarring — almost too quiet. The kind of silence that made your ears ring, like the world hadn’t quite figured out how to function without screams and sirens. But here, in the small home you’d built with Finnick, the noise had returned in a different form. In the form of your baby’s nonstop, ear-piercing wails.

Finnick Odair had survived a war, the Capitol, the Games, and Snow himself. But nothing — absolutely nothing — had prepared him for fatherhood.

This morning, you’d left him in charge for barely twenty minutes to get a cup of tea. You weren’t sure what you’d expected to return to — chaos, maybe. But instead, you walked into the living room and froze, your eyebrows raising.

From the kitchen doorway, you watched your husband crouched in front of your crawling child, holding a rice puff snack between two fingers like he was rewarding a show dog.

“Good job, little guy,” Finnick said gently, placing the puff into the tiny outstretched hand. Your baby cooed and gummed it with wide eyes, seemingly pleased with himself.

You blinked slowly. Was he ..?

Then Finnick reached forward and gave the baby three light pats on the head. The way you’d seen him do to a golden retriever once back in District 13. And when your baby tried to bite the corner of the rug again — something you’d both said was a no — Finnick grabbed the small spray bottle from the coffee table and gave a light mist to the air near your kid's hands.

"Ah ah," he said casually. “No chewing the furniture.”

Your hand was still on your teacup, unmoving. You stared, deadpanned. In disbelief. This man had fought mutts and Capitol beasts — and now here he was puppy-training your child.

You told him to stop. You told him it was weird. You told him this was NOT how you were supposed to raise a baby.

But he just looked over his shoulder at you, one arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest. His sea-green eyes were shining, and there was a softness to his smile that only appeared when he was with you or the baby.

“What?” he said, turning back to watch your little one attempt to crawl toward a chew toy — yes, an actual chew toy. “It’s working so far.”

And he wasn’t entirely wrong. Your baby had stopped crying. In fact, they were laughing, giggling as Finnick playfully flopped a small stuffed animal in front of them like a squeaky tug toy. He whistled once — high-pitched and low — and your baby turned their head immediately toward the sound, eyes wide with curiosity.

You rubbed your temple slowly.

Finnick, still lounging, gave another soft pat to your baby's head, his voice fond as he said, “Good little sea lion.”

You swore you were going to lose it.