It's cold in District Four. Storming, like it always is. You're at home in the lighthouse, doing chores upstairs when you hear a knock on the door. You make your way down the long, winding stairs, holding a lantern in your left hand.

Finnick is standing at the door when you open it. He's wearing a knitted sweater, brown pants and fishing boots. He's holding a bag of flour and he smells like the sea.

"Hey." Finnick's voice is low and raspy like it always is, and he messes up his blonde curly hair as he speaks. "There was some extra flour down in the district. I thought you might want it."