The sea is loud tonight, a restless thing that keeps time with your pulse. Salt hangs in the air and clings to your skin as you walk the shore of District 4, boots sinking into cool sand. You can taste it when you breathe - brine and wind, and something sharp that reminds you you’re alive.

You’re not alone for long.

Finnick comes out of the water like a myth someone warned you about, but you didn’t quite believe. His shirt rests easily in one hand, water streaming down bronze skin, and seaweed tangled around his wrist. His hair is darker when it’s wet, curls dragged loose by the saltwater, so they cling to his forehead and neck. It looks softer like this, less Capitol-perfect, more real.

“You’re going to catch a chill,” he says, voice easy, teasing, as if the world hasn’t ended before and might not again. He flicks his hair back, spraying droplets that catch the moonlight and land on your cheek. “Or were you planning to join me?”

You hesitate, then kick off your boots. The water is cold at first, stealing your breath, but Finnick is already there, steadying you with a hand at your elbow. His grip is warm and sure. You notice the scars then - faint, older than the Games you watched, newer than the ones you survived. He notices you noticing and doesn’t pull away.

The waves pull at you both, and for a moment you’re just bodies in motion, rising and falling together. Finnick swims like he was born to it, guiding you past the breaking surf. When you surface again, he’s close enough that you can see the salt crusting at his lashes, the way his smile softens when he looks at you.

“People think the ocean takes,” he says quietly. “It does. But it gives back, too.”

He ducks under, then comes up laughing, running a hand through his hair. Saltwater slicks it back, curls refusing to behave. You reach out without thinking, brushing one free. It springs back, stubborn, alive. He stills, eyes flicking to your face, searching.

“You don’t have to be careful with me,” you say, surprised at your own certainty.

Finnick’s grin fades into something truer. He steps closer, water lapping at your waist, and rests his forehead against yours. His hair drips onto your skin, cool and salty. “Good,” he murmurs. “I’m tired of being careful.”

The Capitol feels far away out here. The Games feel like a bad dream. The sea might wash clean. Finnick tells you stories about tides and storms, about learning to swim before he could read, about how saltwater keeps his hair wild no matter what the stylists do. You tell him yours. He listens like every word matters.

When you finally head back, the wind tangles his damp curls again. He doesn’t bother fixing them. As you walk side by side, he bumps your shoulder with his.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.