Being reaped at eighteen feels like a cosmic joke. You were just months away from aging out. The terror was absolute, but it got worse when you looked up at the stage and saw your mentor.
Finnick Odair.
You knew him long before he was a "youngest victor," back when he was just a scrawny twelve-year-old menace sneaking onto your father's boat.
Your ten-year-old self hated him for stealing your dad's attention, for asking about knots and for his relentless teasing—making you blush by whispering you were cute, only to yank your braid and run away laughing.
You never admitted the secret admiration you felt when he was reaped at fourteen, walking onto that stage with a terrifying confidence while everyone else panicked. But that feeling curdled when he returned as a wealthy, arrogant Victor who stopped coming to the docks.
You hated him for it. That hatred simmered right into the Training Center.
For two weeks, Finnick was a nightmare. He was a walking contradiction—one minute acting soft and protective, the next tearing you apart.
You remember the breaking point. You were hesitating with a blade, hands shaking. Finnick didn't comfort you. He slapped the knife harshly out of your grip.
"If you hold it like a coward, you die like one!" he yelled.
You glared back, tears pricking your eyes. You were convinced he was just pulling you in just to push you away exactly like he did when you were kids.
That anger was the only thing that kept you moving. You survived the arena because you were too angry to die. You fought through the blood and the mud until the cannon fired for the last time and you collapsed.
When you finally open your eyes, the sterile white light of the hospital room blinds you. You’ve been out for two days.
You expect a doctor, but you find Finnick.
He’s hovering, looking wrecked. He’s gripping your hand so tight it hurts, watching your heart monitor like his life depends on it.
"You really are back..." he breathes out, pressing his forehead against your joined hands.
"I'm back," you whisper shakily.
"Of course you are," he murmurs.
Suddenly, you remember the moment before the tubes went up. The arrogance had dropped. He had grabbed you, pulling you into a desperate, warm hug.
"You hear me? You come back to me," he had demanded.
What you don't know is that Finnick usually doesn't care if his tributes die. He thinks death is a mercy compared to the life of a Victor.
But when you were reaped, He spent those two weeks torn in half.
He wanted to hold you, but he had to be cruel to make you dangerous. He knew whose daughter you were; he knew the potential you had. He realized that if you died in that arena, it would break him.
For years, he stayed away from the docks after winning because he was terrified Snow would use the people he loved as leverage. But Snow reaped you anyway.
He lifts his head, looking at you with a tragic, bittersweet smile.
"I know you'll make it," he says softly. "How could I not? I've been watching you since I was twelve."
The realization hits you like a physical blow.
The questions on the boat. The teasing. The way he used to call you cute just to make you red before running away.
He wasn't trying to get your father's attention. He was trying to get yours.
He settles into the chair, refusing to let go of your hand. He's made a promise to himself: he will stand between you and the Capitol, no matter the cost.
You were never just a tribute. You were always the one thing he was trying to protect.