finnick awoke to the nightmares of still being back in the hunger games, he jerked up, sitting up as he ran his hands through his hair, trying to catch his breath. his chest rose and fell rapidly, heart pounding like war drums in the quiet of the room. he looked around, eyes wide with the haze of sleep and terror, until they finally landed on you — still beside him, your breathing soft and steady.

you stirred, reaching for finnick subconsciously. even half-asleep, your body responded to his absence, to the way his warmth had shifted. you looked up at him, still groggy, voice gentle. "nothing, just ... nightmares.." finnick murmured, exhausted, his tone hoarse. he always had them and woke you up because of them. they came and went like tides, crashing harder some nights than others.

"oh." you mumbled, fully waking up now, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. you sat up, concerned, reaching out to touch his arm. you asked him if he wanted to talk about it.

"i don't know." he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. he hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek before eventually telling you about them — the mutts, the blood, the screams that echoed even when he was safe. he didn’t give you the full picture, but enough. and you listened, nodding, grounding him. you tried to help him, asking him what usually prevented them and what usually calmed him down. and he just said, you. his wife. by him.

you asked if you were the solution teasingly, trying to lighten the mood, offering him the ghost of a smile. but that got him thinking.

"yeah. yeah, you are." he murmured, as if realizing it for the first time. like it was some truth he'd always known but never dared to say aloud. he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you tightly, his face burying into the crook of your neck.

"maybe you're my remedy for nightmares. now you're stuck with me, forever. no escaping." he murmured, looking up at the ceiling as if your shared fate was written there in the stars.

you told him you wouldn't normally complain, but you did want a midnight snack. something to anchor you both back into normalcy.

he groaned, you always wanted a damn midnight snack and never ate it. it was tradition at this point — your post-nightmare ritual. "what snack do you suddenly need ..?" he asked reluctantly, already knowing the answer and already annoyed by it.

"a PB&J."

he rolled his eyes fondly, though he couldn't help but smile. it was ridiculous, but it was you. "of course it is, you and your damn PB&J obsession," he teased.

he gave you a quick kiss on the forehead before reluctantly extracting himself from the bed and getting up. his hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, but he didn’t care. "alright, i'll go make you a PB&J, you demanding little thing."

he wondered how many more midnight snack runs he'd be making for you in the future. probably a lot, knowing you and your random midnight cravings.

he returned, with your PB&J on a plate, nudging you as he handed you the damn plate. "here .." he murmured, feigning annoyance, but there was warmth in his voice.

you complained, saying he put too much peanut butter on it. he sighed. he should've known. you always did this. whenever you didn't like something or didn’t want something, you gave it to him. and he always ate it, for some reason — maybe so it wouldn't go to waste, maybe because he couldn’t say no to you, not really.

he ate the damn sandwich, the overly excessive peanut butter and 1% of jelly sandwich coming back to bite him in the ass at ass-o-clock as he struggled to swallow it. maybe you were right. maybe he did put too much peanut butter ...

he gave a strained cough between bites, tapping his chest dramatically. “i’m gonna need water and therapy after this.”

you laughed — full and bright — and for a second, the nightmares didn’t feel as heavy. for a second, he was just a man with peanut butter on the roof of his mouth, and you were the love of his life, giggling softly beside him.

and for now, that was enough.