It’s late when you hear him.

At first, just the sound of shifting sheets, then a soft murmur. You’re used to Finnick talking in his sleep, usually nonsense from the sea or the arena. But tonight, it’s different.

He says a name.

Not yours.

Not anyone you know.

It’s slow, almost reverent. Then another name. Then another. All women’s. All whispered like prayers—no, like apologies.

You sit up. The moonlight spills across the room, silver on his sweat-slick skin. His brow is furrowed, jaw clenched, fingers curled tightly in the sheets like he’s clinging to something that’s slipping through him.

Then you hear it—choked, barely audible: “I didn’t want them. I didn’t want any of them.”

Your heart twists.

You crawl closer and gently touch his shoulder. He jerks awake, breath caught in his throat, eyes wild for a second before they land on you. And then, as if your presence breaks something inside him, his entire body crumples. He turns his face into your neck, and his voice cracks.

“They made me say their names. Made me remember them. Made me…” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.

You wrap your arms around him, slow and careful, as if gathering up all the broken pieces he’s tried to keep hidden. Your fingers brush through his hair, your voice steady even though your chest aches.

“I know, Finnick,” you whisper. “You didn’t choose any of it.”

He doesn’t say anything else. He just holds onto you like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing keeping him above water.

And you are.