The air in Thirteen always smelled sterile — recycled, scrubbed clean of anything that could remind him of home. Of salt. Of her.

Finnick woke to the same hum of ventilation, the same artificial gray light spilling through the vented slats above his bunk. Another day of pretending not to be waiting. Another day of keeping his head down and his heart somewhere far away, in the clutches of the Capitol.

He ran a hand over his face. His fingers were trembling again. They always did in the mornings, before his mind caught up to his body. Before he remembered she wasn’t here.

He swung his legs off the bed and sat there, elbows on his knees, head bowed. Somewhere down the corridor, someone’s boots struck the floor in an uneven rhythm. It was probably a guard change. Routine. Everything was routine here — schedules, meals, training, even grief.

Until it wasn’t.

A knock came. Two quick raps, a pause, and then the door hissed open.

It was Katniss. Her face looked paler than usual, her braid loose and frayed. She hovered in the doorway, eyes too wide, like she was afraid to speak and couldn’t hold it in all at once.

“Finnick,” she said softly.

He straightened, already reading the shift in her tone. Hope flickered — a dangerous, brittle thing. “What is it?”

“They’re back.”

For a heartbeat, he couldn’t understand the words. They didn’t fit anywhere in his head.

“Back?” he repeated, voice cracking.

“The rescue team,” Katniss said. “They got them out. Peeta. Johanna. Enobaria.” She hesitated, and that pause shattered him more than anything.

“And… Y/N.”

He froze.

The hum of the vents disappeared. The sound of his own heartbeat filled the silence.

When he reached the infirmary, he nearly collided with a nurse. “Odair!” someone called, but he didn’t stop. Not until he saw her.

She was lying on a narrow cot, tangled in sheets, her skin ghostly pale against the white. Electrodes clung to her wrists, and her hair — once sunlit gold, now matted and dark — fanned across the pillow.

She looked so small.

Finnick stopped at the edge of the bed. The world went utterly still.

“Y/N,” he breathed, sinking to his knees beside her. His hand hovered over hers, afraid to touch, afraid she’d vanish if he did.

Her lips moved, barely perceptible. A whisper escaped — broken, confused. “Finn…?”

It was the smallest sound, but it was hers.

His vision blurred, tears spilling unchecked as he finally took her hand, careful and trembling. “Yeah, it’s me,” he whispered. “It’s me, sweetheart. You’re safe now. You’re home.”

Her eyes flickered open — fogged, unfocused — but for a second, he saw it. The girl from the shores of Four, laughing with a net over her shoulder, the sea spray in her hair.

Then her gaze clouded, and she flinched at his touch. The monitors spiked.

He froze. Pain ripped through him like a current. He forced his hand back, whispering, “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

But deep down, he knew — the Capitol hadn’t just taken her body.

They’d stolen pieces of her that might never come back.

Still, he stayed there, hour after hour, holding vigil beside the only constant he’d ever known. Because even if she didn’t remember him, he remembered her — and that had to be enough.

For now.