you found finnick sitting on the floor of the dim district 13 hallway, his back against the wall, his legs just straight but spread out a bit. the lights hummed overhead, flickering every few seconds, as if even the electricity was exhausted. when you walked over and slid down beside him, he didn’t look at you, but his shoulders dropped the tiniest bit, like your presence let him breathe.

he spoke first. he always did when he was close to breaking. “i drag myself out of nightmares with no relief in waking up,” he said softly, his voice raw. not angry. not dramatic. just tired in a way that hurt to hear. you nodded, slow and understanding, showing him you were listening.

“i don’t know why i bother trying to sleep,” he continued. “it’s like my mind waits for the chance to tear me apart again.” you rested your hand on his forearm, a quiet reassurance. he glanced at it for a moment, then back down to the ground.

“people used to ask if i was okay,” he muttered, almost scoffing. “in the arena. in training. even before.” his jaw tightened, and you could tell he was remembering the jabberjays in the arena, johanna’s voice cutting through his thoight. “i always said yes. it didn’t matter what the truth was.”

you shifted closer, letting your knee brush his —not pushing, just reminding him he wasn’t alone. “the thing is,” he went on, rubbing a trembling thumb along the seam of his pant leg, “i learned early that my feelings didn’t… count. not to the people who wanted something from me. not to the ones who expected me to smile, or pose, or play a part.” he breathed out shakily. “if i cracked, it made their lives harder. if i pretended, everything stayed… manageable.”

you lowered your head, silently telling him that you understood. that you weren’t one of them. “i think that’s why i don’t know how to say it now,” he admitted. “when i’m not okay.” his voice thinned at the edges. “every instinct i have tells me to hold it together. to be charming. to shrug it off.” he laughed without humor. “to lie.”

you brushed your thumb gently over his wrist. he didn’t pull away. “the jabberjays,” he whispered, eyes darkening. “i heard things i don’t talk about, don't ever really want to talk about. things meant to break me.. your screams. and.. when johanna asked if i was fine, all i could do was nod.” he swallowed hard. “because what else was i supposed to say? that i didn’t think i deserved to be helped? that i didn’t think i’d ever be worth the effort?”

you leaned your shoulder against his. soft, steady. he let his weight rest there, just barely. “i’m talking too much,” he murmured. “i didn’t mean to.” you shook your head, telling him he wasn’t. that you wanted him to continue if he needed to. he breathed out, long and trembling. “i don’t really know how to… let people in. but you make it feel less impossible.”

you pressed your hand into his, fingers curling around his slowly. finnick let out a breath that sounded like surrender — not the painful kind, but the kind where someone finally stops holding themselves up alone.

“just stay,” he whispered, voice almost inaudible. “you don’t have to say anything. just stay.”

and you did. quietly. solidly. beside him on a cold hallway floor, giving him the one thing he’d never learned he was allowed to ask for — comfort without conditions.