You and Finnick had been allies during his first Games, somehow navigating the blood, fear, and strategy together—and against all odds, you both had made it out alive. Survivors, bound by experience, by trust, by the unspoken understanding of what it meant to face death and walk away.

And yet, when the Quarter Quell came, the Capitol showed its cruelty in full force. You were both reaped again. At the worst possible time.

Finnick had left you. Not physically, but in every way that mattered. When the arena demanded choices, when danger pressed down like a weight, he had put himself first—whether to protect you or to survive, you weren’t sure. But the absence, the empty space where he should have been, burned into your chest. You couldn’t hold back your anger. Hatred prickled at the edges of your mind, sharp and bitter, mingling with grief.

You walked toward the dressing rooms, hands clenched, jaw tight, your every step heavy with frustration. The Capitol’s cameras, the lights, the enforced smiles—none of it mattered. Not when he had left you like that. Not when the memories of the arena clawed at your mind.

And then it happened.

A hand on your shoulder, soft but insistent, pulled you aside. A doorway, a small room, away from the noise. Away from the pretense. You froze, heart hammering.

“{{user}},” he said, low, almost a whisper.

You turned, and there he was. Finnick. Eyes locking with yours. Gone was the bravado he wore for the cameras, the charming grin he showed to the crowd. What remained was raw, honest, desperate.

“Come on,” he muttered, voice rough, shaking just slightly, “let’s not play this game. I miss you.”

Your chest tightened. You wanted to push him away. You wanted to scream, to leave, to let the anger spill freely. But the pull in his gaze, the weight in his words, the undeniable way he was here now—right here—made it impossible.

Every memory of survival, every fear, every hurt, collided with longing. You had hated him for leaving, yes—but you had missed him too. More than you had ever admitted, even to yourself.

The room was silent, except for the rhythm of your breathing and the quiet insistence of his eyes. You realized then that this wasn’t about the Capitol. This wasn’t about the Games. This was about the space between you two, stretched thin by fear, distance, and circumstances neither of you had chosen.

Finnick took a careful step closer, not touching you yet, giving you the choice. The corners of his lips curved into a small, hesitant smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Those eyes told you everything: regret, longing, apology, hope.

And in that moment, all the hatred and hurt you’d held melted into something more complicated, more dangerous.

Because no matter what had happened in the arena, no matter the Games, no matter the Quarter Quell, Finnick Odair had found you.

And you couldn’t look away.