The Capitol balcony glitters beneath the artificial stars, music pulsing faintly through glass doors behind you.

Finnick stands alone at the railing, shirt half-unbuttoned, gold catching in his curls like he was sculpted for this place.

When he notices you watching—not gawking, just seeing—his flirtatious mask falters for a fraction of a second.

“You’re not supposed to be out here,” he says quietly, voice stripped of performance.

Then, softer: “Neither am I.”

He turns toward you, eyes dark with something dangerously real.