it’s been a year since the rebellion ended—twelve quiet, aching months of trying to remember what peace feels like. the war had taken so much, but in its place it left something fragile and new: a life worth rebuilding. three months ago, you brought your daughter into that life, a small, perfect thing with her father’s sea-glass eyes and a laugh so soft it feels like forgiveness.

since then, finnick’s been the one who insists you rest. every night, he’s the first to stir when your daughter cries, slipping out of bed before you can even lift your head. you’ll wake sometimes to the faint sound of his voice through the walls, low and soothing, like waves breaking against the shore. then silence, and you know he’s rocked her back to sleep.

this morning, the first thing you notice is the cold beside you. the sheets are cool where finnick should be, and the house is still wrapped in the hush of dawn. sunlight hasn’t quite reached the windows yet; the air feels blue and soft, heavy with the scent of salt and baby powder.

you pull on one of finnick’s sweaters and pad barefoot down the hallway, careful not to let the old floorboards creak. your daughter’s door is slightly open, a thin line of golden light cutting through the dim.

when you push it wider, your heart melts a little. finnick’s there, sitting in the rocking chair beside the crib, his body slouched in sleep. one arm hangs loosely over the edge of the crib, his fingers brushing against your daughter’s tiny hand where it rests through the bars. his head tilts to the side, hair tousled and golden in the morning light. the chair moves just slightly, a soft, lazy rhythm that makes it look like even in sleep, he’s still trying to soothe her.

they’re both breathing in the same slow cadence, peaceful in a way that feels almost sacred.

for a moment, you just stand there, watching them. the quiet hum of the world outside, the steady sound of their breaths—it all feels so fragile, so impossibly beautiful. and you realize you’ve never loved him more than in this small, still moment.