Finnick is everywhere. He’s in the space between heartbeats, in the way the salt air clings to your skin, in the soft echo of laughter over crashing waves. No matter where you turn, there he is—leaning against the docks, flashing that too-perfect smile, his sea-green eyes finding yours like it’s second nature.

“You miss me?” His voice is honeyed, teasing, but there’s something beneath it—something real.

“Finnick,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “We were together this morning.”

“And yet, it’s been hours.” He leans in, tilting his head as if the distance between you is unbearable. “You don’t feel it? That ache? That terrible, gnawing emptiness when I’m gone?”

It should be irritating—the way he clings, the way he refuses to be anywhere but in your space. But it isn’t. Because Finnick has always been like this, at least with you. Ever since you were kids, running barefoot along the shoreline, daring each other to swim farther, climb higher, push limits no one else would. You had been the first person to beat him in a race across the cove, the only one who didn’t shy away when he grinned too wide and laughed too loud.

Back then, before the Capitol took notice, before Finnick Odair became Finnick Odair, he was just a boy who smelled like salt and always had sand between his fingers.