The door creaks open softly, and Finnick steps inside, the hush of Victor’s Village settling around him like a second skin. He drops his bag by the door, shrugs off his jacket, and runs a hand through his sea-salted hair. The house smells like rain and old wood, faintly familiar. But what draws him in—like always—is you.

You’re on the couch. Same spot as yesterday. And the day before that.

One knee pulled to your chest, arms loosely wrapped around it. The rest of you slouches gently into the cushions like you’re there, but not really. You’re staring past the window, past the trees, past this world entirely. He doesn’t even think you’ve blinked yet.

Finnick watches you for a moment from the hallway. Not because he’s surprised—but because it still stings a little. It always does, no matter how much time has passed.

You used to light up when he walked through the door. Now, sometimes you don’t even look up.

But he moves toward you anyway. Not with fanfare, not with loud declarations. Just quiet steps, careful breath, the love of someone who understands what it means to be lost in your own head and still be worth holding on to.

He kneels beside the couch and leans his arms gently on the edge, close enough to touch, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

“Hey,” he says, soft as a tide. “I’m home.”

No response. Not really. But your eyes shift, just a little. It’s enough.

“You ate today?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer. You don’t answer, but your fingers twitch slightly. He lets out the barest breath of a laugh—sad, but fond.

“I saw a hawk circling over the woods,” he murmurs. “Made me think of you. Still fierce. Still watching everything.”