beating snow and the capitol wasn’t easy, and it definitely wasn't an easy road to get to where you both were now.

but against all odds, the rebellion won. the cost had been great — so many lives lost in the name of freedom, districts reduced to rubble, the sky thick with smoke for weeks on end.

you and finnick had fought alongside katniss, peeta, johanna, beetee, and the others — side by side with fear in your bones and blood on your hands.

but coin fell, and so did snow, and for the first time in your life, there was no reaping. the hunger games were over. abolished by the very people they tried to break. 

and when it was all done — when the ashes began to settle — finnick married you. right in the heart of the rebellion. it wasn’t extravagant or laced with gold, but it was yours. and it was his.

it was held underground, in one of the safer zones the rebels had secured. dim lights hanging above, flowers stolen from the edges of district 13’s greenhouse, a ring made from wires beetee twisted together with shaking hands.

finnick hadn’t told you that part — the fear in his heart that he might not live to see you again. that marrying you then was his last act of hope. and even if it had been, it would’ve been enough.

but you both made it. somehow. and now, a few years later, after all the shit and trauma you and finnick had gone through …

you ran. you escaped the districts. after so much pain, so many whispers in your head that still came at night — you deserved soft. you deserved silence.

you settled in a quiet stretch of land, not too far from katniss and peeta, even they had their own kids now. a newborn and a three year old. a wide field surrounded your home, the kind that smelled of green when the wind blew right.

sometimes johanna would visit, still grumbling about the bugs in the countryside, and beetee sent letters every few weeks on that old, clunky typewriter of his.

it was peace. real peace. the kind you never thought you’d see.

you woke in the morning — sunshine leaking into the room through the curtains — to the cries of a baby. your baby. your miracle. your second chance. you groaned, reaching for finnick’s arm, tapping him.

he stirred, “hm?” he hummed sleepily. "can you get that?” you murmured softly, your voice rough with sleep and tenderness.

you had already changed the diaper on your kid the last two times, only because finnick was dead asleep during.

he rubbed the sleep away from his eyes, nodding — although he didn’t really like changing diapers, he never complained or told you to do it. after all, you carried his kid for almost a year. this was the least he could do.

he sat up, leaning down to kiss your temple gently, like you were made of glass before he stood up, attending the baby.

you listened as he whispered soft, sleepy nonsense to your child — his voice laced with warmth and patience. you smiled into your pillow. for once, there were no alarms. no screaming. no cannon fire. just love. and finnick. and a new kind of morning.