--

        She pauses by the doorway of the independent study, gaze lingering on me for an exaggerated moment. I pretend to not notice her presence, pressing my face further into my novel as if completely absorbed in the contents. Finally, she speaks up. "You look happy," she says observantly. There's a hint of relief in her tone.

        I look up, meeting my mother's eyes easily. "Do I?"

        She nods her head, seeming to tread carefully. "Yeah. It's nice." Then, she turns and moves on, footsteps growing quieter as she disappears further into the house.

--

        "And... stop."

        He keeps pouring.

         "Finnick!" I say, reaching out to grab his wrist. He laughs as he pulls away from my grasp, spreading flour across the floor from the bag as he twists out of my reach and slides around to the other side of the counter. "Look at the mess you're making! There are rules to baking, and you're completely ignoring me!"

        "Rules are made to be broken, Reverie," he insists, grinning over at me from across the island. I glare at him, crossing my arms over my chest.

        "You're making this harder than it needs to be," I frown. "This is gonna be the most mediocre batch of cookies and it's your fault." Finnick rolls his eyes.

        "It's not a disaster. We can just double the recipe and give the majority to Springwood." He must notice the slight softening of my expression because he visibly seems triumphant. "I'm winning you over, aren't I?"

        "No, I'm just thinking of ways to get rid of you in your sleep." I say moodily. Finnick snorts, setting the bag of flour onto the countertop.

        "You would miss me," he says easily. I roll my eyes, huffing loudly.

        "Unfortunately, you're right." I mumble as he comes over, letting him place his flour-dusted hands on my shoulders.

        "Your eyes are red," he says observantly, leaning in closer to get a better look. "You sleep alright last night?"

        "A bit," I answer, averting my eyes. Something about meeting Finnick's concerned green gaze would make me overshare in an instant, and I needed to keep up the façade. "It's okay, I was planning on trying when I go home."

        Finnick makes a low sound of acknowledgement. "And is that the truth?" I pause, inhaling deeply as I weigh the pros and cons of admitting my faults to him. Something about his ability to read me with increasing speed and precision is terrible, but also relieving. I don't have to lie to everyone; I don't have to lie to someone.

        "Not really, no." I finally say. "But I've been on a good streak, you know." I meet his eyes then, almost desperate to emphasize my progress in recent weeks. "Eating, sleeping... it's just one bad night, and I know I can do better. It's really no big deal, so don't stress about it, I mean--"

        "Hey, it's okay." Finnick interrupts me quickly, rubbing my arm gently. "You're doing good, it's okay. I believe you." I close my eyes then, searching for the appropriate words and hating the way anxiety consumes me the longer I can't find it. After a moment, I register a light, feathery touch against my cheek and can't help but lean into it.

         "I'm sorry for snapping at you," I tell him quietly. "I've just been really on edge today."

        "That's okay," he says. "You want to get some air? We can finish baking later." I nod my head after a quick second, finally opening my eyes again. I meet his gaze and find that he doesn't observe me as something fragile. It makes me feel strong. "Okay, I'll get you a sweater and we can go."

        Finnick leaves and returns quickly, handing me a cardigan of his that's much too big with a small, knowing smile. I get a whiff of him as I slide my arms through the massive sleeves, an airy mix of the sea and some expensive leftover cologne. We leave through the kitchen door in our sandals, Finnick walking a few steps ahead but close enough to grab if I reached hard enough. The roar of the waves is immediate, but the aggressiveness of the ocean is peaceful to me. We find a spot by the rocks where we can sit without getting wet, and we end up shoulder-to-shoulder as we get comfortable. I let out a quiet exhale, closing my eyes and trying to steady my breathing.

        Finnick only speaks after a long stretch of silence has passed between us. "Healing isn't linear." I nod my head in understanding. "Slipping up is human. It doesn't mean you've failed, or that you've lost all of your progress."

        I curl my fists around the excess sleeve. "Tell that to my mom."

        Finnick frowns, eyes trained on the water. "My mom didn't understand it either, really." I pause, realizing that Finnick rarely talks about his family to anyone.

        "She seemed really insightful, though." I say, remembering the words Finnick once spoke about falling apart and putting the pieces back together. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart. How could someone who understands the struggle of absolute brokenness and despair be insensitive to his trauma and suffering?

        "She was," Finnick agrees. "Just... expected I would be okay, I guess, after a bit of time. That I would get over my Games soon enough." Finnick twists his head to look at me, an uneasy smile tugging at his lips. "There were days I would end up on the floor of my bathroom, screaming and crying because everything was too much... and she would tell me all I needed to do was get up and keep going. That everything would work out if I just let it... let the baggage go."

        I chew on my bottom lip, hating the flash of hurt that I can see in Finnick's expression. "But it doesn't work like that."

        Finnick nods his head. "It doesn't. But that's how she thought it should."

        We're silent again, this time muddled down with various thoughts that are too premature to voice out loud. I think about asking Finnick about his district partner. I remember being a kid myself when he was reaped, watching in the square as he was shipped off at fourteen with a girl of sixteen. She had died in the bloodbath, but before then, he must have bonded with her. I figure that, whatever short time they'd had together as allies, he should get to keep it to himself. I would want to keep Xander to myself, if I could. There's something personal about a bond with your district partner, knowing that they're the only other person in the Games that didn't just see you as another obstacle to going home. They saw you as a piece of it.

        "You're thinking a lot," says Finnick.

        "So are you," I reply. Finnick cracks another smile, this time more real.

        "Are you gonna spit it out then?" Finnick asks curiously, tone light and teasing.

        I consider the potential repercussions of bringing Finnick back to such a dark place. I decide that my morbid curiosity is not worth risking his stable mental state. "No, I don't think so." Finnick huffs out a sigh, still playful. He throws his arm around my shoulder.

        "What happened to honesty?" He teases.

        I don't realize that a smile is on my face. "It's not really the best policy."

        Finnick snorts loudly. "That's extremely debatable."

        "I suppose."

       "Whatever it is, I just hope it's about how hot you think I am." Finnick laughs loudly when I go to shove him, arms encircling me quickly and pulling me in close before I could push him off the rock. I don't realize that I'm laughing as well, wrists caught in his grasp and face burning with the implication.

        "You're insufferable, Finnick." I say, barely trying to struggle out of his grasp.

        "It's always 'you're insufferable, Finnick' and never 'you're my best friend, Finnick.'" He says, voice pitching to mock me. I tilt my head up, but still can't see his face.

        "One: I don't sound like that. Two: It's because you're not my best friend." I grin when I hear Finnick scoff in disbelief, enjoying myself.

        "Then who is?" He asks.

        I pause for dramatic effect. "Vienna," I finally respond. Finnick is quiet for a moment, but then he has an outburst.

        "A five year old? Over me?" I laugh at his response, pulling out of his hold the moment his arms go lax. I turn to see his expression, finding his eyes bright with amusement despite the dismay he attempts to convey.

        "The five year old doesn't talk back." I reply. "Plus, she adores me."

         Finnick challenges me immediately. "And I don't adore you?" I raise my eyebrows.

        "I don't know, do you?" I ask him. Finnick tries his best to seem hurt, but the twitch of his lips give it away.

        "I do," he admits. "And anyways, you enjoy it when I talk back."

        I smile at him, reaching out to fix one of his out of place curls that the wind takes advantage of. "I do." I admit. Finnick smiles finally, big and relaxed.

        "How about you sleep at my house tonight?" He suggests, allowing me to carefully mess with his swooping curls. I meet his eyes, surprised by the offer.

        "Your house," I repeat. He nods.

        "We can have fun today, tire ourselves out in town. Maybe you might find it easier to sleep. It's worth a shot." Finnick wants me to accept, I can tell almost immediately. I consider the alternative, a boring evening shut in my study while my mother pretends that we aren't in a house that I paid for in blood.

        "Can we stay here for a bit?" I ask, voice softer and more tentative now. "Then we can go out. I like it here, with you."

        Finnick smiles, processes my words, then smiles more. "Yeah, we can."

----

a/n: this one was a little shorter than usual, but it felt right tbh. pretty light and playful-- i just want to establish the characters a bit more and have a bit of fun with it before the plot gets more serious. updates will be a bit slower than usual because finals are coming up. please lemme know what you think so far, it's really motivating!