𝙰𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗 ✪ 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝙾𝚍𝚊𝚒𝚛

- ȶաɛռȶʏ

Willa slept in Finnick's room that night. It wasn't something she had planned or even fully decided; she had simply stayed, both of them too worn down from the weight of their conversation to consider parting ways. The anger that had burned so fiercely between them had left a raw ache, and in the end, neither of them wanted to face the darkness of their thoughts alone. Finnick had offered her the bed, insisting she take it, but she had refused, stubborn as ever.

"We'll share it," she'd said, her voice tired but firm. And so they lay side by side, a gulf of unspoken things still hanging between them, but something softer, something almost comforting in the quiet. The Capitol's stars twinkled outside the window, casting a soft, light into the room. Willa lay with her back to Finnick, listening to his breathing, steady but strained, as if he were trying to calm the storm raging inside of him. She felt the bed shift as he adjusted himself, and her heart clenched with the knowledge that the Finnick Odair she saw now—the broken, vulnerable version of him—was a side he rarely let anyone see.

"Willa," he whispered after what felt like an eternity of silence. His voice was so quiet she almost didn't hear it, but it sent a shiver down her spine. She kept her eyes closed, unsure if she wanted to respond, but then his hand gently brushed against her shoulder. "Are you awake?"

She didn't answer right away. She was afraid of what he might say, of what she might say in return. But something in his touch, so tentative and full of remorse, made her finally turn to face him. In the dim light, she could see the exhaustion etched across his features, the lines of worry that had deepened since their days of carefree laughter at the Capitol parties.

"Yeah," she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath. She shifted slightly, their faces only inches apart. The closeness felt intimate and fragile, as if one wrong word could shatter whatever fragile truce they had made. Finnick's hand fell back to the space between them, and he sighed.

"I didn't think I'd be able to sleep tonight," he admitted. His green eyes searched her face, looking for something—maybe forgiveness, maybe understanding. "Not after everything I told you."

Willa bit her lip, feeling the remnants of her earlier anger simmering beneath her skin.

"It's a lot to process," she said honestly. "Everything feels... different now. I don't know what to believe anymore."

"I know," Finnick said, his voice thick with guilt. "I know I've hurt you, and I know that some of this can't be undone. But I'm glad you're here." He paused, his eyes softening. "I don't think I could've handled being alone tonight."

Willa felt her heart twist at his admission. She hated how much she still cared about him, how the walls she'd tried so hard to put up around her heart kept crumbling whenever he let his guard down. But the truth was, she needed this, too—needed to feel something other than fear and anger and the ever-present sense of betrayal.

"I'm glad, too," she whispered, though the words tasted bittersweet. Her gaze dropped to the space between them, the inches that felt like a canyon they'd yet to cross. "But, Finnick... it doesn't make everything okay."

He nodded, a shadow passing over his face.

"I know," he said, his voice barely steady. "But maybe it's a start."

For a moment, they just lay there, the silence heavy but not suffocating. Willa could feel his presence beside her, his warmth radiating through the thin layer of the blanket they shared. Her mind was still a whirlwind, full of questions and doubts, but for the first time in days, she didn't feel completely lost. Slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing against his. It was a small gesture, tentative and uncertain, but Finnick's hand closed around hers, holding on like it was the only anchor he had. His grip was warm, reassuring, and something in it made Willa feel just a little less alone.