𝔸𝕤𝕤𝕒𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕟 ⟢ 𝔽𝕚𝕟𝕟𝕚𝕔𝕜 𝕆𝕕𝕒𝕚𝕣

- ȶաɛռȶʏ ʄɨʋɛ

Willa slept in Finnick's room again that night. She needed as much comfort as possible on what could be her last night alive. Willa sat on the edge of Finnick's bed, her fingers lightly brushing the coarse fabric of the blanket as she stared into the dim light of the room. The Capitol's moonlight filtered through the windows, casting silvery streaks across the walls. She had spent the entire day under a suffocating spotlight, every move scrutinized, every word dissected. But now, in the quiet sanctuary of Finnick's room, the weight of it all finally settled on her chest. Finnick emerged from the adjoining bathroom, his hair damp and tousled, wearing only a simple shirt and pants. His sea-green eyes found hers, and for a moment, the mask he wore so effortlessly for the Capitol slipped away. He crossed the room and sat beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight.

"You don't have to stay here, you know," he said softly, his voice carrying none of the teasing lilt it usually held. "You could take your own bed. Get some actual rest."

Willa shook her head, her gaze fixed on the floor.

"I don't want to be alone," she admitted. Finnick nodded, understanding without pressing further. He leaned back against the headboard, his arm brushing hers. The silence between them was thick but not uncomfortable, filled with unspoken fears neither wanted to voice.

"It's strange, isn't it?" Willa said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "Knowing this might be the last time I sit in a room like this, feel safe, talk to someone who... who sees me for more than what I'm supposed to be."

Finnick's gaze softened and he shifted Willa so she was looking at him. He studied her face, his eyes holding a rare depth of vulnerability that Willa hadn't seen before. He reached up, brushing a stray strand of her dark hair behind her ear.

"I see you, Willa," he said quietly, his voice steady. "Not the Capitol's version of you, not the Assassin. Just you. And I promise, as long as I'm here, you won't have to face this alone."

Her throat tightened at his words, but she refused to cry. She had promised herself long ago that she wouldn't let the Capitol break her, and she wasn't about to start now—not even in front of Finnick. Instead, she gave him a small nod, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"You're good at this," she said after a moment, her voice laced with a hint of irony. "The whole 'comforting people before they go to their deaths' thing."

Finnick's lips quirked into a faint smile at her words, though the humor didn't reach his eyes.

"It's a skill I wish I didn't have," he said, leaning back against the headboard. He folded his arms over his chest, his gaze drifting toward the window where the Capitol's moonlight glowed unnaturally bright. "But I guess in a place like this, we all learn to play our roles."

Willa exhaled softly, her fingers still tracing idle patterns on the blanket.

"I don't wanna lose you in there Finnick," she whispered. Finnick's gaze snapped back to her, and for a moment, the calm mask he always wore cracked just enough for her to see the vulnerability beneath. He didn't answer right away, the silence between them stretching like a fragile thread. Finally, he shifted closer, resting his hand lightly over hers where it still traced aimless patterns on the blanket.

"You won't," he said quietly, his voice firm despite the uncertainty hanging over both of them. "I've made it through before, Willa. I'll do it again. And I'll make sure you do too."

Her throat tightened at his words, the unspoken promise in them. She wanted to believe him—to let his confidence drown out the gnawing fear that had been building inside her since the reaping—but the Games were unpredictable. No one, not even Finnick, could guarantee survival. She turned her hand over, letting their palms touch, her fingers curling around his.