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humaling · 2 days ago

Text

Mother's Day Special.

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: you drag finnick along with you as you try to find the perfect gift for mother's day.

warnings: false perspective of reader towards finnick, allusions to prostitution

word count: 3.8k

author's note: dont worry guys! this is pure fluff with brief mentions of the warnings above.

The sun peeks at its highest hour, casting golden light across the stoned dirt paths of District 4. Despite the heat rising off the ground in wavering lines, it does little to stop the gentle buzz of life in the market. Children dash between vendor stalls with sticky fingers and windswept hair, their laughter caught in the sea breeze. Women with woven baskets on their hips bargain gently with fishermen and bakers, while a few older men cluster near the docks, fanning themselves with folded newspapers.

Almost every stall carries some variation of the same bright theme—heart-shaped boxes wrapped in red foil or soft pastel paper, each one tagged with a small sticker that reads: Happy Mother’s Day. The scent of brine mingles with warm bread and sun-dried herbs, carrying notes of citrus and honey through the air. The cobblestones are warm beneath your sandals as you stroll beside Finnick, your elbow just brushing his every so often.

He’s quieter than usual, hands tucked awkwardly into the pockets of his light shirt, eyes flickering from stall to stall. You know he’s never been fond of the heat or the press of crowds, but today, it feels like something else entirely. He walks close beside you but doesn’t speak unless spoken to, and even then, there’s a carefulness to him—a slight pause before every answer, as if weighing each word.

“Should we get a cake?” you ask aloud, mostly to yourself, slowing to admire a quaint little stall lined with aesthetically pleasing sweets. Round little cakes dusted with powdered sugar, pastel-frosted tarts, and chocolate drizzled pastries sit perfectly arranged behind a pane of glass.

Finnick’s gaze flicks toward you, then lingers on the way your eyes follow the desserts, your head craning long past the point of practicality until you’re nearly walking backwards. A quiet chuckle slips from his lips—low, amused, and fond.

Some things never change. Your sweet tooth, for one.

It hasn’t been long since he returned from another of his Capitol trips—those painfully long stretches of silence that left your days feeling dull and gray. The routine filled in the emptiness as best it could: morning visits to the docks, midday runs to the market to help restock your family’s fishery, and long afternoons at the beach, trying to scrub away the sweat and stillness clinging to your skin. At night, you’d lie in bed, the sea breeze brushing against your cheeks, imagining the sound of Finnick’s voice—its playful cadence, its gentleness. And those ridiculous, mesmerizing green eyes that reminded you so much of the ocean it hurt.

“I’m sure you’ll be the only one eating that cake, honey,” Finnick says, his voice light and teasing, the word honey slipping from his tongue like he’s said it a thousand times. He pretends not to notice the slight tilt of your head at the nickname.

You roll your eyes, a smirk tugging at your lips. “You think you’re so smart for calling me out, don’t you, Odair?”

That earns a real laugh—not the one he shows the Capitol, all perfect pearly whites and carefully rehearsed charm. No, this one is smaller. Softer. The corners of his mouth curl into a boyish smile and his shoulders shake slightly as it bubbles up from his chest. He glances down at the ground, a flicker of nerves shadowing his features.

It’s that laugh. The real one. The one he only shares when he forgets to hold his guard up.

You’ve seen it only a handful of times, but you recognize it instantly. It tugs something in your chest.

He’s nervous again. You don’t know why, but you’ve noticed it more and more lately—the way he moves slower around you, speaks gentler, watches you with something unreadable in his eyes. There's a new layer to him now, a cautiousness that wasn’t there before. Not distance exactly. More like reverence.

And it gnaws at you, this question that won’t go away.

Why is Finnick Odair suddenly so careful with you?

From the corner of your eye, a booth catches your attention. You stop in front of a stall strung with sea glass and shells, little earrings catching the sun like tiny chandeliers. Soft blues and greens sparkle from delicate wire hooks, and the salt-kissed wind carries the faint scent of lemon oil and fresh linen.

“She likes the ocean,” you say, picking up a necklace with a smooth pearl threaded on twine. “This could work, right?”

Finnick leans in, careful not to brush too close. “It’s pretty,” he murmurs after a pause. “But does she wear stuff like this? Feels more like something you’d pick for yourself.”

You huff, setting the necklace down beside the others embroidered with seashells and pearls. Of course he knows you too well.

“That’s not a bad thing.”

Finnick falters, the tips of his ears turning a little pink. You figure it’s just the heat.

“No, I mean—it’s nice! Really nice. I just… it should be something she’d like, you know?” His voice trips slightly, then steadies.

You smile to yourself. “You’re very committed to impressing my mom.”

He clears his throat, trying and failing to play it off. “She’s important. I mean, she raised you, so… that already says a lot.”

You pause, your heart skipping a little. The way he says it—it’s careful, but full of quiet admiration. There’s something else too. Maybe nerves. Probably because he’s only met your mother a handful of times, and she is pretty intimidating.

The two of you continue weaving your way through the market’s gravel paths, sunlight glinting off every polished surface. Each stall is lively with color and sound—vendors calling out deals, children tugging at their mothers’ sleeves, the occasional clang of a dropped coin or the snap of cloth banners in the breeze. Still, no gift feels right.

Normally, your dad would be with you for this—he’s got a sixth sense when it comes to your mom. But he’s busy today. After a strong morning haul with Finnick’s uncle, your family’s store is swamped. It was Finnick’s uncle, actually, who mentioned that Finnick had come home last night and insisted he join you today.

You glance over at Finnick, who’s now leading you toward a booth on the far side of the market. He’s squinting in concentration, brows drawn, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he scans the table of handmade jewelry. His fingers skim lightly over trinkets and tiny carved charms, like he’s trying to divine the perfect choice through sheer will.

He’s really taking this seriously.

You find yourself watching him more than the table. He looks different—older. Manlier, you think. Time and distance had sculpted new edges into the boy you grew up with. He’s nearly twenty now, and the boyish softness you remember has been replaced with something steadier. Broader shoulders. Sharper jaw. Like the Capitol’s favorite poster boy finally grew into the myth they made of him.

The roots of his natural bronze hair are peeking through the sandy blond dye, the strands tousled by the wind. With the sun slanting over his face, his golden skin seems to glow, casting an ethereal sort of light. It’s almost unfair—how beautiful he is. No wonder everyone in the Capitol fawns over him. No wonder the rumors say he has a string of lovers at the Capitol.

You’ve never asked. Not once. Not even when the whispers started. And you both stopped talking about those things after you got your first boyfriend—one Finnick caught wind of the minute he came back from a Capitol trip. He’d told your mom about it, too, which somehow turned them into reluctant allies.

“Look, I know I’m gorgeous, sweetheart,” Finnick drawls, cutting into your thoughts, “but we really do have a present to find today.”

You blink, cheeks heating. Your gaze snaps to the table in front of you, full of rings and earrings you weren’t really seeing. The warmth crawling up your neck isn’t just from the sun, and the smirk Finnick shoots you says he knows exactly what you were doing.

But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he picks up a pair of earrings—delicate, uneven pearls in different sizes—and holds them up to you.

“What do you think? Would your mom like these?” he asks, his voice gentler now, genuinely curious.

You chew your lip. “She already has a drawer full of pearl earrings. Like, a whole drawer.”

Finnick’s shoulders slump, and he places them back with a quiet sigh. He thanks the vendor politely before guiding you away, the light touch of his hand settling at the small of your back. It lingers just long enough to send your heart fluttering.

The two of you stroll a little farther, slower now, the rhythm of the market buzzing around you in waves—voices rising and falling, baskets thudding softly against tables, the occasional gust of sea wind carrying the scent of brine and grilled meat. You’re both starting to look a little defeated.

“Maybe chocolates?” Finnick suggests, hands stuffed in his pockets again as he squints toward a table stacked with candy boxes wrapped in red foil.

“Finn, that’s too common,” you say with a sigh. “I want something different!”

He hums, kicking a small pebble off the path. “Pillows?”

“She’s got too many of that,” you huff. “Dad’s already complaining he doesn’t have space to sleep on anymore.”

That makes Finnick laugh—a proper, open laugh that slips out before he can stop it. It draws a smile from you, too, even if your frustration is still bubbling beneath the surface.

You don’t notice the stall until the smell hits you. Something warm, crispy, and fried. Your head turns instantly.

“Ooh! Wait—there!” you point suddenly, grabbing Finnick’s wrist before he can ask what you’re talking about. He stumbles a bit, laughing as you drag him toward a small, crowded street food stall wedged between two larger booths.

The stand is simple, its faded canopy fluttering under the sun. A woman stands behind a sizzling grill, flipping golden pastries with expert ease while a younger boy bags orders and takes coins from a queue of hungry kids. The air smells like garlic and butter, with a hint of sweet something you can’t quite place.

“Break time,” you announce, already tugging a few coins from your pouch. “My treat.”

Finnick raises an eyebrow but follows you without protest. “I didn’t know indecisiveness came with snacks.”

“It does when you’ve been in the sun for two hours and still haven’t found a single gift,” you mutter.

You order two of whatever looks best—some kind of flaky bread folded around cheese and herbs, still steaming in the paper when it’s handed to you. Finnick’s lips part in surprise at the first bite, eyebrows raising like he wasn’t expecting it to be that good.

You both lean against the edge of a nearby booth, half in the shade, munching quietly for a moment. The food is warm and comforting, and even the market seems less loud here.

“So… maybe no to chocolates and pillows,” Finnick says after a beat, licking a bit of butter off his thumb. “What does she like, other than your dad and yelling at Capitol broadcasts?”

You snort, nearly choking on your bite. “She likes—cooking. And books. And stuff for her kitchen. And collecting those little hand-painted bowls. Oh! And dried lavender. She keeps some in her pillowcase.”

Finnick nods slowly, absorbing all of it. “Alright. That’s better. We can work with that.”

You glance sideways at him, smiling behind your paper-wrapped pastry. “You’re really taking this seriously.”

“I told you,” he shrugs, looking at you like it’s obvious. “This is your mom we’re talking about.”

You’re halfway through your snack when something soft drifts on the breeze—faint and floral, cutting through the heavier scents of the market. You pause mid-bite, nose twitching.

“Wait… do you smell that?” you murmur, eyes narrowing as you scan the rows of stalls ahead.

Finnick pauses mid-bite. “Is that… flowers?”

“Lavender,” you say quickly, suddenly alert. “Come on!”

You toss the last bite of your food into your mouth and grab Finnick’s wrist again before he can protest, weaving through the crowd toward the source of the scent. He stumbles after you with a faint “I’m starting to think I’m just your personal market tug toy,” but he doesn’t try to pull away.

The stall is tucked to the side beneath a faded lilac tarp. Jars of dried herbs sit lined in neat rows, along with bundles of flowers tied together with twine and tiny cloth sachets printed with little seahorses and coral designs. There’s a small display of lavender oil bottles, each with handwritten labels, and beside them: handcrafted cutting boards, wooden spoons, and delicate tea towels embroidered with patterns of fish and ferns.

You gasp softly, reaching for a sachet. “This is perfect.”

Finnick lets out a low whistle. “Smells like a field. In the nice way. Not the itchy way.”

You laugh and hand him one of the smaller boards. “Do you think this would match our kitchen?”

He turns it over in his hands, inspecting it like he’s considering buying a new boat. “It’s pretty. I can see your mom using it to chop up sea bass. Or whack your dad when he complains about pillows.”

You snort, nodding in agreement. You end up picking out the sachet, the board, and a tiny bottle of lavender oil for her nightstand. It feels right. Thoughtful. Like her.

Now, you just need something to pull it all together.

“We should go to Junie’s,” you say as you leave the stall, the brown paper bag in your arms rustling softly. “She has baskets and all that pretty wrapping stuff.”

“Stationery shop Junie?” Finnick asks, brows raised. His arm stretches out so his hand could get the paper bag from your grasp. “The one who sold me pink star stickers that said ‘good job!’ on them when I was ten?”

“Yeah,” you grin, absentmindedly letting him take the paper bag like it’s second nature to you. “and she also has ribbon and twine and those little filler shreds. Come on.”

The shop is only a few blocks away, nestled between a clothing store and the district’s small library. Inside, it smells faintly of parchment and glue, with shelves stacked with pastel paper, notebooks, and crafting supplies. You spot the baskets almost immediately—small woven ones with handles, just the right size.

Finnick trails behind you, watching with quiet amusement as you examine a roll of soft purple ribbon.

“You’re doing that face,” he says.

You glance at him. “What face?”

“The face you make when you’re about to make something look very cute and pretend like you didn’t spend two hours planning it.”

You scoff but don’t deny it. “It’s for my mom. She deserves a cute basket.”

You both end up at the small table by the shop’s front window, where Junie lets customers use the space to wrap gifts. You kneel beside the basket, arranging the board and sachet and bottle just so, while Finnick tears small bits of tissue paper and hands you ribbons.

He’s careful, quiet—his fingers brushing yours every so often, gaze flickering to your face when he thinks you won’t notice. You do.

“You’re really good at this,” you say softly.

He shrugs, cheeks pink again. “Just want it to be special.”

You look at him then—really look. And something about the way he’s watching the little lavender bundle settle into its spot in the basket makes your chest flutter.

You carefully tuck the last bit of tissue around the lavender oil, smoothing the layers like it’s something sacred. Finnick ties the ribbon into a neat bow, his fingers slow and focused as if doing anything too fast might unravel the moment.

“She’s going to love it,” he says quietly.

You glance up, your hands stilling. “You think so?”

Finnick nods, not quite meeting your eyes. “Yeah. I mean… if my mom were still around, I’d want to give her something like this.”

The words settle between you, gentle but weighted. You feel them lodge in your chest like a stone dropped in water—quiet at first, but rippling outward.

You don’t say anything at first, afraid to break the silence in the wrong way. So instead, you reach out, your fingers brushing his wrist before resting there lightly. “You think she would’ve liked lavender too?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, something almost fond flickering across his face. “She was more of a mint person. Used to hang sprigs of it by the door so the house would smell fresh. Drove my dad crazy.”

You smile softly. “She sounds cool.”

“She was,” he says, and then he shifts slightly, meeting your gaze now. “You remind me of her, sometimes.”

The basket sits finished between you, neat and pretty with its lilac bow and gentle scent filling the small corner of Junie’s shop. It doesn’t feel like just a gift anymore—it feels like a bridge. A small act of love for your mother, and maybe, in some quiet way, for Finnick’s too.

You watch him, eyes tracing the line of his jaw, the way his hands still hover over the basket even though you’re done. You want to say something that matters. So you take a breath.

“Finn,” you start, hesitant. “Would you… would you want to stay for dinner tonight? With us? It’s just going to be something small, nothing fancy, but… I think Mom would like having you there.”

His head lifts immediately, eyes wide like he didn’t expect that at all. “Dinner?”

You nod, suddenly shy. “Yeah. I mean, it’s Mother’s Day. And you helped with the gift, so it only feels right that you get to be there too, right?”

Finnick blinks, then laughs quietly—but it’s not a deflection. He’s just surprised. Giddy. His whole face softens, lit up by a kind of boyish joy you haven’t seen in a long time.

“Are you sure?” he asks, tilting his head a little. “I mean, your mom… she’s okay with that?”

You give him a pointed look. “You helped me carry her present through half the market while melting in the heat. You’ve earned it.”

“Okay. I’d like that. A lot.” Finnick’s smile stretches wide, his green eyes bright as sea glass under sunlight. He shifts the basket carefully in his hands, then glances at you with a playful tilt of his head. “What should I wear?”

You cross your arms and slowly look him up and down, cocking an eyebrow. “Just go shower. You look greasy.”

His jaw drops, exaggerated. “Greasy?”

You stifle a grin. “You’re literally glistening.”

“That’s sweat. That’s hardworking, sun-drenched charm, thank you very much.”

“It’s grime, Odair. Go rinse it off.”

He presses a hand dramatically over his heart. “So ruthless. I slave away helping you pick the perfect gift, and this is the thanks I get?”

“Oh, you poor thing,” you say, grabbing the corner of the basket. “Here, let me carry—”

Finnick pulls it slightly away with a small shake of his head. “Nope. I’ve got it.”

You roll your eyes. “Finn. It’s literally not heavy.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s for your mom. Which means it’s sacred. I’m not letting you carry it after you let me sweat my soul out at the market.” He flashes you a smirk, and you hate how smug he looks while being so unnecessarily gallant.

Still, you fall into step beside him as he cradles the gift basket like it’s spun glass, walking back toward the housing rows near the docks. The wind’s picked up a bit, soft and salty, and you let the quiet settle between you comfortably.

Finnick glances sideways at you, his voice softer now. “So… dinner, huh?”

“Don’t overthink it,” you say, nudging his elbow gently. “You already passed the hardest test.”

“What’s that?”

“You made me laugh while we were both sweating to death in the middle of the market. Not many people can do that.”

He chuckles under his breath, and the sound makes something light settle in your chest.

“Then I guess I better scrub off all this ‘rugged charm’ before I see your mom,” he teases. “Wouldn’t want to blow my chance.”

You bump his arm lightly again. “Finnick. You already have.”

And though you keep walking like it’s no big deal, you feel his glance linger a little longer on you, and the smile that tugs at his lips tells you he caught your meaning.

By the time you and Finnick start to make your way back to your home, the sun had already begun to dip when you and Finnick reached your front steps. The sky behind the house is painted in soft shades of pink and gold. The scent of salt still clung to the air, but it was quieter now—the market’s noise a distant memory.

You unlock the door and step inside, the familiar creak of the wooden floorboards greeting you like always. The scent of something cooking wafts faintly from the kitchen—probably the beginnings of your dad’s famous seafood stew. Your heart picks up a beat.

Finnick lingers in the doorway, suddenly a little unsure of himself. He holds the basket in both hands like a peace offering, shifting it slightly as if debating whether to step in with his boots still on.

“You’re allowed inside, you know,” you say with a smirk, toeing off your shoes near the door.

“I know. It just feels like…” He trails off, then breathes a small laugh. “Like I’m walking into something big.”

You glance at him. “It’s just dinner.”

“With your mom.” He raises an eyebrow. “And your dad.”

That makes you snort. “You’ve met them before, Finn.”

“Yeah, but never while holding a gift basket like I’m some kind of suitor meeting his fate.”

“You’re not—” you start, but you can’t finish the sentence. Not when your cheeks are already warm and Finnick’s looking at you with that knowing glint in his eye.

“You want me to set this on the kitchen table?” he asks, already making his way there.

“Yeah, just—wait, don’t let my mom see it yet! I want to help wrap the ribbon around it first.”

He pauses mid-step. “There’s a ribbon?”

You give him a mock-scolding look. “Of course there’s a ribbon. We’re being thoughtful, remember?”

Finnick hums, placing the basket gently on the kitchen counter and turning to you with a grin that somehow manages to be both charming and a little bit shy. “Right. Thoughtful. Got it.”

Just then, you hear your mom’s voice from down the hallway—calling out your name to ask if that was the front door she heard. You meet Finnick’s eyes, both of you freezing like kids caught sneaking dessert.

“Well,” you murmur, smoothing down your shirt, “here goes nothing.”

Finnick gives you a lopsided smile, his voice warm. “Let’s make a good impression, sweetheart.”

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #the hunger games x reader #finnick odair #hunger games finnick #the hunger games #finnick x reader

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ssweeterthanfiction · 24 hours ago

Text

Orbit

college!finnick odair x fem!reader content warnings: fluff summary: you meet your estranged best friend in college after 4 years. wc: 4.4k

previous part | masterlist. | part five

Finnick had been grinning like an idiot all day. He knew it. He didn’t care.

It was barely noon, and he’d already been called out by his roommate twice—once while brushing his teeth, the second time while humming something embarrassingly upbeat in the elevator.

“I’m not even gonna ask,” his roommate had muttered, pulling his hoodie over his head with a yawn.

Finnick just shrugged. What was he supposed to say? Yeah, man, my childhood best friend found me after I thought she ghosted me, and now we’re walking around campus like the last four years didn’t crack something in both of us wide open?

Yeah, no. He kept that to himself.

The smile, though—that stayed.

You had texted him earlier that morning. Something casual. Just a, “Library later? Could use a break from unpacking.”

And Finnick, without even thinking, had typed back “Name the time. I’ll be there.”

Now, he was pacing near the west entrance of the library, trying not to look like he was waiting. He leaned against the wall. Then stood up. Then leaned again. Then checked his phone.

No new messages. Just the last one you sent: “On my way :)”

He didn’t realize how long he’d been staring at it until the sun shifted through the trees above, scattering golden patterns across the concrete. The light was warm on his face, like it had been the night you found him.

He liked that feeling. The warmth of it. Like something old returning.

And then...

“There you are.”

Your voice. God, he felt that. Like his name in sunlight.

Finnick turned, and there you were, hair a little wind-tossed, a canvas tote slung over your shoulder, holding your iced coffee like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

You looked a little tired. But softer somehow, too. Softer with him.

“Hey,” he said, his grin widening before he could help it.

You raised a brow, amused. “Why do you look like you just won the lottery?”

Finnick chuckled. “I didn’t. I just…had a good weekend.”

You smiled. And he felt the gravity shift again, not hard or fast, just that subtle pull. That slow drift back into each other’s orbit.

You nodded toward the entrance. “Come on, sunshine. Let’s find a table before the good ones are gone.”

Sunshine.

He followed you inside, that one word replaying over and over in his head like a song he didn’t want to end.

The two of you ended up at a corner table upstairs, tucked between a window and a row of dusty paperbacks no one had touched in years. You didn’t talk much at first—just pulled out your laptop and settled into a rhythm of soft clicks and hushed sipping.

Every so often, he’d glance up and find you already looking at him. And you’d both pretend it didn’t happen.

The light through the window caught your profile just right—cool and quiet, like moonlight on still water.

And maybe it was cheesy, maybe it was ridiculous, but Finnick couldn’t help thinking how it made sense. How you were always that. The moon. A little distant, a little unreadable—but constant. Steady. Bright in your own way.

And here he was. The sun. Loud, warm, always a little too much.

Maybe this was how it always worked.

Maybe this was how it started again.

You were taking notes. Diligently. Lips pressed together, eyes bouncing between your laptop screen and the textbook open in front of you. Every so often, you’d stop to twist your pen between your fingers or tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Finnick wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring.

His own laptop sat open in front of him, some syllabus pulled up—he couldn’t even remember the class. Something about global perspectives? Or was this the one about media and society?

He didn’t know. Couldn’t care less. Because you were right there.

In the quiet of the library, your presence filled the space louder than any conversation.

The table between you might as well have been a footbridge over a canyon. He could reach out and graze your knuckles if he wanted to. He wouldn’t, of course—not yet. But the thought lingered.

You shifted in your seat, and the sunlight caught your necklace—not the moon one. A different one.

God, he hadn’t even meant to stop wearing the sun.

It just…felt wrong, back then. When the messages stopped and the silence stretched too long to explain. When the memories started to feel like fiction. He’d tucked it away in a drawer with some old birthday cards and the bracelet from a swim meet sophomore year.

It was still there. He knew exactly where.

But he hadn’t worn it since.

Now, though?

Now, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he could try again. If the timing was different now. If the sun and moon could finally share the same sky without burning out.

You leaned back in your chair, sighing softly. “Why do these textbook chapters feel like they’re 600 pages long?”

He smiled. “Because they want us to suffer.”

You gave him a look. “You’re not even reading.”

“Sure I am,” he said, turning his laptop toward you. “See? I’m absorbing information through osmosis.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched, just the faintest, familiar smile.

Finnick felt something warm stretch inside his chest. Like sun through cloud cover.

You shook your head and looked back at your book, muttering something about “typical,” but your voice had softened. Less guarded.

He watched you for another second, then forced himself to turn his attention back to his screen. Pretended to scroll. Pretended to read.

But his mind was already drifting again.

You used to sit beside him on the floor of your childhood living room, knees bumping, the glow of the TV flickering as you read out loud to him. He would close his eyes and listen, sunlit and sleepy, like your words kept the whole galaxy turning.

That was what it felt like now. Even in silence. Like you were anchoring him without trying.

Maybe it was too early to call it gravity. Maybe this was just the echo of everything you’d lost—trying to make itself known.

But Finnick couldn’t help it.

He was already turning in your direction again, pulled like he always had been.

It was quiet again.

Not the tense, awkward quiet from before, not the silence full of things unsaid. This was different. Easy. Lighter. The kind of quiet that didn’t demand to be filled.

Finnick liked this one better.

He risked another glance at you. You were chewing your lip now, eyes narrowing at your laptop like it had personally offended you. There was a tiny crease between your brows, one he remembered from a thousand afternoons spent trying to do math homework together on your bedroom floor.

You always furrowed your brows when you were focused. Even back then. Even now.

His fingers itched to smooth it away. Not in a romantic, grand-gesture way. Just… gently. Fondly. Like you were still that same girl in the Camp Half-Blood shirt and mismatched socks, reading myths out loud like they were scripture and calling him a "seaweed brain" with a smile in your voice.

You still did that sometimes—muttered things under your breath. Scribbled notes faster than your hand could keep up. Tapped your foot to a rhythm only you seemed to hear.

There were still pieces of you he recognized.

But there were new ones, too. And he was learning to be okay with not knowing every part of you anymore. He was learning to wait.

You sighed again, this time closing your laptop with a gentle snap. “Okay,” you said, stretching your arms overhead, “that’s as much academia as I can take today.”

He smiled over the rim of his water bottle. “Tapping out already?”

“I prefer the term strategic retreat.”

You both laughed, soft, shared, like muscle memory.

Then you let your arms fall and looked at him. Really looked. And it did something to him.

The sunlight filtering through the window cast your face in a pale gold glow, but your eyes were silver in the shadows. Like moonlight laced with warmth. He didn't even know how that was possible. But then again, you'd always been a little magic like that.

“So…” you said, voice lighter, “was this your idea of studying?”

“I was studying,” he said, trying not to smile.

“You were staring.”

“I was… observationally engaged.”

You blinked. Then laughed softly and shook your head. But you didn’t look away.

“I missed this,” you said finally, voice quiet, almost shy. “Us.”

Finnick felt it all at once, a rush of warmth, of grief, of hope that scared him a little.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

A beat passed. Then another.

You reached for your iced coffee again, swirling the straw between your fingers. “It’s weird, isn’t it? Being here again. Like…not again. But, you know. With each other.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Feels like a rerun of a dream I didn’t know I missed.”

You smiled at that. Not big. But real.

Finnick didn’t push further. He didn’t ask about the necklace. He didn’t ask why your number changed, or why you found him after disappearing.

He just sat there in the soft light, in the hush of a quiet Sunday afternoon, memorizing the way your smile curved differently now.

He could wait for the rest.

The sun, after all, always rises slowly.

You stood and stretched again, arms up, spine arching until a soft crack echoed from your shoulders. Finnick winced on instinct.

“That sounded painful.”

“It was,” you said with a grin, grabbing your empty coffee cup. “But it felt good.”

“You’re such an old woman.”

“Bold words for someone who just spent an hour pretending to read.”

He grinned and followed as you drifted away from your shared table. You didn’t say anything about leaving the library yet, so he didn’t either. He just stayed close, half a step behind, letting your orbit tug him along like it always had.

You passed rows of books. Wooden shelves that stretched taller than you. Dust motes danced in shafts of fading light as the late afternoon sun tilted westward. It felt like the kind of silence that asked to be filled with memories.

Then you turned a corner and stopped abruptly.

Finnick nearly bumped into you before realizing what you were staring at.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, half-laughing.

He followed your gaze.

There they were.

An entire half-shelf of Percy Jackson books. All of them. Glossy new reprints, special editions, spin-offs, companion guides—even the illustrated editions. Bright blue spines and silver foil lightning bolts gleaming under the soft library lights.

He blinked. And then he laughed.

“Oh no.”

You covered your face. “Don’t say anything.”

“Too late,” he said, already walking toward the shelf. “This is fate.”

“It is not fate.”

“Sure it is,” he said, pulling out The Sea of Monsters and wiggling it dramatically. “Your roots are calling.”

You groaned into your hands. “I knew this would come back to haunt me.”

“This is where your soul lives.”

You elbowed him gently, but your smile gave you away. “Shut up.”

“I’m not judging. I’m just remembering the girl who wore the same Camp Half-Blood shirt for the entire summer of fourth grade.”

“I had three copies of that shirt,” you said defensively, crossing your arms. “I rotated.”

“Wow,” he said. “You always said you were a daughter of Athena,” Finnick said, smiling.

You looked over at him. “I was. Strategic, wise, battle-smart…”

“Bossy.”

“Shut up.”

He grinned, nudging your shoulder with his. “I’m just saying, you gave entire speeches about it. Drew out family trees. Had battle plans for our Capture the Flag games.”

“That’s because you always tried to sneak up on me from the lake.”

“Well, yeah,” he said. “I was obviously a son of Poseidon.”

You gave him a look. “Obviously.”

He laughed and turned back to the shelf, fingertips grazing the spines like they might hum beneath his touch. “You even used to say Luke Castellan wasn’t that bad.”

“Hey,” you said, immediately defensive. “He was complicated!”

“Oh my god,” Finnick groaned, mock-horrified. “Here we go again.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

He wheeled around, wide-eyed. “Do you remember what you used to say? ‘He was misunderstood.'”

You buried your face in your hands again, laughing. “I was twelve.”

“And in deep,” he teased. “I remember you actually cried when he—”

“Don’t.”

“...sacrificed himself at the end—”

“Finnick.”

He was laughing so hard now he had to lean against the shelf. “You cried like you lost a real person!”

“He was real,” you muttered dramatically, “in my heart.”

He wiped a fake tear from his eye. “I’ll give you this, your loyalty was terrifying.”

You smirked. “I was also a Percy girl, thank you very much.”

“Oh, I remember. But Luke had the…what did you call it? ‘Tragic edge?’”

You sighed, giving him a shove toward the next aisle. “We are leaving this section.”

Finnick followed you, still grinning. Still glowing a little inside.

Because it felt good to remember. To laugh like this. To tease you about something innocent and sweet and utterly, completely you.

You were the moon, shifting phases, disappearing and reappearing, always a little different each time, but still always the same. But this was familiar. This was warm.

And maybe you still thought of yourself as a daughter of Athena. But back then, when he used to watch you talk with your hands and scribble poetry in the margins of your school notebooks, he’d always secretly thought you were a daughter of Aphrodite instead.

Not just because you were pretty. Not just because you made boys trip over themselves or blush when you laughed.

But because you loved hard. All-in. With a kind of quiet, unshakable devotion.

He never said that out loud. Not then. Not now.

Some things you kept to yourself.

Still, as you tugged him toward another aisle, still laughing under your breath, Finnick felt the tug in his chest. That familiar pull. The soft gravity of your orbit.

He followed, heart light.

The sun and moon, side by side again...for now.

You wandered into one of the far corners, tucked away where the ceiling dipped low and the windows were smeared faintly with fingerprints and late afternoon light. A beanbag chair sat in the corner, a little squashed and sun-bleached, like it had been there since before either of you were born.

You flopped onto it without hesitation.

Finnick hesitated for half a second, then dropped down beside you, shoulder to shoulder. Too close. Not close enough.

You flipped open The Sea of Monsters and rested the spine between your knees. “Okay,” you said, clearing your throat. “Chapter One: My Best Friend Shops for a Wedding Dress.”

Finnick chuckled. “I forgot how ridiculous these were.”

“No one respects the early chapters,” you murmured, settling in.

And so you read.

You read out loud, at first — voices quiet and half-laughing, tripping over old lines that made your younger selves giddy. You passed the book back and forth, barely noticing the way you kept leaning closer, until your heads nearly touched.

Eventually, you just let Finnick read.

You didn’t interrupt. You curled closer instead, cheek resting lightly against his arm, and closed your eyes as he kept going.

And Finnick, sun-warm and golden as eve, let the sound of his voice soften into something gentler. He turned the page and didn’t even realize he was slipping back into something else. Somewhere old. Somewhere safe.

***

The flashlight flickered once. Twice.

Then it died completely.

“Finnick,” you whined from your sleeping bag, rolling your eyes as you shifted to get comfortable. “I told you we should’ve brought the other one.”

He smacked the side of it dramatically. “It’s not dead, it’s just… thinking.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how batteries work.”

Ignoring you, Finnick kept fiddling with the flashlight. Finally, with a little flicker of light, the small beam returned. It wasn’t bright, but it was enough to settle on the pages of your favorite book — The Sea of Monsters. Finnick grinned, proud of his efforts.

“See?” He waggled the flashlight in the air. “Like a true son of Poseidon.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “I don't think that Poseidon was known for his flashlight-fixing skills.”

Finnick looked at you with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Sure he was. He fixed everything. But you wouldn’t know, because you’re too busy pretending you’re Athena.”

“I’m not pretending,” you huffed. “Athena is—”

“Bossy,” he cut in, and you swatted him playfully.

“Shut up. She’s smart. She’s brave.”

“I’m brave,” he said, grinning.

“You’re brave and bossy,” you muttered, pushing his arm playfully.

“Just like you,” he teased, turning the page. He held the book up, and you leaned over to get a better look, your head resting against his shoulder. The soft glow of the flashlight illuminated the pages of the book, casting a warm light on the both of them.

For a moment, it was just the two of them, together in the quiet of the tent, the world beyond their little space nothing but a vague memory. The smell of pine needles and cool summer air was so familiar, so safe.

Finnick began reading aloud, his voice low and steady, bringing Percy Jackson’s world to life. He felt the rhythm of the words, the comfort of having you close beside him. It felt like home, like it always had.

Eventually, you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper, drifting out between his sentences. “I think you’re like him, you know. Percy.”

Finnick didn’t stop reading, but his voice slowed a little. “Like Percy?”

You nodded, smiling against his shoulder. “Yeah. Because he’d do anything for the people he loves. Even when it’s hard.”

“Do you think we’ll always be friends?” you asked suddenly, your voice small, thoughtful.

“Yeah,” he said. No hesitation. “Of course.”

You nodded like you believed him. Like you didn’t even have to wonder.

“Hey.”

He tilted his head down to you.

"Hm?"

“Thanks for hanging out with me.”

He smiled, sleepy and sun-warm and a little crooked. “ Of course....You’re my favorite person.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. “You’re mine too.”

Finnick didn’t say anything right away. He just kept reading, though his words seemed quieter now, like they held something more than the page in front of him. He felt the weight of your words, heavier than he’d expected.

You shifted, your body curling in a little closer, and he could feel the warmth of your breath against his skin.

He tried to ignore how his heart beat a little faster, how every movement you made seemed to pull him in more.

His voice faltered slightly as he finished the page, but he didn’t mind. It was nice. The kind of nice that felt soft and lasting, like time had slowed just for them.

You were the kind of quiet that made the world feel slower. Calmer. Like he didn’t have to be everywhere at once.

Even back then, before he had the words for it, he knew it.

You were the moon.

You were his moon.

***

Finnick wasn’t sure when you fell asleep. Maybe it was the warmth of the library, or maybe it was just the quiet of the moment that made everything seem still. But before long, the words on the page stopped making sense, and your breathing evened out, soft and steady.

He glanced down, surprised to find your head had shifted, resting lightly against his arm. He let out a soft breath and shifted just a little, careful not to disturb you.

There was something about the weight of you next to him, something that made him feel like maybe the world wasn’t such a mess after all. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to risk disturbing the peaceful bubble the two of them had found in the middle of all this.

His fingers hovered over your hair for a second, but he didn’t touch it. Instead, he just watched, his heart still and warm as you slept beside him. He didn’t mind the quiet. He didn’t mind the space between them. There was something about it that felt… right.

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, then drifted back to the book in front of him, though the words were starting to blur.

The warmth of the library, the rhythm of your breath, the soft weight of you against him—it felt like he was carrying the sun inside his chest. Like the universe had placed them back in orbit, two halves finally finding their way again. He wasn’t sure what it all meant, not yet. But for now, that was enough.

The universe had a funny way of aligning things. Of pulling him closer to you when he didn’t even realize he was drifting.

And for once, he didn’t mind the wait.

You stirred before he noticed.

Finnick felt the smallest shift beside him—your weight adjusting, the faintest breath catching as you blinked back into awareness. He looked down just as you opened your eyes, dazed and squinting a little, like you weren’t sure where you were.

And god, you looked like the moon—soft, quiet, still cloaked in dreamlight. The kind of peaceful that made him ache.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice low enough not to startle you. “Welcome back to Earth.”

You blinked at him again, slow and owlish. “Did I…?”

“Fall asleep?” he grinned, tilting his head. “Yeah. On me.”

You sat up a little too quickly, clearly mortified. “Oh my god- sorry, I didn’t mean to- I was just-”

Finnick gently tugged at the sleeve of your sweater before you could spiral further. “You’re okay,” he said. “Really. I didn’t mind.”

You stared at him for a second, quiet again, then offered a sheepish smile. “Still. I didn’t mean to crash.”

He wanted to say it was fine. That you could fall asleep next to him every day for the rest of your lives and he still wouldn’t mind. But he didn’t. He just gave you a small, lopsided grin.

“It was kind of nice, actually.”

Your eyes softened, still a little hazy. “How long was I out?”

He glanced toward the tall library windows. The sun had shifted, golden hour now dripping across the floor. The library looked like it had been lit from within, every edge gilded in honeyed light.

“Maybe…forty minutes?” he guessed. “You missed some riveting narration on Cyclopes and sea monsters.”

You rolled your eyes. “Tragic.”

Finnick chuckled. “I’ll catch you up.”

You stretched again, arms overhead, the same way you had earlier. He watched you, warmth buzzing low in his chest. You weren’t just the moon, he realized. You were gravity. Quiet, steady gravity. And he'd been caught in your orbit all over again without even noticing.

“Thanks for not waking me,” you murmured, voice smaller now.

“Wasn’t gonna,” he said, shrugging. “You looked peaceful.”

You glanced at him, searching his face like you were seeing him clearly for the first time in a long while. And maybe, he thought, you were. Maybe this was the first time since you’d found each other again that something unspoken had shifted.

“I missed this,” you said suddenly.

His heart jumped.

“This?” he echoed, quiet.

You nodded. “Us. Just…being together like this. It feels familiar. Safe.”

Finnick’s throat felt tight for a second. The kind of tight that came with memory and hope and the weight of everything unsaid.

He looked down at the book in his hands, then back at you. And he smiled.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.”

You didn’t speak for a moment. Neither of you needed to.

The sun was still setting. The library still glowing. And for a while, the two of you just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, wrapped in the hush of golden hour and the kind of quiet that didn’t ask for more.

Not yet.

But maybe soon.

You both left the library just as the last sliver of sun dipped behind the horizon.

Finnick held the door open for you, and the two of you stepped into the evening chill together. The air had shifted, still warm from the day, but with the faintest promise of fall, of longer nights and shorter shadows.

The sky above was bruised blue and lavender, the moon already rising like it had been waiting for you.

Finnick shoved his hands in his pockets, letting his shoulder bump lightly into yours as you walked. He was still grinning, still full of that quiet, glowing thing he only ever seemed to feel when you were around.

You didn’t talk much. But it didn’t feel like silence. It felt like something…settled. Comfortable. Like the kind of peace that came from pages turned and laughter shared and time remembered.

As you neared the dorms, Finnick glanced over at you. You looked different in the twilight, softer somehow, shadows tucked under your eyes from sleep and studying and all the things you never said out loud. You looked beautiful.

He almost didn’t say anything.

Almost.

But then he did.

“Hey,” he said, nudging your arm gently. “There’s this…thing. On Saturday.”

You looked at him. “A thing?”

“A party,” he clarified, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just something casual. It’s off-campus, couple of guys I know are throwing it. You don’t have to stay long or anything, but… I thought it might be fun. If you came.”

You blinked, caught off guard, but you didn’t look uncomfortable. Just surprised.

“Like…with you?”

Finnick shrugged, trying to playing it cool. “I mean, yeah. If you want. No pressure. We could just go, hang out, leave early, make fun of people doing keg stands. You know. Classic bonding experience.”

You laughed under your breath, then tilted your head. “You’re inviting me to a frat-adjacent party before you’re even in a frat.”

He grinned. “What can I say? I’m ahead of the curve.”

You didn’t answer right away.

But then you smiled.

“Okay,” you said. “Yeah. I'll go.”

And just like that, something fluttered in Finnick’s chest.

It wasn’t a big moment. Not really. Just a maybe. A next step. A tiny spark flickering to life beneath the layers of almost and used to and maybe again.

He walked you the rest of the way to your dorm, said goodnight at the door like it was the easiest thing in the world, and watched you disappear inside.

And then he stood there for a second, grinning like an idiot again.

Because yeah, he knew it.

And he still didn’t care.

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