Finnick's shirt swallowed me whole.
It hung loosely over my shoulders, the soft cotton slipping down one side every time I moved. The collar refused to stay in place, revealing my collarbones and the faint curve of my neck without me realizing it. The sleeves covered half my hands, and the hem brushed against my thighs like a quiet reminder that this wasn't mine.
When I walked, my bare legs showed more than I thought.
I didn't notice.
Finnick did.
He looked at me once—just once—before immediately looking away. His throat moved as he swallowed, the muscle tightening beneath his skin. He reached for the glass of ice water beside him and took a long sip. Then another. Then a third.
As if he was trying to cool something burning inside him.
He had always been known for control. Calm decisions. Calculated moves. A man who never let emotions rule him, never let instinct override reason. His composure was almost frightening at times.
