Dedicated to Trovia, who coined the term Odashmere and jumpstarting this plotline, and bravecresta, who prompted me the title of this piece eons ago. A huge enormous thank you to my betas the lovely chelziebelle, for catching my syntactic blunders, and the fantastic jeniezee for knowing exactly what my metaphors need for it to be more fluid. Also, thank you to my pre-readers: baronesskika and sohypothetically who gave me a boost of confidence and helpful comments when I need them the most. Banner made by me.
Also: this is an outtake to the WIP I am currently working on that depicts how Finnick and Cashmere got to this point.
Of all the things Annie understands of Finnick: the way he rolls his 'r's and tongues his 'z's when he speaks; how daunting tasks focuses him for hours; how his generosity and gentle demeanor refuse to waver as he stands as a pillar of patience; his nervous smile and playful nature - she doesn't understand how he can find enough solace in the dark to sleep.
The blackness rivals the cave she lived in for four days two years ago, with shadows that prance and mock her with their shrill, gargling cries, begging for death as her fellow tributes drown in the flood.
In times like this she finds that careful, controlled rocking brings her to ease. But tonight, she doesn't have to. Finnick's thrashing and panicked mumbles have the bed squeaking on its frame as it shakes beneath them. Facing him, Annie watches Finnick's face contort with anguish as sweat gleams off his brow.
Guilt settles at the bottom of her stomach like sand. She shouldn't use his involuntary reactions to his night terrors as a way to cope with her own, but why wake him with her rocking while she was awake regardless of his.
A whimper passes his lips as he tangles himself within the bedsheets further, even upon grasping onto them. The moonlight emitting through the large, open window illuminates the sheen of sweat, making her painfully aware that he is drenched in it.
The touch of a breeze flutters through the curtains. It caresses Annie's cheek like an old friend but greets Finnick harshly, making his teeth chatter and body shiver.
With a frown, Annie throws back the blanket and clasps the window shut in frustration. Falling heavily against the frame, Finnick arises from the din and bolts upright with a gasp. His wild, piercing eyes flare with anxiety as his hands frantically pad down the empty side of the bed.
"A-Annie," his voice cracks. "Annie?!"
Floating on the waves of his words, she's by his side with a cool hand sliding along the harsh lines in his face. She touches a kiss to his forehead, nose and finally his lips. Like Mags showed her.
"Right here," she calls softly. The cataracts of shadow clear in his vision and settle his nerves, but the rapid beat of his heart refuses to slow.
Annie presses another set of kisses to his face. This time, when she reaches his lips, they press against hers. Feeling the coarse skin of his fingertips along her scalp, they weave through the strains of her wispy, wind-tangled hair, anchoring her to the moment. Or him.
"Annie." Finnick breathes out, relief washing over his face and relaxing his curled fingers. The tips drag back down her face, experimentally prodding at her skin as if she is just a figment of his imagination. "It's good to see you."
"It's good to see you, too," she smiles, sweeping the sweat drenched wavy locks of bronze off to the side. "You were having quite the dream. Do you...want to talk about it?"
The moonlight streaking his face makes the sheen more prominent. Drawing attention to the rainbow of emotions that colour his features, Finnick peels his fingers from her cheek and finds her cool hands to clasp around his shaking, clammy ones.
With his eyes dropping to their conjoined hands, Annie knows an answer won't come. All the Capitol does is take and take. In this raw moment, Finnick refuses to relinquish the Capitol's hold, letting them grasp hold of those lips of his, sealing them with hot wax. Refraining him from exposing to Annie even an inkling of his eclectic fears. Of all those with warped loyalty, he should know by now that hers will remain steadfast long after she dies.
"I'll go start a bath." She curls her fingers, still wrapped in his hair, around the matted tendrils, the slimy feel of sweat clinging along the nape of his neck like moss to a rock. She touches her lips to his crown before slipping her fingers from around the embrace of his tangles.
"Why don't you come join me?" His green eyes flicker up under his short lashes as he lunges for her hand. Her warmth. The chill from the wind, still dancing in the air, refuses to offer Finnick kindness. "It'll be … nice. Just the two of us."
"I would hope so," Annie chuckles, clasping their hands back together only to drag him into the spacious bathroom. The round jacuzzi tub sits in the furthest most corner, surrounded by homemade tealights molded into cleaned out seashells. She and Mags wished to make something different with their nimble fingers through the month of December; what better idea than to make candles during the coolest month.
As she turns on the tap, faucets of sterling silver sing as fresh water pours down into the tub, filling it inch by inch. Testing the temperature with the inside of her wrist, Annie deems it too cold for a bath and turns the heat up by a millimeter more when Finnick coils his fingers around the waist of her slip.
She can feel him all down along the curve of her spine as he presses himself against her. All of him. Her body straightens in shock from where Finnick's well-placed hands slide down her waist to her hips, tracing the curvature of her spine with his thumbs. His feathery touch has Annie's back bowing while she sucks her bottom lip securely between her teeth.
Of that which Annie understands of Finnick and his carefully sculpted muscles from merciless training, she also understands the desire of those awful people with their talons for hands, tight, translucent skin, multicoloured eyes and complete lack of sensibility when it comes to his beauty. With that flawless contour pressed up against the harsh cuts of her crackling shoulder blades, how could she not understand? He feels solid and complete, like the sun, while she's all but an empty conch shell, hollowed out and waiting in the hot sand for the ocean to swallow her whole.
The point of Finnick's chin digs into her shoulder, bringing her back, as his lips linger dangerously close to her ear.
"Come take a bath with me, Honey. I want to play with you." His voice is synthetic, like when it comes through the grainy television set of her home three doors down. Stretching out of his grasp and grabbing the bottle of bubble bath, she pours the liquid in and then leaves the room, her bare feet slapping against the tiles.
Annie ignores the way he calls out for her, busying herself with stripping the quilt and eggshell sheets from the bed and tossing them into the hamper. She's well acquainted with his closet at the end of the thin strip of hallway where Finnick keeps his linens, having changed the towels and sheets numerous times while he's been away in the Capitol.
When she comes back into the bedroom, his cries for her attention have ceased. His silence is accompanied by the din of the rattling window, the click of the light as it illuminates the candles, and the slosh of the bathwater as Finnick sinks into the soap bubbles.
The sheets fit along the mattress and pillows like a glove, giving her no added hassle. Smelling of the beach and trees, Annie curls beneath a fresh quilt and snuggles into the lulling softness. A yawn finally passes her lips.
Turning her heavy eyes to the open bathroom door, guilt plagues her tired bones. She desperately needs to catch at least an hour of sleep after her refusal the day before, but she doesn't want to leave Finnick in the tub alone. Annie rubs some of the sleep from her heavy eyes, forcing them to capture as much light from the candles as she can. However, it's not enough.
Annie shuffles over to Finnick's side of the bed and reaches for the remote control on his nightstand before shimming back to her side of the bed. But the crisp, coolness from the closet ridden sheets has her thin body shivering, teeth chattering and her eyes still threaten to close.
So rarely do they ever have the need for a fireplace in District Four that Annie completely forgets of its existence in the lavish homes in Victor's Village. Realizing that Finnick has one in his bedroom - below the television conveniently enough - Annie switches it on and runs back to the cotton sheets and the thin quilt.
The television awakens from its slumber with blinding blue and blaring sounds. Though the loud voices disturb the silence, Finnick doesn't stir. He remains as quiet as when Annie arrived back into the room. Maybe she should go check on him. But her legs won't budge as they keep her rooted amongst the sheets, attention stolen by the black box.
From overly acted, romantically driven dramas to mind-numbing infomercials, it's as if the Capitol spares no extra expense on their regular television programs and invests it all that in the Games.
Annie surfs through more low budget mid-morning dramas - catching glimpses of some very graphic sexual performances - and multiple fashion reality series', finally ceasing her idle flipping upon seeing Beetee sitting at an elliptical table. He drags stacks upon stacks of coloured chips toward him with a smirk playfully gracing his lips while sympathetically glancing towards the other players. Chaff's booming laugh makes her jump and Gloss' scowl is unmistakable; although Annie has not met any of them before, Finnick has stamped them with his approval so they might not be so terrifying.
Finnick.
She really should go check on him.
When the announcer calls for a commercial break, promising a return after a few messages, Annie forgets all about the man in the bath. Instead, she focuses on the man on the television, crashing through the door of an apartment trimmed in gold with a thin blonde woman wrapped around his waist, peppering cherry coloured kisses along his neck.
Annie doesn't have to see his face to recognize those wayward curls around the nape of his neck. All at once, it's as though she can't breathe. Her heart pounds as if it's threatening to break apart her rib cage so it can leap from her collapsing chest.
Her gaze remains fixated on the screen as Finnick, dressed in a slim dress shirt, blazer and dark slacks, pivots and forces the strikingly beautiful young blonde against the wall. The blonde's back bows, making the blood red cocktail dress rise, while her ankles lock tightly around his lower back. A moan flows from her gaping mouth once his lips find the junction between her neck and jaw. Those long, bony fingers of hers sift through his gelled bronze locks, holding him securely to that spot he lavishes with fervor.
Twisting the bedsheets between her trembling fingers, Annie feels her breathing begin to find it's natural rhythm again just as his lips dislodge from the woman's neck with a pop. Finnick's eyes flutter open under his lashes upon pressing his forehead to the woman's, bringing a sense of familiarity back to Annie.
For a moment, it's as though he isn't looking at another woman, but at Annie with that soft, wide-eyed, inquiring gaze. The woman offers an exhausted smile as her cobalt eyes, striking as sea glass but murky like the ocean, flutter open.
Annie's heart falls into her stomach immediately. It's Cashmere. Darling, gorgeous Cashmere who laughs at Caesar Flickerman's tasteless jokes and hangs off more rich Capitol folk than Finnick some summers. Though it seems as the years went on she developed a favourite among them, quite a powerful one at that, because he would be the only man on her arm.
And yet, even with her connections, she stands there posing in a sexually charged commercial with Finnick Odair looking at her with great caution. Like he's trying to protect her.
It's hard to tell what's real and what's not real, especially when it comes from the Capitol. Everything is manipulated with cameras, lights, make-up and hundreds of people editing out imperfections. Annie wants to believe it isn't real, that the words spoken to her, professing his devotion, soaked in his tears were more than just words. But that look. Finnick cares about this woman whose dress he bunches up around her tiny waist, exposing her flat, creamy stomach.
She squeezes the quilt her in hands, rocking back and forth.
For the first time since they entered the apartment, Finnick's lips meet Cashmere's. Those clever fingers crawl up the dress exposing more unblemished, porcelain skin along with a strip of cleavage. Playfully swatting his hands away, her giggle fills the room just as Finnick is about to pull her dress all the way up over her head.
"Not yet, handsome," Cashmere insists, dragging her fingers from the roots of his gelled-back hair to the curled tendrils, down his neck and along the crisp collar of his stark white shirt. Of course, her nails are painted in red lacquer as her index and thumb pop button after button, exposing more of that perfectly shaped and coloured chest that Annie had pressed up against her moments ago.
Cashmere pushes the fabric from his broad shoulders, leaving it to pool in the crook of his elbows until he lets his arms fall to his sides. She rakes those long, painted nails along his perfectly waxed chest, down his washboard abs and into his back pockets to give his arse a firm squeeze. Finnick jumps in surprise, making his eyelids drop in lust as he guides Cashmere's hands out from his pants and back around his neck as he captures her lips in another kiss. This time, Annie can see Cashmere's white teeth tug at Finnick's bottom lip and her tongue dart through the opening in the seam.
The guttural groan that rumbles from him has his hands flying back up around Cashmere's dainty waist and rushing them out of the front entrance and into the expansive kitchen that glows almost orange from dimly lit pot lights warming the cherry wood ceiling and cabinetry. From the ambience to the bottle of champagne sitting in the island sink filled to the brim with ice, the room is bathed in romance.
Finnick props Cashmere up onto the chrome countertop of the island, holding her steady with his hips. She unhooks her ankles from around him, kicking her red-soled pumps off onto the tile floor. Their lips remain fused as their bodies rock in time to the rhythm of their passion. Hips rotating into hips, Finnick pulls a keening whine from Cashmere once his lips travel across her cheek, along her jaw and down her neck until they suckle on a patch of flesh above her collarbone.
With a shove to his chest and a forceful push on his shoulders, Finnick's lips pop off her collarbone, as eyes glazed with lust, travel down to the bright red and purple mark expanding along her pallid skin. He's on his knees before she can start to beg; unlike before, their eyes don't exchange that careful warmth, only stone cold apathy.
Annie loosens her vice grip on the quilt as she watches Finnick's practiced movements. When his fingers curl beneath the string that holds up the triangle of pink underwear Cashmere has on, Annie recalls days when Finnick would let her run her fingers over every expanse of skin she wanted; through the shallow valleys of his hips, the winding path around his abs and the coarse stubble against the grain of new hair sprouting along his core and chest.
Those mesmerizing green eyes would be watching her tenderly as his fingers combed through her long, wayward locks. A shiver surging down her spine every time, there was something fantastical about the euphoria sliding from the sharp lines in his face. It made her toes tingle and chest fill with copious amounts of unsullied energy, like at this moment, everything was perfect.
When the euphoria slowly dissipated from his face, Finnick would want to explore too. Though he doesn't believe in using his hands, but his mouth. Thinking about his soft, moist lips caressing the sensitive skin along her inner thighs climbing ever closer to her core has Annie's body arching and the faint buzz of energy coursing through her veins.
However, with Cashmere, Finnick doesn't so much as touch those sinewy legs of hers, let alone bring his lips along the inside, as he tugs the lacy garment down them. One hand pushes up the falling cocktail dress, holding it in place, while his tongue sweeps along her folds spread apart by the fingers of his other hand. Cashmere's keening is loud and shrill as the tongue that Annie has felt along her own folds laps from bottom to top of the moistening seam before swirling around the clit hiding in plain sight.
Those red lacquered nails are back, twisting through Finnick's gelled hair. Cashmere's face contorts in pleasure as her hips drive into Finnick's face, making his tongue lap at her faster before darting inside.
"F-Finn," she mewls through a gasp as one hand grips tighter in his locks while the other finds her clit, sitting above the bridge of his nose, and massages the mound with two bony fingers. Finnick pulls away, forcing her hand out of his hair and sits back on his haunches. Those cobalt eyes swimming in creamy lust are positively livid once Finnick stands up to his full height, a laugh twitching at the corners of his mouth.
He places a kiss to Cashmere's forehead, beneath the curled fringe, and slips a hand in his back pocket only for his eyebrows to knit and concern to shimmer in his eyes. Checking both pockets, whatever was supposed to be there is no where to be found.
"Where is it?" Finnick's voice is gruff when expresses his inquiry. "It's been there all night, how did I lose it?"
The camera stays fixed on Cashmere as Finnick traces his steps back into the hallway before his downcast green eyes shoot up to his partner's with fear. A satisfied smirk plays onto Cashmere's pretty face and a perfectly shaped blonde brow quirks up.
"Looking for this, darling?" A small, square foil package rests between her fingers. Finnick's body relaxes as he unfastens his belt and saunters back towards the island.
Plucking the square of silver foil from her fingers, just above a whisper, he says, "Thanks, Honey, now I can breathe again." Both sets of eyes flicker over to the camera and stare straight into it with a haughty expression as a box shows up in the right hand corner of the television screen with the word "Odashmere" scribed across the top.
"For this Feast of Valentinus, treat yourself to Breathe Again by Odashmere. For his and her pleasure," the sultry voice of a narrator says just before the screen goes black and another commercial rolls onto the screen.
Odashmere. Odashmere?! Annie doesn't realize how tightly she's gripping the blankets until she notices a rip in the bedsheet. How dare they! He didn't survive the Hunger Games for be plastered all over televisions throughout Panem promoting a line of condoms in exploitative obscenity with a fellow victor whose names they oh-so-cleverly meshed together. To accomplish what? To continue feeding the eternal greed of the Capitol? Throwing back the sheets of the bed, Annie pays no mind to the tattered blanket but paces the room in her fury. She wants to throw something, anything. Feel something break further between her fingers.
The trident hanging above Finnick's bed has terrified her from the first time that she noticed its presence, but now she wants nothing more than to take it off its mount and put it into use. Annie refrains, however, as the glow of the fireplace warms the polished gold. The sounds of the Games has her head spinning around to stare at the bright colours of the television; it's only the highlights from the Games of District Two's newest victor. A promotion for their Victory Tour.
Annie can feel the cogs in her mind clicking together and it slows down her rapid pacing and sharp breathing. Once catching her breath, inhaling and exhaling deeply, she tiptoes into the candle-lit bathroom. The ambience almost that of the kitchen in the Odashmere commercial. However, Finnick's neck resting on the lip of the tub as his head lays on a pillow makes it feel more peaceful. Safe.
One of his eyes peels open and a wide smile etches into the furthest corners of his face. "Ready to join me? The water is wonderful. Rejuvenating even. What did you do to it?"
Annie can't help but laugh. "It's my little secret."
"You can tell me." The water sloshes as he sits up, both eyes wide open. "I'm good at keeping secrets."
"So I've discovered," she says, pushing the smile from her lips. Finnick doesn't seem to hear her as he rests his head back onto the terrycloth pillow, eyes staring up at the dancing candlelight along the ceiling. His face is as blank as a canvas, no smile or crinkle in his brows with thought. Annie knows Finnick too well not to know something is stirring in his mind. Sitting upon the cool marble ledge of the bathtub, she runs her hand through the dissipating bubbles, pinching some of the remaining ones with the pads of her fingers.
"Before, I- What I said…" Finnick tries to say, his eyes still cast up to the twinkling light. "It was a mistake."
"Which part," Annie hums, wiping her soapy hands on her slip before running them through his dark hair slicked back from the water. She stops mid-stroke as Finnick's sultry smirk, cherry coloured neck and Cashmere's gleaming blue eyes cross her vision. Anger floods through to her fingers, making them tremble as she styles his hair so that his fringe falls over his exposed forehead. She needs it to go away; she needs to see her Finnick.
"Annie?" Worry seeps into his tone as he swipes the dripping locks out of his eyes. He catches her wrist, holding her in place once she ceases her restyle before she can pull away and escape back to the bedroom. "What's wrong?"
"You said you regret saying something to me. What was it?" She stares directly into his worried eyes. For a moment, Annie feels like she's the one in the blood red cocktail dress with her back against the wall. And all of a sudden, it's as if she can't breathe. Gulping in air through her lungs does nothing to relieve the hunger for oxygen that burns within them. Cashmere's moaning rings in her ears louder than the desperate gasps for breath. It needs to go away. Right now! Go away! Just go away!
"You're not one of them. I'm sorry I spoke to you like you were," Finnick voice is muffled amongst the heaving and the moans sounding louder and louder. "You're my Annie. Only woman in all of Panem for me. Everything else, it's not real."
"Then why are you keeping secrets from me?" She doesn't realize how loudly her voice carries until she hears it echoing back at her.
Finnick's fingers curl around the palms of her hands, which she involuntarily cupped around her ears, and peels them from her head. His lips touch the crown of her head, then the tip of her nose and finally, her trembling lips.
"Come join me and I'll tell you everything you want to know," is all he says, falling back against the incline of the tub, tugging her towards him by the junction of their interwoven fingers.
"What's wrong with you telling me from here?" She instinctively pulls back, unlatching their hands.
"Because…it's a secret," he says. The tips of his water logged fingers come up over the ledge of the tub to find hers again, begging to wrap around her now steady hand resting on the cool marble as they shake. Anxiety pools in his gleaming eyes.
Stripping off her slip, Annie dips one foot down into the dissipating soap bubbles and reaches out to weave her fingers back through Finnick's before settling down to the bottom of the tub. She can feel his heart beat wildly against his ribs and lungs work overtime to push air up and out of his body as she pushes her back flush against his chest. With only Finnick's steadiness, the lukewarm water surrounding her lets her mind drift off.
Cherry red marks spot her vision the moment she closes her eyes, causing Annie to jump and swivel in Finnick's arms. When her eyes come in contact with his sun-kissed neck, the red lipstick stains vanish. Their eyes meet, Finnick's filled with confusion before she shakes her head and falls back against his chest.
They watch the glow of the candlelight on the ceiling together, while she rests her head in the crook of his neck. Their flickering patterns act like that of the stars in the sky, except that the ceiling is painted in hues of orange and yellow instead of purple and blue. So much like that kitchen...
"Finn…" she starts, though her words lay in a jumble on her tongue, fighting to be the next to leave her mouth.
"Annie," he says coyly.
"When you're in the Capitol...how much time do they have you spend not mentoring?"
Nerves eat up her insides like the acidic water that would fill ponds after a heavy rain storm, even more when Finnick doesn't speak. All that sounds is the rippling of the water and the rapid pulses from his chest.
Finnick's breath is haggard as his lips find her ear. "Far too much," he whispers. "There is a scheduling system that is in place for all the Victors; mine is filled to the brim with lunches, dinners, galas and television appearances. Mentoring isn't my priority."
"So if all the Victors have one, where's mine?" The words fly from her mouth before she realizes what she's saying.
Finnick freezes, the question catching him off guard for a split second. "With me. I'm keeping it safe."
"There's no need for that," she replies, anger pulsing in her tone. "I could handle a commercial here or there..." Turning to face him, Annie unweaves their hands and lifts them to cup his face, stroking his cheek with her thumb.
She peels her hands from his face and he kisses her palms. "Pressure wise, probably. Though that's not what they had planned for you."
Nerves settle back into the pit of her stomach and Annie can feel her heart begin to race. "Not what they had planned?"
"They were planning to sell you." The reality of Finnick's words hit her harshly, knocking the wind from her lungs and thoughts from her mind. "Or give your body off as a reward. I couldn't, wouldn't, let Snow do that to you too. I did...I did what I had to do."
The luminescent shine in his eyes grounds Annie as the tears that well in the corners beckon to be caught before they fall. All that anger that lay ready to boil over ebbs once her thumb catches the first one. She crushes their mouths together, pushing every iota of energy into it, refusing to let the emotions soaked into his tears consume him. All this time, Finnick's been so much more than merely a celebrity for the Capitol to ogle. He's been a plaything, battered and bruised by the fickleness and disregard of morals. How many of the others share the same atrocious fate?
Then it dawns on Annie. "Cashmere…Snow sells her, too. Sold you together even, hasn't he? That's why it looked so effortless."
"What looked effortless?" Finnick asks, brushing the remaining well of tears from his eyes.
"The sex. In that commercial...the one with the condoms..."
"You mean when I ate her out?" his voice wavers.
"Yes, that one!"
Finnick's eyes go wide, paralyzing him with fear. Shoving Annie across the tub and into the water, he scrambles out of the tub, frantic. He nearly slips on the tiles while he rapidly paces, though it does nothing to prevent him from hyperventilating.
"They aren't supposed to play those out are they doing that? Where did you see it? Do you think Penny saw, or Mum or Dad, fuck Bastian...they'll all be furious! Especially now after I-"
"Finn!" she cries, reaching out for him and stopping him in his tracks with her wet hands and soaking body. "Do you know what time it is?"
He looks back at her with wild eyes but doesn't have an answer.
"It's well past three in the morning. The only people up at this hour are you, me and Sandor Haddock across the way. Everyone else, they're tucked in their beds, fast asleep. And even if they are up watching TV, they couldn't have seen it because it wasn't on one of the 5 stations we get outside of Victors' Village," Annie reassures him with a smile.
"A-are you sure?"
"Positive."
He relaxes a little, falling against the outside of the tub to catch his breath. Annie doesn't hesitate to join him, plucking towels off the racks as she curls up into his side on the tile floor. Finnick flinches at her touch, but settles into the warmth of her side once she weaves their fingers together.
"Are you...mad?"
"Not at you. Never at you. It's not your fault," Annie whispers into his damp skin, pressing a kiss to his temple.
"Nor is it yours. I would do it again if I have to." Finnick rubs circles into her hand with his thumb. "Anything for you."
"Just don't kill yourself in the process. Then I'll be mad at you," Annie says with a yawn. Emotions are exhausting things. She can feel her eyes falling shut the moment she drops her head onto Finnick's shoulder. They make a better pillow than those in the bedroom.
She barely registers a shift of limbs but the shocking draft of cold air has Annie's eyes shooting open. Finnick gives her an apologetic look as he places her down onto the cool sheets. Slipping under the thin fabric, hiding the rip under the quilt, he comes to cuddle up beside her only after turning off the fireplace. Glancing up at him from under her lashes, they exchange a gentle smile as he draws his arm around her still damp body.
"Y'know," Finnick draws her attention from her thoughts up to where his eyes rest on the television. The celebrity poker game is still on with Beetee sitting in front of even greater stacks of coloured chips. "I don't know why they let him play poker. You'd think by now they would've realized he's counting the cards."
She can't help but smile, snuggling into his sun-soaked chest and the natural smell of coconut that radiates from his body. Of all the things Annie understood of Finnick, she realizes she doesn't understand everything there is to know, but is thankful that even on those challenging nights where waves crash violently over sand, they're still side-by-side, learning hour by hour how to breathe again.