Two weeks passed before Finnick could even draw a breath. He threw himself into training, securing himself a nearly perfect evaluation score. Bets had already begun to pour in, and Finnick was undoubtedly the Capitol favorite. He would have plenty of Sponsors, plenty of skill, plenty of stamina, and a real chance of winning. Even so, during the Interviews he did his best, along with all the other Tributes, to turn the crowd against the Quell, to convince them that any of their deaths would be a loss, to assure them that if they cancelled the Games, he'd make it worth their while. But even when the show erupted into chaos upon Katniss and Peeta's dramatic finale, he and Annie were sent back to their room with the assurance that they would both be stepping into the arena the next morning.

Finnick and Annie wandered into the living room in silence. Mags stood from where she waited on the couch, and with a forlorn sigh she stepped forward and hooked an arm around each of them. The three held each other, their heads bowed together. Tears filled the grooves in Mags' cheeks—even with the escape plan in place, she could still lose them both. They were expected to lay down their lives for Katniss Everdeen, and they were going up against some of Panem's most lethal Careers in what would undoubtedly be the most spectacular, savage arena they'd seen in decades.

"We love you, Mags," Finnick murmured in her ear, and she nodded as she squeezed them all the more tightly. She looked up and kissed them both before Finnick finally loosened his grip. Annie held onto Mags a moment longer, and when she pulled away Finnick could see tears glistening in her own eyes. "We should get some rest," he told Annie quietly, and she nodded.

"Goodnight, Mags," she spoke with a tremor in her voice, and Mags kissed her once more. Finnick took Annie's hand, and with their last goodbyes they retreated into their bedroom.

The door had hardly closed when a sob sputtered from Annie's lips. For her, the weeks had been grueling. Days upon days wandering the Training Room had amounted to a score little better than that of the Morphlings, and she'd faltered through her interview with Caesar until the crowd's eyes glazed over with boredom. The combat skills she'd developed in training for her first Games were still so tied up in her fear and her sorrow that she had little hope of recovering them. Annie felt she was upon the last hours of her life, and that realization racked her small frame as she wept.

Finnick enveloped her in his arms, and she trembled against his chest, her tears staining his shirt. He swallowed at the lump in his throat as he pressed his lips to her hair. "I'm still going to protect you," he muttered. She shook her head beneath his chin, and he insisted, "I will."

Annie looked up at him, eyes swollen and fearful. "I don't want to talk about this," she whimpered. "I don't want to spend tonight fighting."

Slowly, Finnick nodded, "Okay." He wiped away at the strands of hair pasted to her damp cheeks, and his touch sent a shiver through her skin. She leaned up on her tiptoes, and he bent his neck to meet her quivering lips.

He was only guaranteed this last night with her. It was his last promise, his last apology, his last goodbye—perhaps the last time he would taste her lips, or feel her hair run through his fingers. And no matter his strength or his resolve or his plans, he knew that it could very well be the last moments of pleasure or happiness that she would ever have. So he kissed her, his lips roaming every plane of her skin, his fingertips clenching her flesh with dying thirst. He carressed her feverishly, desperate to remember the width of her brow, the curve of her chin, the length of her neck. He wanted the remember the dip of her collar, the shape of her breasts, the arch of her back beneath his palm. He wanted to remember the taste of her, the feeling of her thigh against his cheek, the splay of her toes and the sound of her voice as she breathed his name.

Annie loved him back just as fiercely, her fingers knotted in his hair, her nails sliding down his back, her hips locked against his. She curled herself around him, absorbing every part of him to herself, even to the depths of his ugliness and his anguish. Her hair caught his eyelashes, the corners of his lips, coiled about his arms and his fingers, and he relished it. With final sighs, they settled into each other, seamed together by the sweat on their skin. Annie tucked her head into the groove of his neck, her legs entangled in his as she held him, and she waited until long after her breath had grown silent and even before she spoke,

"You know I love you?"

"I know." Finnick lifted his head enough to find the glint of her eyes in the darkness of the room. "And you know I've never loved anyone like I've loved you, and I never will."

With the Capitol lights twinkling into their window, Finnick could just make out her smile, even as the glimmer in her eyes swelled.

"I want you to find happiness," she told him, her voice hoarse and faint. "Even if something happens to me-"

"We said we wouldn't talk about that," Finnick muttered quickly as he nestled back against her. He glared up at the dim ceiling at tried to keep the tears from running down his cheeks, into her hair. He wanted to believe that he could do it, that he could save her and Katniss and Peeta and himself. But as the night drew on, his doubt gnawed away at more and more of his stomach, and his hands began to tremble.

It was then that he felt Annie's fingers intertwine with his. "Rest," she whispered. A moment passed before she added, "Please don't blame yourself."

He knew what she meant, and he knew that no matter what she said to him, there was no way that the guilt of her death wouldn't weigh on his heart until its last beat. Still, he closed his eyes, and as he listened to the sound of her breath, felt the rise and fall of her chest against his, he slipped into an unexpected sleep.

And he dreamed about losing her.