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Raven Brando knew Finnick Odair’s games by heart.
She had learned them the hard way—on a rooftop, under fireworks and false promises, when he kissed her like it meant something and then vanished from her life as if it never had.
She’d played along once. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
So even though her phone buzzed in her hand, even though answering would have been so easy, she let it ring. Some traps only worked if you stepped into them willingly.
She reached instead for her guitar, fingers moving before she could overthink it.
I'm seeing your name
I see your name
Flash across my screen
And even knowing what you did
It still cuts too deep
Thinking of the kiss
We never named
So I close my eyes
And hope you won’t notice
I’m walking away
࿇ ══━━━━✥◈✥━━━━══ ࿇
Finnick Odair was not the boy everyone thought he was.
He wasn’t a player. He wasn’t a flirt. And he most definitely hadn’t cheated on his girlfriend last year.
He didn’t care what the world thought of him. He only cared about one person—and she couldn’t have cared less about him. At least, that’s how it looked from his side.
She didn’t answer his calls. She didn’t even read his texts. And maybe she was right. He had hurt her. Badly. He knew that. Maybe he was the stupid one for thinking she might forgive him. Maybe she really was better off without him.
Still, he watched her.
Her shows. Her concerts. Her songs.
Even when he never let it show, he was always watching.
“You have that face again.”
At Annie’s voice, Finnick snapped back to himself.
“What face?”
“The one you get when you’re feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I don’t do self-pity.”
“Yeah,” Annie said dryly. “Keep telling yourself that.”
She was on her phone, doing something Finnick couldn’t see—probably texting her girlfriend, Johanna.
“What are you doing?” he asked, not because he cared, but because he wanted something—anything—to fill the silence.
“Well,” Annie said slowly, “I definitely did something.”
That got his attention.
“And… what exactly did you do?”
“I’ll tell you,” she said, locking her phone. “But you have to hear me out before you do anything reckless.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Finnick muttered. “The last time you said that, things didn’t end well.”
His mind went back a year. Two weeks before New Year’s, Annie—his ex-girlfriend—had told him she was in love with a woman.
He’d taken it better than most people would have. They’d always been closer to best friends than lovers anyway. But everything fell apart when the media found out about the breakup. Annie wasn’t ready to come out yet, so they couldn’t tell the truth.
Which meant Finnick took the fall.
The rumors started fast. Cheating. Betrayal. Lies.
And they only grew louder when he was photographed kissing someone on New Year’s Eve.
Raven.
That was why he had distanced himself from her. He hadn’t wanted to drag her down with him. She was just starting her career—he couldn’t be the reason it cracked before it even had a chance to grow.
He still remembered the hope in her eyes that night.
“You know,” she’d told him, “music is my whole life. I’d be dead without it.”
The words had stayed with him. Because acting was the same for him.
And losing her had felt a little like losing that too.
“I bought tickets,” she said.
Finnick looked up from the couch. “You bought what?”
“Tickets. Raven’s private New Year concert.”
The words hit him all at once, sharp and unwelcome. His chest tightened instinctively. “No,” he said immediately.
“Absolutely not.”
“I didn’t ask.”
He stood up. “You should’ve.”
Annie crossed her arms. “I’ve watched you mope around for a year, Finnick. I’m done asking.”
“This isn’t moping,” he snapped. “You don’t get it. I can’t just show up there like nothing happened.”
“I know exactly what happened,” she said, voice steady. “That’s why I bought them.”
“She doesn’t want to see me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“She won’t answer my calls. She won’t even read my texts.”
Annie didn’t flinch. “Yeah. Because you hurt her.”
The words landed cleanly, no softness to cushion them.
“I know,” Finnick said, quieter now.
“Good,” Annie replied. “Then stop acting like that’s the end of the story.”
He laughed once, hollow. “It should be. I don’t deserve another chance.”
Annie’s expression hardened. “See, that right there? That’s what I’m sick of.”
“What?”
“You hiding behind self-pity and calling it accountability.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It is.” She took a step closer. “You messed up, Finnick. You owned it. Now you’re just punishing yourself because it’s easier than risking being rejected.”
“She’s better without me.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No,” Annie said firmly. “You really don’t. That’s her choice. Always was.”
Her voice softened then, just a fraction.
“You love her,” Annie continued. “I see it every time her name comes up. Every time one of her songs plays and you pretend not to listen.”
Finnick swallowed. “I ruined it.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe you just haven’t fought for it yet.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing now, trapped inside his own head. “And if I go,” he said, “and it changes nothing?”
“Then at least you’ll stop wondering what would’ve happened if you’d been brave for once.”
The word lingered. Brave.
Finnick stared at the floor for a long moment, then finally looked back at her.
“…What time is the concert?”
Annie exhaled, relief flickering across her face. “Tomorrow night.”
He nodded once. “…Fine.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Fine?”
“I’ll go,” he said. “But I’m not promising anything.”
“I’m not asking you to promise,” Annie replied. “I’m asking you to show up.”
And somehow, that felt harder—and more terrifying—than anything else.
࿇ ══━━━━✥◈✥━━━━══ ࿇
Finnick almost turned around twice before he made it inside.
The venue was smaller than he’d expected—private, understated, tucked away behind clean glass and soft lighting that glowed against the winter night. No screaming crowds outside, no chaos. Just quiet anticipation and a line of people who looked like they belonged there.
He didn’t.
He pulled his coat tighter around himself, cap low, shoulders tense as he handed over his ticket. The attendant barely glanced at his face before letting him through, and something about that stung more than recognition would have.
Anonymous. Invisible. It was probably for the best.
Inside, the air was warm and humming, filled with low conversation and the clink of glasses. Fairy lights were strung along the walls, soft and deliberate, like someone had gone out of their way to make the night feel gentle. Finnick stood there for a moment too long, unsure where to put himself, feeling like he’d stepped into a life he no longer belonged to.
You can still leave, a voice in his head whispered.
He didn’t.
He found a spot near the back, half-shadowed, where he could see the stage without being seen himself. That had been the plan, anyway. Observe. Listen. Leave quietly. No damage done.
The lights dimmed slowly, conversations fading into silence, and his chest tightened before he could stop it. He knew this feeling too well—the moments before a performance, the breath held just before everything changed. Funny how it felt the same whether you were on stage or hiding in the dark.
Then she stepped into the light.
Raven.
The room shifted, almost imperceptibly, like everyone had leaned forward at once.
She looked composed, effortless, dressed simply but intentionally, her presence filling the space without asking permission. Finnick felt it in his ribs, that familiar ache, sharp and immediate.
She looked… happy. Or at least steady.
Grounded in a way he hadn’t been brave enough to give her.
He swallowed hard.
As the first notes of the night began,
Finnick let himself breathe her in—not just the way she looked, but the way she was. Confident. Controlled. Untouchable. The kind of person you admired from afar when you knew better than to reach.
And then—just for a second—her gaze flickered.
Not sweeping. Not searching.
Pausing.
Right where he stood.
Finnick’s breath caught. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. For a heartbeat, he was sure he’d imagined it, that it was just another trick of hope, another punishment his mind had invented.
But her fingers tightened around the microphone.
Just slightly.
She kept singing. Kept smiling. Kept the world exactly as it expected her to be.
And Finnick knew—absolutely, devastatingly—that she had seen him.
He stayed anyway.
Because if this was the last time he was allowed to exist in the same room as her, he wasn’t going to waste it by running.
࿇ ══━━━━✥◈✥━━━━══ ࿇
Applause washed over Raven, gentle and reverent, nothing like the screaming crowds she was used to. She smiled because it was expected, because she was good at that, because the version of herself the audience loved had learned how to exist without flinching. Her fingers found the microphone, grounding, familiar.
The first song came easily. Then the second. Muscle memory carried her through chords and verses while her mind stayed carefully blank.
Until it didn’t.
Halfway through the set, her gaze drifted—unthinking, instinctive—and stopped.
Him.
For a heartbeat, everything inside her went painfully still.
Finnick stood near the back, half-hidden in shadow like he hadn’t meant to be seen at all. Cap low, shoulders tense. Real.
Undeniably real. Not a memory, not a late-night thought she’d buried under melodies and excuses.
Her breath faltered.
Just for a second.
She tightened her grip on the microphone before anyone could notice. Before he could notice. The room didn’t stop. The lights didn’t dim. The song carried on, obedient and smooth, while something fragile cracked open in her chest.
So he came.
Anger followed quickly—sharp, defensive. He didn’t get to do this. He didn’t get to show up like this, unannounced, uninvited, after all the silence. After the unanswered calls. After she’d taught herself how not to look for his name lighting up her screen.
And yet.
Her heart betrayed her anyway, thudding too loud, too fast.
She forced herself to keep singing, eyes fixed somewhere just above the crowd, anywhere but him. She could feel his presence now, constant and heavy, like a truth she’d tried very hard not to carry. Every note after that felt different—more deliberate, more exposed.
When she reached the final song of the night, she didn’t hesitate.
She announced it calmly, voice steady, like this hadn’t been decided weeks ago. Like it wasn’t suddenly meant for exactly one person standing in the dark.
Last Christmas, I gave you my heart
But the very next day, you gave it away
This year, to save me from tears
I'll give it to someone special
The arrangement was softer than the original. Stripped back. No spectacle. Just her voice and the weight behind it.
Once bitten and twice shy
I keep my distance, but you still catch my eye
Tell me, baby, do you recognise me?
Well, it's been a year, it doesn't surprise me I wrapped it up and sent it
With a note saying, "I love you", I meant it
Now I know what a fool I've been
But if you kissed me now, I know you'd fool me again
She didn’t look at him while she sang.
She didn’t need to.
My God, I thought you were someone to rely on
Me? I guess I was a shoulder to cry on
A face on a lover with a fire in his heart
A man undercover, but you tore him apart
It wasn’t forgiveness. It was memory and distance and honesty braided together. It was everything she’d never said because saying it would have meant admitting how deeply he’d mattered.
When the last note faded, the room stayed silent for half a breath too long—like everyone was afraid to break something.
Then the applause came.
Raven smiled, bowed, thanked them.
Professional. Polished. Untouchable.
But as she turned to leave the stage, her chest tight and her pulse unsteady.
࿇ ══━━━━✥◈✥━━━━══ ࿇
The room quieted.
This song was different. Slower. Stripped of spectacle. The kind of performance that didn’t ask for attention, only honesty.
Raven sang like she wasn’t trying to impress anyone anymore—like she was speaking instead of performing.
Finnick’s chest tightened.
He didn’t need the words to know what it was about. The timing alone was enough. New Year’s Eve. A song about something that almost lasted. About something that didn’t.
About them.
He stood completely still, afraid that if he moved—even breathed too loudly—he’d break whatever fragile thread had allowed him to be here at all. Around him, the audience listened politely, appreciatively. They heard a beautiful voice, a clever choice, a nostalgic ending to a perfect night.
Finnick heard everything he’d never said out loud.
He heard the rooftop. The cold air. The way she’d laughed when the fireworks went off too early. He heard the silence he’d left behind when he disappeared because he’d convinced himself that loving her meant letting her go.
He hated himself for that still.
Raven didn’t look at him while she sang.
That hurt more than if she had. It told him this wasn’t a message meant to pull him closer—it was one meant to survive without him.
This is what you did, a voice in his head whispered.
You taught her how to sing around the absence of you.
His throat burned. He swallowed hard, hands clenched in his coat pockets, grounding himself in the sting of cold metal against his palms. He deserved this.
The distance. The restraint. The way she held herself like she’d already learned how to live without him.
And yet.
There was something else there too. Not anger. Not softness.
Control.
She was choosing this moment. Choosing this ending. And the realization terrified him more than rejection ever could.
When the final note faded, Finnick didn’t move. He couldn’t. Applause broke out around him, warm and loud, but it felt far away, like he was underwater. He watched her smile, bow, thank them—every movement practiced, perfect.
Untouchable.
As she turned to leave the stage, Finnick felt the weight of the choice settle heavily in his chest.
If he didn’t go after her now, this would be it.
Not because she wouldn’t forgive him—but because she would move on.
And he had already lost her once.
He wasn’t going to do it again.
࿇ ══━━━━✥◈✥━━━━══ ࿇
Backstage was quieter than Finnick expected.
The applause faded quickly once the doors closed behind him, swallowed by thick curtains and narrow hallways that smelled faintly of dust, perfume, and warm lights.
Crew members moved around with practiced efficiency, murmuring congratulations, packing cables, already dismantling the magic she’d built onstage.
Finnick hesitated at the edge of it all, suddenly unsure where he was allowed to exist.
He spotted her at the end of the corridor.
Raven stood with her back to him, shrugging off a jacket one of her assistants handed her, her hair still catching the light like she hadn’t fully stepped out of the performance yet. She laughed softly at something someone said, polite and distant, already halfway gone.
For a second, Finnick almost let her be.
Almost.
“Raven.”
His voice sounded wrong in his own ears—too quiet, too real.
She froze.
Not dramatically. Not visibly to anyone else. Just a pause, a breath held a fraction too long. Then she turned.
Their eyes met.
Up close, she looked tired in a way the stage lights had hidden. Not weak. Not broken. Just human. The sight of it hit him harder than the song had.
“Finnick,” she said.
No warmth. No anger. Just his name, carefully neutral.
“I—” He stopped himself, forced a breath. “I know I didn’t warn you. I know I shouldn’t be here without asking.”
Her gaze flicked briefly past him, to the open hallway, to the people moving around them. Then back to his face.
“You came anyway,” she said.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“If you’re here to apologize,” she added quietly, “now isn’t the time.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “That’s not—” He swallowed. “I’m not asking for anything. I just… could we talk? Somewhere quieter.”
She studied him then. Really looked at him.
Like she was searching for something familiar and trying not to find it.
“For how long?” she asked.
“A minute,” he said. “If that’s all you can give me.”
Silence stretched between them, fragile and thin.
Finally, she nodded once. “Okay. One minute.”
Relief hit him so fast it almost hurt.
“There’s a rooftop,” he said. “Up the back stairs. If you’d rather—”
She hesitated only a moment before answering. “Fine.”
She turned first, not waiting for him to lead.
Finnick followed a step behind her, heart pounding, every instinct screaming that this was the moment everything balanced on. The hallway lights dimmed as they moved farther away from the noise, from the safety of distance, from the excuses he’d hidden behind for too long.
As they reached the stairwell, Raven glanced back at him.
“Just so you know,” she said softly, “this doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”
“I know,” Finnick replied. And for the first time that night, he meant it without fear. “It just means you’re listening.”
She didn’t answer. She pushed the door open and stepped into the cold night air.
And Finnick followed her—onto the rooftop where everything had once gone wrong, and where, maybe, just maybe, it could finally be said right.
࿇ ══━━━━✥◈✥━━━━══ ࿇
The door shut softly behind them, and the city rushed in to fill the space.
Cold air swept across the rooftop, sharp and clean, carrying the distant noise of celebration from somewhere far below. Fireworks hadn’t started yet, but the city felt poised on the edge of something—breath held, waiting.
Raven walked a few steps ahead of him.
Not far enough to be unreachable. Not close enough to be familiar.
Finnick followed at a careful distance, the concrete beneath their feet uneven, the silence between them louder than the crowd had been. He could hear the faint hum of traffic, the wind tugging at the edges of her coat, the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat refusing to calm down.
This rooftop wasn’t the same one.
He knew that. Different building. Different view. But it was close enough to make memory stir—too close. The cold. The height. The way the city lights blurred into something almost unreal. He wondered if she felt it too, that echo of a night that had once meant everything and then shattered into nothing.
Raven stopped near the edge, resting her hands lightly on the railing.
She didn’t look at him.
Finnick came to a halt a few feet away. He didn’t try to close the distance. Not yet.
The silence felt fragile, like glass—one wrong move and it would splinter beyond repair.
Seconds passed. Maybe more.
She breathed in slowly, then out.
Behind her, Finnick stood still, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, grounding himself. He told himself not to rush this. Not to fill the quiet just because it scared him. This wasn’t a scene to be performed. There were no lines to hide behind here.
The city lights reflected faintly in the metal railing, in the glass of nearby buildings. Somewhere below, someone laughed. Somewhere else, music spilled out of an open window. Life, continuing, indifferent to the moment unraveling above it.
Raven shifted her weight, shoulders tense.
Finnick wondered if she was counting the seconds. If she was deciding how much of herself she was willing to risk tonight. If she was already preparing to walk away.
He didn’t blame her.
The wind picked up, tugging loose a strand of her hair. Instinctively—stupidly—his hand twitched, the memory of reaching for her once before flashing sharp and unwanted through his mind. He let it fall back to his side.
Not yet. Not unless she asked.
They stood there like that, suspended between past and present, neither of them quite brave enough to break the silence—but neither willing to leave it behind either.
Fireworks cracked in the distance for the first time, a test run. A warning.
Midnight was close.
And whatever he was going to say to her—whatever truth he’d carried all this way—would have to be enough to survive it.
Finnick drew in a breath, steadying himself.
This was it.
࿇ ══━━━━✥◈✥━━━━══ ࿇
Finnick broke the silence like he was afraid it might shatter if he touched it too hard.
“I know I have a lot of explaining to do,” he said quietly.
Raven didn’t turn around. She stayed where she was, hands resting on the railing, eyes fixed on the city like it might offer answers he couldn’t.
“I won’t pretend what I did didn’t hurt you,” he continued. “Because it did. And I knew it would. I just—” He exhaled slowly. “I convinced myself that hurting you once was better than hurting you every day after.”
She laughed softly at that. Not amused. Not cruel. Just tired.
“That’s a convenient way to frame disappearing,” she said.
“I know.” He nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “And I hate that it took me this long to admit that it wasn’t bravery. It was fear.”
That got her attention. She turned then, just slightly, enough for him to see her face in profile.
“I was afraid,” Finnick said, voice steady now, grounded in truth. “Afraid that if I stayed, you’d get pulled into everything that was happening to me. The rumors. The headlines. The version of me the world wanted to tear apart. You were just starting to shine, Raven. And I didn’t want to be the reason anyone tried to dim that.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me,” she said softly. Not angry. Just firm.
“I know,” he said. “That’s the part I got wrong. I thought loving you meant stepping away. Turns out, it just meant I never gave you the chance to choose.”
She looked at him fully now.
Finnick swallowed. “I watched you,” he admitted. “Every concert. Every release. I told myself it was support, that it was harmless. But it wasn’t. It was selfish. I wanted to keep you in my life without earning the right to be there.”
The wind cut between them, cold and sharp. He didn’t move closer.
“I don’t expect forgiveness,” he said. “I don’t expect you to feel the same. I just needed you to know that walking away from you was the worst decision I ever made—and not because I was lonely.” His voice dipped. “Because I lost you.”
Raven’s fingers tightened around the railing.
“I spent a year telling myself you were better off without me,” Finnick continued.
“That you deserved someone cleaner. Braver. Someone who didn’t make a mess of things.” He met her eyes. “But all that did was give me an excuse not to fight for you.”
He paused, then added quietly, “I’m done doing that.”
Silence followed. Not empty this time. Full.
“I love you,” he said at last. No performance. No flourish. Just truth. “Not in a way that asks you to fix me. Not in a way that traps you. I love you enough to stand here and let you walk away if that’s what you choose.”
Fireworks began to bloom somewhere beyond the buildings, soft flashes of color lighting the sky. Finnick didn’t look at them.
“I just needed you to hear it,” he finished.
“From me. Not from a song.”
He stopped speaking.
And waited.
Raven didn’t answer him right away.
She turned back toward the city, letting the cold bite at her skin, letting the noise below ground her. Fireworks bloomed faintly in the distance, early ones, impatient. She watched them fade before speaking.
“You don’t get credit for loving me quietly,” she said at last.
Finnick flinched, just barely.
“I spent a long time wondering what I did wrong,” she continued. Her voice was steady, but there was something tight beneath it. “Wondering if I imagined it. If that night meant more to me than it ever did to you.”
She turned to face him then. Fully. No armor, no stage lights—just her.
“When you disappeared,” she said, “you didn’t just leave. You let the world tell a story about you. And about me. And I had to live with that without even knowing why.”
“I know,” Finnick whispered.
“No,” she said gently. “You don’t. Not completely.”
She stepped closer—not close enough to touch, but close enough that he could see the truth in her eyes.
“You don’t know what it’s like to turn pain into something people can sing along to,” Raven said. “To have strangers find comfort in the worst parts of you while the person who caused them stays silent.”
Finnick swallowed hard.
“I didn’t need you to protect me,” she went on. “I needed you to trust me. To let me decide what I could handle.”
“I was wrong,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “You were.”
The word landed between them, final and unsoftened.
She exhaled slowly. “But I heard you tonight. Not just what you said—but how you said it. And I believe that you believe it.”
That was the closest thing to mercy she was willing to give.
“I didn’t sing that song for you,” Raven added. “Not really. I sang it because I needed to remember who I was before I learned how to be careful with my heart.”
Finnick nodded. “I understand.”
“I don’t forgive you,” she said quietly. “Not yet.”
His shoulders sagged—not in defeat, but acceptance.
“But,” she continued, “I don’t hate you either. And that scares me more than anything else.”
She looked up at the sky, where the fireworks were starting to build, louder now. Closer.
“I can’t promise you anything,” Raven said.
“Not a future. Not a clean slate. Not that this won’t hurt again.”
She met his eyes.
“But I won’t pretend you don’t matter. And I won’t pretend I don’t feel this.”
She gestured vaguely between them—at the space, the history, the unfinished thing neither of them had been able to bury.
“That’s all I have to give you right now,” she finished. “Honesty.”
Finnick didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
He just looked at her like that was more than enough.
And for the first time since that rooftop a year ago, Raven didn’t feel like she was standing alone.
The countdown started somewhere below them.
They didn’t join it.
The city did the counting for them—voices rising, numbers colliding into one another, the air tightening with anticipation. Raven felt it more than she heard it, the way the moment leaned forward, the way time seemed to hold its breath.
Finnick shifted beside her.
Not closer. Just enough that his shoulder brushed hers.
“Raven,” he said quietly, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say her name yet.
She didn’t look at him. If she did, she knew she’d give in too fast.
“I’m still scared,” she admitted.
“I know.”
“And I don’t know what this means.”
“I know that too.”
She finally turned to him. His face was softer than she remembered—less polished, less guarded. The man who stood in front of her wasn’t the untouchable actor the world adored. He was just Finnick. The boy who had kissed her on a rooftop once and then broken her heart trying to protect her from his own mess.
“Promise me something,” she said.
“Anything.”
“Don’t disappear again,” Raven said. “Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s hard. Don’t make decisions for me.”
His voice was steady when he answered. “I won’t.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“I won’t,” he repeated, firmer now. “Ever again.”
The countdown reached its final seconds.
Five.
Four.
Three.
The fireworks began early, light blooming at the edges of the sky.
Two.
Raven inhaled. Finnick did too. Like they were bracing for the same thing.
One.
The city exploded.
Color burst above them—gold and red and white—sound cracking through the cold night air. Cheers rose from every direction, joy spilling into the streets below.
Raven didn’t hear any of it.
Finnick reached for her slowly, deliberately, like he was giving her every chance to stop him. His hand hovered at her waist, not touching yet.
She closed the distance herself.
The kiss was gentle.
Not desperate. Not frantic. Just real.
It tasted like winter and relief and everything they hadn’t said. Finnick’s hand settled at her back, warm and steady, like he was anchoring her there. Raven’s fingers curled into the front of his coat, holding on—not because she was afraid he’d leave, but because she wanted him to stay.
When they pulled apart, their foreheads rested together.
Neither of them spoke.
Fireworks kept going, loud and relentless, but the moment belonged only to them.
Raven smiled first. Small. Uncertain. Real.
“Happy New Year,” she whispered.
Finnick laughed softly, breathless. “It already is.”
And for the first time in a long time, Raven believed that might actually be true.