Finnick smells like the ocean, and that's part of a huge reason why she's slowly getting over her fear of it.

As they lay in the sand, the blanket of warmth from the sun heating their skin, she's having a hard time distinguishing him over the waves that crash a few feet away on the shore; where the planes of his skin meet the ocean. Nothing is different to her.

His fingers weave through her hair and she freezes in place, the only thing that takes movement is her fluttering heart. Strands of her dark hair slip through his fingers like streams of water and she feels the ends of it brush against her skin, flowing like a dark waterfall over her shoulders. He studies her expression and she can feel her face flush, every nerve in her body telling her to look away; to break contact.

But she doesn't want to, not yet.

His fingers comb through her hair, splitting it and parting it like a knife cutting butter, and it feels wonderful. She lies there on his chest, his breathing pushing her up and down like the waves on the shore. She's trying to ignore herself, to channel out the nagging thought that she has no idea what she's doing; that she's uncomfortable when she knows she really shouldn't be.

She wants to pepper kisses over him. She wants to ravage him with her lips, his honey skin warm and salty on the tip of her tongue. She wants to hear his breath hitch, feel his heart accelerate, much like what he does to her on a basis. But she's nervous.

She's nervous about a lot of things, it seems. Lately her life has been ruled by fear. Sometimes it feels like the only way she can function is in the bubble of anxiety and cold fear that envelopes her; she can't breathe or walk or eat without it. It's the great energy in her life. It's nestled itself into her mind and taken control of her. It's taken from her freedom, her ability to function, even her interests.

And now, it takes her relationship.

Sometimes she wants to kiss him so hard, the world shuts out around them. But then she thinks about how she doesn't know how to. And then she thinks about all the girls who probably do, and already have. How they were able to make him gasp, to please him, to run their fingernails down his back and make him arch into them and then her chest tightens and she shuts down and it takes Finnick a bit of coaxing to bring her back.

It scares him when she does that, she can see it in the lines on his face and the way his eyes cloud over. It makes it worse when she refuses to tell him why she shuts down. Usually she's open with him about her attacks; he's the only one she can tell about the mangled, pale bodies she sees in her back of her eyelids whenever she closes her eyes, or the stream of red she sees spewing from the faucet whenever she dips her toes into the bathtub. He understands.

But then there are the times when she touches him and sees the faces of all the girls who could do it better. The times he could, at any moment, realize that for himself and see what a burden she is. The times she believes in her mind that he already has and he's just another illusion her psychotic, broken mind has produced just to torture her…She can't bring herself to tell him these things.

She doesn't want to be broken; she wants to be strong.

His fingers wrap around her arms and she realizes how tense she is as he asks, "What's wrong? Annie, what's the matter?"

She sits up, straddling his lap as she shakes her head, her hair dancing around her head like a flowing skirt, "No. It's dumb."

"Come on," He coaxes, using the voice he saves especially for occasions in bringing her out of her mind, "You can tell me, Annie."

His hands run up and down her arm in soothing strokes and she shivers. A seagull swoops over their heads, momentarily blocking out the sun. Her toes dig into the sand, the tiny grains caving in against her skin. Finnick cranes his head, watching her cautiously, and she can tell he's trying to dig out and decipher what is going on in her mind.

"I feel silly." She says so low, her voice competes with the roaring mixture of waves and wind and crying birds. "So silly."

"About?" His tone is gentle. Everything about him is gentle. She's not sure if it helps or makes things worse.

Her throat is dry and she trembles a little as the breeze lifts her hair and tries to blow it away, "I don't know how to do this, Finnick." She feels dumb and her cheeks burn with the mortification at herself. "I feel like I'm loving you…wrong. I'm not doing it right. I don't know how, Finnick."

His smile doesn't falter. His face never scrunches in disgust. His eyes never loose their softness. He does the opposite of what she imagined he would.

Instead, he lifts himself up on his elbows, cranes his head to press his lips against her forehead and it sends a spark down her spine as he whispers in a modulated voice, "There's no such thing as wrong when it comes to this."

Her hands shake as they plant themselves on his shoulders, her fingers dipping into his collarbones, as she rasps, "Promise?"

He swallows and his throat bobs as he nods, the shine in his eyes never fading.

She runs her thumbs across his skin, and his smile grows on his face, his teeth shinning. She smiles back tentatively and she can physically feel him relax under her fingertips, assured that she's grounded back to Earth again. He lays back, pulling her down with him, and hesitantly she plants her lips to his jaw.

Her lips move slow and skittish across his skin, unsure of herself. His heart patters under her hand and his small intakes of breath water the seed of confidence, and soon she's everywhere, kissing his throat, his jaw, his mouth. Always his mouth; his lips like silk and honey on her own. Their lips part almost at the same time, and his chin juts against hers. Her mouth has a mind of its own, but with Finnick his kisses resemble his personality. He's sweet and gentle and focused.

He's very good at kissing, and she pushes away the reasons why because the only thing she needs to worry about is kissing him back just as good. Does she taste as good? Does she kiss him with the same intensity? It feels like she is; it feels like he's sucking away her energy while retaining it all at the same time.

After a while they pull away for air, and he tucks her hair behind her ear and gives her the kind of smile that reaches his eyes and she feels like she's had the wind knocked out of her stomach, drunk off of him.

"See, you have nothing to worry about. You obviously know what you're doing."