Nobody in this place is separating Annie from him. Not ever, not even if they think they're protecting her. He was her mentor, her friend, and he's been her protector in so many ways, even before he became her love.
Their problem here stems from just what the woman tells Annie: there are no lack of people who want to spend time with Finnick, to have him and use him when the only person he ever wants to be with is Annie. Were it not for that, they could be like Katniss and Peeta: a romance of victors, survivors against the odds.
Instead, he's left trying to protect her in the only way he can.
But the blonde has the wrong idea entirely; he can read Annie, she's trying to escape, and if she's not allowed to escape with him, he'll give her the opening to escape alone.
For a fleeting moment, Annie's eyes meet his, and he hopes she can read the apology in his gaze before it darts away, an apology for the brash edges of his flirtation, for pushing and pushing because he has to, it's all he has to protect her where they're not safe, but he knows she hates it, hates him like this, and he always feels like he's exposing her to the Capitol's filth when he has to be like this in front of her.
He slumps, shrugs, shakes his head, and looks up at the blonde (acutely aware of that tool at her waist).
"She's not interested. Let her go." He lets his expression twist into wryness for a moment, as though he were sorry to let Annie walk away, instead of desperately trying to give her an opening.
"I'll tell you a secret," he tells the blonde. "She knows me from home, and I get the feeling she doesn't like me much."
tw: reference to sexual assault
Nobody in this place is separating Annie from him. Not ever, not even if they think they're protecting her. He was her mentor, her friend, and he's been her protector in so many ways, even before he became her love.
Their problem here stems from just what the woman tells Annie: there are no lack of people who want to spend time with Finnick, to have him and use him when the only person he ever wants to be with is Annie. Were it not for that, they could be like Katniss and Peeta: a romance of victors, survivors against the odds.
Instead, he's left trying to protect her in the only way he can.
But the blonde has the wrong idea entirely; he can read Annie, she's trying to escape, and if she's not allowed to escape with him, he'll give her the opening to escape alone.
For a fleeting moment, Annie's eyes meet his, and he hopes she can read the apology in his gaze before it darts away, an apology for the brash edges of his flirtation, for pushing and pushing because he has to, it's all he has to protect her where they're not safe, but he knows she hates it, hates him like this, and he always feels like he's exposing her to the Capitol's filth when he has to be like this in front of her.
He slumps, shrugs, shakes his head, and looks up at the blonde (acutely aware of that tool at her waist).
"She's not interested. Let her go." He lets his expression twist into wryness for a moment, as though he were sorry to let Annie walk away, instead of desperately trying to give her an opening.
"I'll tell you a secret," he tells the blonde. "She knows me from home, and I get the feeling she doesn't like me much."
The smile creeps back.
"Guess I'll have to talk to you instead."