"Because it's now," he says, slowly, his faint district accent drawing out into a drawl. He's staring at her, green eyes suddenly intense, catlike.

The first time he'd met Katniss, he'd asked her for her secrets, like he's done so many times, to so very many people he'd rather have nothing to do with. Tell me a secret, he'd tease across the pillows, eyes gleaming in the dark, and none of them ever knew just what he was doing with them. Katniss passed that test better than any in the Capitol, too: she'd replied that everyone else always seemed to know her secrets before she did, and Finnick, after a moment, had agreed.

He certainly knew more about her than she seemed to expect him to.

It's as true now as then. Everything she's feeling is there in her face for him to read, and he's never found it hard to read her, not even last year when he was mentoring, before he ever met her.

Those emotions clear on her face are what tell her secrets, but Finnick can't quite interpret their confidence. Sadness, guilt, surprise, disbelief ... there are bits of all of them there, and they go with the haunted look in her eyes that is more than just the ghosts a victor carries.

He suddenly feels cold.

"You weren't expecting to see me," he says, quietly, something sinking in his posture.