[…] Agonizing minutes drag past as my hopes diminish. Around the time that I’m deciding it’s too late, that Peeta’s dead, moved on, unreachable forever, he gives a small cough and Finnick sits back. I leave my weapons in the dirt as I fling myself at him. “Peeta?” I say softly. I brush the damp blond strands of hair back from his forehead, find the pulse drumming against my fingers at his neck. His lashes flutter open and his eyes meet mine.
“Careful,” he says weakly. “There’s a force field up ahead.” I laugh, but there are tears running down my cheeks.
(Hello my perfect Finnick.)
(Source: unicorn-feelings)
