He saw the way she faltered. He was familiar with that, with the little blips that came from being a victor. One moment you were in the present, the next you were somewhere else, forced back into the arena -- and in their case, they had a wide range of memories to select from, and anything else they had endured in the aftermath of their games. For a long stretch of time, when he was sixteen, seventeen, his fears had been placed more with clients than with the arenas. A misplaced hug from a stranger could send panic jolting down his spine.
But what he didn't know was the best way to help her. With Annie, he had always been her guiding force, what brought her back into her own skin. But he knew he couldn't be that familiar with Katniss; it was always a fine line between smothering her and supporting her.
When she started talking again, he remained in his seat.
"I'd like that," Finnick answered with a wry smile. "I miss being sunburned. And dragging sand around everywhere." Regular conversation, he opted for.