The news was out, and Finnick seemed to have accepted it gracefully. Just as Katniss had done when she'd thought Kate was trying not to tell her that she was going to die. She supposed that, as victors and rebels, they were both relatively comfortable with the idea of their own death. Inasmuch as anyone could be, anyway. Far more comfortable than they were with the idea of their loved ones dying.
But it was easier to mourn him when he was here alive. If he'd actually been dead, if she'd watched him die, she would have been inconsolable. As it was, the weight of having to tell him had gone away, and she quieted, finding a sense of calmness even if it wasn't contentment. She wasn't alright with the idea that she would have to lose him, that Annie and Johanna would have to lose him. She doubted her own ability to be able to save him, even if she remembered this when she went home. If she ever went home. But maybe, just maybe, she could do it-- or maybe he could stay here and live. But then he might not see Annie again.
She felt the kiss on the top of her head, and she didn't move. She had gotten significantly more comfortable with his closeness and displays of affection, and even if it had bothered her, she wasn't sure she could have let go. Nor did she feel any desire to say anything, but she felt the need to reassure him, tell him that he didn't have to comfort her. "I'll be alright," she said, quietly. "If you want to go. Or we could both go somewhere else."
Finding out he was going to die didn't necessarily mean he wanted to sit on the bathroom floor. It was cold on the tile, but Katniss didn't really care. She'd be perfectly content here, but if he wanted to move into another room or even go to the pool-- or go and find Johanna-- she didn't want to make him feel obligated to stay and take care of her.