When Annie has a panic attack or an episode of PTSD, Finnick gives her space, but makes sure she knows he’s there when she’s ready for him. He’ll hum or sing or putter around the house whistling so he doesn’t startle her by popping up out of the blue. He’ll heat water for tea. If it’s warm out, he’ll make sure the house is open to the breeze. If it’s chilly or gloomy, he’ll make sure there’s a nice fire in the fireplace -- not to large, not too small, and definitely well-dried wood so there aren’t any dramatic pops when sap hits the flames.
Sometimes he’ll write notes for her or draw funny doodles and leave them in random spots to make her smile (or better yet, laugh). He’ll hit the beach and bring her interesting bits of driftwood or shells, rocks or bits of coral. He’ll weave bracelets and necklaces for her. Once he even stole some of his mother’s yarn and wove her a knotwork shawl (whenever he leaves for the Capitol, she wraps up in that shawl and wears it every day until he’s safely back home).
And sometimes he’ll just sit with her, not speaking or humming or singing, just being literally, physically there for her. Times like that, eventually, she ends up in the circle of his arms, her head on his shoulder and his face buried in her hair.