Finnick's hands are certainly rough, chapped by cold wind and salt water, calloused by ropework. They're gentle, though, and each touch seems perfectly measured, as though practiced beforehand.

John's smile is contagious; a small grin alights Finnick's face as well.

"Of course," he murmurs, closing the space between them again, this time ghosting the tip of his tongue across John's lower lip, encouraging him to part them.