#sephoutlet

The vents are colder than you'd expected.

Metal hums under your palms as you crawl, powerless to silence each beat of your frantic heart. The facility runs on a strict lockdown at night: Doors sealed, guards patrolling on strict rotations, and no wandering. No 'unauthorized movement', whatever that's supposed to mean.

Naturally, you ignore all of that.

You inch through the narrow tunnel, the metal faintly rattling with each shift of your weight. Ahead, a thin rectangle of pale light spills through the grate. You press your fingers to the frame until it loosens with a soft 'pop', and you catch it before it can clatter on the ground.

"Psst." Your whisper slips into the dark. This dorm is larger than yours: Rows of narrow cots in perfect lines and silhouettes of sleeping boys under their blankets. There's slow breathing, the occasional groan, and the rustle of someone turning over. "Psst! Newt!"

For a moment, there's nothing except the hush of sleep.

Then: A groggy noise. One of the figures sits up, hair messy and shoulders tense like he's preparing to tackle an intruder.

"Hm?" He groggily hums, and relief pours into your chest.

"Newt!" You whisper a little louder, and his head snaps in your direction. He blinks hard, forcing focus into his slumber soaked eyes.

"Wha—?" His gaze lands on you, your ridiculous head poking out of the vent. "You have got to be kidding me." He whispers in disbelief.

"Miss me?"

"You're in the vents!"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"Talk to me? In the middle of the night? Through the bloody air vents?" He sounds half outraged, half impressed. He glances over his shoulder at the others, but none of them stir. "It couldn't wait 'til morning?"

"I didn't want to wait. Come with me."

"...You want me to crawl in there with you?"

"Yes."

"...In the vents?"

"Yes."

Newt goes utterly speechless, once again giving you that look. After all this time, he swears he knows you like the back of his hand, but you've managed to surprise him yet again.

"...You're bloody lucky I care about you, you twat." He drags a hand down his defeated face.

"So, that's a yes?"

"Fine." He huffs dramatically, muttering under his breath as he crouches down to meet you. "Move over." He climbs in with all the grace of someone forced into a terrible decision. "I hope you realize you're absolutely mad."

"Yes, and you love it."

"I love you. That's the problem." Your heart stutters, but before you can reply, he nods forward. "Go on then, you bloody nutcase. Wherever it is you're taking me, I'm right behind." You crawl ahead, guiding him through the tight passages until the vent widens. Another grate awaits at the end.

"There!" You motion.

The panel comes free with almost insulting ease. (Seriously. Whoever designed this place needs to be fired immediately). A cool wave of air sweeps over you as you peer inside.

It's some sort of unused observation room: Dark, empty, and abandoned. Rows of computers and medical equipment sleep beneath dusty plastic covers. A couch sits against the far wall. You slip out first; grate still tucked in your hand. Newt drops down beside you with a grunt.

"Brilliant." He mutters. "Absolutely marvelous. Sneaking into some unknown room through vents in the middle of the night. Why didn't I think of that?" Then he looks at you, really looks at you, and his foul expression melts away. It always does. "Worth it, I suppose."

"Told you."

"No. You told me nothing, except 'come with me'." He slumps heavily on the couch, stretching out his bad leg with a sigh. "Though, I reckon I'd follow you straight into a pack of Grievers if you asked."

"You sort of already have."

"Yeah. Suppose I have." He smiles and pats the cushion beside him. You sit, close, knee brushing his. Newt's hand finds yours, fingers lacing naturally. "So, I don't suppose you want to explain why you staged a midnight prison break?"

"I hate being in a different dorm."

"That's it?"

"I'm stuck on the other side of this building with a bunch of strangers. It's weird trying to fall asleep without the boys. Without you. I can't even pretend to sleep without your monstrous snoring."

"Absolute slander. I do not snore." He doesn't, but you enjoy the teasing. "Didn't think you missed me that much."

"Oh, please. It's just... I've slept in the same place as you and the others for years. I don't get why they insist on keeping us apart."

"S'cause you're a girl, in case you've forgotten."

"I haven't forgotten." You whine. "Come on, though. If anything weird was going to happen, it would've happened ages ago."

"Really?" His eyebrows shoot up, sounding somewhere between amused and insulted. "Is that what you think?"

"I- I meant—" You sputter. "I meant— Nothing bad— Like—"

"Relax." He laughs. "I'm only messing with you."

"Ha. Ha. Hilarious." You shove his shoulder, and he leans into you.

Silence settles between you: Comfortable and electric. His thumb traces slow circles over your knuckles, grounding you in the intimacy of his company. He shifts closer, thigh pressing against yours like it belongs there.

"Reckon we never really had time to figure it out." He murmurs. "Us, I mean."

"We were busy surviving." You respond softly. "Talking about... All this... Wasn't exactly high priority."

"Well, we've got time now. Don't we?"

"Yeah. Maybe we do."

"...I missed you too, by the way. More than I'd like to admit. Can't sleep without knowing you're nearby."

"Yeah? Why's that so hard to admit?"

"Because I'm the sensible, logical one between us." He scoffs. "I'm the one who's meant to stop you from doing stupidly reckless things like—" He gestures vaguely to the open vent. "Well, that."

"Mhm. Right. You're doing a terrible job, Mr. Sensible."

"Clearly." He rolls his eyes before they land back on you.

Newt's free hand lifts to your cheek, giving you every chance to pull away, but you don't. Instead, you dissolve into him. He's beautiful like this: Softened and vulnerable, his sharp edges melted into something warm.

"Is this the part where you kiss me?" You whisper.

"Bold." A shaky laugh escapes him. "Reckon it is, if you want it."

"I want it." You don't hesitate. "Do you?"

"Undoubtedly, yes." His words are so hushed, you barely hear them.

He regards you with a tender curiosity and a depth of respect that's always been unique to him. He admires your wit, your heart, your soul, your beauty, everything that is you.

Then, he closes the distance.

The kiss is slow, tender, and reverent. Like he's memorizing the shape of you. The warmth of you. The miracle of not losing you in the Maze. The hand which cups your cheek softly strokes your face. The other squeezes your fingers. When you finally part, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling.

"Hey." You whisper, nose brushing his. "I'm starting to suspect we're more than friends."

"You think?" He grins, thumb sweeping along your bottom lip. "Hm, I might need a bit more convincing."

"Yeah?" You tug him toward you by the jaw and kiss him again: Deeper this time. It's hungry and breath stealing. A helpless sound leaves him as his hands slide to your waist, pulling you against him.

Fingers tangle in his hair.

Breaths mix.

Heat blooms across your cheeks.

When you finally break apart, he's flushed and panting, eyes half lidded as he stares at you devotedly. He laughs, and you laugh too, close enough to kiss again. He looks starving: A parched man in the desert, and you are his oasis.

"Convinced?" You taunt.

His fingers twitch against your waist, exhausting physical effort in holding himself back. His gaze flicks to your eyes, your lips, then your eyes again: Brimming with want.

"You're killin' me, Love," He mutters. "Lookin' at me like that."

"Like what?" The words prod with fraudulent innocence.

"You know damn well 'like what'. You with those big, pretty eyes—  Batting your lashes at me and grinning like you're up to no good. D'you have any idea how maddening it is?"

"I might have a clue." You murmur, dragging your fingers along his jaw. He shivers, eyes fluttering shut, impossibly weak for your affection and undone by the mere brush of your hand.

Your fingertips trail the warm skin of his neck. A barely audible gasps escapes him. When his eyes open again, he watches with a dazed, adoring expression.

"You think you're real cute, don't you?" He rumbles, lovestruck and drowning in your presence.

"I think you think I'm cute." Your fingers slip under his chin, urging his face closer. He tilts into your hold without thinking.

"You've got so much power over me." He breathes. "D'you even realize it?"

You don't answer. You don't have to. It's written in the way he looks at you, in the way he follows you everywhere, no questions asked. His commitment is a natural law.

You lean in, pressing a peck to the corner of his mouth before bravely crawling into his lap. You straddle him easily, and he releases a surprised, helpless sound as your weight settles over him.

His hands grip your hips like an anchor, confirming reality. Your lips find his again: Deep and consuming. Your mouths fit like they were made for each other. He is your missing puzzle piece.

"You— " Newt pulls back for air, stunned. "You are absolutely lethal."

"Why, thank you." You whisper, locking lips again before he can recover.

A pleased hum erupts from his chest as he drags you into him, impossibly closer, strong arms winding around your waist until you're practically molded to him.

"Shite— " He curses, suddenly pulling away tightly shut eyes. Before you can express your concern, you realize the hardness poking on your thigh. His nails dig into your hips as he lifts you out of his lap, halting you over him. "S-Sorry." He barely stutters out. "Bloody hell—" Newt's face buries in your shoulder, the tip of his nose prodding the side of your neck.

"Hey," You breathe, lightheaded from the kiss. "Newt, it's okay— " Unfortunately, he doesn't hear you through the avalanche of mortified rambling spilling out of him.

"S'not something I can control—  Just happens when... It's— " His voice is small, tight with shame. His whole body has gone stiff, bracing for you to pull away in disgust.

"Newt— "

"S'no disrespect— "

"Newt— "

"Just happens when I'm around you— "

"Newt— "

"Dunno know how to stop— "

"Newt!" Your voice sharpens. Not angry, but urgent to pull him out of this spiral. His head lifts a little, and he looks up at you with those pitiful eyes.

You take his hands, the ones gripping your waist, the ones desperately trying to hold you off him, and interlace your fingers. Then slowly, deliberately, you settle back down into his lap. The sound that erupts from his throat is guttural and astonished. His eyes fly wide and his thighs tense beneath you.

"You're not repulsed?"

"No." You squeeze his hands. "Newt, I like you just as much. You know that, right?"

"Y-Yeah?"

"Yeah." You persist, shifting your body. Your thighs rub against the stiff tent in his pants, and he jolts, grasping your hips to hold you still.

"Oh, Shuck— Careful with me, Love." The way he speaks is strained, intoxicatingly pathetic, like he's holding back a string of whimpers.

"...Hey, Newt?" You're not sure where the bright idea comes from. You're always overflowing with catastrophic ideas, but this one? This may just be your magnum opus of brilliant impulses.

"Yes?" His voice cracks.

"...Can I see it?"

He freezes, pupils blown wide and lips parting in disbelief. For a moment, he looks less like a boy and more like a machine someone's short circuited.

"See..." The word leaves him in a strangled, embarrassingly high pitch. "See what?" His face ignites: Scarlet across his cheeks, up the bridge of his nose, and all the way to the tips of his ears. "You mean my—?"

"Yeah."

"Good heavens." He shuts his eyes as if he may wake up from this. He doesn't. When he opens them again, you're still here and he's still hopelessly captivated. "You're serious? You absolute madwoman. You're actually serious?"

"Yeah." You nod, pretending your heartbeat isn't thrumming frighteningly loudly in your ears. "Dead serious. Griever-attack serious."

"You never do things in halves, do you? Just... Go straight for the kill." A beat of hesitation passes before he nods sharply. It's a decisive motion, like he's bracing for impact. "Alright."

"Really?" You perk, surprised by his quick agreement.

"Yeah." Newt's eyes bounce between your face and the way you're perched so comfortably in his lap. "Just... Promise me you won't laugh?"

"Cross my heart."

"Okay. Right then... Good." His whole body is coiled beneath you: Uncertain, eager, and trying so hard to be composed when he's anything but. Slowly, his hold loosens on your waist, and he brings his hands down to the button of his jeans.

"Good." You parrot.

He whispers 'okay, okay' under his breath, so quietly, you're not sure if he means it for you or for himself. It's as if he's steadying himself through the repetition, coaching himself past the unreal fact that you are here.

You ease back as he fumbles with the denim. His trembling fingers hook the waistband of his pants and tugs them down ever so slightly: Just enough for you to get a glimpse of that delicious v-line.

Part of you almost expects smooth, plastic bareness: Like a Ken doll. Sometimes, Newt doesn't even feel real. He moves through your life with uncanny intuition, always a step ahead of your thoughts, always knowing exactly what you need before you have time to name it.

"Still sure?" He asks quietly. "If this is some sort of twisted joke—"

"I'm not joking." You scoff, though you suppose he has some reason to doubt. You've definitely subjected Newt to more than his fair share of humiliating pranks. Oh, but not this. Never this. "I want to see. Please."

He shivers at the word 'please', like it's something physical, something that reaches right beneath his ribs and twists. He swallows hard, head tipping back and eyes fluttering shut. Your voice alone undoes him.

"Christ, you bloody menace." He mutters. "Look at what you've done to me. Just sittin' there, lookin' sweet as a peach and asking me to show you things like—"

"Newt." You lay your hand over his, thumb sweeping slow and soothing motions across the back of his knuckles. "Relax. It's just me, and you don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"I know." He shivers again under the weight of your tender touch. His eyes open slow, and the moment he sees that loving expression on your face, the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. "I know it's just you. That's the issue. It's you. It's always been you."

He doesn't need to elaborate: You feel the truth of it in your bones. From the moment you first locked eyes, something in you rewired itself. Nights were spent thinking of him, dreaming of him, desiring him. You've turned over every word, every smile, every interaction.

He is truly your best friend. Your fiercest constant. Wherever you move, he moves, not out of obligation, but devotion. If you should ever need a shield, he becomes one. If you need a sword, he offers himself without hesitation. If all you need is a shoulder to fall apart on, he will sit you through every tear.

He always has.

Finally, in one quaking breath, he frees himself. His hard length slaps up against his clothed stomach, and he lets out a pained hiss, eyes darting up to your face while he waits for disgust or pity.

"Woah." The word slips out, a reaction pity and disgust never coming. His size is impressive to say the least, precum oozing from his glorious, twitching tip.

"Happy now?" He rasps, fingers trembling at his sides before curling fists into the fabric of the couch. He's already wrecked just from being exposed under your gaze: Shaking, and so obviously hard that it hurts.

"Mm, can I try something?"

"Christ, you want more?" He shivers at your hungry stare, thighs flexing beneath you. There's a mixture of apprehension and curiosity on his face. "Hell, anything you want, Love. I'm all yours anyway."

He looks so incredibly vulnerable: Open in a way he never lets himself be with anyone else. Oh, God, he trusts you. He trusts you so much it presses against your heart. It's an aching, pulsing reminder of the responsibility you hold.

For a moment, you wonder how you'd ever became the keeper of such a faith. How could someone like him, so steady, so selfless, so endlessly brave, decide that you were safe enough to unravel for? Still, you don't pull back. You never will. You trust him too. His weakness comforts you almost as much as it terrifies you.

You hesitantly reach down, poking at the head of his leaky cock. His breathing hitches, and when you pull your finger back, it exposes a translucent string between your finger and his tip. His body jerks, a strangled sound escaping past his gritted teeth.

"Ah— Love—" He gasps, quaking. "God that's so— You can't just—" His eyes are trained on the glistening mess on your finger, mouth hanging open like he's never seen anything so sinful. You've left him speechless.

"Don't worry." You mutter. "I'm not done."

Your fingers carefully wrap around him, a painfully thin touch. After all, you're not really sure how much pressure to use. You've never done this before, and you wouldn't want to hurt him.

He chokes: A real, audible sound of desperation leaves his throat as your fingers adjust around him. His hips jerk up, and he forces them still with a pained groan.

"You don't have to be gentle." He speaks in one quick breath, hands clenching the couch fabric like he's physically holding himself back from grabbing at you. "I won't break."

With that, you wrap your whole hand around him. He's so hard, and warm, a surprising combination, all under your fingertips. He gasps, back arching, his body seeking friction to ease the growing ache. He's already a panting, trembling mess and you've barely even touched him.

You let out your nerves in one shaky exhale before jerkily stroking him up and down, testing the unfamiliar movements. He lets out an obscene growl before his hand suddenly comes up over yours. He guides your movements until they're smoother, gently correcting the angle of your hand.

"Like this?"

"Mhm— That's it—" He moans a low, throaty noise. He doesn't even sound like himself. His hips rock into your hand reflexively, unable to keep himself still. "J-Just like that."

"You're so pretty, Newt." You can't help the greedy praise as he twitches in your hand. The sight of his surrender dizzying. His mewls only fuel your confidence as you pick up your speed, spreading your thighs and slotting his knee between your legs in the process. He nearly sobs, hips jerk erratically, chasing your hand while his knee rises to press between your legs.

If you'd told yourself an hour ago that you'd be grinding against Newt's knee and jerking him off in some unfamiliar room, you wouldn't have believed it. He wouldn't have either. Yet here you were.

Your arousal pools through your clothes as you fall forward, pressing your lips harshly to his in a pleasure filled daze. He groans in your mouth, hands flying to your hips, holding you tightly as his knee presses up harder. The kiss is messy: All teeth, panting breaths, and stifled moans.

His hips lurch wildly, and he lets out a sharper sound against your lips, pulling back in one quick motion.

"Wait— Wait— Wait—" He groans, and you stop immediately, eyes scanning over him in worry. His nails dig into your skin as he flips you over, back pressed against the couch. "Shuck— Not yet. I just... I need to..." His chest heaves as he hovers over you, like he's just run through the entire Maze. "I want to see you too." His fingers skim the inside of your thigh. "Please."

You nod, a breath leaving your lips with both understanding and relief as you prop yourself up slightly, pulling your shirt over your head. There's no room for insecurity. Not with Newt. He washes fear out of you entirely.

He freezes the moment your shirt comes off, fabric hitting the ground with a soft thud. His eyes drag over every inch of exposed skin and his fingers drift near your waist, like they're afraid to touch you now that there's nothing between him and your warm skin.

"Hey," You whisper, finding the hem of his shirt and tugging it. "I'm not going to be the only shirtless one here, am I?" Your tone is playful enough to ease his nerves. He laughs, obediently reaching down and yanking his own shirt off, tossing it over yours to form a pile.

"Better?" He murmurs, lips curving into a lopsided smirk.

"Much." Your gaze traces the lines of his toned figure. He was a Track-Hoe once, and before that, a Runner. Of course, he knows how to use his beautiful body. Every motion he makes is practically designed to unravel you.

His hands advance experimentally over your stomach, causing a shiver. His expression shifts between smug pride and pure adoration. Strong palms map your body, memorizing every dip and swell beneath his fingertips. His thumbs toy with the edge of your bra. (He has no idea how to take it off).

"You're a vision, you know that?"

"Says you." You arch slightly, moving to unclasp your bra for him. It falls away, exposing your chest to the cool air and Newt's eager eyes.

"Shuck, look at you." He gasps, hand hesitating over you for a second before it slowly cups your breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive nipple in agonizing tenderness. He kneads it curiously, and your body tingles at the foreign feeling. Then, once, he pinches a little too hard.

"Newt!" You hiss.

"Sorry." He swallows, eyes flickering from your chest, to your eyes, then to your chest again. "...Let me kiss it better." He grins, slowly lowering down and pressing his lips on your sternum, peppering across your torso in soothing lines. "Should've known you'd be sensitive. M'sorry." He lavishes open mouthed kisses over where he'd pinched, hands rubbing soft circles in your thighs with his thumbs. Your head goes fuzzy as his tongue swirls around your nipple meticulously. "So sweet, Love."

His lips move to your other breast, leaving no part absent of saliva. It's like he's made it his personal mission to make you feel good, testing what sounds he can draw out from you.

"You're so cheesy." You stutter out, fingers tangling in his hair. His hips jerk forward at the contact, hard cock rubbing on the inside of your thigh.

"Can you blame me?" His mouth drags lower across the soft planes of your stomach, leaving behind a trail of wet kisses. His tongue darts out to savor the skin above the waistband of your pants. "Can I taste you?" He whispers, hands sliding up and down your legs.

"Are you sure?"

"Never been more sure of anything." He reassures. "Let me take care of you."

You nod, and he tugs the rest of your clothes down in one quick motion, fingers squeezing you in a way that betrays his gentlemanly self-control.

His eyes are dark at the sight of you, and he kisses the inside of your thigh, working agonizingly slow until he reaches your glistening folds. He nuzzles the sensitive skin, tongue prodding out tentatively.

"Don't tease." You groan.

"So ready for me, aren't you?" His tongue drags over you in a slow, delicate stroke, and he hums, relishing in the flavor. "You taste so good. So sweet." He mumbles, tongue diving into you again.

You let out a lewd sound, and he groans against you, the vibration sending electricity through your body. His grip tightens as he licks into you again: Slow and taunting, drowning in you.

His tongue swirls around your clit before sucking it lightly, and both of your hands tangle with his hair, tugging as he experiments with intensity. He growls in response, working quickly, alternating between long licks and sharp sucks that leave your legs trembling.

He's surprisingly talented for someone who's never done this before. You feel the rocking motion of his hips thrusting against the couch, desperate for friction.

His hand slides up to cup one of your breasts again, thumb brushing over the stiff bud as his mouth worships you with everything he has. His eyes flick up, watching you through his lashes.

Your legs wrap around his neck and he lets out a strangled sound, hips jerking hard against the couch as he pants against you. His grip on your waist must be bruising at this point, but compared to the way his tongue moves on you, you barely notice.

"Newt—" You choke out his name, but he doesn't hear at first, too immersed in his desire to please you. He looks like the mere act of satisfying you is enough to gratify him. "Newt!" You repeat, tugging his hair urgently a couple times to catch his attention.

He pulls back, lips glistening and swollen from your taste. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, pupils so wide you can barely see the color in his eyes anymore.

"Yeah?" His voice is wrecked. "You okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?" His grip on your hips loosens slightly in concern.

"Come here." You command, propping yourself on your elbows. He obeys, crawling up the length of your body until he hovers over you again, eyes searching your face to gauge your reaction.

Your lips find his in an instant, and he kisses back hungrily, like you are his oxygen. He moans into your mouth, raw with impulse. It's messy, and you can taste your own arousal on his lips.

Your legs spread, locking around him, and his throbbing cock ruts against your slick cunt. A shudder runs through him, and he pulls back, reading you.

"You... Are you sure?" Newt's voice cracks, and he clears his throat. "We can stop here. You're not obligated—"

"Please don't stop." You interrupt immediately. "Please. I'm sure. I want you."

"Shite... Alright." He inhales sharply, forehead dropping against yours. "Alright." He shifts just enough to press the blunt head of his cock against you. "You're really sure?"

"Newt, I'm sure!"

"Alright!" He hesitates for a second before sinking in with the slow roll of his hips. There's a sharp sting as he pushes into you: Too big, too fast.

"Slower—" You grit, eyebrows furrowed as you try to catch up with the new sensation. He freezes, and his grip on your hip tightens, like he's straining under the pressure of not shoving in completely.

"Sorry." He breathes. "Too much? We can stop."

"No. No, don't stop. Just slow down, please."

"Okay." He nods obediently, taking a few deep breaths as he slows. "S'okay. Just breathe, Love." He murmurs, eyes squinted with unwavering focus. "J-Just try to relax for me, yeah?"

"Y-Yeah."

Slowly, but surely, he pushes onward. You watch closely as the entirely of his magnificent length disappears inside you. He pauses for a moment to enjoy the feeling: The tight heat sucking him in.

"You okay?"

"I'm okay." You nod. "Are you okay?"

"Am I okay?" He lets out a choked laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm bloody amazing. You feel just... Amazing." He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your jaw. You involuntarily pulse around him, and his hips jerk forward without warning. "Shuck— M'sorry—"

"No. It's okay." You let out a quivering exhale, the sting subsiding. "You can move."

"You sure?" He whispers raggedly, pressing another kiss to your forehead. It's a gesture so wholesome, it almost contradicts this whole situation. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't."

"Okay." He barely manages to sputter out. "Okay. I'm... I'm gonna move. Okay?"

"Newt, just do it."

"Alright! Okay!" He nods rapidly, trying to ground himself through the nervousness and inexperience. "Please, just tell me if you need to stop or slow down." He pulls out almost completely before slowly— Oh, so slowly, pushing back in. His eyes flutter shut briefly and his breath hitches. "You— Oh God—" He swallows. "M'not hurting you, am I?"

"You're not." You groan. Although, his ceaseless concern is endearing. "I promise, you're not. If you are, I'll tell you. Okay? Now, please, shut up and keep going."

He nods, finally giving in to the primal need to move. His hips snap forward with a rough groan, burying himself inside you again. His hands slide up your body as he finds his pace: Still so slow and careful.

You can't help the lewd sounds that escape your lips with every thrust, and your hand finds his bicep, right beside your head, nails digging into his skin. Newt whines: An actual whine. His eyes roll back momentarily before locking on your face.

Oh, those pretty eyes.

Pornographic mewls and the sound of wet slapping skin fills the room. He groans out a string of shaky, unintelligible words, losing himself in you.

"Shit— Love, I can't last—" He pants, burying his face in your neck, pressing sloppy kisses on your skin: Nipping, biting, and leaving marks that'll have you blushing later. You reach down, rubbing circles over your clit before he swats your hand away, replacing it with his. "No, let me. Please, let me make you feel good." He begs.

You oblige, and he moans in relief as you let him take over. His thumb rubs slow, teasing rotations over your clit as he continues to thrust into you. His eyes are glazed with pleasure, determined to satiate you.

"Newt—" You whine, and he sobs, bringing his lips down against yours. He moans in your mouth, tongue sliding against yours longingly. He's trembling as his hips jerk forward, hard.

"P-Please, Love— So close—" He whimpers. "Please— Just—" A broken sound leaves him as he suddenly pulls out, coating your stomach in his release. It takes a moment for your mind to catch up to what's just happened. "Shuck— I'm— Sorry— I tried—" He grunts, panting and shaking uncontrollably.

"Don't apologize." You whisper, running a finger along your cum painted abdomen, gathering the liquid and wiping it on your tongue. The taste is interestingly clean and neutral: Very Newt. He shudders, eyes following as you sample his release, jaw hanging open in shock.

"Blimey— You ate it." He mumbles to himself before swallowing. "I didn't—" He begins, but then cuts himself off, taking a positively determined tone. "I'm not done with you yet."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." He insists, hands sliding along your thighs to push them apart again. "You won't get off that easy." He chuckles, fingers finding you again without hesitation. His thumb rubs rapid circles on your clit as his head drops, kissing the sensitive spot below your ear. "So wet, sweet girl."

Two fingers prod into you with ease, and you gasp at the sensation, still craving your release.

"C-Curl your fingers a little." You stutter out, and he nods at the instruction, still scattering messy kisses against your neck and jaw. His long digits curl, and your legs begin to shake at the added pressure. "Like this?"

"Yes! Yes! Right there!" You gasp, and his breath hitches at the desperate tinge in your voice. His fingers move more confidently now: Curling just right every time he drags them back in.

"That's it. My pretty girl..." He purrs in your ear, and the praise goes straight to your core. His fingertips brush that perfect, spongey spot inside you, and you whine his name loudly. This only fuels his concentration. You pulse around his fingers, and he hums, licking your sweat-stained skin.

You find your release among a string of ragged gasps, and he watches in awe, thumb dragging it out until you're shuddering from oversensitivity.

"O-Okay!" You tap his shoulder repeatedly, the overstimulation becoming achy. "Okay! That's enough!" He pulls his hand back, licking his fingers clean and humming with delight.

"Sorry." He murmurs, pressing an apologetic kiss to your forehead. "Got carried away." A soft chuckle follows as he nuzzles into your neck, all affection now that the heat of the moment has fizzled. His arms shift beneath you, scooping you into an embrace. "You okay? Was it too much?"

"I'm okay. Just a bit of a mess." You whisper, acknowledging the fact that his cum was still splattered all over your stomach. "Are you okay?"

"Understatement of the year." He snorts, pulling back to examine you. "You look good like this. All messed up for me."

"Messed up, huh?" You huff, rolling your eyes. "I'll try to take that as a compliment." You attempt to sit up, muscles still aching from what had just transpired. His hand immediately slips to the small of your back, guiding you with an instinctive steadiness.

"Slow and steady, you messy masterpiece."

"Mm. 'Messy masterpiece' that needs a shower."

"Hold still." He grabs his discarded shirt from the ground, wiping your stomach in slow, careful motions. Any trace of embarrassment has long vanished from him. If anything, he looks annoyingly proud. "Let me help you."

Piece by piece, he eases you back into your clothes, reassembling you with precision. He presses a soft kiss to your bare shoulder before sliding your shirt back in place, fingertips brushing your ribcage.

"Feel like sneaking around with me again?" You already know the answer.

"To where?" He sighs, resigned.

"Showers?"

"...Okay."

Crawling back through the vents feels impossibly harder now. Even the Maze was easier than this tight, metal hell. Newt leads, muttering curses every time he bumps his knee.

Strangely, it's comforting to be led by him. You're not usually the 'follower' type, but with Newt, you don't mind. Your thoughts drifts back to the Glade: How easy it was to obey him, and how naturally he stepped into the role of being your compass.

You're lost in memory when the sharp clang of metal snaps you back. You're still in the vents, messily dressed and covered in sweat, searching for whichever room houses the showers.

"Are we lost?" You tease.

"We are absolutely not lost."

"You certain? Cause I'm pretty sure we just took 3 left turns."

"We are probably not lost."

"Great. Brilliant leadership."

"Keep talking, Love." He glances over his shoulder at you, unamused. "I'll leave you up here."

"You wouldn't."

"No, but I'd think about it."

"Oh, how evil."

Finally, a large metal grate below you opens up into the warm, echoing tile of the showers. Newt leans forward, measuring the distance, then, he drops. He hits the tiled floor with a muted thud, knees bending, and one hand touching the ground to steady himself before he straightens.

"Alright." He looks up at you, opening his arms and bracing his stance. "Jump."

"What? No!"

"I doubt your legs could handle the landing after everything we just did." He states so matter-of-factly, you could choke on the sheer simplicity of it.

"I'm fine!" Your face burns.

"Uh huh. Just jump."

"Newt, what about your leg? I'm not making you catch me."

"Oh, please." He scoffs. "I've carried sacks of potatoes heavier than you."

"How romantic."

"Ain't I just?" His arms stay open: Steady, patient, and infuriatingly certain.

"...Don't drop me."

"I won't."

"You'd better not." You take a breath, let it out slowly, then push off.

He catches you cleanly, like the idea of dropping you doesn't exist in any universe he inhibits. His arms slide under your back and knees with practiced ease. The impact barely nudges him, though his fingers tighten around you like instinct.

"Told you." His voice is low near your ear. "I've got you." He sets you gently on your feet, his hands lingering at your waist a moment longer than necessary. "You still alright?"

"Yeah." You nod, breath evening. "Just need to get clean."

"Right." He hums, dragging his gaze away from you to the line of showers, as if only just remembering the point of sneaking down here in the first place. "Clean. Right."

"Turn around."

"Turn around?" His head whips back to you at comical speeds. "Seriously? I've just seen every inch of you, and you still want me to turn around?"

"Yes." You deadpan, leaving no room for negotiation. He blinks once. Twice. It's a long, stunned moment where you can hear the gears turning in his head. Then finally, he exhales, the most dramatic, theatrical sigh known to man. He pivots away from you fully, both hands flying up to cover his eyes like a child playing hide-and-seek. "You're ridiculous." You mutter, stripping out of your clothes.

"You're ridiculous."

The water hisses to life, a sharp rush that quickly softens into steady warmth. The first touch of heat pulls a sigh out of you, muscles loosening and the ache in your trembling subsiding. For a moment, there's only the sound of water and the slow unwind of your own exhaustion. Then, there's a shuffle behind you. It's enough to snag your attention and bring your eyes gazing over your shoulder.

Newt is still there. Still facing away. Still standing exactly where you'd left him. His posture is absurdly stiff. He hasn't budged an inch. He's just waiting, for you, like the world would end if he broke whatever invisible rule he's decided to follow.

You almost feel guilty, but there's a thrill in it too: The thrill of a man who listens without hesitation. A man who follows your word without the need to understand it. A man who obeys, no matter how nonsensical the request may be.

"Newt, really?" You laugh, unable to help yourself. His fingers part just enough for him to squint through them, as if to check whether you're laughing at him or with him. You list your hand and curl 2 fingers, beckoning him forward. Oh, you can't resist him. "Come on."

The effect is immediate. A wide, boyish grin blooms across his face. He strips in hurried, clumsy motions, nearly tangling himself in his own trousers before stumbling into the steam with you.

Water droplets glitter along his eyelashes and his hair is plastered to his forehead in uneven strands. He looks good like this. Then again, he looks good all the time.

He lathers soap between his palms and works it into your hair, gentle fingers massaging your scalp. When he cradles your head beneath the showerhead again, he studies your face with earnest reverence.

What an unspoken blessing it is to be loved by a gentle man.

You pull him close, sliding your arms around his neck, drawing him into the warmth of you. His hands settle on your waist, squeezing, before he leans in. His mouth meets yours with such tenderness. There's no need for words in the small space between your lips. Everything you have yet to say is already known.

You love him.

He loves you.

It's a simple truth.

You only part when the water begins to cool, a faint shiver reminding you of the world outside yourselves. He rests his forehead against yours, clinging to the intimacy of this moment.

"We should probably get back before anyone notices we've gone." He whispers, though his hands remain exactly where they are.

"Probably." You agree, but neither of you moves. The world could collapse around you both, and you doubt either of you would notice for several long seconds.

Eventually, reluctantly, he forces himself to step back, hands trailing along your skin in a slow farewell as he helps you redress. There's not a single inch of you he hasn't seen, touched, or tasted tonight, and somehow that only makes the moment gentler.

He smooths the fabric of your shirt over your shoulders, giving your sleeve a soft tug, making sure you're put together before he even thinks about dressing himself.

When you're both decent, he crouches beneath the open vent, with linked fingers, creating a foothold to boost you up.

"Alright. Up you go."

You step into his waiting hands, and he lifts with a quiet grunt, guiding your balance as you pull yourself back into the narrow tunnel. The air is colder here.

You glance down, and he's looking at you. Of course he's looking at you. How could he ever pull his eyes away? His expression speaks volumes: He's never seen anything quite so sincere as you.

"Need help?" You offer.

"Nah." He shakes his head with that easy, lopsided smile. :You go on and get your rest, Love. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." You echo.

"And the next day," His smile widens. "And the next, and the next after that too. You can count on it."

His certainty settles in your soul.

You slip back into the darkness as quietly as you'd came, but this time, the night is different. This time, you carry the warmth of his hands, the taste of his kiss, and the memory of that devoted expression. You carry his phenomenal heart, and he carries yours.

You'll continue to carry his love with you: Tomorrow, the next day, and the day after that. You'll carry it in your heart as long as life allows. A love like this never fades away.

It roots.

It grows.

He let out a breath which he didn't even realize he was holding, trembling fingers brushing along your sides. He traced you so timidly, as if he was waiting for you to stop him. Yet, you didn't. Only looked back up at him with those expectant, deviant eyes that made him weak to his core.

With infinite care, he positioned himself between your legs, pressing a trail of gentle kisses along your inner thigh. He pauses, swallowing hard at the flush on your face.

"You say stop, and I'll stop, alright?" He murmurs, giving you endless opportunity to back out and push him away. You don't. You only nod, eyes locked on his with anticipation. Those eyes, that look, nearly makes his heart burst out of his chest.

Your fingers lace into his hair, and he shuts his eyes, savoring the feeling, as if the simple action has sent him into a state of conflict, fighting to maintain control over himself. He continues, kisses peppering against your thigh, then higher, and higher, until there's nowhere else for him to go.

"Don't tease." You whisper, voice hushed to hide the embarrassment coursing through your veins. He huffs a laugh, the exhale of air suddenly rolling off your body sends shivers down your spine.

"Tease?" It almost sounds like a growl, his lips leaning even closer to where you desire him most. "Love, you've been torturing me since the day you came up."

Then finally, he gives in, tongue dragging slow and deliberate against you. Not rushed, not careless, it almost feels like worship.

A broken sound escapes your throat as he curls an arm around your leg, holding you steady as he claims every trembling inch of you with nothing, but his mouth and devotion. Your back arches, but he groans, palms pressing against your hips as he shoves you back down into the sheets.

His tongue works slow and gentle, like he's savoring every second. Oh, what a sweet torment it is, watching you come apart bit by bit. Having you like this, trembling and aching, all from his mouth.

"Oh, sweet thing, you're trembling so much..." He murmurs against your saliva coated skin. Your instinctively try to clamp together, but his hands slip from your hips, pressing them back apart. "Relax and let me take care of you."

He continues, slow and careful, tongue flicking in ways which make you arch against his lips. All the while, his eyes are locked with yours, watching every gasp, every contortion of your face, as if he lives off it. Pride blooms in his chest from the sounds which rip past your throat. So raw. So animalistic. Putty in his hands. Only for his hands.

He groans against you again, his hips jerking forward and bucking against the mattress. The vibrations of his sounds make your head spin. There's no room to be self-conscious. You're simply his.

"Up." The demand falls from your lips without a second thought. "Please, come up." Your lips quiver as you tug his hair, wanting to feel more of him. All of him.

He doesn't hesitate.

He drags himself up from you slowly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he crawls up your body, eyes dark with desire. His lips crash to yours, and you can taste yourself. His tongue wrestles yours, sloppy and desperate. His hips grind down, arching against the slick heat between your legs.

"In." It sounds like a whine, leaving his lips alongside a fragment of his soul. "Please, Love, I want to be in you." He tries to be gentle, to hold himself back and take you right, like a gentleman. Yet, his entire body fights him. His head falls, nuzzling against your neck as he groans. "Please. Are you ready?"

He sucks in a sharp breath when you nod. He shifts his weight onto one arm, using the other to nudge one of your trembling thighs apart. He leans closer to plant a kiss on your throat, then he lines himself up before sinking into you.

He's slow. Painfully slow, still hanging on to his self-restraint, anxious about hurting you. When your legs wrap around him, quickening the pace at which he pushes forward, until he is entirely enveloped in you.

Too much. Too good. He shudders in the heat of you and how your body clamps down like a vice.

"Christ-" He chokes out, forehead dropping to your shoulder. "You're gonna ruin me." He's still for a moment, drowning in you. Every inch of his trembles in an effort not to move. To let you adjust.

Then your hips tilt up slightly, and he exhales a string of curses, knowing he's not strong enough to last. A sound escapes you, a hushed whimper perhaps, and something primal snaps inside him.

"God damn, you're going to make me lose my bloody mind." His hips jerk forward, slow, but deep. He breaths ragged against your neck, teeth grazing your tender skin.

He pulls back slightly, only to sink right into you again, impossibly deeper this time. Then again, and again, until he sets a rhythm that's torturously sweet. Each roll of his hips is cautious. Not hard, not fast, but adoring.

Adoring, because he wants to savor every second. Every gasp. Every twitch of your body wrapped around him. Nothing in the world means more than you do now, vulnerable, cradled under him.

He'd never been the religious type, until now. He prays to every Saint or God he can name, to keep his control intact. To last, just a little longer.

He pulls back, eyes searching your face. He takes it all in, the tears of pleasure running down the flush of your cheeks, the way your wet eyelashes flutter as your eyes gaze hazily up at him, and he lets out a strangled grunt.

"So damn perfect." He whispers, brow damp with sweat. He feels the way you clench at his praise, the way your whimpers grow ever so slightly louder, and suddenly his lips are back on yours, swallowing the sounds. "Shh, Love. Don't wake the others." He stutters out between kisses.

You're so close, digging your nails into his back and leaving trails of red marks in his skin. He doesn't care. Rather, he wants it. He loves the way you rake into him. Mark him.

He feels the heat coiling low in his stomach, every muscle in his body tense. He fears he could snap at any second, tension so sharp it's almost painful.

He doesn't want it to end. He wants to keep this moment forever. Keep you right here, beneath him, in the safety of his arms where no one could ever hurt you. Where you're safe from the Grievers, the Maze, the others, the world.

"Newt-" The sound of your voice calling his name has his heart nearly pumping out of his chest. "So close- Please-"

The way you say his name, the way your fingers tangle in his hair, your whiny 'please', is all too much. He chokes back a sob, twitching uncontrollably in your walls.

"Shit... Please, let go for me, Love." He nuzzles into your neck, pace quickening. "Bloody- Shit- I love you." The words slip out before he can stop it, his release rapidly approaching. "I love you." The words explode out again, surer this time, like he's been holding them in his lungs for years. He shakes from how good it feels to say them.

He is wrecked as he buries himself deep within you, hips stuttering, as he spills into you, riding out your release alongside his. He could almost weep at the overwhelming feeling.

He's still for several moments, chest heaving against yours as he catches his breath, wincing at the occasional aftershocks and the way you spasm around him.

Then, carefully, as if you were fragil as glass, he pulls out, settling next to you and gathering you in his arms. He tucks your face into the crook of his neck, tracing idle patterns along your back. His breathing is still uneven, and his heart is beating far too fast. It feels almost like the entire world has been tilted off balance.

He swallows hard, pressing a kiss to the top of your forehead.

"...You, okay?" He whispers, ever a gentleman. His muscles relax when you nod, and he lets out a sigh of relief, sinking into the comfortable silence with you.

You're back in the Maze.

The walls loom too close. Closer than they should be. The stone is narrow and warped, like the world is leaning in on it. Ivy clings to the cracks in sickly veins: Leaves dulled to a lifeless brown and blackened at the edges. They simultaneously rot and grow, decay spreading through the air as if the Maze itself is ill.

How did you get back here?

The sky hangs above you, bruised clouds coiling as if furious about being trapped here with you. There is no sun. No stars. No moon. Just a ceiling of darkness.

The you hear it: That sound. The deep, bone rattling grind of stone against stone. The walls are moving.

How did you get back here?

Something flashes at the corner of your vision. It's too fast for focus, but too deliberate to be nothing. It darts through the corridors. It knows the Maze better than you ever did. It taunts you: This is a game, and it is still winning.

Where are the others? Newt? Thomas? Minho? Frypan?

"Newt?" You call, but the sound barely even reaches your own ears. Your voice is thin and distant: Muffled, like you're screaming through water. "Newt!" You try again, but his name dissolves before it can echo the walls.

Panic and instinct take over. You're a Runner, after all. This is what you do. You've mapped this place in your head. You could run it blind. You feel the turn in your bones as you prepare to sprint: Running is survival here.

Oh, but you're so tired of running. You've been running your whole life: From the Maze, from the darkness, and from the walls that constantly seem to be closing in.

The corridors tighten, stone shifting with violent finality. The walls inch closer and closer, swallowing the paths you remember. Dead ends appear everywhere exits should be.

How did you get back here?

But the Maze gives no answers. It only keeps closing in.

You will never escape.

Then you see him: Newt. He's half lit under the decrepit shadows of ivy. Yet, he's still so beautifully him. He's still that stubborn, infuriatingly gentle man who has survived hell beside you.

The relief is sharp. Dizzying.

You open your mouth to scream his name, but nothing comes out. Your lungs seize, burning with rot instead of air. Every breath tastes wrong. You're filled with mold, stone, and something dead that shouldn't be inside you.

You claw at your throat, desperate for a sound, but he doesn't hear you. Your feet pound against the ground as the world twists unnaturally around you. With every stride toward him, he only drifts further away.

The Maze is rearranging itself in cruel precision, corners forming where there were none before. You reach out to him, but the space between you only warps further.

Stone slams down, cutting him off entirely: Sealing him behind narrow gaps you will never squeeze through. His shape blurs through the closing walls, face still turned away from you.

He's still there. Still out of reach. You try to scream again, and the Maze swallows the sound whole.

Then—

You wake up.

Your body jerks up with the force of a gunshot. Sheets cling to your sweat-soaked skin, the mattress groaning under you at the sudden movement. Your heart slams in your chest, still trying to outrun your nightmares.

When you breathe, the air is clean. It is not sour with the rot from your terrors.

You're safe.

Not the Maze.

Not captured in screaming walls.

You're in bed.

In the small hut you built alongside Newt when the world had finally stopped ending: Wooden walls, uneven floors, and the faint scent of salt that carried from the sea. Home. The Safe Haven. Four months of peace you'd earned the hard way.

No more running.

No more hiding.

No more fighting.

You repeat it like a poem, as if that might make the words finally settle in. You've had many nights to heal. To rest. To let your body believe what your mind already knows: It's over.

So why does the fear still cling so tight? Why does the past still dig its claws into you, refusing to loosen its grip? Your gaze drifts to the other side of the bed.

It's empty.

The blankets are thrown back. The sheets are crumpled and cold where Newt should be. Your hand brushes the fabric: The space hasn't been warm in a long while. It worries you.

Your legs swing over the edge of the bed, tugging your shoes on with unsteady fingers before you make your way to the front door of your hut. The hinges creak softly when you open it.

Moonlight spills across the floor and the ocean waves crash in steady, rhythmic patterns meant to soothe. Outside, the white sand gleams under the night sky, each grain catching the light like scattered pearls.

The Safe Haven is beautiful. Almost painfully so. Like something pulled straight from a dream, or heaven itself. After all you've survived, you deserve heaven. Don't you?

Newt is there. He sits in the sand, a few yards from your hut. He is still, quiet, and faces the sea with an intensity that makes your chest ache. It's like he's waiting for something to rise out of those waves. Bracing for something he can't name.

You approach slowly, arms wrapping around yourself as the cool night breeze brushes your skin. When you're close enough, Newt glances over his shoulder.

He offers a small, apologetic smile. A smile that says 'Sorry I wasn't there' without needing the words. His face is tired. Not just a sleepy tired: Like he, too, hasn't learned to trust the calm. Like it is difficult to believe this island won't disappear if he shuts his eyes too long.

"Sorry." He murmurs. "Did I wake you?"

"You didn't." You shake your head, remnants of the nightmare still tasting like iron in your mouth. "Just woke up, and you weren't there."

"Yeah." He exhales. "Couldn't sleep."

You take a seat beside him, knees bumping. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The ocean fills the silence instead. Dark water reflects the sky. You can't really tell where the sea ends and the night begins. It's too wide. Too vast. Too endless.

Too much like the Maze.

"I was back there." You say suddenly. "In the Maze." Your fingers twist into the fabric of your shirt. "Didn't even realize it was a dream at first. The walls were moving, and everything just felt so wrong. I tried to call for you, but it was like my voice just..." You swallow. "Like I couldn't make myself loud enough."

Silence stretches, like Newt is walking through the nightmare with you, step by step. Then, his hands find yours, fingers threading together tightly.

"I keep thinking I hear it." He admits. "The walls. That bloody awful grinding." His throat bobs as he swallows. "Doesn't matter how long it's been. S'like my head doesn't give a damn that we're safe."

"Newt—"

"I thought I lost you." He cuts in. "So many times. Every run. Every alarm. Every time I turned 'round and you didn't happen to be there. I thought—" He stops, jaw tightening around whatever hypothetical pains him. "I don't reckon I ever stopped preparing for it."

"I'm here." Your fingers squeeze around his. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I know." There's no real conviction behind his words. "Dunno what I'd do if I had... Lost you."

"Don't think about—"

"But I do." His voice fractures. "S'all I ever think about. I don't trust the peace." You turn toward him fully to catch the tears in his eyes: Stubbornly unfallen. His hand trembles in yours.

"You're shaking."

"M'sorry."

"Don't apologize." You mutter, thumb brushing over his knuckles. "Come back to bed with me?"

"Dunno if I'd be great company." He admits quietly. "My head's a mess."

"That's okay. Mine too."

You're both a mess.

Two haunted souls carrying the weight of lifetimes not meant to be lived so young. Yet, you've endured it together. Whatever healing demands of you now, you're certain of something: You want it with him.

"...Alright."

You rise together, sand dusting off your legs as you turn toward your hut. He follows half a step behind you, hand never leaving yours. Once inside, the door closes softly behind you.

This is your home. The walls don't move here. Moonlight spills through the small window, painting pale shapes across the walls you'd built with your own hands.

You kick your shoes off and turn to him. Up close, you can still see the tension under his skin. When you crawl into bed together, he sits stiffly at the edge, like he doesn't quite belong there.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." He replies automatically. Then, after a breath, a more honest answer comes. "No... No, but... Better with you."

"Come here." You open your arms without hesitation, and the sound he makes is utterly helpless. He folds into you like he's been waiting for permission to fall apart. "Hey, we're okay." He pulls you in roughly, arms locking around your waist like you are his anchor.

You are his anchor.

His face nuzzles into your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven on your neck. Your hands slip up his back, fingers tracing the worn fabric of his shirt.

It is a beautiful thing to feel the rise and fall of his breathing under your palms. He lifts his head, and those teary eyes seem so raw: Fear still lingers there. A need for relief. The ache of being soothed. He looks at you like he's asking a question he can't bring himself to voice.

You answer without words and close the distance.

Your lips find his in a gentle, loving kiss. Your hands rise up to cup his cheeks just as tears begin to spill free, and your thumbs wipe them away with care. His breathing stutters against your mouth and the kiss deepens a fraction as he realizes this isn't pity. You've never pitied him.

It's want.

"...Shouldn't cry over something silly." He mutters hoarsely against your lips.

"It's not silly. I love you, Newt."

"Why?"

"How could I not?" Your fingers slide into his hair, combing through it in slow waves of affection. "Loving you is the most natural thing I've done. It's like breathing. I don't have to think about it. It just is." Your fingertips tenderly brush his temple. "Even when nothing in this world makes sense, loving you is easy. I love you."

"I..." He swallows, and you can see the reflex there: The urge to argue and insist he isn't worth it. You don't let him. Your lips find the corner of his mouth instead, peppering kisses along his face until you've reached his jaw. "I... Love you too."

"Mm, why?" You murmur, shooting the question back to him while your lips ghost along his neck.

"Reckon there ought to be a million reasons." He lets out a low chuckle. "Can't think of a single thing 'bout you that I don't love— Even that relentless attitude."

His gaze drops to his arm: To the dark, veined scars that still linger there. Remnants of a time he barely survived. A time he'd nearly lost himself— But not you.

Oh, he could never lose you.

You stayed.

Even in those grimmest moments. Even when he'd lash out: When the sickness twisted his words, and violence overwhelmed him. You never doubted him. Even when buried in pain, you had faith he would find his way back.

You follow his line of sight. Gently, you trace your fingers along his arm. Then, you take his wrist in your hand and lift it between you. Your mouth leaves soft kisses on each scar.

"You shouldn't—" He sucks in a sharp breath. "They're... S'hardly a pretty sight."

"All of you is a pretty sight." You press a kiss to his shoulder before lifting your head, nose brushing against his. He shuts his eyes, like your words are actively rippling through his very essence.

His hands find your waist, grip tightening instinctively. His fingers slip beneath your shirt. Then, finally, his mouth lowers into yours again. The kiss is made entirely of desperation and gratitude.

His hands slide up your ribcage, mapping the familiar skin with a reverent hunger, like he's relearning you all over again. Your palm presses the back of his neck, pulling him closer, closer, closer, until there's no space left for bitter memories.

He practically tumbles into you, the force of the kiss squashing you into the bed. He's pinned you; body pressed against yours and hips rolling without thought.

His lips wander down your jawline and down your neck. His hands are greedy, touring the warmth under your clothes. You let out a quaking breath when his tongue darts along your throat.

Your fingers bunch the fabric of his shirt, tugging the handfuls up. He lifts his body, pulling the barrier over his head. His hair is a mess, but your eyes are too busy scanning his figure.

He has such sharp features: Those collarbones you crave biting, those lean muscles of his arms and chest, and those scars you've memorized so thoroughly. You barely have any time to admire before he's back on you.

"Need you." He breathes, half a moan. "God, I bloody need you."

"I'm yours." Your legs part, and his hips wedge between your thighs. He groans, nipping at your lower lip. A hand slides along your stomach, fingers catching on the hem of your shirt and pushing it up.

"Take this off." He mumbles against your mouth between rough kisses. "Want to feel you. All of you— All of you." You sit up slightly, pulling your shirt off in one fluid motion and tossing it insignificantly.

For a moment, he simply stares: Taking in the sight of you beneath him in the soft moonlight. Then, you pull him back in for another feverish kiss, your nails scraping at his bare back. He caves into you, trapping your body in a warm cage of his arms.

His mouth is everywhere at once: Sucking marks into the crook of your neck that will surely be purple by morning, tasting the hollow of your throat, and pecking at your lips.

"Newt, please." You exhale, looking up at him with those needy eyes he can never say no to.

"I know. I know." He murmurs lowly before his mouth is on yours again, leaving only enough space for desperate, ragged breaths. His body is on yours, skin on skin, and you feel the tremors of his muscles.

He works you out of the rest of your clothes impatiently. His normally gentle hands are rough and urgent, like he can't get you undressed fast enough.

Your mischievous fingers slip past the seal of his waistband, dipping into his boxers and running along the side his already painfully hard cock.

He chokes at the sudden contact, hips jerking forward into your touch. It's almost embarrassing how easily he unravels at the lightest stroke of your fingertips.

"Take it off. Please." It's more of a command than a request, and he obeys eagerly: Moving with uncanny speed to shed what's left of his clothing.

He's magnificently hard, twitching, and leaking precum: All for you. He mindlessly throws his boxers off the side of the bed, coming back to brace himself over you.

"God," He breathes. "God, I need you."

"Take me."

That does it.

His cock prods between your legs as he lines himself up. Then, with a rough exhale through his nose, he sinks in: One slow, deliberate thrust.

He stops long enough to watch your face before rolling his hips, again and again. His forehead dips against your shoulder as he whispers broken pleas.

When you groan in his ear, he jolts forward, like the sound sends his soul spiraling out of his body. He repositions himself, grabbing your waist with an intensity that's almost too hard.

His motions are harsh, like all the frustrations of his mind spill onto you. He clings like a drowning man to a buoy, sinking into you over and over again with rough, jerky thrusts. His lips find that sensitive spot on your neck that he knows drives you wild.

The bed creaks, quaking from the sheer force of his hips. A whine slips out of your throat, and it shatters him entirely. His grip tightens impossibly further into the flesh of your hips, surely to leave a bruise, but he doesn't stop.

You don't want him to.

"Fuck." He growls against your sweat slicked body. The slap of skin echoes through your little hut. Then, he bites down sharply, just above where your shoulder meets your neck. The sting is enough to earn a swift gasp from you.

Your nails carve deep red marks into his back in response, and he groans at the pain: A pain that somehow motivates him to push into you harder.

The apology of his tongue over the bite mark is brief: Lost in the heat, the friction, and the undeniable desperation. He licks another slow stripe to your earlobe before nipping it with his teeth: Just enough to draw another gasp.

His arms wrap around your waist, lifting your back off the mattress and transferring you into his lap with ease. He sits back on his heels as you straddle him, his sweat sheened forehead resting on your marked shoulder.

Your hips rock back and forth, and he twitches violently inside you. Your fingers interlace with the golden strands of his hair, tugging it to tilt his head back until you find him in another heated kiss.

He grabs your hips with painful possession, rolling them at his brutal pace. He whimpers, and pleasure coils low in your stomach threateningly quickly.

"Newt—"

He sobs at the sound of his name on your tongue.

"I know." He moans. Of course, he knows. He's committed to memory the way you squeeze around him. "I've got you. I've—Ngh—I've got you, Love."

"I love you." You whine, words spilling out in one quick breath as you feel the dizziness of your climax approaching. He shudders, pressing you back down onto the mattress as his rough hands cup your face.

"I love you." He repeats back. "I love you—Fuck— I love you so bloody much, I can't—" He babbles your name into the skin of your neck. "Please—Please—"

"I—Inside." You stutter, legs locking around his hips. "I want it— Inside—"

"Are you—" He rasps; surprise etched into his tone. It's not something you've ever asked of him before. "Are you sure? I don't—"

"Please, please. I'm sure." You insist. "Fuck— Newt, I'm—"

You don't have to tell him twice.

His lips crash onto yours as waves of white, hot pleasure ram through your nerves. The second your body clenches around him, his hips stutter wildly.

He buries himself to the hilt with a groan so low and ragged, it sounds like pain. He kisses you through your shared release, swallowing every sound you make as his hands grip your thighs tight enough to leave crescent shaped marks.

The feeling of his cum spilling into you is foreign, and you shiver involuntarily at the new sensation as your aftershocks hit. He practically collapses on top of you, softening cock still submerged deep, like he can't stand the idea of pulling out now.

His breath is uneven as you both come down from your high, sweaty messes of passion. Of love. He raises his head, eyes landing on your shoulder.

"Shite." He presses a soft kiss to the mark his teeth left, hands caressing your skin like he needs to soothe away the hurt he caused. "M'sorry."

"it's okay." You whisper. "...I love you."

"I love you too." He murmurs. "I love you. So much."

Outside, the ocean keeps moving: A steady, patient constant. Just as Newt is for you, and you for him. For once, the past is quiet. You hold each other until sleep finds you.

The nightmares will come and go. You both know that. You are painfully aware of each other's ruin: The fractures left behind by survival. Yet, this does not discourage. If anything, it teaches you to hold tighter. To love harder.

The MedHut is oddly quiet for such a vivid afternoon.

Sunlight filters through the warped wooden walls, its glow catching on the edges of the nearest cot and dusting the room in warm golden hues.

You were leaned over the makeshift central table, elbows braced over an open anatomy book. The pages were pristine in a way that felt almost wrong for the Glade.

There were no bent corners. No smudged fingerprints. No blood ground into the margins. It had miraculously survived last month's delivery, and you'd been pouring over it every moment since, as if memorizing it fast enough might make up for everything you hadn't known before.

Your fingers trace over the curve of a ribcage. Then, the sternum. Costal cartilage. You follow the label lines slowly, committing each term to memory.

The words feel heavy beneath your touch: Important in a way that goes beyond ink and paper, like knowing the name of each part would give you power over it. Would understanding the human body make it kinder? Easier to save?

You read about contusions. About the way blood pools beneath skin after blunt trauma. You linger on passages describing pain responses, muscle guarding, and shock. Every sentence feels like a promise: 'Next time, I'll know what to do.'

You're halfway through a wordy paragraph when the door carefully creaked open. You don't look up at first. Someone urgently injured wouldn't have entered so peacefully. It isn't until the door clicks shut that you finally lift your head.

Newt stands just inside the doorway.

His hair is a mess; curls plastered to his forehead with sweat. His shirt hangs askew on his frame, collar tugged too far to one side, and his breathing looks a little too deliberate. Your stomach drops.

"Newt?" You're already pushing up from the table. "What happened?"

He hesitates for half a second, eyes flicking away from yours. Then, he reaches up and tugs his shirt aside, just enough to show you the damage.

A large scrape runs along his shoulder, skin raw and red where it had dragged. The beginnings of a bruise darkened the surrounding skin. It's nothing deep. Nothing catastrophic, but it looks painful all the same.

Uninvited, came the memory:

The image of him being dragged into the MedHut, leg mangled beyond anything you'd known how to fix back then. You can still smell the blood from that day. You still remember the way your hands hovered uselessly over him with the fear of making it worse.

You hadn't been ready then.

You would be now.

Your stomach nearly turns itself inside out, but you force the nausea down, smoothing your expression into something steadier. Stay present. You lift your hand and motion toward the cot. He sits without a word.

Your thoughts snap into order: Superficial abrasion. Clean it, dress it, and monitor the bruising. Simple. Manageable.

You can tell he doesn't feel like talking, so you don't try to fill the space. You simply word, cleaning the scrape and studying the surrounding skin.

You're used to his joking. His teasing about your fussing. You've grown accustomed to the way he'd smile at you, like sunlight cutting through the Glade.

Now, he seems distant. Unreadable. His gaze is fixed somewhere beyond the far wall, and it unsettles you more than the injury does. After a long stretch of silence, he finally clears his throat.

"Sorry." He said quietly. "Didn't mean to bother." You look up at him; surprise inevitably etched into your features.

"No." You say at once. "You're not a disturbance. Not ever. You know that." He gives a faint huff in response. Then, you notice his hands. They're folded neatly in his lap, fingers curled in on themselves, knuckles pale. They're trembling. Not violently. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough for you. "You're shaking."

"Am I?"

"You are. Does it hurt that much?"

Your mind is already moving before he answers, flipping through possibilities: Nerve irritation? Muscle fatigue? Delayed pain response? Adrenaline crash?

Tremors could mean shock. They could mean strain. They could mean his body is trying to say something his mouth won't. Your gaze flicks over him again and again, noting every detail.

"No." He shakes his head; eyes still fixed somewhere past the wall. "Feels fine."

Relief is quick, but suspicion follows right behind, because that answer simply doesn't sit right.

Your brow creases, but you don't argue. You return to the bandage, tightening it carefully, smoothing the fabric so it won't irritate his skin.

Still, the feeling won't leave you: The persistent sense that something is wrong. It lingers on your tongue. It's there, even if you can't name it.

"Newt?" You try again.

He blinks like he's only just come back to himself. When his gaze finally lifts to yours, your heart drops. His eyes are glassy, rimmed with tears.

"Oh, Shuck." He swallows, startled. "Sorry—" He scrubs his face, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand like he's embarrassed to have been caught. "Bloody hell. Sorry."

"Hey," You set the wrap aside, voice gentle. "It's okay. What's going on?"

"Nothing." He says too fast. You wait for a more honest answer. "I'm fine." He adds, sharper this time. The edge in his voice makes you lean back a fraction, more surprised than hurt. Then, he exhales, rubbing a hand over his face again. "Sorry." He mutters. "That wasn't... I just..." His shoulders slump, posture folding inwards. "I hadn't been myself lately."

You wish you'd knew what he's been going through.

You wish he'd let you.

"Hm." You study him for a moment before answering. "I wouldn't really know. You've been avoiding me."

He goes still.

"Avoiding you?" He repeats. "No I haven't."

"Yeah, you have."

"No."

"Mhmm."

"I don't think so."

"Newt, you definitely have, but that's okay." You shrug, choosing each syllable with care so it won't sound like an accusation. "You're busy. You've got the whole Glade to worry about. Someone's got to keep everyone from killing each other." You eyes drop to the bandage, smoothing it over once more. "You're you, and I'm just a MedJack."

"Just a—" His head snaps up. He stares at you like you've said something completely unhinged. "You've gone mad, haven't you? MedJacks keep us alive." He shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him. "You keep me alive."

"You do make it hard sometimes." You tease, and he laughs again. You smile at him a moment before steering back. "Is it getting too much?" You ask. "Your position, I mean. All the responsibility. Are you okay?"

"No, yeah. No." He sighs. "It's not that." He rubs the back of his neck, gaze dropping to the floor. "Reckon I've just got a lot on my mind, is all."

"Mm." You hum, unconvinced, but willing to let it rest. "You used to talk to me more, you know."

His eyes fall to his hands. His shoulders wind inwards like he's folding in on himself and shrinking around something that doesn't want to be seen. He presses his lips together and doesn't argue.

The silence stretches.

You let it.

The MedHut breathes around you, the distant Glade muffled through the walls. You think about how often you've seen this version of Newt: The one who carries everyone's expectations like they're stitched into his skin.

You've always looked up to him in ways you've never said out loud. You call it respect. Friendship. Oh, but friendship doesn't make your heart leap when you look at him. Even now, as he sits here, bandaged, quiet, and teary eyed, you can't escape his pull.

Too much time passes. It's enough for the silence to tip from comfortable to awkward. Finally, he clears his throat.

"You know," He starts. "I admire you." Your face scrunches in surprised confusion, and he smiles at the expression. "I do. I always have." Warmth blooms in your chest.

"Well, right back at you." A breathless laugh slips out. "I think you're pretty much the coolest person in the Glade." He chuckles, tension loosening as familiarity softens the air between you.

"Coolest?" He echoes. "Please. I limp 'round here shouting orders and pretending I know what I'm doing."

"You do know what you're doing."

"You fix all the messes I can't." His lips quirk upward. "You're the one with the big words, talking about... sub-dermal contusions and muscle supervising."

"Muscle guarding." You correct.

"Yeah, that's it." He points at you like you've just proven something. "See? Brilliant. I swear, you say things and I just nod like I understand, like when you were rambling on and one about that collarbone-y bit."

"No! The clavicle?" You snort, and he grins, pleased with the sound. The laughter fades slowly, in the same way the sun gradually dips behind clouds.

"And..." He watches you as the moment of humor settles. "You've always been really fair."

"Fair?" You squint.

"Yeah. You're fair. To me. To everyone." He swallows. "You don't play favorites. You don't get people get away with klunk just because you like 'em. You tell me off when I'm being thick." A soft smile teeters on his face. "You care, probably more than you should. That's why this all feels so... Unfair."

"Unfair?"

"To think of you the way that I do." He says, and your brows knit together.

"How do you think of me?"

For a heartbeat, you think he won't answer. His jaw tightens and his hands flex against his knees. Then, whatever wall he's been bracing finally breaks.

"I think of you like you're the only solid thing in this place. You're the one clear thought in my head." He exhales shakily. "I think of you bent over those books, trying to memorize the world until you can save it, and I believe if anyone could stitch this place together, it's you." Your pulse pounds in your ears, but somehow, he continues. "You make this place softer. I look at you and it's like... Like seeing the sun hit the walls in the morning. Makes you believe, even if it's just for a second, that maybe we're not as trapped as we think. I think of you," He stares right into your eyes. "And I don't feel so alone."

It takes a second.

Two.

Then it clicks.

Oh.

This. This is what has been sitting heavy on his chest. This is the distance. This is the silence. This is the teary eyes. You open your mouth:

"Oh, Newt, I—"

"It's alright." He interrupts. "You don't have to say anything, really. I just needed to say it. Get the words out of my head before it ate me alive."

"Okay, but—"

"I'm content being friends." He rushes on. "More than content. You're my best friend, yeah? That's... That's enough. I just couldn't keep walking around with feelings like this. S'Like it's been festering."

"Yeah—"

"It's stupid anyway." He mutters. "You deserve someone who's not... You know." His hand gestures vaguely to his leg. "Not like this. I know I'm not exactly—"

"Don't say that. Newt, I—"

"Look, if I didn't tell you, I think I'd explode, or die, or something. It's just been sitting in me for months, and every time you smile at me, it gets worse. Not worse in a bad way. Just... Bloody hell." He lets out a huff. "S'Pathetic, innit?"

He's still talking when you move. You don't plan it. You don't dissect the action to death, like you usually would. For once, you don't measure consequences.

You simply lean in and kiss him.

He makes a small, startled sound against your mouth. It's half a gasp, and half a stolen breath. He goes completely rigid. Then finally, it registered.

You've kissed him.

His hand lifts, hesitant at first, fingers brushing your cheek. When you don't pull away, he cups your face fully. He leans into the gentle pressure of your mouth.

The world narrows until all that's left is the little bits of life you feel: The cot beneath him, the warmth of him palm, and the way his lips press back against yours.

You pull back first.

Not far. Just enough for your mouths to part and your foreheads to nearly touch. His hand doesn't leave your face. His thumb rests just beneath your ear. His eyes are wide: Not confused. Not upset.

Amazed.

"It's not pathetic." You murmur, and he stares as if you've just rewritten a fundamental truth.

"...Was that an accident?" He asks cautiously. You shake your head. How does one accidentally kiss like that? A breathy laugh leaves him, and his fingers tighten at your jaw. Before you can speak again, he pulls you back in.

Thie kiss this time is keeper. Less startled. He tugs at your waist, guiding you closer and closer until you somewhat stumble onto the cot with him. You catch yourself instinctively, careful to not put weight on his injured side.

"Newt!" You start, shifting, trying to brace yourself on your elbow instead. "You shouldn't twist like that. You could kickstart the bleeding—" He simply laughs against your mouth, grip first on your hips.

"You won't hurt me." He whispers, resting his forehead against yours. "Please. This is the best thing that's ever happened to me. Don't hold back on my behalf."

You smile, because he does look so hopeful. More hopeful than he's looked in a long time. You lean down and kiss him again. There's no hesitation at all.

Your lips move together, learning the shape of one another. His fingers curl into the fabric over your back. Yours tangle in his shirt. It's not frantic or reckless. It's exactly what you've always thought love would feel like.

It's careful in all the ways that matter.

Maybe that's the irony of it. You've been accused of caring too much. Hovering too much. Worrying too much. Trying to respond to every single outcome before it happens.

Oh, but right now? Caring too much is what keeps you mindful of his injury, while still choosing him. It's what makes the kiss tender instead of senseless. It's what makes him wander to you first in times of need.

Some people care too much.

"Aris said they bring in a new batch every night."

"Who the hell is Aris?" Minho mutters, and Thomas lifts his chin slightly, pointing across the cafeteria. You follow his gesture. Slowly. Yet, even that feels like too much effort.

There's a kid sitting alone in the corner, hunched over a tray he hasn't touched. His grey hood is pulled low over dark hair, and his eyes flick around the room like he expects to be mugged.

You look away.

You don't really give a shit about who Aris is.

You don't give a shit about much of anything, lately.

You haven't been here long, but this place feels like it's swallowed years of your life. You eat, barely. You sleep. You endure medical testing. You sit in a room full of strangers and pretend you're fine.

That's it.

You could stay here forever. Floating. Suspended in some strange limbo where nothing matters. Nothing can hurt worse than it already does. Is that a blessing, or a curse?

Outside this facility, the world is waiting. A cruel, unforgiving world where Chuck doesn't exist anymore. You're not ready for it. You can't just 'keep living' like everyone else seems to be content with.

They put you in a separate bunk from the others: A dorm full of girls you don't know, and don't care to. They're strangers who whisper to each other at night while you lie awake, staring at the ceiling until it swallows you whole.

You've never felt more alone, and that's saying something, because the Maze was supposed to be the worst thing that's ever happened to you, but even the Glade wasn't this lonely.

Not with Chuck there.

"Until we know anything for certain," Newt says in a hushed voice, leaning over the table. "We should just keep our heads down and try not to draw attention to ourselves."

In that moment, Thomas slams his palm so hard against the metal table, trays rattle. He's on his feet in an instant, eyes already locked on you.

He stares with the same reckless certainty he always does, like the space beside him has your name on it. Like you're guaranteed to follow, as you always have.

You always have.

You've been present for every terrible plan. Every impossible sprint towards danger and death. You are the inventor of such thoughtless action.

You can still remember how that spark felt sometimes, and the adrenaline that once constantly rushed through your veins, but now, your body belongs to someone else.

You stare back at him, guilt pressing sharp in your stomach, because he's waiting for you to stand too. To stand with him. He's waiting for you, and all you can think about is how tired you are.

Everywhere you go, you turn into a weight that drags behind everyone else like a chain tied to their ankles. You feel like a curse. So, instead of moving, you lower your head onto the table.

The metal is cool against your forehead. You hear Thomas exhale long through his nose. It's not an angry sound, and somehow, that makes it worse. His footsteps fade into the noise of the cafeteria, and you close your eyes.

You don't want to watch him have the strength you've lost.

"What's that dumb Shank doing?" Frypan murmurs beside you.

"Dunno," Newt answers. "But he looks bloody determined." Something taps the top of your head. Twice. You crack your eyes open and rise enough to see Newt's index finger retreating. "You're not going with him."

It's not a question, but an observation.

"Good to know your eyes still work." You whisper.

"She speaks!" Minho exclaims from the other side of the table. "Some words would've been nice a couple night ago, instead of the violent assault I got."

You glare at Minho.

In all fairness, you did smack an entire tray out of his hands and onto the floor hard enough to send soup splattering across his clothes. Minho's been dramatic about it ever since.

"Leave her be." Newt sighs tiredly.

"I am now." Minho shoots back. "Not exactly eager for more second-degree burns." Guilt would've followed a comment like that. Fortunately, you don't have to sit with the words long, because raised voices cut across the cafeteria.

"Woah! Hang on. You weren't called." 

"Just gonna be a second—"

"This is a restricted area, kid."

Your eyes drift towards the noise. Thomas stands near one of the guarded doors, arguing with a guard who looks to be built like a concrete wall.

His shoulders are tense beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, hands moving sharply while he talks, too restless to stand still for even a second.

He's insane.

Maybe this is what it looked like when you did this:

Running ahead without thinking. Dragging everyone else after you whether they wanted to follow or not. Making people watch with dread heavy in their stomachs.

Crazy. 

That's what they called you.

You don't feel crazy anymore. You feel nothing. Empty. Like you could fold inward and disappear completely. The world wouldn't even flinch at the empty space.

You don't have the energy for this. For Thomas' reckless heroics. For another fight. For anything. You're a worthless, hollow shell of the girl you were.

"I just wanna see my friend." Thomas insists sharply. "Let me through."

"Get your ass back in the chair." The guard jabs his finger hard into Thomas' chest. Thomas rocks back a step, hands lifting in a surrendering motion.

"Oh, thank God." Minho groans beside you, eyes trailing Thomas as he takes a couple convincing steps back. "I thought we were about to watch him get tased."

Thomas glances back toward the table.

Towards all of you,

And your stomach drops instantly.

You know that look. You see the microscopic shift in his stance. The weight settles in the balls of his feet like a runner waiting for the gunshot.

"We still might." You mutter, dragging yourself from the chair.

Your body protests.

Your bones feel filled with wet sand. Every movement is heavy and slow. Too slow. You should've gone with him earlier. Maybe you could've stopped whatever he's about to do.

Thomas lunges.

The guard swears loudly as Thomas slams into him, both of them crashing sideways into the doorway. Chairs screech against the floor as the others surge to their feet.

"Thomas!" Newt snaps.

You're slower to move across the cafeteria than the others. It's pathetic what you've become. You once prided yourself on the fact you could outrun the Glade.

Now, you're left behind.

You reach them just as Newt hooks both arms around Thomas' chest, yanking him backward before he can swing again. Thomas thrashes against the hold hard enough for Minho to join the restraint.

You catch his arm before he can wrench free. Thomas stumbles slightly from the added force, turning toward you with wild, uneven breathing. His eyes flash over your face, looking both startled and relieved that you followed at all.

"What's happening here?" Janson barrels through the crowd, irritation flashing before it smooths into something practiced. "Thomas!" He says, like they're old friends. "I thought we could trust each other. You know we're all on the same team here." 

"Are we?" 

The question hangs there, and for split second, nobody moves. Janson's smile falters. A twitch at the corner of his mouth most people wouldn't catch.

"...Get them to their bunks." Janson says. No raised voice. No anger. Just an eerie coolness that floods you with unease. The guards move. You don't resist when rough hands close around your bicep.

The hallway is a bustle of motion.

Shoes squeak against the polished floor. Someone protests. Someone else swears. A guard shoves between your shoulder blades, steering your direction.

"The hell was that, Tommy?" Newt's voice echoes harshly down the corridor. "We finally end up somewhere halfway decent, and you're eager to whittle it down to rubbish?"

Thomas doesn't respond.

Or maybe he does.

The guards are shoving you in a different direction, and whatever Thomas mutters gets swallowed by the noise of the hallway before it can reach you.

The group splits apart.

You're alone again.

Well, mostly alone. The guard beside you falters in step. Your pace is significantly slower than his, and he struggles to find footing that matches yours.

"Could you walk any slower?" He exhales through his nose. Apparently, you can, because he's force to once again shorten his stride when you lag behind with legs moving through invisible mud. "Pick up the pace."

You try.

By the time the guard drops you off at your dormitory, he looks more frustrated than anything. The door shuts behind you with a harsh metalic clink.

He's glad to be rid of you.

Isn't everyone?

The room is empty. No whispering strangers to pretend you're not there. No lingering stares from girls who survived different horrors. Just rows of bunks and buzzing overhead lights. You drift toward your bed and sit on the edge of it.

The girl in the bunk beside yours had been whispering about you the other night. Nothing inherently cruel, but her curiosity felt so. You're the only one from a different maze, after all.

If only Teresa were here. You don't even know where she is. You should, shouldn't you? She's another girl from your Maze. They should've placed you together.

Instead, you're here. Alone in a room that belongs to people you barely speak to. Just another place where you don't fit in. There's a surplus of places like that, apparently.

A metallic creak cuts through the air. 

Your eyes shift downward slowly. The vent near the floor rattles once before the grate pops loose. You stare at it without reacting, thoughts lagging sluggishly behind the sound.

Maybe it's a rat. 

A really big rat. 

Maybe it'll crawl out and chew you to pieces.

Honestly, that sounds exhausting for the both of you. You're significantly bigger than a rat. Even a big one. How many bites would it take for a rat to eat you?

Something moves inside the vent. A hand pushes through first. So, not a rat. Then, a grey hood and pale skin. You blink slowly. That's Thomas' little friend.

What was his name again?

"Come on." He whispers urgently, and you stare back at him.

"...What?" 

"Thomas told me to come get you."

You frown.

"...Get me?" 

"Yes. Get you." He shifts impatiently. "I don't have time to explain. He's waiting." He holds a hand towards you. You look at it. Then at him. The back at the hand.

Of course, Thomas is waiting. 

A long breath leaves your lungs. You don't ask questions. You don't argue. You don't have the energy to really think about it. Besides, life can't exactly get worse from here.

You push yourself up, a flicker of pain shocking your knee as your leg straightens. You steady yourself by taking advantage of the vent-boy's hand.

Aris.

Right.

That's his name.

The metal vent is freezing under your palms as you pull yourself inside. The space is immediately too tight, walls pressing around your shoulders while your injured knee drags awkwardly behind you.

You keep crawling anyway. What would complaining accomplish? Aris moves quickly ahead of you, barely checking to make sure you're still following.

It's irritating, the way none of them will leave you alone. Especially Thomas. He doesn't let you quietly disappear into yourself. He still thinks there's something left in you. Something worth being hopeful about.

Chuck thought that too.

Look where that got him. 

Aris finally stops, pushing another grate open with a quiet scrape. Light spills through the vent, and you squint, crawling out after him, emerging onto solid ground. 

Oh. 

This is the boys' dorm. 

"Hey Thomas." Aris says quickly. "You got it?" Thomas turns to face you and Aris, holding up a white keycard between his fingers. He must've swiped it from the guard earlier.

"What the—"

"Who is this kid?" 

Voices overlap and confusion emerges as the others try to make sense of whatever insane plan Thomas has concocted. Aris shrinks slightly under the attention, hood pulling lower over his head.

"Alright, look," Thomas steps as a shield between Aris and the others. "Maybe you guys are right. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, but I gotta find out for sure. Just cover for me." Before anyone can argue, he's already motioning at the open vent, ushering both you and Aris toward it. "We'll be back as soon as we can."

You blink, then point vaguely at yourself.

"...Me too?"

"Uh," Thomas looks at you as though the answer is obvious. "Yeah, you too. Come on." He motions again more urgently toward the vent. "Move."

"I don't even know what you're doing."

"You'll figure out what we're doing on the way. Let's go. Let's go."

"I don't wanna figure it out on the way."

"You'll be fine."

"Thomas, I don't want to."

"Yes, you do."

Huh?

"Uhh, No? I really don't."

"Why?"

"Because I'm tired." Your voice cracks slightly. "I don't feel like crawling through weird vents or— Or stealing things from guards or— Anything." You fold your arms across your chest. "I don't even wanna be here."

Thomas goes still in a way that you rarely ever see from him. The whole room is still, every eye on Thomas, waiting to see if he's willing to take 'no' for an answer.

He doesn't.

"Yes, you do."

What?

"What?" Your eyebrows knit together, frustration sparking in your ribs. "You can't just say that. You can't just say stuff and make it true. These are my—"

"Yeah, I can."

Did this fuckass just interrupt you?

"You literally cannot." You shout, irritation festering into a flame that consumes your lungs. "For Shuck's sake, do you just like to hear the sound of your own voice? You're the most ignorant, arrogant—"

"There!" Thomas cuts you off, exclaiming as if you've just proven his point. "If you've got the energy to yell at me, you've got the energy to come with me."

"What?" You stare at him in utter disbelief, feeling as though you've just been dropped into an awful sitcom. "That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."

"You've got a bunch of energy now, don't you? Let's use it." He speaks, and you scoff. He's deliberately scraping at your nerves until you give reaction.

You hate that it's working.

Your fury burns. You hate how he pushes. You hate that he won't accept your exhaustion. You hate how he still looks at you with the certainty and faith Chuck used to give you.

Chuck.

Chuck, who would grin at you through scraped knees and terror. He believed in you with a vigor you never deserved. He thought you could save everyone.

You can't.

You don't want to go through that vent. You hardly want to go anywhere. You want to stay in a foreign room forever. Alone. Safe from having to care about anyone too much ever again.

Stupid Thomas won't let you wither.

Stupid Thomas.

Your eyes flick to the others, waiting to see the irritation you keep telling yourself they feel for you. Waiting for a look that will confirm that Thomas is the idiot for seeing something more.

You don't find it.

Frypan and Minho look more curious than anything. Winston— Well, you sort of forgot he was even here, but he doesn't look bothered either. Newt looks worried. Not irritated or disappointed, but worried.

They aren't looking at you the way you keep envisioning they do. They look at you the same way they look at Thomas now: They're waiting for you to move.

They followed you here, didn't they? Chuck isn't the only life which rested on your shoulders. These people trusted you enough to leave their home behind.

They still do.

You glance back to Thomas and his waiting expression. Even after the days you've spent barely talking, ignoring him and giving up on yourself, he hasn't.

Idiot.

You owe something this to this idiot at the very least.

Get over yourself.

Quit being selfish.

Just go.

"Okay." An empty sound escapes your lips, the remnants of reaction to the absurdity of Thomas' ragebait method.

"I still think this is a bloody awful idea." Newt says, and Thomas groans, already ushering you toward the vent and ignoring Newt. "S'Always the two of you, 'innit?"

Seriously?

That passive aggressive comment is a perfect testament as to why you and Newt have never gotten along.

"They're hiding something." Thomas argues. "We don't have time to argue about this. If you're right, you're right. If you're wrong, you're welcome."

"You're going to get us all killed someday."

"But not today." Thomas nods confidently before crouching near the entrance of the vent. He speaks your name, waving a hand for you to join him.

Before you commit, you glance to Newt. He's already watching you. His gaze moves over you slowly, lingering on details that make the heat crawl unpleasantly under your skin.

He scans your face, most certainly absorbing the exhaustion on it. His eyes move lower still, to your waist, your hands, and finally your knee, where your weigh shifts unevenly to avoid the pain.

"You don't have to go." Newt says quietly, void of pressure and dripping in concern. Your eyes flicker to the vent again, where Thomas is waiting for you.

You shake your head, taking a step back from Newt and in the direction of the vent. He watches you for another long moment before giving a small nod.

A nod.

Maybe he's not so bad.

"Ngh— I love you."

The air between you is humid and heavy, thick with the scent of sweat and sex. Gally's body does rigid above you, his hips pressed deep, his release still warm inside you. For a moment, there's only the sound of your own ragged breathing and the frantic beat of your heart against your ribs.

You stare up at him, your ankles still hooked behind your eyes, the position suddenly feeling absurdly vulnerable. His face is shadowed, turned slightly away, but you can still catch the tightness in his jaw and the way his throat bobs as he swallows. The flush that painted his chest and neck seems to deepen, spreading up to the tips of his ears.

He said it.

You know he did. You heard it. It was muttered, sure. A breathless escape of words lost in the gasp of his climax, but unmistakable, nonetheless.

"What was that?" The cocky smile that sparks on your face is a dare thrown into the thick silence. You watch Gally's tense body as he finally moves, pulling out of you with a slick sound that makes your stomach clench. He rolls off to the side, putting his back to you.

"Nothing." He grunts, the word clipped. He reaches for the discarded pair of pants tangled at the foot of the bed, his movements jerky. "You heard nothing."

You let your legs fall. The stretch in the muscles of your thighs is a pleasant ache. Then, you prop yourself on your elbows, the thin blanket bunching around your hips.

"Sounded like something." You press, voice light with teasing. "Sounded an awful lot like three really special little words, Gally." He yanks his bottoms on and stands, keeping his back to you.

"Get your ears checked." He huffs.

A bright giggle escapes you, and before Gally can take another step, you're off the bunk, sticky air hitting your damp skin. You launch yourself at his back, wrapping your arms around his solid torso.

You use your momentum to heave him backward. He lets out a surprised grunt and stumbles, collapsing back onto the thin mattress with you on top of him.

"Where do you think you're going?" You murmur into the space between his shoulder blades, lips brushing his hot skin. You feel the slick warmth of his release trickle out of you, marking your thighs and the sheets beneath you both.

"Away from this conversation." His head turns slightly on the pillow, revealing his familiar, sharp profile. You nuzzle into the back of his neck, inhaling the scent of him.

"No, come on." You whine. "Look at me in the eyes and say it again." His body stiffens at the request; every muscle locked with a rigidness that should be painful.

"No."

"Come on. It's just a few words." You grin, shifting your weight to straddle his hips, pinning him to the mattress. You lean down, hair falling around your hair like a curtain, and brush your nose against his. "Don't tell me you're scared."

"You think this is funny?" Gally's intense eyes finally meet yours. He doesn't smile, but his hands come up to grip your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft plush above your hips.

"A little." You admit. "Can't a girl enjoy watching the great and powerful Gally fumble over his own tongue? It's cute." He huffs, gaze dropping down to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

"Why do you have to make everything so complicated?"

"Me? I'm the one making it complicated?" You whisper, rolling your hips against him slowly. He sucks in a sharp breath. "I don't know. This seems pretty straightforward to me."

You feel him shudder with a tremor that runs through the planes of his hard stomach. His fingers dig into your hips, not to pull you closer, but to keep you still.

"Shuck." He grits out, voice strained. "Still sensitive."

"Are you, now?" You lean in, lips finding the rough stubble along his jaw. You pepper fleeting kisses, moving up to the corner of his mouth. "Relax. I'm not doing anything."

Your hands slip past his waistband, and your palm finds the hot, half-hard length of him. He jerks, a sharp inhale of breath hissing through his teeth as you stroke him slowly.

Your thumb brushes over the slick head of his cock at the same moment you suck at the tendon of his neck, tasting salty sweat on his skin.

"Don't." He groans, his head tipping back to give you better access even as he protests. "Don't leave a mark. They'll see."

"You're so uptight." You huff against his skin. You can feel his pulse hammering under your lips. "I just wanna hear it. Say it again. Please?" Your hand moves around him more firmly, setting a deliberately teasing rhythm.

He's trembling, his hips giving tiny, involuntary thrusts into your hand. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face a mask of tortured pleasure. The conflict is written on every inch of his body.

"You're a freak." He rasps.

"Mhmm. You apparently love it though, don't you?" You plant a kiss to his mouth. He whines as you stroke him: A high, desperate sound that vibrates against your lips.

His whole body squirms in a helpless twist of his hips, oversensitive and overwhelmed. He breaks the kiss, panting, his forehead dropping against yours. Your rhythm becomes slower: A torturous drag of your palm that has him biting his own lip to stifle another sound.

He could easily shove you off, his strength is undeniable, but he doesn't. He surrenders to the choice of staying pinned, which only makes you cockier.

A wicked smile spreads across your face as you slip off his lap, your hands finding the waistband of his pants. You tug them down, the fabric catching on his thick cock before giving way.

You lean in, letting your hot breath ghost over his exposed length, watching as it twitches in response. You don't touch him. You hover, just close enough for him to feel the warmth of your exhale.

His head falls back against the pillow with a soft thud, his chest rising and falling in quick breaths. One hand comes up to cover his face, his fingers pressing into his forehead.

"You're a deviant." He mutters, the words muffled by his palm.

"Your deviant." You correct, closing the distance.

Your tongue traces a wet path from base to tip of his throbbing cock. His stomach muscles clench in response. You drag open mouthed kisses along his length before finally taking the head into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive ridge, and he bucks, needy for more of your mouth on him.

"Don't tease." He gasps, voice strained and hands fisting in the sheets to cope with the tingling oversensitivity. You pull off him with a wet pop, your lips still hovering a breath away.

"Say the words." You command. Gally's eyes fly open, dark and desperate. He stares at you in disbelief, chest heaving while he weighs his desire.

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously."

"I hate you."

"I'll leave." You pull back slightly. "I'll leave right now. Better yet, I'll never come back. You can go back to jerking off into your own fist, if you'd like."

His teeth grit.

"I love you." He grumbles flatly, almost aggressive. It sounds more like a challenge being thrown down instead of a meaningful expression. "Happy?"

"Oh, c'mon. Don't be like that." You whine. "Say it like you did before." You lean in and peck a fleeting kiss to his tip, feeling him jump. "Put some 'oomf' in it."

"Some 'oomf'?" He begins, the complaints starting up again. His face flushes with a mixture of frustration and unbearable pleasure. "You're the most impossible—"

You roll your eyes, cutting off his tantrum by taking him fully into your mouth, sinking down until your lips meet the base. The effect is immediate.

The air leaves his lungs in an empty groan, his head slamming back against the pillow. His hands fly to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands as his hips thrust helplessly.

You work him thoroughly with a devotion that leaves no room for argument: Tongue tracing every vein and ridge until the only words he's capable of are broken, gasped fragments of your name.

You're purposely sloppy, letting drop drip down to coat his balls as you suck him deep, your eyes locked on his face: It's flushed in a deep red you've never seen on him before. Not even after the hardest day of building.

His mouth is slack and his eyes unfocused. You put your hands on his trembling thighs, bobbing your head in a merciless rhythm, feeling him swell and pulse against your tongue.

You can taste him impending release. Just as he tenses, a wrecked cry catching in his throat and his hips lifting off the mattress, you pull off with an obscene sound.

He's left throbbing in the cool air, his entire body tense from your denial. A strangled, frustrated growl escapes him, sounding dangerously close to a sob.

"Oops." You chime, wiping the back of your hand across your wet chin.

"You're evil."

You giggle, crawling up his body until you're straddling him again, pinning his wrists to the mattress beside his head. You lean down and press a soft kiss to his sweaty forehead.

"What did you expect?" You taunt with a playful murmur. "Say the words. Like you actually mean it, this time. Please." Gally stares up at you, his expression turbulent.

He's trapped, in more ways than one, and he knows it. His throat bobs and the fight seems to drain out of him, leaving behind only a weary honesty.

"I love you." He says, differently this time. It's not a mutter lost in passion or a flat grumble. "There. I meant it. Is that good enough for you, your highness?"

The smugness fades from your face, replaced with genuine affection. You release his wrists, your hands moving to cup his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.

"Was that so hard?" You whisper and sink down on him in a slow slide that wrings a moan from your throat. He fills you again, stretching you perfectly.

The oversensitivity from before is gone, leaving only a deep, aching fullness that makes your head spin. Gally's eyes roll back, his palms soaring to your hips and fingers digging in enough to bruise. He doesn't thrust up. He holds you there, buried to the hilt as if savoring the feeling.

"Shuck." He breathes. "You're drenched."

You begin to move, grinding your hips in a roll that has him swallowing back a curse. The only sounds are the wet slide of your bodies and your combined ragged breathing.

His intense gaze is locked on yours, and in it, you see the echo of his words. You ride him with a new purpose: Not just for pleasure, but to chase emotion back to the surface. To make him say it again during days when he can't blame it on the heat of the moment.

"So pretty." You lean in and whisper in his ear.

"Don't say stupid klunk like that." He grits out, his voice breaking on the words as you pick up the pace. Your hips slap against his with a wet cadence.

"But you are so pretty." You insist, your own voice breathless with the effort of your movement. You can't pull your eyes away from his face: The way his eyes squeeze shut, the flush on his cheeks, and the sweat beading on his temples.

He is beautiful.

Unraveling.

A mess for you.

You capture his mouth in a messy kiss, swallowing whatever sounds he can still manage to make. He kisses you back with a frantic hunger, his hands roaming your back, your shoulders, and tangling in your hair.

The call of pleasure burns in your lower belly in an urgent pressure that builds with every thrust. You feel him getting close again too, the rhythm becoming erratic.

"I'm gonna—" He begins, a strained warming, but you shake your head, slowing to a deliciously torturous grind. You feel him throb inside you, so close, it's painful.

"Beg for it."

"Hell no." He groans, his pride waging war with the overwhelming need you've planted in him. You stop moving entirely, clenched tight around him, the denial of friction is its own kind of agony.

"Beg."

A shudder works through him frame. His hands slide along your sides, twitching as they fight to keep from grabbing and bouncing you on his needy cock. It's an exceptional honor to watch Gally squeeze his eyes shut, utterly dismantled.

"Please." He whimpers. "Shuck. I hate you. Just— Please. Let me— Let me cum." A triumphant smile sparks across your face. You lean in until your lips are a breath from his.

"Since you asked so nicely."

Lewd, wet plopping sounds echo in the small hut. You press your hands on his chest for leverage, fingers splayed over the hard muscle, clenching around him as you chase your high.

Just before you reach it, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into a tight embrace, your chests pressed together. His face buries in the curve of your neck, and he thrusts up into you.

It's no longer a contest, but a collaboration: A shared race toward the edge. Guttural sounds are torn from both your throats, and you cling to him, scraping your nails into his shoulder while the pleasure breaks, washing over you in a blinding wave.

You feel him follow, his release pulsing deep inside you, his whole body going taut before collapsing into a boneless heap beneath your own exhaustion.

You remain quiet for a long while, letting him soften inside you while held tight in his arms. This is sanctuary. This is trust. This is a side of Gally only you are lucky enough to see.

Truly, what would he not do for you? What is there which he would not endure? What would he not admit? Nothing, because the simple truth is: He loves you.

Finally, you speak:

Water breaks around you as you and Gally waddle toward the shore, net dragging heavy between you like a third limb. Salt stings your eyes and your muscles ache.

You rip the snorkel mask from your face with a deep inhale, sucking in lungfuls of fresh open air like you've surfaced from something more strenuous than the ocean.

"Shuck." You cough, pushing wet hair back from your face. "One of these days, you're actually going to skewer me." Gally snorts, shifting the spear onto his shoulder. Sunlight flashes along the metal tip.

"Maybe," He replies lazily. "Don't swim where all the fish are."

"I was retrieving the net." You scoff.

"You were flailing."

"I was not flailing!" You shove his shoulder with a laugh, and he bumps you back harder than necessary, nearly knocking you off balance in the shallow water.

For a second, you both teeter, swearing and laughing as the sea slaps at your calves. It's easy and stupid, but it's also the first time in days that your chest feels lighter.

Then you look up.

Thomas stands near the dunes with his arms crossed and his posture arranged into something casual, like he just happened to wander down here. Like he hasn't been orbiting you for the past several days.

"Ah." Gally follows your gaze. "Your stalker is back."

"Not my stalker." You roll your eyes so hard, you're surprised they don't detach.

"Could've fooled me." He says, but you don't dignify that with a response. You adjust your grip on the net and start up the beach, sand sticking to your ankles. Gally falls into step beside you without further comment.

"Nice haul." Thomas nods to the net as he pushes off the dune and approaches like he's rehearsed this interaction. You don't slow your walk.

"Thanks." It's polite. Flat.

"Uh— Need help carrying it?" Thomas asks. You shift the weight of the net and glance at him for half a millisecond before looking forward again.

"No."

"We've got it." Gally adds, making your flat response sound at least a little sweeter. Thomas opens his mouth like he wants to push the matter further, but he doesn't.

"Okay." He says instead. "Let me know if..." His voice dissolves into the wind behind you. You don't look back.

The climb up the beach feels longer than usual. Sand drags resistantly at your feet, swallowing your footsteps as quickly as you make them. Gally walks beside you without filling the silence.

The net thumps against his shoulder in rhythm with his steps. Overhead, the sky is beginning to drift quietly into afternoon. Halfway up the path, Gally clears his throat.

"That was kind of mean." He says. Gally, of all people, is calling you mean.

"He deserves it." You don't hesitate, but saying it out loud feels wrong. Gally studies you out of the corner of his eye, his lips pressing into a thin, skeptical line.

"You two used to be practically glued at the hip."

"Yeah." You say quietly. "We were." That's all the insight you give him, and fortunately, Gally leaves the matter alone.

The food storage shed greets you with the smell of saltwater and damp wood. It's properly organized. Crates stack on the left wall, hooks are hammered into the ceiling beams, and there is a scarred table running down the center.

"I'll haul the rest to the rinse barrels." Gally drops the net of the table and water splashes across the surface.

"Nah. I've got it from here." You reach for the first fish before he can argue.

"You sure?"

"Yeah." You don't look up. "Organizing helps me think." He watches you for a second, weighing whether or not he should question. Ultimately, he doesn't.

"If you need a hand, holler."

"Go." You wave him off, and he exhales dramatically and lumbers towards the exit. When the door creaks shut, the silence of your solitude settles in.

You turn the first fish over in your hands. It's slick, cold, and much heavier than it looks. Scales shimmer under the light as you scrape them away.

Scrape, rinse, and stack.

The repetition steadies you. Salt dries against your skin. Your arms still ache. Your mind finally slows down enough for you to take a breath. You don't hear the door creak open.

When you glance up, you freeze.

Newt stands in the doorway, one shoulder resting on the frame. He looks better. There's color in his cheeks now. Strength in the way he stands. No tremor in his hands.

Your eyes drop anyway.

To his wrist.

Faint black veins still spiderweb under his skin. Not as dark and furious, but there. It's a reminder of what almost happened. Of what did happen. Of the secret they'd kept from you. An ugly heat spreads through your chest. You look back down at your work, refusing to acknowledge him first.

"Well," He speaks finally, trying to keep his voice light. "You're working rather ef-fish-iently." It's stupid. A little clever, but mostly stupid. You don't laugh. "Oh, c'mon." He sighs. "That was decent."

"Thanks." You say flatly, scraping another tough line of scales from the fish. "It's incredible how efficient people can be when they're not occupied by fake friends keeping them in the dark."

Newt's inhales sharply.

"That's not fair." He says. You ignore it. The humor is gone now, and he watches you rinse your blade and reach in for another fish. "You've been spending a lot more time with Gally." He says after a moment, keeping his tone neutral.

"Mhmm." You hum, and the scrape of metal fills the space where a longer response should be. He shifts his weigh, looking around the room as if he'll find answers hidden in the beams.

"I just..." He exhales. "Feels like every time I turn around, you're with him." You stack another cleaned fish into the crate, close the lid, and tie it off.

If it bothers him, good.

When you finally move toward the door, you don't even acknowledge him standing there. You walk past without touching him. He doesn't try to stop you, but you feel his eyes on your back all the way out.

The shoreline stretches beautifully under the lowering sun. Orange shifts into gold, and gold into pink. The water reflects the sky like molten glass. You walk near the edge where the waves nearly catch your feet. The nightly bonfire will start soon. It always does. You breathe in the salty air and let your thoughts wander.

The past few days have been exhausting.

Thomas will often appear at your elbow with extra water before you even realize you're thirsty. He volunteers to take over your net repairs. He offers to help you haul crates you've hauled perfectly fine on your own.

Then, there's Newt.

He fixes loose boards in your hut without asking. He sharpened your knife until the blade gleamed, leaving it on your bedside table as a token of apology.

Both keep showing up wherever you happen to be. It's never coincidence. It's never subtle. Especially not when Thomas is usually only a maximum of two meters away.

You catch them. Constantly. The glances. The way Thomas watches Newt when he tries to talk to you. The way Newt glares at Thomas when he gifts you anything. They circle each other without every acknowledging it.

It's weird.

Gally isn't helping either. He notices just as much you do. Every time one of them hovers, he raises an eyebrow and smirks like he's observing wildlife.

The bonfire comes into view ahead. Laughter spills over the flames and someone has already begun telling a story too loudly. You step into the clearing.

People are sprawled on the sand. A couple of them wave when they see you. The air smells like smoke and something sweet Frypan must've thrown together.

You scan the crowd and spot Gally near the edge of the firelight. He's crouched beside a crate, pouring an amber liquid into mismatched jars: His signature concoction. Just like he used to make it in the Glade. You walk up behind him, and he glances over his shoulder.

"Well," He drawls, handing a jar to someone beside him. "Took you long enough. Thought you'd decided to keep company with fish tonight." You roll your eyes.

"You're hilarious."

"I try." He grabs a fresh jar and holds it out to you. You stare at the liquid suspiciously.

"That stuff is practically poison." You say. He gasps, hand flying to his chest in exaggerated betrayal.

"I've been perfecting this recipe for years."

"Yet, somehow, it still smells like regret and sweat soaked grain."

"Suit yourself." He shrugs dramatically, starting to pull back. "I'll just drink, sad and alone. Abandoned by my heartless spear-fishing companion."

"Seriously?" You stare at him. "Fine. Give me that." You snatch the jar from his hand before he can fully retract. A slow, victorious grin spreads across his face.

You take a sip.

Immediate mistake.

It burns your tongue first. Then your throat. Then your lungs like you've inhaled fire. You choke, cough, and bend slightly at the waist, trying not to combust into the sand.

"Holy—" You wheeze. "What the Shuck is this?"

"Stronger batch." Gally looks deeply pleased with himself. "Looks like you're gonna need it too."

"What?" You squint. "Need it for what?" Instead of answering, he nudges his chin over your shoulder. You turn. Across from the fire, not far from the main group, Thomas and Newt are standing stiffly beside each other.

They're staring.

The second your eyes meet theirs, they both look away at the exact same time. Thomas is suddenly fascinated by the fire, and Newt is intensely interested in the sand at his feet.

You sigh and take another gulp,

And another.

The liquid courage tastes like poor decisions. You swallow down the entire jar, holding back tears in your eyes from the sting. Once it's empty, you wordlessly hold the jar out toward Gally.

"Is that a good idea?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Refill it."

"You sure?"

"Gally."

"Alright." He huffs, but takes the jar, topping it off. "If you start swinging, I'm not getting involved." You don't answer. You just turn on your heel and make a beeline toward the two of them. "Good luck!" Gally calls behind you.

Thomas notices you first. He forcefully loosens his shoulders, trying to look nonchalant, but failing miserably. Newt follows his eyes, and for a split second, something hopeful flashes across both their faces. You haven't approached them in days.

"What?" You step in front of them, trying to keep your tone even. "What is going on with you two?" Gally's drink hums warm in your veins. Not enough to make you sloppy, but enough to make you feel bold. Thomas and Newt share a look. You catch it. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"That." You gesture between them with the jar. "That telepathic nonsense. What did you two do?"

"Nothing." Newt says quickly.

"If you lie to me one more time," You cut in harshly. "I will make a scene, and every pair of eyes on this Shucking beach will be on us. I am so done with your secrets."

Thomas shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. Newt exhales through his nose. For a moment, there is only the crackle of the fire behind you. Then, Thomas finally caves.

"We made a bet."

"Tommy." Newt hisses.

"...A bet." You blink. "A bet? That's the stupidest, most immature Klunk I've heard in my entire life." You let out a disbelieving laugh. "What's the bet?"

Thomas hesitates, glancing at Newt, and Newt looks back at him like he's seriously considering physically tackling him. Thomas says it anyway.

"About who could get you to forgive them first." He admits. You clench your jaw hard, staring at the pair of absolutely childish idiots before you.

"Ah. A bet." You repeat faintly. "You turned my feelings into a competition."

"It's not like that—"

"No. I'm not done." You hold up a hand. "What does the winner get? Bragging rights? No chores? Hm? What exactly is the grand prize for emotionally manipulating me?"

They both look uncomfortable now.

Good.

"That's rubbish. We're just—"

"Just what?" You snap. "I can't even believe you two! You can't give me space to process anything? You can't give me a real apology? You just hover around like mosquitos!"

You begin a rapid-fire rant, spewing frustration and irritation at the boys. Thomas winces. Newt runs a hand down his face. Finally, Thomas blurts:

"The winner would get you."

You stop.

"What?"

"Tommy—"

"The winner would get you, and the loser would back off." He says quietly. "That was the bet." You squint at him like he's speaking another language.

"I'm not something you win." You continue your rant, fuming. "I'm a person, you Slintheads. My friendship isn't something you can own. I can't even believe you're stupid enough—"

"You are so bloody daft." Newt interrupts.

"Excuse me?"

"You're daft." He repeats, frustration bleeding through his voice. "You can't even see it."

"Don't start with your silly British vocabulary." You fire back, matching his irritation. "Just because you've got a fancy accent doesn't make your insults charming."

"I'm not trying to be charming." He explodes. "You're daft! It's a fact. You're so daft, you can't see when you make us into fools who can't help how bloody in love with you we are."

Oh.

The strained muscles in your face loosen slightly. The fire crackles. Someone laughs somewhere to your left. A jar clinks against another. The world keeps moving.

You don't.

In love.

In love?

Your mind scrambles backward. Past the bonfire. Past the beach. Past the island. All the way back to the Glade. Back to your younger selves, huddled together, facing unfathomably large walls of stone.

You remember sneaking extra rations. You remember inside jokes no one else understood. You remember falling asleep on the same patch of grass, because none of you wanted to say goodnight first.

It was always the three of you.

Always.

"Uh," Thomas clears his throat awkwardly, unable to handle the silence. He takes on a lighter tone that reminds you how much you've missed their company. "I thought I was going to lose to him, honestly."

"What?" You're mentally behind, still processing all that was said before.

"I mean, he's got the hot accent," He shrugs sheepishly. "And a sort of tragic backstory thing. Hard to compete." You stare at him. Then, you lift your jar and take several large gulps.

"Hey, quit that." Newt says, reaching for your wrist. "You're drinking too much."

"You don't control me." You yank your hand back.

"Bloody hell, I'm not trying to."

"Do you really expect me to be chill right now?" Your voice trembles, and you're not sure if it's alcohol or adrenaline. "You keep secrets, you make weird bets, and then confess your love for me like that fixes everything. That's insane."

"I didn't nearly die, just to come out the other side and get the silent treatment from one of my favorite people in the whole world." He says tightly.

"It's not fair to use that."

"I'm not using it." His voice cracks. "I'm saying, I thought I lost my chance, with you, and now we're finally safe, and you won't even look at me."

"You lied to me!"

"We didn't lie!"

"You didn't tell me you were infected!"

"We knew you'd panic!"

The argument stretches like a tightrope.

Then,

It snaps.

You don't even see who moves first. One moment, you're waving your arms in the air, furious, hurt, and overwhelmed. The next, his hand is at your jaw and his mouth crashes onto yours.

It's not gentle or careful. It's months of unspoken fear and relief poured into one reckless decision. You freeze in shock for no more than a heartbeat.

Then, your fingers fist his shirt as you kiss him back. Hard. His other hand slides to your waist, and you melt a fraction. The anger doesn't vanish.

You're both panting when you finally pull apart. His eyes search yours, filled with a touching vulnerability that makes him look like a begging puppy.

"Yeah..." Thomas clears his throat. "Knew he'd win." You roll your eyes. Before you can overthink it, you grab Thomas by the collar and pull him in.

This kiss is different. Not as explosive as Newt's. Slower. Softer. His surprise is immediate. He makes a small, startled noise against your mouth before he relaxes into it, his hands hovering over you like he's afraid to touch.

When you pull back, he simply stares with an intensity that makes your skin tingle. He opens his mouth. Closes it. He glances at Newt. Then back to you.

Then, without warning, he scoops you up and throws you over his shoulder.

"Hey!" You yelp. "What're you doing? Put me down! I can walk!"

"Shh." He shushes as he pats your leg. Newt is already moving beside him, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one is paying too much attention. A few people whistle. You catch Gally raising his cup in salute.

"Thomas!" You hiss, trying to sound serious. "Where are we going?'

"Private conversation." He says simply. Newt opens the door to his hut before Thomas even asks. They move in wordless coordination, as if they've planned for this very situation.

Thomas lowers you onto Newt's bed. You land with a soft bounce, dizzy from alcohol and emotion. You prop yourself up on your elbows, only to be pushed back down when Thomas leans over and presses another kiss to your lips.

His hands are on your jaw, beckoning you closer into him, as if this isn't already intense enough. Newt's hands slide into your hair, tilting your head back.

When Thomas finally pulls away, you get another chance at propping yourself on your elbows, breathless, eyes flicking between your two best friends.

"I—"

"We know we messed up." Newt cut you off, gently this time. "The bet. The lying. All of it."

"We're idiots." Thomas nods beside him.

"I should've told you when I'd been infected." Newt continues. "I promise, I won't keep anything like that from you again. I won't keep anything at all."

"We'll make it up to you." Thomas squeezes your hand.

"Yeah?" Your voice is steadier than you feel; your heart already beating out of your chest. "How do you intend on doing that?" Thomas and Newt exchange a quick look.

Then, Thomas moves to your side, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. Newt climbs to the bed behind you, wedging himself between your body and the wall as he caresses your shoulders.

A shiver runs down your spine as Thomas' lips move down your jaw, pressing kisses to your skin while his hand slides along the inside of your thigh.

The shallow buzz of alcohol intensifies every touch. Thomas pushes the hem of your shirt up, tracing along your stomach. Newt's hands find your hips, sliding under the cloth to trace careful patterns along your side. His lips whisper sweet nothings and apologies against the nape of your neck.

"We can stop any time you want." Thomas' kisses reach the top of your waistband, his fingers toying with the fabric. His gaze flicks up to meet yours. "May I?" You nod.

"Words, Love." Newt insists.

"Yes." You comply. "Please." Thomas grins and immediately works at your bottoms. Newt's hands move, his fingertips leaving your sides and tugging your shirt up higher, his mouth discovering new places on your neck to kiss.

Thomas sucks and nips at each inch of skin as he exposes more of you. Both of them seem to know exactly what they're doing, which is both comforting and irritating at the same time.

"S'this good, Love?" Newt's smooth voice murmurs in your ear. You hum, glancing over your shoulder and locking eyes with him, immediately catching the intense flush in his cheeks and the desperation in his eyes.

Thomas pulls your bottoms off entirely, tossing them on the floor before spreading your legs so he can kneel between them. Newt's arms sneak around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as he watches Thomas.

"Wow." Thomas presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, nails digging into your flesh as he takes in the sight of your evident arousal. "You seeing this, Newt?" It takes every ounce of willpower not to shut your legs to cease their awe-soaked stares.

"Yeah. Seeing it." He lets out an appreciative chuckle against your shoulder. He rubs circles into your bare hip, his own arousal pressing undeniably against your back.

"Let me taste you?" Thomas drags his teeth over the inside of your thigh. His belt clinks as it unfastens, the sound making Newt's fingers tighten against your hips. "I'll make you feel good. I promise."

"Please." You exhale. "Show me how sorry you are." Thomas grins, a cocky look that only makes him more attractive. He licks his way up your thigh, moving agonizingly slowly up your skin. "Don't be a tease." Your legs wrap around his shoulders, feet planting on his back as you urge him closer.

Thomas groans, nipping at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh in retaliation before finally dragging his tongue where you need him most. Your breath hitches and you lean further back into Newt.

Newt lets out a curse, his hips jerking against your back as you squirm from Thomas' swirling tongue. Thomas grips your thighs, holding you in place as he moves his tongue in teasing circles.

Newt shifts behind you, scattering wet kisses along your neck and jaw. His hand moves to grip your chin and turn your head to capture your mouth in a starved kiss.

Thomas whines against you, watching Newt's tongue wrestle against yours. With one hand, he reaches down his half-unbuttoned pants and begins to stroke himself.

Thomas doubles his efforts, his soft whimpers sending exhilarating vibrations through you. Newt swallows every little moan leaving your mouth.

"So lucky." Newt pants against your lips. "So bloody lucky to have you." He pulls back, positioning himself beside you instead of behind, carefully wedging a pillow beneath you before he works at his belt. "Open your mouth for me, Love."

You obey without question, huffing as you part your lips and stick your tongue out. Both boys groan at the sight. Newt pushes his bottoms down; eyes locked on your open mouth.

"You look so good." Thomas sputters as his hand and tongue quicken their pace. He drags his thumb over his tip, delving his mouth further on you.

"Shite." Newt curses, tapping his leaky cock on your offered tongue. Thomas' hips jerk uncontrollably against his hand, his pace never slowing as desperately slick, slurping sounds fill the hut. You force your head still as Newt feeds himself into your mouth hard and warm against your tongue. His fingers curl into your hair, guiding your pace. "That's it." He exhales shakily. "Just like that."

The muscles of your stomach tighten, legs trembling as Thomas' mouth threatens to steal all your attention. You nearly gag when Newt's tip prods the back of your throat, focusing on breathing through your nose. You look up at him through teary eyes, searching for approval.

"Ah—Shuck— That's so perfect." Thomas rasps between little whimpers. His lips purse, sucking with more focus. You moan, the sound sending a vibration through Newt's cock.

"Easy. Breathe through it." Newt groans, forcing himself still to let you adjust. "You like that?" His hand tightens in your hair. "Tommy's doing such a good job, yeah? Look at him." Your eyes flicker to Thomas on his knees at the edge of the bed, head between your thighs and body shaking as he thrusts into his hand. "Such a good boy, Tommy."

"Shuck," Thomas gasps, eyes rolling back as he pulls his mouth off you for a moment, catching his breath. "Newt—"

"I didn't say you could stop." Newt huffs, pulling his hips back slightly before thrusting back into your mouth. Thomas lets out a strangled noise.

"M'Sorry." Thomas pants as he dives back in with renewed fervor, tongue swirling desperately as if to make up for the few seconds he lost.

"That's it." Newt rocks deeper into your throat. "So good. So bloody good." Your back arches at the praise, pushing yourself harder against Thomas' mouth.

"Taste so good." Thomas' hands fly to your hips, shoving them back down against the mattress, his tongue never stopping its relentless assault. Newt's thrusts stutter for a moment as he drinks up the sight.

The pleasure is overwhelming. The knit in Newt's and the pleading in Thomas' eyes is only fuel to a flame that already burns hot under your skin.

Your hands leave the sheets, one moving to yank of the dark strands of Thomas' hair and the other digging into Newt's thigh as he repositions to shove your head down and buck into your mouth at a brutal pace.

Thomas yelps at the sharp tug of his hair, his hips jerking up involuntarily as he gasps against you. The pain only makes him more desperate, his tongue lapping at you in frantic rotations like he's trying to chase the sting away.

"That's it," Newt's rhythm falters the second your nails dig into his thigh, a rough groan flying from his throat. His grip on your hair tightens in retaliation, forcing you even deeper onto him until tears bead at the corners of your eyes. "Take it all." Pleasure coils in your lower stomach and you whine, hand patting his thigh in frantic warning. "Do it." He commands. "Cum on Tommy's tongue while I pound that perfect throat."

Thomas whimpers loudly against you, his tongue pressing harder and faster, like he's wordlessly begging for the taste of your release.

Pleasure washes over you like a tidal wave as you obey. Thomas slurps up what he can, trembling uncontrollably as he paints the side of the bed in his cum.

Newt follows soon after, spilling down your throat with a raspy groan. You swallow it up eagerly, eyes locked on him with an intensity that makes him lightheaded.

"Shuck." Thomas collapses against you, his forehead pressed to your thigh as he struggles to catch his breath. His fingers flex weakly against your skin.

Newt pulls back enough to finally let you breathe, watching the way your chest heaves up and down. He drags a thumb over your bottom lip, which is now swollen and glistening from use.

"So good, Love" He murmurs before pressing a slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Y'alright?" His eyes flicker from you to Thomas. "You look like you've died there, Mate."

"Mhmm." Thomas hums faintly, his forehead still resting on your leg like his soul hasn't quite caught up to his body yet. Newt huffs a quiet laugh.

"Well," His eyes return to you. "We'll give him a moment then." You hum in response, before your arm flops over your eyes. You feel like melted wax.

For a while, none of you move. The only sounds in the hut are uneven breathing and the soft rustle of sheets whenever someone moves slightly. Eventually, Newt slides away.

"Newt." You groan, reaching for him.

"Relax," He murmurs. "M'Just grabbing a cloth." Thomas barely turns his head, blinking slowly like he's waking up from a very pleasant coma. "You alive?"

"I don't know." Thomas says hoarsely, and you laugh weakly into the pillow.

Newt returns a moment later with a damp cloth and a bucket of water. His practical gentleness makes your heart squeeze. He kneels beside the bed, not far off from Thomas.

"C'mere." He whispers. You don't protest, letting his guide you up enough to clean the fluids from your skin. Thomas eventually pushes himself up too, helping without saying much.

Once you're reasonably cleaned, Newt tosses the cloth aside and climbs back into bed. Thomas flops over sideways, tumbling into bed too. You end up tucked between them. Your head rests against Thomas' shoulder while Newt's arm draped lazily across your waist.

"Was that too much?" Thomas finally joins the land of the living; his voice renewed with the steady surety you've grown comfortable with. "Too much, too fast?"

"The last few hours have been a lot," You whisper, and the boys tense. "But no. I think maybe this has been a long time coming."

"We're still sorry." Newt speaks. "For the bet," He continues. "And the lying, and the secret keeping."

"If you don't shut up," You mumble, voice thickening with growing exhaustion. "I'm going to be mad again." Newt's mouth snaps shut. Thomas lets out a huff of laughter.

Your fingers idly trace the line of Thomas' arm, where your head rests. The three of you fall quiet again. Outside, the distant bonfire crackles through the night air.

"Y'know," Thomas shifts a little beneath you, turning his head so his temple rests against yours. "I really did think I was going to lose." You scoff. "Figured he's been in your life longer—"

"Thomas, don't piss me off."

"And I was just thinking that—"

"Thomas seriously."

"I mean, I just want you to know that—"

"If you say some stupid klunk right now I'm leaving."

"What I'm trying to say is," He clears his throat, sounding slightly less confident than usual. "I love you." He didn't need to say it. You could feel it.

"Damn." Newt lets out a breath. "He beat me to it." You tilt your head enough to see Newt shrug, though his arm tightens around your waist. "I love you, too."

"Wow." You stare up at the ceiling for a long second, the monotony in your tone betrayed by the race of your heart. "Thanks." Thomas groans immediately.

"Oh, come on."

"Brilliant. We lay out our deepest feelings and get a 'thanks'."

"You caught me off guard!" You say defensively, a grin growing on your face as Thomas shakes his head.

"You're a menace." Newt nudges your side with his elbow.

The quiet returns again. Thomas' thumb traces absentminded circles at the back of your hand. Newt's warm fingers rest against your side beneath the blanket.

You've missed this. You've missed them. You lift your head just enough to glance between them: The two idiots. Your idiots. Your best friends in the world.

"I love you too." You whisper. The tension melts from their bodies instantly. Thomas lets out a laugh of relief, and Newt presses a quick kiss to your hair.

Just like that, everything settles. Thomas pulls the blanket up a little higer around the three of you. Newt shifts closer until there's hardly any space left. You fit there easily. Like you always have.

For so long, this world has tries to divide you in secrets, fear, and trials, but lying here now, between them, you realize that to divide is not always to take away.

You stumble out of the Maze with Minho at your side: Lungs burning, legs screaming, and sweat cooling fast against your skin. A shallow scrape runs along your forearm where the ivy fought back harder than expected. It stings more now that the adrenaline is gone.

"Worth it!" Minho chimes, breathless, but grinning anyway. "Told you that shortcut would shave off some time."

"You also told me it was clear." You shoot back, nudging his shoulder. He laughs, loud and easy, and slings an arm over your shoulder without thinking.

That's when you spot Newt.

He's standing where he always does, right by the doors, arms crossed and eyes sharp as he counts heads. It's routine: His way of making sure everyone who went out comes back in. His gaze lands on Minho first, then shifts to you.

Those pretty eyes don't soften.

Not like they usually do.

You slow without meaning to, Minho's arm slipping away as the distance between you and Newt closes. The air feels different, like something settled wrong while you were gone.

"You're late." Newt says, and it feels disarranged. It's not about what he said, but how flat his tone was when he said it.

"Maze wasn't feeling cooperative today." Minho shrugs. Newt nods once, acknowledging him before his attention shifts back to you. His eyes pause on your arm.

"What happened?"

"Just ivy." You glance down. The scrape screams back at you, a deep, angry crimson. "I'm fine." Newt doesn't step closer. Doesn't reach out. Doesn't do that thing where he tilts your arm toward the light with a concerned countenance. Instead, he speaks directly to Minho:

"Should've been more careful." Newt says, and Minho blinks, just as taken aback as you are.

"She was." He defends, a stern edge creeping into his voice. Your chest tightens, filled by the unusual heaviness in the air.

"It's really not that big a deal." You laugh, trying to smooth it all over. "Just a scrape."

Newt looks at you, and his eyes are sharp enough to make you feel as though you might stumble. For a moment, it seems like he may say something else— Something harsher. Whatever it is, it doesn't make it past his lips.

"Go get cleaned up." He says instead. "Dinner's soon." Then, he steps aside. Just like that. No smile. No pat on the shoulder. None of the warmth you've grown accustomed to.

Whatever.

You walk past him anyway. The doors are closing, after all, and Minho is already moving too, talking about how Frypan is going to complain if you track dirt into his kitchen.

Yet, an absence follows you.

Newt isn't watching you. He's turned away, already talking to someone else, posture closed off in a way you recognize too clearly, like he's shut a door you didn't even realize was open.

Why is he doing that?

"You okay?" Minho asks, glancing over when he notices you don't answer him right away.

"Oh— Yeah. Just tired." You say too quickly.

Your eyes keep drifting back to Newt. He should be looking at you. He always does. You're not even sure what changed. Only that something did, and you weren't given any say in it.

Newt's always been warm. Not loud or overwhelming, but steady: A hand on your elbow when the crowd gets too close or a quick check in when your plate is still full. He's the kind of presence that makes the Glade feel safer.

Could you stand it if your best friend in this place suddenly decided to turn away from you? The thought is uncomfortable. So, you swallow your frustration and let it settle somewhere it won't be seen.

You've got things to do.

Your scrape looks worse once the dirt and sweat are washed away.

You sit on the edge of the MedHut table as Clint helps run cool water over your skin. You watch red bloom along your forearm like paint on a canvas. You clean it slowly, carefully, the way Newt usually does. Wrap it tight and secure. You've watched him do this a hundred times.

Newt doesn't have to do it. He's not a MedJack. It's never been his job. Yet, whenever you come back hurt, he's usually there. The weight of his absence sits heavier and heavier on your chest as Clint finishes the wrappings.

"Thanks Clint." You murmur, flexing your fingers. The bandages feel unfamiliar when not done by Newt, but who are you to complain about bandages to a MedJack?

The smell of dinner drifts through the Glade as the sun finally slips away, voices rising and overlapping in the end-of-day chaos. Normally, it's comforting. Today, it feels too loud.

You find Minho first, because he's impossible to miss. He's already halfway through a plate, talking with his hands, laughing hard at something Gally did. You drop down beside him, poking at your food, appetite gone as your search the area.

Newt's there. Of course he is. He's standing near the edge of the fire, plate untouched and shoulders angled away from the center like he's not really part of the circle at all. Winston says something to him, and Newt nods with a clipped reply. No smile. No easy banter.

You wait for him to look at you.

He doesn't.

What is going on with him?

It's like someone flipped a switch in his head while you were gone. Had you missed something crucial while running in the Maze? Today didn't feel any different. You ran with Minho, like always, and came back, like always. Still you. So why does it feel like you're suddenly standing on the wrong side of it all?

The longer it goes on, the more jagged it feels. This isn't sadness. Not quite. It's closer to irritation, because whatever this is, you weren't warned. He didn't explain. He simply withdrew.

You push your plate away and stand.

"You're done already?" Minho asks, peering up.

"Yeah. I'll be back."

"Before you go," He babbles rapidly, eyeing your food. "If you're done, can I have your leftovers?"

"...Gross." You sigh. "Whatever, you dork. All yours." Newt is already moving away from the firelight, heading toward the storage shed at the edge of the Glade. You catch up in a few quick strides. "Newt!" He stops, but doesn't turn around all the way.

"What?" He says over his shoulder. There it is again! That tone: Short and guarded like you're interrupting something important just by saying his name.

"Let's talk?" You ask, but it comes out as less of a question and more of a statement. You don't want it to be a question. It isn't a question. He will talk. You can't stand this odd behavior from him. Then, he turns, firelight catching the tight line of his mouth.

"About what?"

"About the fact that you've been acting like a pissy pants all afternoon." For a split second, his expression shifts into amusement laced annoyance.

"Dunno know what you're talking about."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Act like you didn't spend the whole day avoiding me." You say bluntly. "Like I did something wrong." His jaw tightens and he glares past you, towards the noise of dinner. The witnesses.

"Ugh. Not here." He grabs your good arm and pulls you around to the other side of the shed. The noise drops off instantly, swallowed by shadows, packed dirt, and privacy.

He releases your arm, and the frustration on his face only sharpens yours. You don't give him the chance to spin his words into something diplomatic and collected.

"Well?" You ask. "What's your problem? Because if I messed something up, or if you're mad, or something happened, I think I'd deserve to know."

"I'm not mad."

"That's total klunk and you know it." You clock him immediately. He's your friend. You know when he's mad. You know him. "You haven't been looking at me."

"Looking at you?" He scoffs. "You think I'm mad because I'm not staring at you all the time? Bit egotistical, don't you think? You're reading too much into things."

"No, I'm not." You shake your head. "I know you, and it's not fair of you to shut me out of whatever's going on. So spill and let me help." The silence that follows in uncomfortable, forcing you to speak again. "If this is about the Maze, I'm fine. Minho didn't put me in any danger."

"You are the danger." He says shortly, looking away and scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck like he's trying to physically shove the words back down his throat.

"Wow." You huff, incredulous. "So that's it? You think I'm some sort of liability? You think I can't do my job unless Minho's out there, holding my hand?"

"S'not what I said—"

"It's what it sounds like." You interrupt, and he goes quiet again. You can practically feel him winding up tighter, frustration coiling dangerously under his skin.

"...You don't hear what people say." He mutters.

"What?"

"In the Glade." He lets out a short, humorless laugh. "You don't hear what people say when you're not around."

People talk about you when you're not around?

"What do they say?" You furrow your brows. He doesn't answer quick enough. "What are people saying, Newt?"

"Stuff." He says, evasively. "About Minho. About you."

"Like what?"

"Like, how lucky he is." He snaps. "How he's got the only girl in the Glade as his partner, day in and day out. How the two of you make such a good team, and how obvious—" He exhales, cutting himself off.

"Obvious?" You repeat. "Obvious what?"

"You know, the way you're always together!" He gestures vaguely, irritation bleeding through the motion. "Always laughing and coming back in one piece like... Like nothing can touch you when you're with him."

"So you've decided to punish me for what other people think?"

"I'm not punishing you."

"You're icing me out." You snark. "You totally blamed Minho for my scrape earlier, and you wouldn't even touch my arm."

"Touch your arm?"

"Yeah!" Your voice raises. "You know! Like, a couple months ago, when I scratched my face and you grabbed my jaw and you..." Your voice falters. "You looked at me. You always do. Every time I come back hurt, even when it's nothing. You look at me." Unbearable silence stretches between you, and once again, you are pushed to speak. "Newt, Minho's my friend. Nothing else."

"Could've fooled everyone else."

"Well, it shouldn't have fooled you." You hiss. "You know me better than that. Besides, what does it even matter if there were something more? Why does it bother you?"

"It doesn't."

"Clearly it does." You scoff. "You've got some sort of problem with it! So, stop being a stubborn Shank and just be real with me!" Another pause, longer this time, but you refuse to fill the awkward silence again.

"...I just... Didn't like it." He admits.

"Didn't like what?"

"How close you are. How easy it looks—"

"Easy what looks?"

"Like..." He hesitates. "Like he gets you without trying."

"You think what Minho and I do is easy?" You let out a breath that's half laugh, half disbelief. "You think being in the Maze together is easy? We have to be close. We have to trust each other. That doesn't mean I want more with him! Sure, he's loud. He's fearless. He's funny, even, but he's not—"

Pause!

The words snag in your throat, because suddenly, what you were going to say feels illegal. You didn't even expect the words to pop into your mind.

He's not what?

He's not the one who notices when you skip dinner. He's not the one who sits beside you in silence when the day feels too hard to talk about. He's not the one whose presence feels like exhaling after holding your breath too long.

He's not Newt.

"Not what?" Newt whispers.

"...Look, you're the one I go to when things feel off, and it's not just cause you're second-in-command, okay? So, it kind of hurt when you suddenly decided I wasn't worth looking at anymore."

"...That's not it."

"Then what is it? Explain it to me if you have to. I'm not going to keep guessing what you're feeling anymore. Do you think I'm some sort of idiot?"

"No!"

"You sure treat me like one."

"It's not you! It's not you I don't want to look at!" His fists clench as he speaks. "It's you and him. All laughing and touching and seeing you two jog through those doors like I'm the only one who somehow hasn't caught up yet."

"Caught up to what?!"

"Don't do that." He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

"Do what?!"

"Act like you don't know. Like you haven't noticed the way people look at you." His eyes drop, like seeing the confusion on your face is too much. "I won't be just another bloody thing pulling at you. I don't want to compete with Minho and the others. Hell, I know I'd lose."

"I don't care who looks at me or how! I just want you to look at me!" You gesture around you, anger and uncertainty tangling together. "There's no weird macho competition going on for my attention! I could be anywhere tonight, and look where I am! I'm standing behind a stupid, muddy shed with you!"

"Why are you here then?"

"Cause you're my best friend, Newt—"

"Maybe I don't want to be!"

The space between you goes deathly still, the noise of the Glade fading until all you can hear is your own heartbeat. Unfamiliar dread curls coldly in your stomach.

What's that supposed to mean?

"What?" You whisper, and it's lucky the words don't come up alongside vomit. He drags a hand through his hair, pacing once, like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

"Maybe I don't want to stand around pretending I'm fine with that. Maybe I don't want to smile and patch you up and tell myself it's enough to just be the one you come to when you're bleeding."

"Is that what you think you are to me?"

"I think—" He hesitates, not rushing to answer, choosing his words carefully like they may ricochet back to him if he isn't thoughtful enough. "I think I've been wanting more than what you're willing to give."

Despite the silence between you, your head is so loud.

Every memory rearranges itself: The way he sits so close, the way his voice softens when it's just the two of you, the way he looks at you every morning when you leave.

You feel stupid suddenly, not because you didn't care for him, but because you did, and you never took a moment to name it. To give it meaning.

"You never asked."

He looks up.

"Alright." Newt swallows. "What do you want?"

Just one word bubbles undeniably in your chest:

You.

You.

"You."

For a second, he just stares.

"Me?" He lets out a short, dubious laugh. "You don't mean that—"

"I do."

Something in his expression fractures, not dramatically, but it's the quiet breakdown of the wall that's been dividing you all day. The two of you stand there, close enough that you realize you've been able to feel his breath this entire time.

"You're serious." He murmurs, composed of awe and fear.

"Deathly serious."

He studies your face like he's memorizing it all over again. How foolish you feel, not having realized this sooner. Maybe you were both afraid of wanting too much.

He steps closer and his hand tentatively brushes yours, giving you all the time in the world to pull away. You don't. Not even when his fingers experimentally trace up your arm.

"Tell me to stop." He mumbles as his palm cups your face and his thumb rubs warm against your cheek. You don't answer. You lean into his touch instead.

For a split second, pain flickers across his expression, not because of you, but because of the realization that he's been wrong this whole time. Oh, how long has he convinced himself that this was impossible?

You close the distance before he can.

The kiss is uncertain at first, like you're both just checking to make sure the other is still there. Then, it deepens into something more honest and raw. When you pull back, neither of you speaks. You just look at each other, stunned and breathing a little unevenly.

Then, Newt laughs.

You do too.

It comes out all at once: Relief, doubt, and something oddly giddy you've never felt before. You lean into one another, foreheads pressed against each other, laughing until it hurts.

There's no one else you'd rather do this with, is there? No one else you trust with the mess, or the quiet, or the fear. He's the one you want to laugh with. He's the one you want to cry with. Maybe that's what romance is built on: Just friendship which grows brave enough to expose itself to more.

It is never too childish to want.

It is only human.