The healer [Maze runner Newt x OC]

Chapter nine

Newt stared at the flask like it was poison, then reluctantly took a swig. He coughed too, shaking his head as he handed it back. "Bloody hell. What is this? Battery acid?"

"Keep going," Jorge ordered. "You need to look the part. Drunk is normal in there."

Grace groaned but obeyed, taking another swig. The warmth spread through her chest, and her limbs began to feel lighter. A giddy, unsteady feeling crept over her. "This is a terrible idea," she muttered, wobbling slightly. ''I am not good with alcohol.''

Newt wasn't faring much better, though he seemed more in control. His steps were steadier, his gaze focused. "Right. Let's get this over with before she starts giggling," he said, earning a glare from Grace. ''Hey!''

"Good luck, lovebirds," Jorge said with a smirk, motioning them forward. "And don't mess it up."

Inside the building, the air was thick with the scent of sweat, alcohol, and decay. The dim light flickered unevenly, casting eerie shadows over the crowded space. Laughter and murmured conversations filled the room, though most of the occupants seemed slouched over tables or swaying to muffled music.

"Stick close," Newt murmured, brushing against Grace's arm as they weaved through the throng of people. He shot her a quick glance. "You okay?"

Grace nodded, though her head felt like it was swimming. "Yeah. Just... maybe you should lead."

"Gladly." Newt took the lead, his sharp eyes scanning the room. They needed to find Thomas and Brenda—and fast.

Newt's grip on Grace's wrist was firm as he led her through the chaos of the club. The flashing lights painted his face in shades of red and blue, his expression focused and determined as they weaved through the swaying crowd. The heavy bassline of the music thrummed in their ears, drowning out the murmurs and occasional growls from the Cranks around them.

"Come on, Grace," Newt muttered, his voice barely audible over the noise. "Keep up, yeah?"

She stumbled slightly, the alcohol in her system making her limbs sluggish. Her head felt light, and her pulse raced—not just from the danger surrounding them, but from the steady warmth of Newt's hand holding hers.

"Newt, wait," she called out, tugging on his arm.

"What is it?" he asked, turning to face her with a frown. His eyes flicked toward the crowd, ever watchful for any threat.

Before he could say more, Grace pulled him closer. Her hands gripped his shirt as she rose onto her toes, closing the small distance between them. In one swift, impulsive motion, her lips pressed against his.

Newt froze. For a heartbeat, the noise and chaos of the club faded into nothingness. All he could feel was her, the warmth of her lips, the slight trembling in her hands.

But then reality came crashing back. He gently but firmly pulled away, his hands gripping her shoulders to steady her. "Grace," he said softly, his voice tinged with both concern and hesitation. "What are you doing?"

She blinked up at him, her cheeks flushed, whether from the kiss, the alcohol, or both. "I... I don't know," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "I just... I needed to."

"Grace," Newt said again, more firmly this time. His gaze softened as he looked at her, taking in the faint haze in her eyes. "You're drunk."

Her shoulders sagged slightly under his hands. "So what?" she mumbled, though her voice lacked conviction.

"So," he said, leaning closer so she could hear him clearly, "you're not thinking straight. And you'll regret this later." He brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear, his touch gentle but resolute. "You deserve better than a bloody drunken moment in a Crank-infested club."