Threads of Hope | A Newt x Reader Story

09

Thomas hesitated for a moment before exhaling sharply and walking off, leaving Newt and me alone in the rain.

The storm raged around us, but neither of us moved, both still staring at the Maze, waiting.

Newt let out a slow breath, his grip still firm on my shoulder as the rain pounded against the wooden shelters around us. The Gladers were scattered, some huddling under cover, others still staring toward the Maze entrance as if sheer willpower alone could bring Alby and Minho back.

I turned slightly, looking up at Newt. His jaw was tense, his gaze locked on the gaping darkness beyond the doors. He was worried—I could feel it in the way his fingers tightened unconsciously against my arm, in the way his body was rigid beside mine.

"They're late," I murmured.

Newt exhaled through his nose. "I know."

The rain didn't let up, soaking the ground, turning the packed dirt to thick mud. I could hear Thomas pacing a few feet away, his frustration evident in every sharp turn he took.

"They should be back by now," I said again, this time barely above a whisper.

Newt finally turned his head, his expression carefully guarded. "We don't think like that," he said. "Not yet."

But I could tell he was thinking it.

I sighed, wrapping my arms around myself as another roll of thunder echoed overhead. "I hate this part," I admitted. "The waiting."

Newt let out a soft, humorless chuckle. "Yeah. Me too."

We stood there in silence, the rain drumming against the Glade, the wind howling through the gaps in the walls. I felt Newt shift beside me, his hand hesitating for just a second before he slowly slid his fingers through mine. 

"They'll make it," he said again, quieter this time.

I nodded, gripping his hand just a little tighter. "They have to."

𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢

The rain had finally let up, leaving behind the scent of damp earth and the soft squelch of mud beneath our feet. The Gladers stood huddled near the entrance of the Maze, shoulders tense, eyes locked on the dark stone walls. The air was thick with quiet anticipation, the only sound the occasional drip of water from the trees.

Then, a loud creak shattered the silence.

"Come on, guys," Thomas spoke up, desperation laced in his voice. "Can't we send someone after them? Y/N is a Runner—she could go."

Newt let out a sharp breath beside me, his fingers tightening their protective grip around my hand. "No," he snapped, his tone firm. "That's against the rules."

Gally scoffed, arms crossed as he shook his head. "Either they make it back, or they don't."

I sighed, leaning into Newt's side, my heart sinking at the truth of his words. "Can't risk losing anyone else," I murmured, more to myself than anyone else.

The Maze groaned, its mechanical gears grinding against the stone. A powerful gust of wind rushed through the opening, sending a chill down my spine.

"Oh no," Chuck whispered, his small voice barely heard over the deep rumble of shifting walls.

The doors were starting to close.

Then—movement.

A shadow emerged from the dark corridor, then another. Minho, dragging a barely conscious Alby, stumbling beneath his weight.