Newt x Reader || A13

The sun is warm on my face as I turn it up towards the sky. I raise my fingers, forming a square shape to block out the walls of the maze. I pretend I exist somewhere else. Anywhere else.

It's been three days since I Julian caught me in the map room: three days of holding in burning questions which I'm afraid to ask.

The glade is settling down behind me as the sun sets, falling lower and lower behind the maze walls. The runners should be back soon.

I look down and head towards the fight circle where the other Gladers are probably lining up for dinner, but then I stop.

The impulse to spend time alone and just think wins over, and I sigh, heading in the opposite direction.

I find myself heading down the familiar path towards the maze.

A sharp right along the towering stone wall has me approaching the wall of names within minutes.

They're still there, each one carved into stone, a permanent reminder of the boys' presence here. I trace through the letters, descending and descending until I stop.

My breath catches.

Right under Newt's name, scratched into the wall in careful, arced letters is my own.

I smile, bringing my hand up to run my fingers through the smooth grooves of each letter.

"Did you do this?" I ask Newt, who stands behind me.

"How'd you-"

"I heard you." The familiar shuffling of his limp renders him identifiable from anywhere- at least to me.

He approaches me and settles for a spot at my side where in my peripheral vision, I'm able to see him watching me.

"Did you?" I ask, meeting his eyes and gesturing to my name. He nods.

"A couple nights ago," He responds, eyes holding mine, "figured you're a part of the Glade now despite everything that's happening." I smile, looking away from his face glowing faintly in the torchlight and down at the dirt beneath my boots.

"I-" I start, then stop, unaware of what to say, how to thank him.

"It's just a couple scratches on a wall, really." He scratches the back of his neck. The familiar action tugs at something within me, tugs at my lips to part and properly thank him.

"You're right," I say, "but thank you." I take a step towards him. "You've helped me so much since I've gotten here, and I want to do something for you." I say.

He holds my gaze for a moment too long.

He holds my gaze for a moment too long which tells me exactly what I've been searching for.

"You already have." He says quietly, breaking the silence between us. He's too close; I watch as torchlight and shadows dance across the planes of his face.

"I don't-" I start, but he cuts me off. He steps towards me until his face becomes fully illuminated by the torch on the wall. The shadows fall away.

"Every day." He says, still stepping nearer and nearer. I grip fast to any semblance of awareness or comprehensibility I have left and hold tight.

"Newt-"

"Trust me." he insists, his face close to mine, the close proximity doing things to me I wish it wouldn't. Heat creeps up my neck, and warmth floods my cheeks, a certain warmth I'm not used to, but one I'd like to familiarize myself with in the future.

"I do," I say as he looks into my eyes, "always." He's so close to me that I can feel the warmth of his breath fan across my face as he exhales, I can hear his every inhale, and I can smell him; a faint musky scent I've grown to be able to recognize everywhere.

And he smiles.

I can't deny that I feel something for him, even if I try to suppress it every day, each time I see him.

His smile draws me out of my thoughts as easily as it led me into them.

His smile.

It's the smile of someone who's laughed with ease even having seen me under my behaviour.

He's the kind of person who's lived how he's believed he himself should regardless of his forgotten past, continually pushing on for the sake of others, and fully accepting of me, as if my flaws are entirely invisible to his gaze.

He's a crutch to lean on, an ear ready to listen, and the glue which keeps us together, which keeps me together.

Yet, most of all, he's my friend.

He makes me want to be better for him, but even more, he makes me want to get into the maze and find a way out. I want to find a way out for him, and for everyone else.

He brings his hand up from between us and shocks me by gently touching my face with the palm of his hand: the first deliberate intimate contact between us.

I hope he cannot feel the heat that rises to my cheeks.

I open my mouth to speak, but no words surface. I remain frozen under his hand.

"Don't move." He whispers.

His eyes never leave mine; little specks of gold dance with the brown of his irises. I watch him carefully, wordlessly, as he lowers his eyebrows and parts his lips in what may be confusion or unfamiliarity. Little wrinkles appear on his forehead between his eyebrows as he studies me, watches me.

I don't know what to do. He cups my face with a feathery touch, a perfect fit. I stay completely still, afraid of moving and disrupting the moment and the feeling the tiniest bit.

I let my eyes close as he brings up his other hand and holds it against my other cheek.

For weeks, I've tried to put aside my feelings for Newt. I've told myself over and over that they're not real, and that even if they were, nothing would ever work between us: not here, especially not in the glade.

But this moment- it's his. He makes all of my moments his.

But if that makes him a thief, I'm a willing victim.

I should tell him now; maybe he'll let me run. I open my eyes so I'll be able to watch him as I tell him, but I freeze as all I see is him leaning forwards, bringing his face closer to mine.