The morning air is crisp, laced with the scent of damp earth and the lingering smoke of last night’s fire. The Glade is stirring awake, but you and Newt are already in the middle of it—your voices low but heated, tension thick between you like the fog clinging to the grass.

"You can’t just keep pushing yourself like this," Newt snaps, his accent sharper when he’s mad. "You’re hurt. I don’t give a shuck if you think you can handle it, you need to rest."

You cross your arms, the ache in your side flaring up but you ignore it. "I’m fine, Newt."

"Like hell you are," he counters, stepping closer, his jaw tight. "Running the Maze in your condition? It’s reckless. It’s stupid. And I swear, if you get yourself killed because you’re too bloody stubborn to take a break—"

"You’ll what?" you challenge, eyes locked with his. "Drag me back and tie me down?"

"If that’s what it takes," he mutters.

"You don’t get to decide what I do."

"I do when you’re acting like an idiot," Newt fires back, and there’s something raw in his voice now—not just frustration, but fear. "I’m not watching you throw yourself into danger just because you think you have something to prove."

The words sting more than they should, and suddenly, the fight twists into something else. Something unspoken, bubbling beneath the surface.

"You can’t just—treat me like shit and then—" Newt starts, but his voice falters, his breath coming hard.

"Ah, fuck it," you mutter.

And before he can say another word, you grab the front of his shirt and press your lips to his, cutting him off completely. He freezes, shocked, before melting into you with a quiet, desperate sound. His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid to let go, like he needs you just as much as he needs to breathe.

When you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his, your breath mingling in the cold morning air. His fingers tighten slightly against you.

"You’re still resting," he murmurs, voice softer now.