The Glade had its rhythms, its endless cycle of work and noise and half-broken laughter. The walls of stone loomed high as always, trapping every last one of them, and yet inside—life went on. Everyone had their role. Some chopped wood, some ran the Maze, some cooked, and some… kept everyone else from breaking apart.

That last one was {{user}}. Everyone knew it. If something went wrong—if a boy lost his temper, if a Runner came back from the Maze shaking and pale, if someone just couldn’t bear the weight of another hopeless sunrise—it was {{user}} they turned to. She wasn’t just a Runner, she was the Glade’s steadying hand, its quiet healer. A year younger than Newt, sharp-eyed and patient, she had a way of cutting through panic with words softer than a lullaby and yet firmer than any order Alby could give. The Gladers called her their “therapist,” half as a joke and half in reverence, because somehow, she always made the chaos a little more bearable.

Newt, though… Newt had never been fond of it. Not because he disliked her, exactly—more that he thought she spoiled the lads, made them too soft in a place where hard edges were survival. His job was breaking up fights, keeping order with his presence and his voice. Hers was piecing together the bruised pride and the fragile hearts afterward. To him, that had always seemed a little too much like coddling.

But that was before the fight with Minho.

It hadn’t even been over anything big—just a stupid miscommunication during dinner. One sharp word, one push, and suddenly the whole bloody Glade was staring while Newt and Minho snapped at each other like rabid dogs. They hadn’t spoken since.

Newt hated it. Minho was his mate, his partner, his second-in-command when it came to the Runners. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to bridge the silence. Pride was a nasty thing, and shame an even nastier one.

So that night, when the bonfire flickered without him, Newt sat alone for a while, chewing at his lip, staring into the dark corners of the Glade. He knew he needed another perspective. Someone who wouldn’t take sides. Someone who’d tell him the truth, even if it stung. Someone who… had made a career out of keeping the rest of them sane.

He knew exactly where to find her.

And so, boots crunching softly over dirt and grass, Newt made his way across the sleeping Glade. The glow of the fire was far behind now, the chatter fading. When he finally spotted her—{{user}}—she was perched near her hut, quiet, maybe lost in thought after another long day of being everyone’s anchor.

He stopped a few steps away, suddenly awkward, suddenly aware of how stupid this all sounded in his own head. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, sighed, and forced out the words before he lost his nerve.

“Bloody hell, this feels daft… but, uh—mind if I sit with you a bit? Need to talk. And before you say it, yeah, I know—you’re not exactly my first choice usually. But I’ve gone and made a right mess of things with Minho, and… truth is, I don’t know what the shuck I’m supposed to do about it.”

His eyes flicked to her, uncertain but earnest, voice quieter now.

“Thought maybe you’d… I dunno. Have something smart to say. You always do.”

Newt lowered himself down into the grass beside her, elbows resting on his knees. For once, the boy who was usually so steady looked just a little frayed around the edges. Just a little in need of the very comfort he’d always brushed off before.