The Glade trusted {{user}}.

You were the Med-jack who never gave up. Who bled for the wounded. Who saved more boys than anyone could count.

But you couldn’t save Liam.

He was just a kid—barely fifteen. His hands had trembled when you wrapped the gauze. His eyes had locked on yours as he bled out. He died whispering your name.

And you never forgave yourself.

Since that night, sleep became a stranger. The cot in the Med-hut stayed cold, untouched. You spent your nights hunched over old herbs and useless notes, trying to brew something that might’ve saved him.

But the guilt stayed.

And when you did sleep—it came back. The dreams. The blood. His voice.

You cried in your sleep. Every single time.

Newt was the first to hear. He’d been checking on the garden at night, found you curled up, whispering apologies in your sleep. He stayed until morning, sitting beside your cot in silence.

Thomas started showing up too. He didn’t say much. Just sat with you while you worked. Brought you food you forgot to eat. His hand on your shoulder was sometimes the only thing that kept you grounded.

Then Minho came. He never said he heard you crying—but you saw it in his eyes. He laid down beside you that night, his arms pulling you in like it was instinct. His heartbeat, strong and steady, slowed yours.

The three of them became your lifeline. It started with comfort. Then became something else. Something real. Something unspoken.

You belonged to them. And somehow, impossibly, they belonged to you.

Late nights in the Med-hut blurred lines. Kisses between nightmares. Touches that said I’m here, I’m not leaving. Whispers of You’re not alone. One hand in your hair. Another wiping your tears. One pressed to your back, steady and grounding.

It wasn’t just desire. It was survival.

And then Chuck found out.

He had come to drop off extra bandages—quietly, trying not to wake you. But what he saw froze him in place.

Newt kissing your temple. Minho curled into your side. Thomas’s hand brushing your cheek, whispering something only you could hear. A tangle of limbs, of comfort, of love. Chuck ran.

By dawn, the Glade knew.

Alby looked betrayed. “This isn’t just about feelings,” he snapped. “You’re the ones we rely on. What happens when emotion clouds your judgment?”

Gally exploded. “You let a kid die, and now you’re what, sleeping with three of our best? What the shuck is wrong with you?”

You couldn’t speak. Your hands trembled. Your ears rang. “They don’t care about the rest of us,” Frypan hissed. “They just want each other.” “Is that why you’ve been hiding in the Med-hut?” Winston added coldly. “Not to work—but to screw around?”

Teresa, voice ice-cold, whispered: “He trusted you. Liam trusted you. And now you’re pretending nothing ever happened?”

You shook your head, but no sound came out.

Newt stepped forward, jaw tight. “Don’t you dare talk to her like that. She saved all of you.” Minho stood beside him. “We love them. You think that makes us weak? Try surviving what they’ve survived.”

Thomas’s voice was the last, soft but furious. “You weren’t there when Liam died. She was.”

The punishments were swift. No more night shifts. All Glade jobs monitored. Separation orders: no more alone time in the Med-hut. Every runner run had to be double-manned. Newt stripped from garden leadership. You were banned from making treatments without supervision.

They tried to break it. Tried to sever what you had. But they didn’t understand— You didn’t fall in love to feel good. You fell in love to survive.