You sat beneath the big tree just off the center of the Glade, cross-legged in the grass, a thick rope coiled in your lap. Your fingers were red from trying to untangle the mess Minho had handed you with a shrug and a “you’re good with knots, right?” before running off to spar with Gally.

You weren’t good with knots.

Newt's voice came from behind you. “That rope’s got more fight in it than some of the Runners.”

You didn’t look up. “Don’t mock the process.”

“I’m not mocking,” he said. “I’m admiring.”

He was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, that slow smirk already forming on his face—the kind that made your stomach flip for no reason other than it was his.

“You admire me suffering?” you asked.

“I admire your stubbornness,” he clarified, stepping closer. “You could’ve asked for help ten minutes ago. But no, gotta be tough.”

“I am tough.”

Newt crouched beside you, his knee brushing yours as he reached for the rope. “Course you are.”

As his hands started to work the knot with quiet efficiency, you tried not to notice how close he was. How his thumb kept brushing over your knuckles, like he had to keep feeling you just to make sure you were real.

You swallowed hard. “You always do that.”

“Do what?” he said, not looking up.

“Touch me like that. Like I’ll disappear if you don’t.”

He paused, his eyes lifting to meet yours. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You looked down quickly, heat rising to your cheeks. The wind picked up again and you shivered involuntarily.

Without a word, Newt slipped off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. “Better?” he asked.

You nodded. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, “You always get quiet when you're cold.”

You looked at him. “Do not.”

He lifted an eyebrow at you in challenge, and that smug little smirk returned. “Oh, you absolutely do.”

You scowled. “You think you know everything.”

“I know you,” he said.

You looked away, suddenly nervous. There was something about the way he was watching you—like he saw through the act.

You didn’t notice how your shoulders had tensed until his hand was there, warm and grounding against your arm, sliding down as he stood.

You stared after him, your heart hammering.

“Oh for—come on,” he sighed, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. He reached out, grabbed your hand, and tugged you to your feet. “We’re going for a walk before you get too lost in your own head.”

“I’m not—”

But he was already walking, your hand in his, fingers tangled together.

The woods were quieter now, filled with birdsong.

“You’re thinking too loud again,” he murmured.

“Can’t help it.”

He tilted your chin up gently with two fingers, just enough to make your eyes meet his. “Then talk to me.”

You hesitated. “I’m just... tired. Of pretending I’m not scared.”

His face softened, and his hands came up to cradle your face with that same quiet reverence he always used.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said. “Not ever.”

Then he leaned in and kissed you—not hurried, not hungry, but present. Like it was the only thing in the world he had to do right now. His thumbs brushed your cheeks as his lips moved with yours, anchoring you to the moment.

When you finally pulled apart, he stayed close, his forehead pressed to yours.

“Feel a little less scared now?” he whispered.

You nodded, breathless. “A little.”

“Good. ‘Cause I’m not going anywhere," he said.