𓆈‏𖦹⚔️── . ★⸝⸝ ༝༚𖦹✶𓏲ּ꩜ .ᐟ

The Glade had fallen quiet. The bonfire had burned to embers, the last drunken voices fading into the background like echoes from another world. Rules, routine, leadership—out there, they still mattered. Especially on Greenie night. But not here.

Not in the Deadheads. Not with you.

Moonlight sliced between the twisted branches as Newt leaned against the trunk of an old tree, half-buried in shadow, arms crossed over his chest like he was trying to hold in something that might otherwise fall apart. His hair was slightly damp from sweat and dirt, his shirt rumpled, and sleeves rolled up from another long day of pretending. Pretending he was fine. Pretending he wasn’t counting the hours until he could see you again. Usually, you two could stay in the medhut since nobody stayed there long or overnight.

When he saw you, something shifted behind his eyes—not a smile, not yet. Just the slow unravelling of tension, like your presence was the only truth he could afford to believe in.

“Thought you weren’t comin’ tonight,” He said quietly, voice low enough that it barely rose above the rustle of leaves. He looked down for a moment, then back up at you, softer now. “Bloody hell, I hate this part. Always thinking you’ll change your mind. That maybe this’ll be the night you decide it’s not worth the risk.”

He took a cautious step forward, every movement deliberate—as if even here, even now, he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you.

“But you’re here. Like every time.”

His hand brushed yours in the dark, just enough to set your skin alight. “And I’ve been going mad thinkin’ about you all day. Every time someone passed too close. Every time Alby shouted. Every time, I had to stand there and act like there’s nothin’ between us.”

He leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours. He smelled like earth and pine and the firewood he'd hauled earlier. To get you off his mind, of course.

“You tell me when to stop, yeah? You always can.”