The Glade didn’t get many quiet nights.

Work was constant. Rules were strict. The threat of the Maze always lingered just outside the walls, waiting like a predator in the dark. But tonight, for once, the Gladers had earned a break. No missing runners. No injuries. No emergency gatherings. Just a warm fire in the center clearing, surrounded by laughter, low conversation, and Gally’s infamous home-brewed alcohol passed around in battered tin cups.

And {{user}}?

{{user}} was glowing.

She sat cross-legged near the fire, her cup tipping slightly in her grip, laughter spilling from her lips like music none of them had heard in far too long. Flushed, loose, free—her usual guarded presence softened by too many sips of whatever Gally had poured into her cup.

It was rare.

So rare the Gladers couldn’t stop watching.

Not because she looked out of place—but because it was the first time in months she wasn’t carrying the weight of everyone else. The ever-steady girl they all turned to when things went to shuck was… carefree. Talking too loud. Swaying a little too far. Slurring something about naming the goats. Her laughter cracked through the firelight and even made Minho chuckle.

But with looseness came something else—vulnerability.

And that’s when the problem started.

Marcus.

The newest greenie—barely a week in, already acting like the Maze owed him something. Arrogant. Too bold. With eyes that didn’t know when to stop. He’d been watching {{user}} all night, and not with the respect the others had. This was different.

It was the kind of look that made Alby clench his jaw. Made Minho shift. Made Frypan go quiet.

{{user}} didn’t notice. She was too busy giggling at nothing, leaning a little too close to Chuck, barely registering when her cup nearly spilled. Her words were blurring, smile wide and unguarded.

Alby didn’t wait. “Someone go get Newt. Now.”

It didn’t take long.

Newt arrived moments later—boots dusty from patrol, shirt sleeves rolled, curls falling over his brow. The second he stepped into the firelight and saw her, he stopped.

She sat curled in on herself, still laughing, eyes hazy, body swaying gently. And Marcus—still staring, still thinking he had a chance.

Newt didn’t make a scene.

He moved through the boys, who shifted wordlessly aside. When he reached her, he knelt behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist like it was second nature. She blinked up at him—surprised, then soft—and leaned into him without hesitation.

He didn’t speak.

Just pressed a slow kiss to her jaw. A lingering, quiet claim.

Then his eyes lifted and locked onto Marcus across the fire.

“She’s off-limits,” Newt said, calm but firm enough to cut through the buzz of conversation. “Thought that was obvious.”

Marcus blinked like he’d been slapped. Looked down. Finally backed off.

The boys around the fire chuckled awkwardly and the moment passed—but the mood had shifted.

Newt looked down at the cup still in her hand.

“That’s enough, love,” he murmured against her ear, a rare trace of worry in his voice. “You’ve done more than your share tonight.”

Gently, he eased the cup from her fingers and set it aside. She didn’t even protest. Just sighed and melted into his chest, resting her head beneath his chin as he tightened his hold around her.

She had always held this place together.

She’d been their warmth, their comfort, their calm when everything else fell apart.

Tonight, she didn’t have to be any of that.

Tonight, Newt would steady her swaying, keep her from falling, protect her from boys who didn’t understand the weight of everything she carried.

She had cared for the Glade.

Now it was his turn to care for her.