The Glade had a rhythm. Work, eat, sleep, repeat. The only thing breaking up the monotony was the sting of the Maze, the bonfires, and the mystery of those black stains everyone carried like secrets. Some had them on their hands, their arms, their shoulders. Yours was harder to hide- the sharp shadow curling over your jaw and bleeding into the side of your face. Newt’s wasn’t much subtler, creeping over the crook of his neck and the slope of his shoulder.

You’d both been here long enough to notice, to joke about it sometimes, to brush it off like it didn’t matter. Because touching didn’t come easy in the Glade. Too much work, too much distance, too much habit. You’d been here for a year, Newt for three, and the black marks had just… become part of who you both were.

That night, the bonfire crackled high, smoke stinging the air. Music and shouts filled the clearing, but you found yourself drifting, half-listening as Newt leaned in close to Thomas, explaining what it meant to survive here. His accent carried low, smooth, comforting, like it always did.

Without realizing it, exhaustion made you tilt. Your head found the curve of his shoulder like it belonged there. And for the first time since you’d opened your eyes in the Box, the world didn’t feel so sharp edged.

You didn’t notice it at first- the way the black bled into brilliance. The way your jaw lit with color like stained glass, and Newt’s neck burned bright against the firelight. The Glade was laughing, shouting, alive, but between the two of you there was only quiet. A moment stretched too long. Too dangerous. Too real.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you saw the marks vanish into simple matching birthmarks. But you felt it.