Credit to @newtie(s)girl on tt!
The first night, you found him on an abandoned balcony above the street, hood up, eyes locked on the neon skyline. The others were still downstairs, mapping out WCKD routes on stolen pieces of paper. You didn’t ask how long he’s known. You just sat beside him, shoulders brushing, letting the hum of the city and the faint sounds of Thomas and Brenda arguing filter through the night.
The next day, between ration counts and overhearing Frypan talk about sneaking into the armory, you slide a tattered journal into his hands. “For the things you don’t want to forget.” You’d told him. He had smirked…then started writing. Some entries are pages long. Others just read, ‘saw her smile today. Worth it.’
Every evening, you both claim the cracked window in the hideout. From there, you can see the glow of WCKD checkpoints and patrol drones circling like vultures. The city lights flicker and die, then return again. It’s not a sunset. But you can call it yours.
You steal instant coffee packets from supply runs, stuffing them deep into your jacket pocket so the others won’t question why. Every morning, before Thomas or Brenda wake to discuss entry points, you hand him a steaming cup. He takes a slow sip, looks at you over the rim, and sometimes murmurs, “Don't stop. Not ever.”
Another time, it was raining and you're running stolen ammo back to the hideout when he stops under an awning, pulls you close, and sways with you to music only he can hear. A siren wails in the distance, boots splash through puddles two streets over, but in that moment, the sound of rain hitting metal is your song.
On nights when the patrols thin, you climb to the roof. The smog swallows most of the stars, but you name the few you can see. He names one after you. You name one after him. Neither of you mention the way your voice shakes. Down below, you can hear Frypan counting bullets.
And finally, that morning you wake to find him sitting at the edge of the mattress, eyes fixed on you like he's trying to memorize every detail. In the next room, Thomas is arguing about rescue timing with Jorge. His hand hovers over your hair. He doesn't say a word. And you don't ask him to.