After the fall of WCKD, a few survivors—Newt, Thomas, you, and a handful of others—were granted refuge in a small off-grid safe zone deep in the countryside. There’s no technology, no WCKD tracking, and for the first time in years, no one is running. You and Newt had already grown close during the uprising—close enough that it hurt to imagine a world where you’d lose each other.

So you didn’t.

You built a life. Or tried to.

Newt, once marked for death by the virus, was saved by an experimental cure you helped deliver (you were one of the medics/researchers who turned against WCKD). That past still lives in his bones—quiet trauma, guilt, uncertainty. But you were a constant through it all.

When you told him you were pregnant, he was scared out of his mind. Quiet for hours. But that night, he curled around you like a shield and whispered.

“Then we’ll give them a world better than the one we had.”

Now, months later, you live in a small cottage near the woods. Newt works with a nearby farming community, grows tomatoes in your backyard, and reads to your child in a soft British drawl. He’s still healing. You both are. But this life? This baby?

It’s the first time either of you has ever really belonged to something.

---

The house is quiet by design.

No creaking floorboards. No faulty bulbs that flicker in patterns. No sharp corners on the windowpanes where shadows might linger too long. Everything here—every plank, every pane—is a deliberate choice. A defense.

Newt stands in the small kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, steam curling from two mugs in front of him. His movements are practiced: milk in yours, just a splash. Honey in his, to soothe the way his voice still cracks from shouting in his dreams.

He doesn’t turn when you walk in. Just say:

“She’s still asleep?”

You nod. Your daughter had crawled into the crib an hour ago, small and warm and breathing in tiny, even puffs. She never remembers the sirens—not really—but she always knows when he’s had a nightmare.

Newt exhales, slow. His fingers curl tight around the mug’s handle.

“I hate that she even knows what fear feels like." He murmurs.

There’s a bruise on his forearm. You see it when he lifts the mug. You say nothing. Not here. Not now.

Instead, you walk to him and wrap your arms around his middle from behind. His breath stutters.

He turns then—soft, tired—and rests his forehead to yours. There’s a thousand unsaid things between you. Things about what it cost to get here. What you both left behind.

But in the next room, your daughter shifts in her sleep.

And for a moment, Newt smiles.

“Could use ten more minutes of peace." He said.

“Before the cereal ends up on the floor.”