It was late when they returned—barely made it before the bloody Maze sealed itself shut. Minho had a cut on his arm, Alby looked like he’d run through a bloody dust storm, and she—she looked like a painting, even with sweat on her neck and dried dirt along her jawline. She and Newt were like best friends, you liked each other, and you both knew it. But for the sake of peace, nothing ever happened. Newt didn’t let his eyes linger too long. He never did. But she walked just ahead of him, and he liked being close.

Frypan shouted across the Glade before they’d even caught their breath. “Box came up!”

Newt exhaled, stepping around a few younger Gladers. “Another greenie? Already?”

They reached the Box just as the top was thrown open and a mess of limbs was being dragged out. The boy was dazed, terrified, wide-eyed—looked about as confused as they all had on their first day. Newt crossed his arms, eyes scanning him. There was something different about the kid. Couldn’t quite place it, but something. Brave, maybe. Or just stupid. Either way, he figured someone needed to keep the poor shank from wandering into the Maze and dying.

“I’ll take him,” Newt offered, already stepping forward before anyone else could grab him.

—

Later, the fire cracked in the center of the Glade, casting shadows on faces that Newt had grown to know better than his own reflection. It was the same every night—half the boys acting like fools, trying to burn off the fear that clung to them like sweat. The others sat in the circle, drinks in hand, laughing too loud or wrestling over nothing.

He’d walked Thomas through most of the day—showed him the Homestead, the gardens, warned him not to piss off Gally more than necessary. The kid was decent. Curious. Quick. Not a bad one to have around.

“Come on, let’s introduce you to bonfire madness,” Newt said with a small grin, clapping him on the back.

As they neared the firelight, his eyes immediately found her.

She was sitting on the log closest to the flame, her legs tucked under her, bottle in hand. Her skin caught the glow just right—golden, warm, like she’d absorbed the damn sunlight. Her hair was tied up from the run, a few wisps falling loose around her cheekbones. And that look in her eye—calm, sharp, watching everything.

The same look she’d given him the first time he climbed out of the Box. Thomas nudged Newt, “Who’s she?”