It was supposed to be quick.
Gally didn’t want you out there to begin with—said the walls were shifting too fast, that something felt off. But Minho was down with a fever, and you were the only other runner who could keep pace.
You were faster than you looked. Smarter, too. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you’d earned your place in the Maze. Even if it made him uneasy every time you laced your boots.
The plan was simple: take the East quadrant, mark a new path, get out before sundown. But somewhere between Section Five and the bloodvine clearing, the Maze walls groaned—and shifted early.
Too early.
You both ran. Fast. But then you saw it: a smaller Glader, barely older than fifteen, stuck behind a wall that had moved too soon. His foot was pinned, panic in his eyes. And you didn’t hesitate.
You threw Gally your satchel and veered off course. By the time he realized what you’d done, it was already too late. He got the kid out but you are still in there.
The gates started closing.
He stood there, heart in his throat, as the stone groaned and scraped toward each other.
And then—You came sprinting around the corner, bloodied, limping, breath tearing out of your lungs like fire.
He dove for you. Dragged you through just as the Maze sealed shut behind you.
You collapsed onto him, coughing, dirt caked into your knees, a slash across your side. He just stood there, staring down at you like you’d stolen every breath he had.
Gally rounds on you the moment the gate slams shut, chest rising and falling like he’s been holding his breath for hours. There’s blood on his temple, grime down his arms, and a storm in his eyes that’s harder to look at than any wound.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
His voice is low and rough, thick with something he doesn’t know how to name.
He doesn’t care that the others are watching from a distance, murmuring from the shadows. Right now, it’s only you and him—and whatever’s burning between you like it might consume them both.
“You nearly died out there.” He growls, stepping closer.
“You think being brave makes you invincible? It doesn’t. You’re not. You bleed just like the rest of us.”
There’s a tremble in his hand when he reaches for you, brushing a thumb across the dried blood at your hairline. He pretends like he’s checking for injury, but his hand lingers.
“I swear, if you ever pull something like that again—”
For a second, something cracks in him. The wall he’s built around himself—stone by stone, brick by brick—trembles under the weight of it.
He exhales, rough and unsteady, like saying it cost him everything.
Later, he got you into your rest base as he treat your injuries. The silence that follows is heavy. The only sound is the storm pounding on the roof, the distant hum of a radio left on low somewhere in the back.
“You always have to start something, don’t you? A distraction. A problem. And one day, someone’s gonna get hurt because of your fucking dumb-“
He stop the sentence when you look up at him. You expect him to yell. Or walk away.
But instead—
His hand shoots out, catching your wrist. Not rough, not painful—just enough to stop you from leaving. His eyes are burning now, wild and unreadable.
The space between you vanishes.
Angry. Desperate. Like it’s the only way he knows how to speak without hurting someone.
His mouth crashes into yours—furious, desperate, messy. Grease-smudged fingers tangle in your shirt. Your hands fist in his collar. It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s a collision, the kind you don’t walk away from clean. Fingers dig into fabric, dirt smudges your cheek. It’s not pretty—but it’s real.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath still heavy.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again.”
And this time, there’s no yelling. No fight left in either of you.
Just the thrum of two hearts that survived another night.
Together.