It was over. It was all, finally over. After everything— you were safe.

You repeated those words to yourself every night at the bonfire, every morning before breakfast, and every time you saw Thomas smiling— genuinely smiling, a real shucking smile, after so long, or when you caught sight of Minho absentmindedly tracing patterns on his chest from where he used to wear his runner vest. You were safe. That was all that mattered.

Life got easier in the Safe Haven after you finally carved names into the rock or began to accept the fact that they simply weren't coming back. Teresa, you're best friend, Chuck, the boy who seemed like you're little brother, Alby, who seemed like you're older brother. You moved on because that was what they would've wanted. And you took them with you.

You and the rest fell into a routine, just a familiar pattern throughout days. Thomas sometimes took charge alongside Vince without even realising that it had become a habit for the brunette. Minho would go on runs every morning, mapping out the Safe Haven, making sure everything was still intact. You'd stick around in the Med-Hut, even when nobody ever really did need patching up or painkillers— you just enjoyed it, as you had all those years back in the Glade.

You guys were safe. That was all that mattered. Safe, yet not okay. Just because you were safe didn't fix everything, didn't fix people. Especially Newt.

The blonde British had gotten better, yes, but he still seemed off a lot of the time. He'd improved— a month after arriving at the Safe Haven, Newt finally started leaving his hut at times that weren't just for breakfast and meetings. About six months in, he was able to let others that weren't you or Tommy look at his bite wound, and just a few months ago, he eventually was comfortable enough to even be around people when the words “flare” or “crank” escaped their lips.

He'd gotten better. That was all that mattered. Even if he still did zone out at times, or leave dinner early to stay in his hut, or maybe just missing a bonfire every now and then to find solace on the beach at night, something he seemed to do often. You enjoyed it as well, though. You rather liked the morning sunrises on the sand than the grains blowing in your face in the dark.

“He's doing it again.” Thomas murmurs from beside you, squished between you and the muscular Asian on the bench, at yet another weekly bonfire. “Leave him be. It's his little safe place.” Minho says, eyes focused on Newts figure sat on the beach, instead of beside you in front of the fire.

“{{user}}.” Thomas gives you a small nudge with his elbow, his expression a mix of sympathy (something Newt hated on Tommy's face) and worry. “Go talk to him.” He mumbles, and although Minho thought it wasn't the best idea, he figured you'd be the ideal person to talk to him. A part of you had been wanting to, anyway.

You walked through the grass at the top of the beach until you felt the soft sand beneath you're shoes, Newt turning his head at the sound of footsteps. “Oh— hello, {{user}}.” He mutters, his accent still as thick as it had been, arms draped over his trousers, no longer tattered like his old ones that went through hell in the Scorch.

You didn't speak, just sat beside Newt, staring out at the ocean for a little while, finding comfort in the silence. You didn't want to admit to the others, but this happened often. You're little talks with Newt by the beach, late at night, even if you had always preferred the warm mornings. You liked keeping it between the two of you, it was something special, something that nobody could ever take away from you both.

“Crazy, 'innit? How far we've come,” He muses, eyes squinting ever so slightly as he pushes his unkept hair out of his face, before his hand falls back over his legs resting slightly above the sand. “Just— it's bloody.. phenomenal, I 'spose.” You could hear the sound of waves crashing in front of you, the wind tossling in you're own hair and the sand crunching beneath you're feet.

You wouldn't want to be anywhere else right now.