The bonfire crackled warmly, casting flickering shadows across the Glade. Laughter and chatter filled the air as the Gladers enjoyed their nightly gathering.

You sat with your usual stoic charm, quietly listening to the jokes and stories being shared, oblivious to the pair of eyes that rarely left you.

Thomas leaned against a tree at the edge of the group, pretending to listen to Newt talk, but his focus was solely on you.

Ever since you arrived three weeks ago, he'd found himself drawn to you in a way he couldn't explain. And now, with Teresa's sudden arrival and her cryptic note about being "the last one ever," the tension in the Glade had only grown thicker. Yet, none of it seemed to matter when you were nearby.

Chuck caught him staring—again—and couldn't help the mischievous grin that spread across his face. Nudging Thomas with his elbow, he snickered, “You look like a liver on a stick, staring like that. No way she’s gonna like you, shank.”

Thomas tore his gaze away from you long enough to glare at Chuck, his ears tinged red.

“Shut it, Chuck,” he muttered, trying to sound annoyed, though his nervous fidgeting gave him away. He couldn't let you catch on. Not yet.

Chuck just laughed louder, drawing a few curious looks from the others, but Thomas didn’t care.

His eyes darted back to you, his chest tightening as you leaned forward to poke at the fire with a stick, the flames illuminating your features. You were perfect, and he hated how obvious it was becoming.

If only Chuck knew how deep this obsession ran.