the morning air is sharp, cold enough to bite, heavy with damp earth and the last traces of smoke from the fire pit. the glade is just starting to stir, boys dragging themselves awake, but you and newt are already standing off to the side, tension drawn tight between you like a wire about to snap.

“you’re out of your mind,” newt says, voice low, clipped. not loud — but worse than that. disappointed. “you can barely stand straight and you’re sneaking out for runs before sunrise.”

you fold your arms, instinctively guarding your side. it aches, a deep, stubborn throb that reminds you of the slip, the wrong turn, the way the ground came up too fast because you pushed when you shouldn’t have.

“i’m a runner,” you say. “i don’t stop just because i messed up once.”

“once is all it takes,” he shoots back. “especially in the maze.”

his eyes flick to the bandage at your ribs, jaw tightening. “does minho even know you’re doing this?”

you don’t answer.

newt exhales sharply. “right. because if he did, he’d shut it down in a heartbeat. and you know it.”

“he already thinks i’m incompetent,” you say, the words bitter on your tongue. “they all do.”

newt’s brow furrows. “that’s not — ”

“don’t,” you cut in. “i heard them. whispering after the run. one wrong move and suddenly i’m a liability. suddenly i’m the girl who can’t keep up.”

the word hangs there, ugly and heavy.

“i’m the only one,” you continue, quieter now, trying to hold back the tears welling in your eyes, maybe from pain, or maybe desperation. “so i don’t get to be average. i don’t get to be just good. if i’m not better than the best, then i’m proving them right.”

newt scrubs a hand over his face, pacing once like he’s trying to force the words into order. he opens his mouth, closes it. tries again.

“you don’t — ” he starts, then stops, frustration bleeding through. “i’m saying that if something happens to you — “

he shakes his head, jaw tight, like the thought alone hurts.

“ah fuck it,” he mutters, voice rough.

then he steps in and kisses you.

it’s sudden and unplanned, like he’s abandoned words entirely. the kiss is desperate, messy, all the fear and care he can’t explain pressed into it instead. the argument collapses under the weight of it, leaving only the truth neither of you wanted to say first.

when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven.

“getting out of here matters,” he says quietly. “the box staying down, the supplies running out — it’s a death sentence. i know that.”

his hands tighten at your waist.

“but i would give up every chance at escape before i’d let you die like this,” he continues, voice breaking just slightly. “bleeding yourself dry trying to prove you deserve to be here.”

his thumb brushes your jaw, grounding.

“i can’t lose you,” he murmurs. “not like this. not ever.”

then, softer still:

“you’re resting.”

no argument. no debate.

and for the first time since the whispers started, you don’t feel like you’re running alone anymore.