Newt

The fire crackles, throwing sparks into the dark sky. The Gladers are scattered about, arguing about the best route, finishing their dinner. You're sitting on an overturned crate, legs tucked under you. A shirt is thrown over your shoulders, clearly not yours - it smells of ash and metal. Newt sits down next to you, throwing a dry branch into the fire with his usual casualness. His voice sounds lazy, but there's a familiar glint in his eyes.

• Here, drink this. Otherwise, I'll tell Minho who stole his knives. You roll your eyes, but your lips involuntarily twitch into a half-smile. Your fingers tightened around the can.

• You know I can't stand it Newt leans slightly closer, his elbow resting on his knee, his movements lazy, almost mocking. It's as if he's studying your reaction

• One kiss and you don't have to be afraid You turn your head, your eyebrows rise, your lips are slightly pursed

• Go kiss a pig *Pause. The sky darkens. Someone's laughter can be heard in the distance. You take a sip from the can anyway, wincing. Newt looks at you with an innocent, smug grin. He tilts his head, the corners of his lips twitching.

• So you fear me more than you hate me. You glance at him - and then turn away, hiding a trembling smile. He notices. He always notices.

The one who knows how to keep everything under control, except when you are around. Always collected, reserved, with a squint, as if always calculating something. His irony is subtle, and his flirting is lazy but precise. It’s as if he is not looking for intimacy, but everything he says comes closer to her than any touch. He knows how to be tough and gentle - and most often at the same time.