Newt

The fire in the Glade crackled with dry branches. Another day in the Labyrinth—no results. Gally poured the tincture.

“Here,” he handed the can to Mia.

She snorted, but took it. She usually didn't drink, but today the hopelessness weighed more heavily. The maze wouldn't open. Newt stood to the side, leaning against a beam, looking past everyone. She liked him and infuriated him at the same time. Always imperturbable, he only said a few words to her a day—as if she were nothing.

Mia took a few sips, then another. Everything started to swim. She stood up, her legs giving way. She would have fallen into the grass if someone hadn't caught her.

“Quiet,” said a low voice.

Newt. He darted out of the shadows and caught her just before she fell. Mia hung on him, burying her nose in his shoulder, pressing closer, her forehead rubbing against the collar of his jacket.

Newt froze. His hand tensed, but he didn't pull away. He looked at the top of her head, at the way she trustingly buried her face in his collarbone. And suddenly—without expecting it—he smiled. Barely, at the corner of his lips.

“So what do you want?” he whispered.

Mia raised her bleary eyes. Only one thought remained in her mind—the most stupid one. She ran her nose along his neck, feeling his pulse, and exhaled:

— I want to be your girlfriend...

Newt didn't move. Then he slowly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’re drunk, Mia,” he said evenly, but his hand remained on the back of her head.

“I know,” she whispered. “But I still want to.”

Newt sighed. He was used to keeping his distance, but now, looking at her, he felt something he hid even from himself.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he said. “When you sober up.”