Galli

Tongues of fire from the campfire licked the darkness, driving away the gloom and casting orange reflections on the Gladers' faces. Some were laughing loudly, some were whispering, and glass jars filled with cloudy homemade brew passed from hand to hand, clinking loudly. You approached Gally, who sat slightly apart with a stony expression, as if trying to hide himself from the festivities around him

— Do you like girls? you asked with deliberate lightness. Gally frowned, staring into the fire

— All of them? No.

— Do you like me? your voice sounded bold, but a spark of curiosity flickered in your eyes. A pause hung almost painfully, filled only by the crackle of the fire

— … No he finally squeezed out, turning away slightly

— Ah, well okay, bye you tossed, standing up. On your way, you grabbed a glass jar from the table and, swirling it in your hand, walked away toward a distant log. Gally remained silent, his gaze following your back as if he were afraid someone would notice his gaze lingering too long

— I love her escaped his lips quietly, almost inaudibly. At that moment, Newt was passing by. He was just telling Thomas about the Glade's routine, but noticing the scene, he couldn't resist a smirk

— That's Gally, and he's too shy to admit he's in love.

— Shut up Gally grumbled, sharply shifting his gaze back to the fire, but a glint remained in his eyes, directed toward where you were sitting

Prickly on the outside, but too vulnerable on the inside. His words are harsh and dry, but his gaze reveals more than he is willing to admit. He stubbornly denies feelings, although he is drawn to you. There is an eternal struggle between his rudeness and silent affection.