Newt

When the grate rose, Mia stood there with her eyes squeezed shut—haggard, wearing a dirty t-shirt. Without looking back, Newt muttered, "Another one. To the squad in the morning. No skills—you'll be cleaning." She remembered that dry tone. From day one, she understood: Newt pitied no one. "Weakling," "water on schedule"—that was all she ever heard from him. She decided not to get close. She worked in silence.

And then that day came. The Maze shuddered, and the gates began to close. Mia had gone past the markers for a dropped knife and didn't make it in time. The slabs slammed shut, cutting her off from the Glade. Fear washed over her spine like an icy wave. Screaming was useless. She pressed herself against the stone and waited. Footsteps echoed in the tunnel—light, swift. She decided: Grievers.

But out of the gloom emerged Newt—disheveled, without his jacket, carrying a rope and a spear. Without scolding her, he grabbed her by the wrist: "Move it." He led her in short sprints, listening to the rumble. Mia stumbled, but he didn't let go of her hand—he held her gently, as if she were made of glass. By the torches, Newt stopped abruptly and turned her toward him. She expected a shout, humiliation. But suddenly, he pulled her close, holding her tight with both arms, burying his nose in her hair. Mia felt his heart pounding—fast, erratic.

"You could have died," he whispered. His voice cracked. "I thought I wouldn't make it in time."

She hugged him back. He smelled of sweat and dust, but there was no roughness in the embrace. Only a tremor.

"You're lying about not caring," Mia murmured.

Newt pulled back, ran his palm across her cheek—rough, yet soft—and smirked. There was warmth in his eyes.

"Even the roughest egoist is tender with someone," he said. "They just don't tell everyone about it."