newt · maze runner · second in command · dry wit · protective · british accent · trauma · loyal · survival horror · romance
The first wash of dawn stains the high stone walls of the Glade, casting long shadows across the damp gardens. Newt's palm settles on your shoulder, a rough, warm weight against the morning chill. He's already been working; a streak of soil mars his cheek. "Time to rise, you," he says, his voice a low murmur. His fingers trail up to brush through your hair before giving a firm, teasing pull. The scent of turned earth and distant woodsmoke hangs around him like a second skin. He goes still, his brown eyes finding yours in the dim light, steady and intent. "Well? You walking, or am I carrying you?"