TW and TMR - Newtmas

Part 7

Thomas' POV

It's been three weeks since we arrived in Beacon Hills.

I still don't remember much. Faces, names, places—none of it ever comes back clearly. Sometimes I'll get a flash of something when I touch an object or hear a voice—like a half-remembered dream—but they're fleeting, like smoke between my fingers.

And I've decided I'm okay with that.

I'm Thomas now. That's the name I earned fighting beside Newt, Minho, and the others. That's the name I almost died under. I'm not trying to forget who I was... I just don't want to be forced to be someone I'm not anymore.

The pack has been... understanding. Even Derek, who always looks like he's trying not to say something, finally stopped watching me like I was going to shatter. He doesn't treat me like someone he used to love—just someone he wants to protect. And I respect that.

Scott still slips up sometimes and calls me "Stiles," but he always apologizes after. He and Isaac are glued together lately, which is actually kind of cute. Lydia and Cora too. There's a lot of that here—couples.

In fact, the whole loft feels like a rainbow pride flag exploded.

Scene – Derek's Loft, Evening

Everyone was spread around the room. Blankets, snacks, and mismatched furniture made the place feel less like a war room and more like a giant sleepover.

Minho was curled up on the couch with Aris, the two of them sharing a huge hoodie and whispering something that kept making Aris blush. Gally and Frypan were squabbling over what movie to put on, while Sonya and Harriet were sitting in the corner doing each other's nails like it was the most important mission of their lives.

Kira and Malia were draped over one of the oversized beanbags, Malia's head in Kira's lap, both of them chuckling at something on Kira's phone.

Scott and Isaac were standing in the kitchen making popcorn, stealing bites and occasionally kissing like they didn't think anyone was watching. (They were wrong.)

I was sitting cross-legged on a mattress on the floor, Newt's head resting in my lap. He was half-asleep, his eyes fluttering closed, soft blond hair brushing my fingers as I played with it absentmindedly.

It felt... safe. Real. Like for once, no one was being hunted. No one was bleeding. We were just... alive.

Newt's POV

Thomas doesn't talk about the memories he doesn't have anymore. And I don't push. I don't want him to feel like I'm waiting for someone else to come back. Because I'm not.

I love this Thomas.
The one who watches movies with me and makes sarcastic comments halfway through.
The one who panics over weird Earth food like "cooked sushi."
The one who sleeps tangled around me like he's afraid I'll vanish.

We almost lost each other more than once. I'm not wasting another second pretending we didn't survive together.

Scott's POV

There's something strange about seeing them all like this. The Gladers—Thomas, Newt, Minho, all of them—they're pack in their own way. Even though they don't have claws or glowing eyes, they carry that same pain. That fight.

They fit in. Weirdly well.

Thomas still doesn't smile the same way Stiles used to. He doesn't crack jokes or ramble or geek out over supernatural weirdness. But there are moments—when he laughs at Newt, or rolls his eyes at Gally, or tosses popcorn at Frypan—when I see a flicker of that old fire. It's not gone.

It's just different.

We're all different now.

Cora's POV

Lydia's head was on my shoulder as we watched Minho make fun of Gally for crying during How to Train Your Dragon. (He totally did.)

"Do you think they're going to stay?" Lydia whispered.

I looked over at Thomas, who was brushing hair from Newt's forehead.

"Yeah," I said softly. "I think they already have."

Malia's POV

Something's coming. I can feel it. Something in the woods.
But for now, I won't say anything.

Let them have this moment.

We've earned it.