IT STARTED WITH A MAZE - Newt x Reader (F)

- BITTER REALITY -

That night, Newt and I slept together. Not sexually, but that's not what really mattered. We lay side by side, close enough to feel each other's warmth, his arm brushing gently against mine, the faint rise and fall of his breath steady and real against the quiet. I rested my head on his chest, and with my ear pressed against him, I could hear the soft beat of his heart - slow, steady, like a lifeline in the dark. It was a fragile kind of comfort, this closeness without words, without promises or demands. Just the quiet understanding that we are here, together, even if the world outside is falling apart.

I fell asleep that way, with the weight of him grounding me. The night felt less heavy, less cold.

But morning comes too soon.

I wake with the sun filtering faintly through the window, pale golden light stretching over the room in soft, hesitant strokes. The first thing I notice is the empty space beside me. Newt isn't there.

My chest tightens, an ache rising that I don't expect. The warmth from the night before is gone, replaced by the cold press of absence. I sit up slowly, heart starting to pound in the sudden quiet, and the loneliness settles deep - sharper than the chill that creeps over my skin in his absence.

I scan the room. No trace of him. No creak of the door. No hint that he's just stepped out and will be back any second.

Thomas isn't here either.

I drag a hand through my hair, trying to shake the sleep and the knot of worry that's begun twisting in my stomach. My thoughts scatter, disorganized and anxious, like brittle leaves swept up in wind. Where are they? What happened while I slept?

Downstairs, I find Brenda and Jorge. They're sitting together but not really talking. A stillness hangs over them, a kind of quiet that makes the air feel heavier than it should. Brenda lifts her eyes and spots me, and there's a teasing smile tugging at her lips - but it doesn't quite hide the concern beneath it.

"You and Newt looked pretty cozy last night," she says, her voice light and warm, a gentle nudge rather than a real question.

I give a soft chuff, trying to mask the chaos brewing below the surface of my skin. "Yeah," I say, keeping my tone even. Inside, a thousand questions churn like a storm just offshore. Jorge offers a half-smile, but it's weak and quickly fades. After a second, he stands up and murmurs something about going to find Fry, leaving me alone with Brenda. I hesitate. Then glance at her. "Have you seen him this morning?" I ask. "Or Thomas?"

Brenda nods toward the window. "They were outside together, last I saw them. Up on that balcony roof area." She pauses, stepping closer now, her voice lowering like we're slipping into something sacred. "So...?"

I blink, then smile despite myself. I can't hold it back. The memory is still so close I can feel the warmth of it in my bones. "We kissed," I tell her, my voice soft but steady. "And I finally told him that I love him."

Brenda's face lights up, genuine joy breaking across her features like sunlight through stormclouds. "And?" She asks, encouraging more details.

"He said it back," I whisper, and just saying it out loud makes warmth bloom through the lingering cold in my chest, the kind that had started curling in the moment I woke up alone.

"Finally," Brenda says, grinning now, and it's not teasing anymore. It's something real, something filled with relief - like she'd been waiting just as long as I had for that moment to arrive. Her grin eases something inside me, loosens the tight knot that had wound itself around my ribs.

Then Thomas walks in.

"(Y/n)," he says, and the sound of my name from his mouth makes my spine go stiff. He sounds surprised - like he didn't expect to see me standing there, like I've caught him off guard. His voice was quiet, dull, and it strikes me that there's something empty in it. His tone isn't casual, not like usual. There's no edge of teasing or warmth. It's flat. It's tired. "Newt's outside," he goes on, and there's nothing pleasant in the expression on his face. His brows are furrowed deep, his mouth drawn in a tight line, and his eyes - they don't quite meet mine. His whole posture hangs heavy, his shoulders slumping forward. Whatever conversation he's just come from has drained more than his words. "You should go talk to him," Thomas adds, and this time his voice lowers, like he's afraid someone might hear. Like it's something delicate, or dangerous. "He wants to talk to you."