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

- EPILOGUE -

The ocean's steadiness hums behind us, waves folding softly onto the shore. I'm pressed against Newt, feeling the consistant rise and fall of his chest, his arms wrapped tight around me. The smell of salt clings to his skin, mingling with tears I didn't know I still had left.

"I'm so sorry," Newt's voice breaks, barely above a whisper. "I- I hurt you-"

I pull back just enough to look at him, searching his eyes, so full of pain and guilt. And then I laugh - soft and shaky, because what else can I do? We're both here. We're both breathing. Against all odds. "You idiot," I say, a smile cutting through the tears. "We're alive. That's all that matters."

Newt lets out a breathy laugh, uneven and tired. He pulls me a little closer, his hands trembling slightly as they settle on my waist. "I owe you everything," he goes quietly. "I never thought I'd get the chance to say that properly, but... thank you. For saving me. For not giving up." I breathe him in - the fresh air, the florals of soap, the beat of his heart - and say nothing more. Because right now, words don't matter. Just this.

I cried when I hugged Newt. Not just the relief of seeing him alive, but everything that had carried me here. The unbearable hope. And then I cried harder the longer I re-hugged all my friends, feeling the solidity of their presence, the warmth that stitched together the ragged edges of my soul. We are genuinely safe. The thought settled slowly, heavy and unreal all at once. Then, honestly, I went back to bed.

When I woke, the sun was already dipping, painting the sky in soft hues. I hadn't done anything all day but rest. Someone had left a pair of worn shoes by my cot and a jacket, threadbare but clean. I knew it was Newt - who was dozing in the little hut's chair. I pulled them on, the fabric strange but comforting, like a new skin.

A doctor came by, quiet and gentle, with a tray of pills and fresh bandages. The painkillers dulled the sharp edges of the shooting aches in my stomach. I felt weak - more than weak - but a little less like the world was collapsing inside me. Sonya and Harriet stopped by, their faces a mix of concern and relief. Harriet gave me a soft smile, the kind that says I'm grateful you're still here without needing to speak it out loud.

I spent hours on the beach, just sitting, watching the waves pull in and out. My friends and I lay in the sun, letting its warmth seep through our skin, chasing away the cold that never truly leaves after a wound like this. The steady rhythm of the ocean was a balm, endless and patient. Then my friends had gone off to their own tasks, allowing Newt and I more time together. Because for once, time is something we have a lot of.

Then when Newt was sitting beside me, I told him I'd read his letter. His eyes softened, shadows lifting for a moment.

He confessed, almost shyly, that he found my journal after everything - the chaos, the fire. I didn't even realise it would have been brought here. I think Brenda might have had something to do with it. I'm unsure. But Newt swore it just... fell open. I want to believe him. After all, I'd left the corner of the page folded down, the one I wrote just for him, as if leaving a breadcrumb in the wreckage.

It was strange and beautiful - the way we had both been grasping onto words of love in secret. Before either of us knew the other felt the same. It wasn't about promises for a future we couldn't be sure of. It was about holding on, even when the world was breaking, even when death felt close. When all that mattered was the truth.

We laughed softly at the irony, but underneath it was a wonderful realisation of how deeply we are loved.

Now, the fire crackles low, its flickering orange and gold casting soft light on every face gathered around. The sun is sinking beyond the horizon, bleeding streaks of pink, purple, and deep blue across the sky. Shadows stretch long over the earth, but the fire keeps the center of camp warm, alive. Nearly a hundred and fifty of us are here - survivors, fighters, the immune and the lucky, all drawn close under a shelter of makeshift tarps pulled tightly overhead. The fabric ripples gently in the breeze, the occasional soft flap blending into the sound of ocean waves somewhere beyond.