The First Glader

13

Ada didn't sleep well that night.

She lay awake long after the others settled—listening to George turn over in his bed of woven grass too many times, listening to Nick's steady breathing, listening to Alby sharpen a stick outside until the rhythmic scrape faded into silence.

Every time Ada closed her eyes, she saw it again—

George leaning in.
His voice husky, almost broken.
"You've got no idea what you do to me."

Her heart stumbling at the sound.
Her breath stopping.
Her inability to lie—to him, to herself.

She never should've let him get that close.

When dawn broke, she slipped out of the shelter before anyone else stirred.

She needed air.

She needed space.

Except she'd barely made it ten steps when a voice behind her broke the quiet.

"Ada?"

She turned.

Newt stood in the doorway, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, curls messy from sleep. He looked half-dreaming, half-worried.

"You're up early," he whispered.

Ada tried for a smile. "Couldn't sleep."

Newt stepped forward, bare feet brushing through the grass. "Did something happen?"

Ada froze.

Newt didn't look suspicious—just concerned. Gentle. He was too intuitive for a fifteen-year-old boy freshly ripped from his entire life.

"Nothing happened," Ada said quietly.

Newt studied her face. It made Ada uncomfortable—the way he looked at her like he could see straight through her shields.

"You look..." He paused, searching. "Shaken."

Ada's breath caught.

Newt hesitated, then wrapped the blanket tighter around himself. "You don't have to tell me. I just... didn't want you feeling alone."

She exhaled, something soft and painful loosening in her chest.

"Come walk with me," she murmured.

They moved through the dew-damp grass toward the lake. Newt stayed close—not clinging, just near enough she could feel his warmth beside her.

When they reached the water, Ada expected him to stay silent.

But Newt surprised her.

"Is it George?" he asked softly.

Ada's heart stopped.

"What makes you think that?"

Newt lowered himself to sit on a flat rock, pulling his knees up. "He didn't look right last night. Kept staring at the shelter after you walked away."

Ada's pulse quickened. She sat beside him.

Newt rested his chin on his knee. "Did you two argue?"

"No," Ada said too quickly.

Newt gave her a tiny, knowing look—the kind that made him seem older than fifteen.

"He cares for you," Newt murmured.

Ada stared at the rippling water. "I know."

"And you care for him."

The words hit her harder than she expected.