The First Glader

13

"George—"

"I know I shouldn't complicate things," he blurted. "We've already got enough going on, and you're dealing with so much, and Newt's here now, and Alby's trying to fit in, and Nick needs you—"

"George."

He froze.

Ada stepped closer, voice quiet but steady. "I didn't walk away because I was angry. Or scared. I just... needed to breathe."

George's shoulders relaxed—only slightly. "Do you regret it?"

Ada looked at him—really looked.

At the freckles across his nose.
The worry in his eyes.
The hope beneath it.
And the heat she had pretended wasn't there.

She swallowed hard. "I... don't know."

George's breath caught.

"I'm still figuring things out," she said. "But you didn't imagine it."

George blinked. "Imagine what?"

Ada's voice dropped to a whisper. "The sparks."

George went absolutely still.

Then, in a voice barely louder than the breeze:
"Good."

Ada's stomach flipped.

George took a single step closer—cautious, seeking permission, not presuming anything.

His voice trembled just slightly. "We can figure it out slow," he murmured. "As slow as you need."

Ada exhaled shakily.

"Okay," she said.

George smiled—small, soft, the kind of smile he'd never given anyone else.

And Ada felt warmth bloom in her ribs, terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

The Glade woke slowly, sunlight filtering through the trees in soft streaks. Chickens clucked near the coop. The baby pigs squealed until Alby tossed feed their way. Nick and George argued about knots again—loudly, pointlessly, endlessly.

Ada pretended not to listen.

She sat near the garden rows with Newt, showing him how to prune the plants without damaging the stems. He watched her hands closely, mirroring her movements. Every now and then he leaned a little too far into her side, seeking reassurance without realizing it.

Ada didn't mind.

He was warm. Steady. Quiet in a way that soothed her.

But someone else was watching.

George hadn't taken his eyes off her since dawn. He didn't hover, didn't interrupt, didn't crack jokes—he was just aware of her, tracking her movement the way her eyes tracked threats in the Maze.

Whenever she glanced up, she'd catch him looking.
And every time, he'd quickly look away, cheeks flushing a bit darker.

Newt noticed.

He nudged her lightly. "He's been staring at you all morning."

Ada pretended to focus on the plants. "Ignore him."

"Can't," Newt whispered. "His eyes are too... obvious."

Ada nearly choked, trying not to laugh. "Newt."

"What? They are!" he insisted. "If he looks at you any harder he's going to combust."

Ada didn't have to look to know George immediately glanced away the moment she did.