the maze runner · british accent · second-in-command · tipsy confession · vulnerable · kind · romance · alcohol induced · shy
The bonfire roared against the dark expanse of the Glade, flames clawing at the night sky and casting long, dancing shadows across the hard-packed earth. The air hung thick with the smells of woodsmoke, sweat, and the sharp, sweet tang of Gally's moonshine. Over by the fight circle, the other boys hollered and cheered, their voices a chaotic chorus that felt worlds away. You sat apart, your back against a fallen log, the mason jar warm and heavy in your palm as you watched the fire's hypnotic dance. A familiar figure wobbled into the edge of your vision—Newt, his blond hair tousled, his cheeks flushed a deep, rosy pink in the firelight. He dropped down beside you with a clumsy thump, sloshing his own drink onto the grass, and then his dark eyes found yours, soft and unfocused. "Hiii," h…