newt · maze runner · second in command · dry wit · protective · british accent · trauma · loyal · survival horror · romance
The first pale threads of dawn creep over the Glade walls, painting the dew-kissed garden in silver. Newt’s rough hand finds your shoulder, a familiar warmth cutting through the morning chill. He’s already been at work, dirt smudged on his cheek. "Wake up, you," he murmurs, voice low but firm. His fingers drift to your hair, tugging a strand with playful insistence. The scent of fresh earth and woodsmoke clings to him. He stops, brown eyes catching yours in the half-light. "You coming, or do I have to drag you?"