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Minho’s feet sank slightly into the cool sand with each step, the grains shifting and crunching softly beneath his weight. The air smelled of salt and something sweet, like the ocean had decided to be kind tonight. Waves rolled lazily against the shore, each crest glowing faintly blue before tumbling into foamy white.
“Bloody hell,” Newt muttered ahead of him, his voice soft with awe. He crouched, reaching out to touch the glowing water as it lapped at his bare feet. The tips of his fingers brushed the surface, and the algae flared brighter, scattering tiny flecks of light that drifted out like stars being born.
Minho watched him, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with running.
Newt’s hair was a bit messy, sticking to his forehead in loose strands from the sea breeze, and his shirt was rumpled like he’d pulled it on in a hurry just to follow Minho out here. His eyes, though—they were steady and bright, reflecting the glow like they held pieces of the ocean inside them.
“You seeing this, Minho?” Newt asked, glancing over his shoulder with that small smile that always undid him.
Minho grinned. “I’m seeing you make a fool of yourself over glowing water.”
“Oh, piss off.” Newt flicked a handful of the water at him, droplets scattering into brief sparks of blue before vanishing into the sand.
Minho laughed, jogging the last few steps to reach him. “You think you can just throw glowing water at me and not face the consequences?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Minho tilted his head, eyes narrowing playfully. “Try me.”
Newt took a step back, smiling wider now—one of those smiles that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made Minho feel like the luckiest idiot alive.
The water glowed faintly as it curled around Newt’s ankles, each ripple sparkling before it melted back into darkness. The night felt alive, like the whole world had conspired to make this one moment theirs.
Minho lunged.
“Minho—don’t you—!”
But Newt’s protest broke off into laughter as Minho caught him around the waist, lifting him slightly and spinning him toward the shallows. The two of them stumbled into the water, both of them laughing as they splashed down together.
It was cold at first, but the way Newt’s hand instinctively clung to Minho’s shoulder made Minho forget about everything else. The glowing algae flared brightly around them with every movement—each splash like fireworks in the night.
Minho shoved wet hair out of his face, grinning down at Newt. “Told you there’d be consequences.”
“You’re a menace,” Newt said, laughing breathlessly as he tried to push Minho away, but his grin didn’t falter.
Minho leaned closer, eyes locked on his. “And you love it.”
“Yeah,” Newt said, softer this time, almost like he hadn’t meant to let the word out.
Minho froze for half a second—long enough to see the way Newt was looking at him now, all traces of teasing melting into something more fragile, more open.
The waves rolled gently against them, glowing brighter for a moment as if they understood.
---
Minho’s hands were still on Newt’s waist, steadying him as the waves lapped against their legs. The glow around them shimmered with every ripple, like the ocean itself was trying to join in their laughter.
Newt was still grinning, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. He reached down and splashed a handful of water straight into Minho’s chest. “Consider that payback.”
“Oh, it’s like that now?” Minho said, mock-offended.
Newt barely had time to duck before Minho sent a tidal wave of glowing water his way. Newt shrieked—a sound so uncharacteristic that Minho burst out laughing.
“You’re dead!” Newt sputtered, launching himself at Minho with an energy that would’ve put half the Gladers to shame.
They stumbled, wrestled, splashed, until both of them were breathless from laughing. Minho couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this light, this unburdened. No running, no fighting, no thinking about tomorrow—just Newt, glowing water, and the sound of his laughter mixing with the soft crash of waves.
At some point, Newt gave up trying to win and collapsed back into the water, spreading his arms out like he wanted to let the ocean take him. “Alright, alright,” he panted, chest rising and falling as he stared up at the stars. “You win, you bloody brute.”
Minho stood over him for a moment, water dripping from his hair, before dropping down beside him with a grin. “Damn right I do.”
They lay there, side by side in the shallow waves. Every small movement made the water light up around them—tiny flares of blue blooming and fading.
Minho tilted his head to watch Newt. There was something about the way the soft glow clung to him—the faint shimmer on his skin, the way it traced the curve of his jaw—that made him look unreal, like he belonged to some better, gentler world.
“You look ridiculous,” Minho said finally, because words that weren’t teasing felt too heavy in his throat.
Newt turned his head lazily to look at him. “Yeah? Takes one to know one.”
Minho laughed under his breath.
There was a beat of quiet. The waves murmured softly around them, the sky endless and clear above.
Newt shifted slightly onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. His eyes softened as he studied Minho, and for a moment Minho felt stripped bare under that gaze—like Newt could see every piece of him he tried to keep hidden.
“You’re staring,” Newt murmured.
“Yeah,” Minho said, voice low, honest.
---
Minho didn’t look away.
Newt’s gaze stayed locked on his, steady and unguarded. The teasing edge was gone now, replaced with something quieter—something that made Minho’s chest feel too tight.
The ocean hummed around them, glowing gently with every rise and fall of the tide. The night was warm, but Minho felt shivers running through him anyway—shivers that had nothing to do with the water.
Newt let out a small, breathless laugh, like he didn’t know what to do with the weight of the moment either. “What?” he asked softly.
“Nothing.” Minho reached out, brushing a thumb across Newt’s damp cheek. “Just… looking.”
Newt blinked at him, lips parting slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
They stayed like that for a moment, suspended in the quiet. The only sounds were the ocean and their breathing, slow and even.
Minho shifted closer, just enough that their arms brushed in the water. He could feel Newt’s warmth through every point of contact—his skin, his breath, the faint tremor that ran through him when Minho’s fingers lingered at his jaw.
Newt swallowed, eyes flicking briefly to Minho’s lips before darting back to meet his gaze.
“Minho…” he murmured, voice barely audible over the waves.
“Yeah?”
Newt hesitated for a second, then smiled—soft, almost shy in a way Minho rarely saw. “You’re a right pain, you know that?”
Minho huffed out a laugh, but his voice was quieter when he said, “Guess you’re stuck with me anyway.”
Newt’s expression softened even further. “Good. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Minho’s hand drifted down, fingers brushing Newt’s as the water swirled gently around them. Newt didn’t pull away—he turned his palm upward instead, letting their fingers intertwine.
The world felt impossibly still—like this moment belonged to them alone.
---
Minho leaned back into the shallow water, letting it hold him up as if the ocean itself had decided he belonged here. The cool waves lapped softly at his shoulders, each ripple glowing faintly as it rolled past. Beside him, Newt sank down too, until they were lying almost flat, bodies half-submerged, arms brushing.
It was so still it almost didn’t feel real.
The night sky stretched endlessly above them—thousands of stars scattered in clusters and streaks, some so faint they seemed to pulse in and out of existence. The moon was full, hanging heavy and pale over the horizon, painting the sand in silver light.
The beach curved out on both sides, soft dunes rising gently before melting into a line of palms swaying lazily in the warm breeze. Beyond that, the forest loomed—dark and alive, shadows shifting as the wind moved through the leaves. From time to time, a bird called softly from somewhere deep within, its voice carried gently on the air.
And then there was the ocean.
The algae shimmered like spilled starlight, lighting the waves with every rise and fall. The glow wasn’t harsh, just a soft, living blue that clung to everything it touched—the water, the sand, even the edges of Newt’s hair where it curled damply against his face.
Minho let out a slow breath, staring upward. “Doesn’t feel real.”
Newt tilted his head slightly toward him. “Hm?”
“This,” Minho said, gesturing weakly at everything around them. His hand trailed through the glowing water, scattering a thousand tiny sparks before they disappeared. “Didn’t think the world could look like this. Not for people like us.”
Newt’s lips curved faintly. “Feels like it’s been waiting for us, if you ask me.”
Minho glanced at him, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
Newt turned his gaze back to the stars, eyes reflecting faint pinpricks of light. “It’s mad, isn’t it? All the running, the fighting, all of it… and now it’s just—this.”
Minho didn’t answer right away. He was too busy memorizing the sight of him—how the glow softened the lines of his face, how his hair stuck in uneven tufts, how utterly alive he looked here.
“You look…” Minho started, but the words caught.
Newt arched an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
Minho shook his head, a small, helpless smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing. Forget it.”
Newt let out a quiet laugh, the kind that sounded more like an exhale.
For a long stretch, neither of them spoke. The waves rolled in, soft and rhythmic, carrying with them a gentle hush that made Minho’s chest ache in the best possible way.
He tilted his head back again, staring at the sky. It was so much brighter than the one they’d had in the Glade, clearer than any night he remembered during the Scorch. Back then, every star had felt like a cruel reminder—something distant and untouchable.
Here, they felt close enough to reach.
Newt exhaled softly beside him, almost in sync with Minho’s own breathing.
It took Minho a moment to realize that, without meaning to, they’d fallen into the same rhythm—each inhale and exhale perfectly matched, as though their bodies had finally agreed there was nothing left to fight.
Minho turned his head, watching him. Newt’s eyes were still on the stars, lids heavy but not closing—like he was terrified of missing a single second of this night.
And Minho understood. He didn’t want to blink either.
Newt’s fingers brushed against his, hesitant at first, before curling upward just slightly.
Minho let his own hand shift until their palms met, fingers interlocking in the water. The glow bloomed faintly around the edges of their hands, swirling soft blue like the ocean itself had decided to mark the moment.
“You know,” Newt murmured, voice so low Minho almost didn’t hear it over the tide, “for a second there… I thought we’d never get here.”
Minho’s throat tightened, but he managed a small smile. “Guess we’re bad at giving up.”
Newt huffed out a laugh, turning his head to meet Minho’s eyes. “Yeah. Guess we are.”
They held each other’s gaze for a long, silent moment.
Everything around them—the glowing ocean, the endless stars, the warm night air—felt too still, too perfect, like the universe itself had decided to stop moving just for them.
Minho thought, with a sudden clarity that almost hurt: If this is it—this night, this moment—it’s enough.
---
Minho didn’t know which of them moved first.
One moment they were just lying there, fingers laced together in the glowing water, and the next Newt was leaning closer—barely, just enough that Minho could feel his breath on his cheek.
Minho’s hand shifted, cupping the side of Newt’s jaw, thumb brushing along the faint stubble there. Newt tilted into the touch, eyes half-lidded but locked on Minho’s.
Neither of them spoke.
The world had gone silent but for the soft lap of waves and the steady rhythm of their breathing.
And then, slowly—like they’d both known this would happen all along—Newt closed the last bit of distance.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like they were relearning each other. Minho let out a small, shaky exhale against his lips, sliding his hand back into Newt’s hair, fingers curling at the nape of his neck.
Newt responded with a quiet sound—half sigh, half hum—as his own arms lifted, wrapping loosely around Minho’s neck. His fingers brushed against damp skin just above Minho’s shoulders, holding on but never pulling.
The ocean glowed brighter where it touched them, ripples flaring out in soft blue circles with every slight movement.
Minho deepened the kiss slowly, carefully, one hand settling against Newt’s waist, drawing him closer until there was no space left between them. Newt moved easily with him, his own lips parting just enough to let the kiss grow warmer, heavier.
It wasn’t frantic.
It was deliberate—every brush, every tilt of the head, every slow pull at Minho’s hair as Newt adjusted his grip.
Minho tightened his hold on the back of Newt’s neck, not letting him go, not even for a second. Newt’s fingers dug into the base of Minho’s neck in response, as if he felt the exact same need to stay close, to stay here.
Minho’s mind was blank except for the feeling of Newt—his warmth, the faint salt on his lips, the soft hitch of breath between kisses.
When they finally broke apart, it wasn’t far—just enough to catch their breath, foreheads resting together, noses brushing lightly.
Newt’s eyes fluttered open, a small, breathless smile tugging at his lips.
Minho couldn’t help smiling back, his hand still tangled in Newt’s hair, thumb rubbing gently at the base of his neck.
For a moment, it felt like they were the only two people in the world.
Newt tilted his head just slightly, brushing his nose against Minho’s. “We’re really here,” he whispered.
“Yeah,” Minho murmured back. “We are.”
Their foreheads stayed pressed together, neither willing to move away, the night around them glowing as if the world itself was holding its breath.
---
They didn’t speak for a long time after the kiss.
Their foreheads stayed pressed together, breaths mingling softly as if they were sharing the same air. Minho’s fingers were still threaded through Newt’s damp hair, slowly rubbing circles against the nape of his neck, memorizing the shape of him, the warmth of him, the way he leaned so easily into Minho’s touch.
Newt’s arms remained looped around Minho’s neck, his hands resting lightly just above Minho’s shoulders. He shifted just a little closer, chest brushing against Minho’s, and Minho instinctively tightened his arm around Newt’s waist.
The glowing water rippled gently around them, faint waves spreading with every slight movement, as if the ocean itself wanted to mirror their closeness.
Newt tilted his head enough to press the lightest kiss to the corner of Minho’s mouth—quick, almost shy, but so full of quiet affection that Minho couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips.
“Could stay like this forever,” Newt murmured softly, voice low and a little breathless.
“You could,” Minho said. “And I wouldn’t complain.”
That earned him a faint laugh, the sound barely louder than the waves.
Newt shifted again, this time resting more of his weight against Minho, cheek brushing Minho’s shoulder as if he belonged there. Minho welcomed it, pulling him closer until there was no space between them at all.
“You’re warm,” Newt said after a moment, his voice carrying that tired, content edge that always meant he was close to sleep.
“You’re just cold,” Minho teased, brushing a hand up Newt’s back in slow, absent motions.
Newt hummed faintly, eyes already fluttering half-shut.
Minho looked down at him—the way his blond hair stuck to his forehead in messy strands, the small curve of his mouth that hinted at a smile even as he grew drowsy.
God, he looked alive.
Really alive.
Minho reached up with his free hand, brushing a strand of wet hair from Newt’s face. His thumb lingered at Newt’s temple, tracing the familiar slope of bone there, and Newt leaned into the touch like he always did, like it was second nature.
“You’re looking at me,” Newt mumbled, not opening his eyes.
“Yeah,” Minho replied softly.
“Why?”
“Because I can.”
Newt laughed again—just a small, tired sound—but it warmed Minho all the same.
They stayed like that, tangled together in the glowing surf, as the world around them hummed with life. The steady rhythm of Newt’s breathing against his chest felt like the only thing that mattered, the only thing that was real.
Minho closed his eyes, resting his chin lightly on top of Newt’s head. He let himself feel every small thing—Newt’s weight in his arms, the faint beat of his pulse under his skin, the way his fingers flexed slightly against Minho’s shoulder even as sleep tugged at him.
For once, Minho didn’t feel like he had to be anywhere else.
Didn’t feel like he had to be ready to run.
This was enough.
Newt was enough.
And Minho let himself believe—fully, completely—that they had finally made it, that this peace was theirs to keep.
---
Minho hit the ground so hard that it knocked the air out of his lungs. For a second, he just lay there on the wooden floor, stunned, blinking up at the barely visible beams of the ceiling. The hammock above him swayed slowly, ropes creaking faintly in the quiet of the night, as if mocking him for falling out like some idiot. His blanket had slipped off in the fall, pooling uselessly at his feet, and the cold air wrapped around him all at once, sharp and merciless against his skin.
For half a second, he thought maybe he was still there—still in that place, still on that glowing beach, still holding Newt. His hand twitched like he could reach out and touch him again, like if he just closed his eyes the sound of the waves and Newt’s laugh would still be there.
But the room was silent. Empty. Dark.
Reality hit like ice water.
“Not again,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and rough, more broken than he’d like to admit. He sat up slowly, elbows braced on his knees, head hanging forward as he pressed his palms to his face. His chest ached, not sharp and raw like it had in those first nights, but deep, heavy, a pain that had settled years ago and never left.
He’d thought it would fade. He’d thought time would dull it, that eventually, one morning, he’d wake up and it wouldn’t hurt anymore.
It hadn’t.
It had just changed.
The sharp edges had dulled into something constant, something steady, a weight he carried without thinking, the way someone carries an old scar. He didn’t wake up gasping anymore, didn’t shake or cry until his throat hurt.
But nights like this—when the dreams came back vivid and warm and cruel—he felt it all over again. Brand new. Fresh.
He could still feel it, like a ghost of warmth clinging to him. The texture of Newt’s hair between his fingers. The soft press of lips against his own. The sound of Newt’s laugh.
God, it had felt so real.
And he hated how real it had felt.
Years. It had been years since the Safe Haven. Years since the running, the chaos, the fighting had ended.
Years since he had lost him.
The first months, waking up like this had wrecked him every single time. It had left him hollow, gutted, sick with grief that came in waves he couldn’t control.
Now it was just something that happened.
Routine.
He would wake. The dream would vanish. The hurt would settle in like it always did, like it always would.
And then he would sit in the dark, waiting for the weight in his chest to even out enough to breathe properly again.
He didn’t cry anymore. Not really. Not often.
But the ache never left.
It was something he lived with, like breathing, like walking. Something that had carved out a permanent space inside him.
Minho dragged his hands down over his face, rubbing at his eyes even though there weren’t any tears. The burn in his throat stayed anyway.
Eventually, he forced himself to stand, grabbing the blanket and draping it loosely over his shoulders. The hut was quiet, everyone else still asleep. It wasn’t worth trying to climb back into the hammock. Sleep wouldn’t come back. Not after that.
He stepped out into the night air, wood cool beneath his bare feet, the sudden shift in temperature biting at his skin. It was darker out here than it had been in the dream. No glowing water, no brilliant stars lighting up the world like some perfect storybook night. Just the pale shimmer of moonlight over calm waves, dull and colorless.
He didn’t bother looking around. He didn’t need to. His feet already knew where to take him.
Down the familiar path, past the line of huts, over the packed sand until the trees opened up to the stretch of beach ahead.
And there it was.
The memorial rock.
The names carved into its surface had been worn smoother with time, but Minho didn’t need to read them. He knew exactly where Newt’s name was—his fingers could have found it blind.
He sank down in the sand in front of it, pulling the blanket tighter around himself as a faint breeze rolled in from the water.
There wasn’t anything else to do.
There never was.
So he just sat there, staring at the name, tracing it in his mind even without reaching out, feeling every memory pressed into each carved letter.
He stayed like that, silent and still, the night stretching endlessly around him as the faint sound of waves filled the quiet.
And he waited—because that was all there ever was to do—for the sun to rise.
‐‐‐
The horizon slowly shifted, black giving way to deep blue, then to the faintest orange that bled into the sky. The first streaks of sunlight touched the water, turning the waves to shimmering gold, and the day began to breathe awake around him.
Minho stayed where he was, legs crossed in the cool sand, the blanket loose around his shoulders. His eyes never left the rock. Never left the name carved there, letters etched deep enough that time hadn’t erased them yet.
Newt.
He traced the word in his mind, the way his fingers used to do in those first months—again and again, as if memorizing the shape of the letters would somehow make up for the voice that was gone.
The world was so good now. So much better than the one they had run from. There was no danger anymore, no fight to survive, no desperation clawing at their throats with every breath.
Life here was peaceful.
Safe.
And yet it all felt empty without him.
Why?
Why couldn’t Newt have made it?
He could picture him here, walking along the shore with bare feet, laughing at the way the tide chased him back up the sand. He could picture him sitting right where Minho was now, leaning back on his palms, sunlight catching in his blond hair.
This life—the safety, the freedom, the peace—it would have been everything Newt deserved.
And he wasn’t here to see it.
Minho swallowed hard, trying to push the ache back down where it belonged. The lump in his throat felt solid, immovable, his chest tight with everything he didn’t let out.
His eyes burned.
He blinked, forced himself to breathe.
And still, one tear broke free, slipping hot and silent down his cheek.
He let it fall. He didn’t wipe it away.
Instead, he just stared at the carved name, sunlight creeping higher over the ocean, warming the stone, lighting up each letter like it mattered, like it was still alive.
“Why you, Newt?” Minho whispered, voice low, raw, meant for no one but the waves.
No answer came.
Just the ocean, just the sunrise, just the stillness of a world that had finally given them peace—too late for the person he loved most.
Minho stayed there, unmoving, as the day grew brighter around him.