Chapter Text
The Box shuddered, groaning under its own weight as it rose. A metallic screech echoed through the shaft, warning the boys above that someone new was arriving. The usual crowd gathered, standing in a loose circle around the entrance, their tall forms casting shadows over the damp grass. Newt stood at the front, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the opening as the Box gave one final lurch before stopping.
The doors slammed open.
The figure inside barely took a second before stepping out—stumbling a bit, but not in the awkward, clueless way most Greenies did. No, this one caught himself, one hand gripping the side of the Box before he hopped down gracefully.
He was tiny.
The entire Glade—full of boys towering over six feet—stood in stunned silence as they took in the smallest, feistiest-looking Greenie they had ever seen.
His dark brown hair was tousled in wild waves, falling over sharp cheekbones and a delicate nose. His waist was slim—too slim—and his hands? Shuck, his hands were smaller than even some of the girls’ back home, fingers slim and elegant. The way he held himself, with his head high and lips pursed in annoyance, made the contrast between his size and attitude even starker.
“Alright,” the boy snapped, his voice sharper than anyone expected. “Which one of you is in charge? ‘Cause I’ve got a lot of questions, and I’m not in the mood for some stupid guessing game.”
Minho let out a low whistle. Frypan muttered, “Well, damn.”
Newt, still standing at the front, cocked his head, his lips twitching up in amusement. “That’d be me, love. Name’s Newt. Welcome to the Glade.”
The boy’s brown eyes flicked up to meet his, defiant and—God help him—absolutely shucking mesmerizing. “Don’t call me ‘love,’ Blondie.”
A chuckle rumbled through the group, but Newt barely heard it. His brain had short-circuited somewhere between the boy’s glare and that sass-drenched voice. Bloody hell, he was gorgeous.
Before he could respond, Gally leaned forward, squinting. “Are we sure he’s a guy? He looks kinda—”
The boy whirled on him so fast that even Minho took a step back. “Finish that sentence, big guy. I dare you.”
Gally blinked. Then he laughed, a deep, amused sound that only seemed to fuel the Greenie’s scowl.
“Shuck, you got a mouth on you,” Minho said, stepping up and ruffling the new kid’s hair. “I like it. What’s your name, Pretty Boy?”
The Greenie jerked his head away, crossing his arms as he looked up—way up—at Minho. “It’s Thomas. And I’m not a ‘Pretty Boy.’”
“Sure, Princess,” Frypan chimed in, grinning.
Thomas groaned. “Oh, for shuck’s sake—”
Newt found himself biting his lip to hide his grin. It wasn’t just Thomas’s feistiness that had him completely hooked—it was the way his small frame made him seem so utterly out of place among them, yet he acted as if he was ten feet tall. It was shucking adorable.
And Newt, for all his level-headed leadership, was already absolutely gone for him.
“Alright,” Newt finally said, stepping forward before Thomas could start a full-on brawl with Gally. “Enough fun. We’ve got work to do, and Thomas here needs to learn the ropes. But first—” He turned to Thomas with a knowing smirk. “I should probably warn you. Being the smallest, prettiest shank in the Glade? You’re gonna have a lot of big brothers looking out for you.”
Minho threw an arm around Thomas’s shoulders—earning a glare—and Frypan clapped him on the back. Gally, despite himself, gave a half-smirk that meant he’d already decided to protect this feisty little Greenie from whatever the Maze threw at him.
And Newt?
Newt knew one thing for sure.
He wasn’t just going to protect Thomas. He was going to fall in love with him.