CH. THIRTY - SIX
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She's been in the Glade for nine months today.

Gally frowns and smiles at once. Time does fly. It means they're together for about three months already. It's crazy.

And well, every single day makes him fall even more.

She's currently working in her hut, not allowing him in because apparently, she can't concentrate on making tools when he's around.

He can see her shadow, though. There's a tiny window next to her door and he can see her move around. It's eleven PM. He has told her to quit working, but she won't listen.

Said it before, she'll overwork.

She's been running in the Maze for about six weeks. For what he knows, it has gone well, but she won't give much details. Said it's 'just running around a bit'.

What he doesn't know, is that a Griever has showed up every single time. Minho always runs in front of her, not paying attention to what happens behind them. But whenever she looks behind, there's always one watching them.

But it never harms them. Ever.

And since four weeks ago, she's allowed to run alone. Nothing really changed. No partner to run with, but the Grievers stayed. And they no longer scare her.

Because when one time, she moved closer, it turned around and took off.  

"May I come in now?" An impatient knock on her door. "Please?"

She sighs. "When I finish making this."

"Ah, come on. Why not?"

"Last time I let you in, you somehow convinced me to stop working while I promised Clint to have the meds ready in the morning."

"Because it was one AM!" He defends. "And now it's eleven. Come on, woman. Time to sleep. You always set an alarm at five. You gotta run tomorrow. And I don't enjoy a tired Joan."

"I don't enjoy an impatient Gally," she tells him. "So either go to your own hut or wait."

He crosses his arms, offended. "You're choosing work over me?"

By his tone, she can tell it's a joke.
"You're the neat rule follower here, not me. I just like to keep it organized."

"And I don't fit in your schedule?"

With a final grunt, she opens the door. Looks up at him. Her eyes stand a bit uptight, yet tired, but also excited to see him. Her lips are pursed together, and just like him, her arms have folded over the white top she's wearing.

"Fine. Come inside," she gives in. Closes the door behind Gally, who sits down on her bed.

"You're exhausting yourself," he says. "I—"

"I'm not," she interrupts, gifting him a weak smile. "So shh," a finger on his lips, "and let me work."

Now it's his turn to sigh, yet he obeys. Watches her run sandpaper over the wood of the hammer, finishing the last bits off. Then she takes paint from the other side of her desk, dips a brush in it, and starts painting the handle.

"Why—"

"Because it looks prettier."

Slightly frustrated because the paint isn't covering the wood like she wanted it to, she groans.

And then he gets enough of it. Takes the brush out of her hand, closes the bottle of paint, puts the hammer out of her reach, and takes her hands once she tries to resist.

"I lied," he admits softly. "I only said you have to run tomorrow because it would maybe make you go to bed earlier, but it's your day off tomorrow." A pause. "Yet you should still go to bed, woman."

"But—"

He shushes her. "Come on."

"One day, I'm gonna tell the whole Glade that Gally the grump is actually a big softie."

His only reply is a smile and a shake of his head before he moves her up. "What do you want? Long pajamas, nothing, oversized shirt, my clothes, onesie...?"

Joan frowns. "Nothing?" she repeats. "You mean like, if I don't want anything? Or if I don't want to wear anything?"

"What you want, of course," he says quickly. "I mean, what if you wanted to stay in these clothes?"

She stares at him for a while, with raised eyebrows. He looks back, cheeks slowly gaining a red color. "I want your clothes," she then decides.

He doesn't hesitate to take his sweater off. "There you go."

"Tell me you didn't wear this the whole day and that it's clean."

"I didn't wear it the whole day and it's clean. I put it on after my shower."

"Okay." Satisfied, she takes the sweater. "You know what I did the other day?"

"Well?"

"I sewed flowers on my top."

His eyebrows furrow. "Like real flower—"

"No, you idiot. I made flowers on there with a needle and thread. It's super cute."

"What top? Tell me you didn't ruin the blue one."

"I didn't ruin it. But no, not the blue shirt."

"Wait— what clothings do we call tops?"

Slowly, a grin starts to grow on her face. "You wanna see it?"

"You're scaring me now. I don't know."

She takes her shirt off, because she has to change anyways, and shows him the sage green sports bra that's under it. Though it was boring before, it's now detailed with all sorts of flowers she sewed on the sides.

Honestly, she'd turn this into a new bikini.

He averts his eyes. "Oh my god."

By his tone, she can't tell if she managed to embarrass him, which indeed was her original plan. "Well?"

"Well?"

"Is your new favorite color green now?"

"Joan, stop it," he hisses, face red. "It's not funny."

"It kind of is." She grins. "Anyway. We should go to sleep, yes." And she puts his sweater on. It's a black one. Simple, but warm.

He groans, eyes still not on her, and runs a hand down his face.

"Now don't go act like a baby," she says. "Come on. You're the one who insisted I have to go to bed."

"Perhaps I should go to my own hut."

She stops. Her face falls. "Sorry?"

"I—"

"Ah, come on, it was a joke." Joan pulls a face, holding her hands up. "Sorry, if I embarrassed you too much, then."

"Perhaps I should to go my own hut before I take the damn sweater off you, along with every freaking flower."

And just like that, she stops again. With wide eyes.

"Do you mean that you hate the flowers so much that you want to rip them off there—"

"I mean the exact opposite of that."

Holy shit.

She inhales sharply, her chest heaving. "Something else might look good on me."

"Me."

"Perhaps." A quick nod, in which her windpipe tightens even more, and then they're wrapped around each other, and she's sure there's something wrong with her lungs today.

His hand roam around her body while she, as always, wraps her arms around his neck to pull him closer.

"Honestly," she breathes against his lips, "that was a really cheesy comment."

"You liked it," he confirms.

"What if I didn— oh." Limp, her head falls into the crook of his neck, but it only gives him more space to kiss that one spot behind her ear. It tickles in such an annoying but awesome way, that she both wants to turn her head away and never wants to leave this position again.

Gally puts her down on the bed. "Arms up, woman."

To be completely honest, she does it without hesitation as the butterflies explode.

Smoothly, he glides the sweater off her torso. When she tries lowering her arms again, he stops her by pinning her wrists together. One hand easily gets that job done. "We'll keep them up," he decides in a mutter, seeming to have changed roles.

And he kisses her again. Soft at once, so it lets her know she's allowed to pull away. But soon, he notices she doesn't bother this at all, and his kisses start to get rougher. Then before she knows it, his hands have been replaced by his lips.

Squirming and trying to hold back sounds by biting her lip, her eyes meet his. She's barely able to hold the eye contact, because there's something about the way he lowers his head, but keeps his eyes on her, and then starts kissing her. freaking. thighs.

Now it's getting hard to hold the whimpers back. It's a strange pleasure searing through her. From the skin he's kissing, all the way to her throat, which begs her mouth to open and just let the things she's holding back out.

At the little sound that does escape, Gally stops for a second. "Tell me this is alright," he orders. "If not—"

"Please don't stop," she blurts out. It's followed by a desperate cry, and then she slams a hand on her mouth, while he just grins.

"Whatever the woman wants," he murmurs, breaths sending another shiver down her spine. Slowly, his kisses move up her body, from her thighs, to her stomach, to her chest, neck, jaw, and then he's face-to-face with her. "Whatever the woman gets."

Their lips connect. She cups his face, though the hand soon trails down, and then, magically, his pants are off, and they're both left in their undergarments.

"Gally," she gasps at his touch. Her fingers run over his back over and over again as his lips do magic on her neck and collarbone. "Please—"

She doesn't even know what exactly she's begging for. At this point, her head is so fuzzy that every single word she says doesn't even feel like hers, and she can barely register what's happening. The thing about seeing stars might be real.

"Whatever you want," he repeats, voice a bit huskier than normally. "No need to beg. I'll give whatever."

Holy. Shit.

Again. Holy shit.

After he has asked the same question at least three times ("you sure?"), her nails sink into his back and she muffles sounds she thought she'd never ever be allowing Gally to hear in his neck. Not that he's withholding much, with those small sounds from the back of his throat as he guides them, moving her hips against his every second.

❀

If she wasn't before, she for sure is breathless now as he moves off her. Only for a few seconds, they're both taking deep, but fast breaths, then Gally has his arms wrapped around her and she's straight back into heaven, just in another way.

"You alright?" A kiss on her forehead while he rubs his thumb over her shoulder blade.

She nods. "Perfect. And you?"

"Perfect," he replies. Pulling her closer, he moves her hair out of her face. As always, it's in there. Sticking to her forehead.

A few seconds of silence before he speaks again. "Are you really okay?"

A laugh leaves her mouth. "Yes. I'm okay, Gally. Are you?"

"Was I too rough?" he worries.

"No," she assures, squeezing his shoulder with another laugh. "You were pretty awesome."

"Do you need me to leave?"

"What? No!" She scoots closer. "I don't want you to leave. Why would you think you'd have to leave?"

He shrugs. "I don't know."

"Exactly. There's no reason for you to leave," she says softly. "Unless you really feel the need to."

"I'm not leaving," he decides. "Ever."

"Good," she agrees. "We should probably take a shower, though."

"If we do it right now, we'll wake the whole Homestead up. Perhaps tomorrow. I'll beg for a day off, too."

"But your work—"

"My work can wait. I'm not leaving until you do."

Her gaze softens even more. That's what he said a a while ago. When she wouldn't get off him in the morning.

After a while of silently enjoying each other's company, he takes a breath. "Joan?"

"Hm?" She looks up. The warm smile is still there.

"I love you," he says, so fast that she barely understands at first. Then he talks slower, trying to get out of his words. "I love you a lot. I think all the guys would laugh at me for it. It's shucking unhealthy. Yet I like it."

Her smile grows until her cheekbones hurt. Warmth spreads everywhere as her stomach does a twist. Finally, he's starting to be able to express his feelings a bit more than before, when it was a lot of "eh's" and stammers and everything.

And though she hasn't thought of saying it before, it feels right. "I love you too," she says quietly. "Also an unhealthy amount."