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The aftermath of the boys' fight lingers in the stale air. Brenda paces the room, worry knotting her stomach tighter with each passing minute. The sun dips lower in the sky, casting a dim, amber glow across the concrete floors, bathing everything in an eerie half-light. She hadn't seen Thomas or Newt since Newt bolted out, his voice breaking, and Thomas chased after him. That was almost an hour ago.
With a deep breath, she swallows the lump in her throat and makes a decision. She can’t sit here waiting any longer. Her feet carry her toward the stairs, her steps growing quicker as her anxiety builds. The air cools as she ascends, the wind picking up slightly, brushing her face when she pushes open the door to the rooftop. What she sees is not what she expected.
Thomas and Newt are there—
Brenda's breath catches in her throat, her body locking as her eyes widen at the sight before her. The two boys are on the ground, naked and entangled in a way that’s both intimate and raw. Newt is on top of Thomas, his hand moving between Thomas' legs with a slow, deliberate rhythm that mirrors the soft thrusts of his hips. It's intimate—achingly so—in a way that makes it impossible for Brenda to look away. Not immediately.
There’s something about the unhurried nature of their movements, the way Newt leans down, forehead pressed against Thomas’ chest, and the way Thomas cradles the back of Newt’s neck, his fingers threading through his hair. It's not frantic, not desperate, but something else. Something that tells Brenda this isn’t just a one-time thing. And it’s not their first time either.
Her heart pounds in her chest as she watches, but it’s not shock that keeps her rooted to the spot—it’s the wish to understand. She’s seen acts of cruelty and desperation in the Scorch, moments of rough and impersonal release born from fear and violence. But this... this is something entirely different. It’s deeper, more layered than that.
Brenda’s chest tightens. This moment, their connection—it’s something she’s rarely seen before, and certainly never experienced for herself. The kind of vulnerability they share, the way they’ve surrendered to each other, it’s a bond she can’t fully comprehend. A bond that feels so far removed from her own life, from the cold survival of the Scorch, where trust was always conditional, where intimacy was rare and fleeting, often traded in moments of urgency and pain.
She knows she should leave. They deserve privacy, a chance to be together in this moment without prying eyes. But for just a few more seconds, she stands there, captivated, frozen by the tenderness she’s witnessing. She’s seen plenty of people cling to each other in this broken world, but never like this. Never with such quiet, aching love.
There’s something sacred in what they’re sharing, and she knows she can’t stay here any longer.
She takes a step back, her body finally listening to reason, and her heart pulls as she turns away. For a fleeting moment, a part of her longs for what they have—a connection so deep it defies the cruelty of their world.
As Brenda turns, she collides with something—or someone—solid. The impact jolts her out of her reverie. She looks up to find Frypan standing there, his large frame blocking her path. He looks just as taken aback by the encounter, though his reaction is a little less shocked, more... resigned.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, his gaze flicking anywhere but directly at her. “Was worried when you left and Newt and Thomas were still missing, but I guess we found them.”
Brenda feels her cheeks burn, a hot flush rushing up to her face. She quickly moves to shut the door behind them, sealing off the scene she’d just witnessed.
For a moment, they stand together in awkward silence. The wind whistles faintly through the cracks in the rooftop, but neither knows quite what to say. Both are processing, trying to reconcile the intimacy they’ve just stumbled upon with the reality of their grim situation.
Then Frypan, always one to break the tension, lets out an awkward, half-hearted laugh. “I don’t even know the last time I had the privacy to wank, and those shanks just go at it on the roof like they don’t care.”
Brenda huffs out a laugh despite herself, shaking her head. “Maybe they don’t,” she replies softly, her tone more sombre than she intended. “Who can blame them? We could be dead by tomorrow.”
The truth of her words sits between them, heavy and undeniable. It casts a shadow over the awkwardness, turning the moment into something quieter, more reflective. They start to descend the stairs, their footsteps echoing softly against the concrete.
A quiet understanding seems to settle between them now, unspoken but palpable. It sharpens the edges of their world in a way neither of them can ignore.
Brenda glances over at Frypan as they go down another level. There’s something about him that feels steady, a grounding presence in all the chaos. She finds herself appreciating it, appreciating him, more than she expected.
A floor below, Brenda suddenly halts mid-step, her mind racing with an impulse she can’t quite shake. Frypan, caught off guard, nearly stumbles into her back, his brow furrowing in confusion as he steadies himself.
“What’s up?” he asks, and before Brenda can stop herself, the words are already tumbling out of her mouth.
“I was just thinking… You want me to blow you?”
The question hangs in the air for a long, stunned moment. Frypan blinks, his surprise evident as his eyes widen. “What?”
Brenda’s heart hammers in her chest, but she refuses to back down. She meets his gaze steadily, feeling the heat of adrenaline rush through her. “I just thought... maybe, because you said it’s been a while, and...” She lets the rest of the sentence trail off, but the unspoken offer lingers between them.
Frypan stares at her, processing. There’s a flicker of doubt that crosses his face, like he’s not entirely sure if this is real. But then his expression shifts, his brow softening as something else comes to the surface—curiosity, need, and maybe even a flicker of relief.
“Yes,” he says after a beat, the word coming out more eager than he probably intended. His cheeks flush slightly, but there’s no denying the sincerity behind his answer. “I—yes, I want you to... you know.”
Brenda smirks, her confidence sliding back into place now that the initial awkwardness has passed. She takes a step closer, closing the space between them, and Frypan’s gaze follows her every move, still processing what’s happening.
There’s a brief moment of silence between them as she inches closer. Frypan shifts on his feet, a mix of nerves and excitement, and then, almost as an afterthought, he asks in a low, uncertain voice, “Have you done this before?”
Brenda pauses, her eyes locking with his. A small smile plays at the corner of her lips as she shrugs casually. “Once or twice,” she says, her tone light but with a hint of mischief. “Came around a bit. Life in the Scorch isn’t exactly made for blooming romances, though.”
There’s a pause, the air between them charged with something fragile yet intense. Brenda studies Frypan for a moment, realising he’s not like the other men she’s been with—the ones from the Scorch who only sought quick, emotionless escapes from the harshness of their reality. There’s something different in his eyes, something softer, almost shy. It disarms her in a way she wasn’t expecting.
Her hand moves to rest gently on his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath beneath her fingers. “We can start slow,” she murmurs, her voice low, intimate. “With kissing, maybe. To warm up.”
Frypan doesn’t respond right away. Brenda can see the nerves dancing just beneath the surface of his gaze, but they’re slowly ebbing away, replaced by something softer. His hesitation lingers only for a moment longer before he gives a small nod, his eyes telling her he’s open to this. She can tell he’s nervous, maybe even scared, but he trusts her. It’s there in the way he doesn’t pull back when she leans in.
Their lips meet, tentative and gentle at first. Frypan’s movements are hesitant, unsure, but as Brenda deepens the kiss, his confidence slowly begins to build. Soon, he’s kissing her back, and their mouths find an easy rhythm, melting together in a way that feels strangely natural—like they’ve done this a hundred times before.
Brenda lets her hands wander, sliding beneath his shirt and feeling the warmth of his skin. Her fingers trace the hard lines of his chest before drifting lower, her touch teasing as she moves further down, cradling him through his pants. She finds him already hard beneath her palm, his body responding instantly to her touch.
But just as she begins to lower herself to her knees, ready to take things further, Frypan’s hand catches her wrist, halting her. “No,” he whispers, his voice strained but gentle. “Your hand is fine. I—I want you up here. To kiss me.”
Brenda blinks, momentarily confused. She isn’t used to this—men who want to linger, to savour the moment. The ones she’d been with in the Scorch didn’t care about kisses, didn’t want the intimacy. They just wanted the release.
But Frypan is different. He kisses her again, with a tenderness that surprises her, and she realises he’s giving as much as he’s taking. It’s not just about him. It’s about them.
Her hand continues its slow, deliberate stroking beneath his pants, and he gasps softly into her mouth, his breathing becoming more ragged with each passing second. His hips twitch against her touch, and she can feel him getting closer.
But then, just when she thinks he’s about to let go, Frypan pulls back, his breathing uneven. He presses his forehead against hers, their shared breaths mingling in the small space between them. “I don’t want it to be over yet,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.
Brenda smiles softly, her heart unexpectedly warmed by his words. “We’ve got time,” she says even though they both know it’s a lie. “Let’s take it slow.”
Neither Brenda nor Frypan hears the faint sound of footsteps approaching. The world beyond them has faded, narrowed to the quiet exchange of breath and the slow, deliberate movements between them. Frypan’s fingers tighten slightly on Brenda’s waist as their lips meet again, the kiss lingering, unhurried.
At the top of the stairs, Thomas and Newt emerge, still flushed and breathless from their own time together on the roof. Thomas takes a step forward but freezes as soon as he sees them. Newt, trailing just behind, stops short as well, following Thomas’ gaze.
They take in the scene—Brenda’s hand moving in Frypan’s pants, Frypan leaning into her touch with a mix of vulnerability and desire. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Thomas’ face flushes a deeper red, his hand instinctively reaching for Newt’s arm, a silent signal to retreat.
Newt’s lips quirk up into an amused smile, eyes flicking from Frypan to Brenda with a mischievous glint. But seeing the flush of embarrassment creeping up Thomas’ neck, he resists the urge to comment.
Instead, Newt raises a brow and nudges Thomas lightly. “Don’t act all bloody innocent, Tommy,” he whispers, his tone teasing but gentle.
Thomas, mortified, gives a quick nod, tugging Newt by the sleeve. They step back quietly, moving away with as little noise as possible, the sound of their footsteps barely a whisper on the stairs.
As they retreat, Newt glances back one last time, his smirk softening as he takes in the tenderness between Frypan and Brenda. There’s a brief flicker of understanding in his expression before he turns away, following Thomas back to the roof.
And just like that, they’re gone—leaving Brenda and Frypan blissfully unaware of the silent witnesses to their moment.