Newt returns that morning, looking no different than usual.

His hair is its usual unkempt mess, his oversized pants sagging just a little too much. His face seems bright—but not unnaturally so.

"Hi," I greet. "You alright?"

"Yeah." His reply is curt. He busies himself with the coffee maker, leaning heavily against the counter as he waits for the cup to fill. His fingers drum against the countertop.

Jorge has always been good in difficult situations, stepping in at just the right moment. And Newt isn't as fine as he wants me to believe.

"Your friends were here," I announce. Before Sonya left to go shopping or whatever she got ready for, she made me promise I'd discuss this with Newt. "Last night. They broke inside after I told them to leave."

He looks around, as if he's looking for any damage they might've done. "That's unfortunate."

I pull a face. "Unfortunate? They broke inside. That's serious. You should talk to them about it."

"Doesn't look like any extreme damage was done."

I sigh, excessively loud so he'll realize he's pissing me off. I was about to spare him from my next words, but I guess those are the exact words he needs to hear, "They touched Sonya as well."

His head snaps up immediately. "Touched her how?"

"Unfortunate, huh?"

My eyes catch his jaw clenching. "How did they touch her?" He repeats, ignoring my words.

"They touched her bottom."

His gaze hardens, but before he can speak again, I interrupt, "It shouldn't have taken you that to get angry. The second I told you they broke inside, you should've—"

"You don't get to tell me what to do," he cuts me off. "Where's Sonya now?"

"Went shopping or something. So will you talk to them about it?"

He nods heavily, then disappears in his room with the cup of coffee in his hands.

My stomach churns as I lean against the counter, watching the empty space he just occupied. It's not that I expected him to lose it entirely, but his restrained reaction got on my nerves.

Sonya's voice was firm when she insisted I confront Newt. I didn't want to—I knew it wouldn't improve our current status—but I couldn't possibly refuse.

Something about Newt's quiet anger doesn't sit right. I knock on his door, not waiting for an answer before pushing it open. He's sitting at his desk, one hand wrapped around the coffee mug, the other pressing against his temple. He doesn't turn to look at me.

"What now?"

"You're not seriously just going to sit here and drink coffee, are you?" I snap.

"What do you want me to do, Sander? Go back in time and stop it from happening?"

"I want you to hold your friends accountable."

"I told you I will. Can you leave me the hell alone? You're always clinging to me. It's annoying."

"Maybe if you'd lighten up sometime, you wouldn't be this grumpy about it."

"No," he snarls. "You're just annoying. It has nothing to do with how I take it."

I can't hold back. "Is that why your friends are fake? Because you can't handle someone sticking a little too close?"

He glares up, eyes piercing through me with an icy look. "Sorry?"

"I'm also sick of how you're acting. You're not the only person with feelings, Newt. So suck it in for once and just act normal. You're not the only one who feels like shit sometimes," I deflect. "You're not the only one struggling."

"You don't know half of it."

"Then tell me. I'm right here. You don't have to keep shutting me out."

For a moment, I think he might actually open up. His shoulders sag, and his gaze softens just a fraction. But then he straightens up again, the walls going back up as quickly as they'd started to crumble.

"No. Drop it."

"I'm not dropping it," I say. "You're letting them walk all over you. You're letting them hurt Sonya. You're the one who isn't dropping it. All you drop now and then is a bomb of how you're feeling, and it upsets everyone around you. Did Sonya not make that clear yet?"

"Shut up," he rumbles.

"No! I won't shut up because someone needs to say it. I just need you to act... to act human for once. Just talk to me for once. I get it, you're angry all the time. But it's exhausting, Newt. You're just a ticking time bomb, and I'm tired of trying to deal with it. You say you care, yet you never act like it—"

He steps closer. "Shut up."

I don't back down. "No, you need to hear this! You—"

"I said shut up, Sander!" He grabs me suddenly, slamming me back against the wall with a force that knocks the breath out of me. His hand grips my shirt, his face inches from mine, and the room feels like it's spinning.

"Shut up!" he yells, his voice cracking. His chest heaves, breath warm against my skin. With wide eyes, I swallow. He's too close, too overwhelming, and my head spins. There's a part of me that's screaming to pull away, but I can't.

The room is silent except for the sound of Newt's breathing. His hand remains fisted in my shirt, his knuckles white, and his face far too close. Close enough that I can see every detail, every tint, every color in his eyes.

I'm frozen, pinned not just by his grip but by his presence. My heart pounds in my chest.

"Say something, then," I urge.

Newt's jaw clenches, his lips parting slightly as if he might, but nothing comes out. My hands hover at my sides, fists half-curled, unsure whether to shove him away or pull him closer.

"You hate me," I say. It's not a question.

"I do," he grits out, yet his grip on my shirt doesn't loosen.

"So let go."

Newt doesn't move. His fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt again, tighter this time, almost pulling me closer instead of pushing me away. His hands are trembling heavily.

"I hate you."

"You're lying," I whisper, so quiet I'm not sure if I meant for him to hear it. But he does. I can tell by the way his expression shifts; his brows draw together.

Before I can even consider this as the worst idea ever, I crash my mouth against his.

If this ruins everything forever, fine. It's not gentle anyway. It's angry but desperate. His teeth scrape against my bottom lip, his hand still clutching my shirt. My hands fly up to his shoulders. Newt's body presses against mine, pinning me harder against the wall.

Then he pulls back, his eyes wide with something between panic and desire. Slowly, he removes his hand from the side of my neck.

"I hate you," he whispers again.

I smile, just barely. "Sure you do."