The Quiet Authority
Thomas x reader
⋆⭒˚.⋆Summary: You've been in the Glade longer, and take on the role of teaching Thomas how everything works. While ignoring the others Thomas only listens to you. Trusting your voice above everyone else’s.
⋆⭒˚.⋆Author's note: First Thomas story ;)
Thomas doesn’t listen to anyone.
Not Alby, even when his voice carries authority like it’s carved into the stone walls of the Glade. Not Newt, even when he tries to explain things calmly, like Thomas might break if spoken to too sharply. Not Minho, who mostly laughs and tells him he’ll figure it out the hard way.
Thomas listens to you.
You notice it the first morning after he arrives.
He’s standing near the Gardens, arms crossed, staring at the Runners like he’s already decided he’s one of them. You’ve been in the Glade for over a year, long enough to recognize that look immediately. The I don’t belong here but I’m not backing down look.
You walk up beside him and hand him a cup of water.
“Rule one,” you say casually, “don’t stare at Minho like that. He’ll make you run laps just to prove a point.”
Thomas blinks, then takes the water. “You serious?”
“Dead serious.”
Minho glances over, catches Thomas staring, and smirks like he absolutely would’ve done it.
Thomas looks back at you. “…Okay.”
Newt raises an eyebrow from a few feet away.
Later, you’re showing Thomas around the Glade properly, not the rushed, half-explained version everyone else gives. You point out the Slammers, the Med-jacks, the Builders. You explain what happens when the Doors close and why no one jokes about the Maze.
“Rule two,” you say, stopping near the edge of the stone walls. “You don’t go near this place unless you’re told. And even then, you don’t cross the line.”
Thomas steps closer anyway.
You grab his wrist without thinking. Not rough, just firm.
“I’m serious,” you say, quieter now. “People don’t come back.”
Something in your voice makes him stop. He looks at your hand on his wrist, then up at your face.
“…Alright,” he says. “I won’t.”
Alby, watching from a distance, mutters, “Unbelievable.”
Newt had tried explaining the rules three times already. Thomas ignored every word until you said the exact same thing.
Somehow, your voice cut through the noise of the Glade easier than anyone else’s.
By the third day, it’s obvious.
If Alby tells Thomas to rest, he shrugs it off. If Newt warns him not to push too hard, Thomas argues.
But when you tell him to slow down? He does.
When you say, “Don’t volunteer for things yet,” he hesitates. When you say, “Trust me on this,” he does.
You’re sitting with him one evening, watching the sun dip low and paint the stone walls gold. The Glade feels almost peaceful, almost normal.
“Why do you listen to me?” you ask suddenly.
Thomas frowns, like he hasn’t thought about it before. “You explain things,” he says. “Not like I’m stupid. Just… like I need to know.”
You smile a little. “That’s because you do.”
He looks at you for a second longer than necessary. “And you don’t look at me like I don’t belong here.”
You don’t answer, because the truth is, you’ve already decided he does.
And later that night, when shouting suddenly breaks across the Glade and runners scramble toward the Maze entrance, Thomas doesn’t move first or ask questions.
He looks for you.
And waits for you to tell him what to do.
