˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

not your fault - newt's death has weighed heavily on you since the moment it happened. you're convinced you could've done more to help him, but minho reassures you that you couldn't.

in your arms again - infiltrating wckd and saving minho is no easy feat. you'll do whatever you can to get him back, and seeing him again is like a breath of fresh air. he's not the same as he left you, but he knows he's safe once he's in your arms again

☆ gally

untitled while i think of one - you know gally means well, but his tendency to be overbearing finally sends you over the edge. an argument breaks out on bonfire night, causing you and gally to not speak-yet you're both waiting for each other

☆ newt

coming soon

SQUID GAME ⊹܀˙

☆ thanos (choi su-bong)

thanos x sweetheart!reader - thanos adores you, but sometimes you're a little too nice for your own good. and sometimes, he has to step in

you're not alone - you come face to face with your best friend on the bridge instead of the recruiter

miss possessive - a girl in the club seems a little too interested in your man. you eventually step in

i'll find you - the x voters win and you get to go home. but for you, it's a terrifying reality

cheering you on - you tell your boyfriend that you can't make it to his show. imagine his surprise when he sees you in the crowd, front and center

college au - you and thanos meet in college :)

☆ kang dae-ho

in this together - dae-ho happened to be a regular at the cafe you worked at as a barista, and you had started to grow feelings for him over time. when you find yourself in the games, he ends up there as well and ultimately saves your life. fearing for your life and the fear of the unknown leads to late night confessions.

☆ seong gi-hun

The sun beats down on you as you sit in the grass, sorting strips of cloth into neat piles for bandages. It’s sort of a mundane task, but you don’t mind. It gives you a chance to relax and listen to the sound of the waves crashing onto the shore over the distant chatter of the others. You’re almost fully engrossed in your work when Minho walks past carrying a bundle of rope over his shoulder.

He slows as he passes you. “Whatcha doing?” he asks.

You look up. “Helping make bandages.”

He nods casually, glancing towards the communal fire pit where a few others are talking. “You gonna be here long?”

You smile a little, raising a brow. “Not sure. Why?”

He shrugs, adjusting the rope on his shoulder. “No reason.”

Then he keeps walking. It wasn’t an out of the blue question, so you shrug to yourself and return back to your task. Once you finally finish, you rise to your feet, stretching for a moment as you do. You collect the piles of little cloth squares, beginning to make your way over to the safe haven’s version of the Med-jack hut. 

Almost instantly, Minho appears beside you. “I’ll take those.”

You laugh softly. “I can carry cloth, Minho.”

“I know that.” He takes half anyway. “I’m going that way.”

“You weren’t, like, two seconds ago.”

He shoots you a quick, boyish grin that makes your heart skip a beat. “Changed my mind.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but reach up on your toes to press a soft kiss to his cheek. His grin only widens and he slings an arm over your shoulders, pulling you into his side. Instinctively, you lean into him, letting him guide you towards the hut. You don’t think anything of the entire gesture–you’re just happy to be in his presence.

But then there’s other moments that make you start wondering if there’s some other reason that he always seems to seek you out.

When you get up from breakfast, Minho’s eyes track you until you come back. 

If you mention that you’re going to help someone in another part of the camp, he casually offers to come with. Usually, you have to gently turn him down.

If he ever can’t find you right away, he pretends he’s looking for something else.

It’s all subtle enough that no one else notices. But you do. And you could argue that he’s just being clingy in a new place with people you’re not used to, but you know better. It’s not quite like him. The Minho you know is usually very independent. 

That afternoon, you’re helping Gally reinforce part of one of the structures near the shoreline. You aren’t necessarily doing anything difficult, just holding a post steady for him while he makes sure it’s in place. 

When you get bored of zoning out and staring at the grass beneath your feet, you lift your head to look around. Your eyes drift over the groups of people milling about, just taking it all in for what feels like the millionth time. You’ll never get tired of looking at what you’ve all built here.  

Then, you do a double take. Minho stands a little ways away in the sand with Thomas, who’s saying something to him. But his eyes are fully on you. 

When you make eye contact, you give him a warm smile. He smiles back, but it doesn’t quite seem like it meets his eyes. After a moment, he turns his attention back to Thomas. Your smile slips and you tilt your head. Something is off about him, and you’re not sure what.

Night falls quickly, and everyone has finished up their work for the day. 

You and Minho walk towards the center of camp together where a large fire is being built, shoulders brushing. 

“So,” you start to say, then hesitate. “You doing okay?” 

He glances at you. “Yeah. Why? What’s up?”

“Just making sure,” you say quickly, and he frowns. “Just, you know,” you say, trying to lighten your tone. “You don’t have to escort me everywhere.”

“Have I been escorting you?”

“Kind of.”

He gives a soft huff of amusement. “Maybe I like your company.”

You snort, bumping his shoulder. “Well I would hope so.”

“And I hope you like my company.”

You roll your eyes. “Minho, of course I like your company, you shank. That’s kind of how this works.”

He smiles and you laugh. But after a second, the smile fades, and his gaze drifts ahead towards camp. “I just…” he starts, then stops. You wait. He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Minho.”

He exhales through his nose, like it’s something hard for him to say. “I just like knowing where you are,” he says quietly. There’s something careful about the way he says it, like he’s trying too hard to make the words sound casual. 

You brow furrows. “Why?” you ask before you can stop yourself, though you think you know the answer.

He keeps his eyes ahead. “No reason.”

You know that’s not true. But his shoulders have already gone rigid, and you don’t want to press him. Instead, you slip your hand into his. His fingers tighten immediately, like he’s desperate for some sort of contact. 

Quietly, the two of you make your way towards the bonfire, the moment dissipating. But you give his hand a gentle squeeze to remind him that you’re there. 

The air is warm and comfortable as the two of you settle into your hammock for the night. 

It’s a little further away from the main sleeping quarters, tied between two trees near the shoreline. Close enough to hear the others settling down but far enough away for privacy. You’re half draped over Minho, one leg tangled with his, your head resting against his chest. 

His arm is anchored around your waist, never loosening even as he falls asleep. You’ve been noticing that lately too. Not that it’s unusual, but every time you sleep, he keeps some part of himself anchored to you—whether it’s an arm around your waist, hand on your back, or his face tucked into your hair. Like he’s afraid to let go. 

You think it’s sweet. But maybe it’s something else too. 

As you lay there, you don’t dwell on it too much. Minho’s breathing is slow and even beneath your cheek. You trace lazy patterns over his arm until your own eyes start to close. 

Just before sleep pulls you under, you feel his hand tighten briefly against your waist, then loosen. Like he’s subconsciously making sure you’re still there. 

Minho runs.

He doesn’t remember starting, only remembers that he has to. The air burns his lungs, sterile and wrong, nothing like the air of the Glade. The sound of boots behind him echoes. Too many, too fast.

“Minho!”

He knows that voice. He turns.

But the hallway warps and stretches, pulling away from him like it’s alive.

Hands grab him. Cold metal against his back. Straps binding his hands. He thrashes, but his body feels heavy and slow, like he’s moving at half speed.

“Hold him down.”

“No–get the hell off of me!”

The needle glints under harsh fluorescent lighting. He jerks.

And then he wakes up choking on air.

You don’t know what woke you at first. 

The hammock is swaying, and not from the gentle rocking of wind. More like sharp, uneven movement. Your eyes flutter open into the darkness. 

For one disoriented second, all you register is the sudden tension in the space around you. The hammock jerking, the sound of ragged breathing, the frantic movement beneath you. 

It takes all of about a few seconds for you to realize. 

“Minho?”

His body jerks beneath yours. He’s tangled in the blanket, face twisted up with pain, breaths coming in short, panicked bursts. 

“Minho,” you whisper again, pushing yourself up, trying to see his face in the dim light. 

He doesn’t wake. A broken sound catches in his throat. 

“No..”

The word was so strained you almost didn’t recognize his voice. His head tosses back against the fabric of the hammock, hands clenching uselessly at the blanket. 

“Stop—“

Panic shoots through you. You put your hands on his shoulders carefully. “Minho, wake up.”

He thrashes again. “Please—“

The word shatters something in your chest. You have never heard Minho sound like that, so vulnerable. You know he likes to keep things bottled up, always putting on a strong front. But now that he’s trapped in a dream, he can’t.

“Minho!” you say louder, shaking him gently. 

His eyes snap open. He lurches upright so fast the hammock swings violently, a gasp of air tearing out of him as if he’d resurfaced from underwater. 

For a second he doesn’t see you, doesn’t register his surroundings. You see it in the way his eyes frantically dart around in the dark, how he looks like he’s about to bolt. Then his eyes land on your face. The panic falters ever so slightly. 

“Hey,” you say softly. “You’re okay.”

He breathes hard. He stares at you, still disoriented and pale in the moonlight. 

Then awareness floods in. He realizes where he is, realizes what had happened. And just like that, everything in his expression shuts down. He pulls back slightly, running a hand over his face. “I’m fine,” he says hoarsely. “I’m good.”

You frown. “Minho..“

“It was nothing.” His voice is stern now, but you know him well enough to know that he’s forcing it. 

“It didn’t sound like nothing.”

He looks away immediately. The embarrassment on his face is almost harder to witness than the fear had been. 

His jaw tightens. “Forget it.”

The hammock shifts as he abruptly moves to swing his legs over the side. Your heart drops, and you catch his wrist before he can get up. 

“Hey.”

His whole body goes tense under your hand. 

“Look at me.”

He doesn’t. 

“Minho.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he turns his head. Even in the dark, you can see the humiliation in his eyes. The panic is gone, replaced by shame. 

“I said I'm fine,” he mutters. 

You keep your voice soft, trying to avoid him shutting down on you. “You were having a nightmare.”

He snorts. “Yeah. Great. Thanks for the update.”

“You were scared.”

His expression hardens immediately. “I wasn’t scared.”

“You were. And that’s okay, Minho. You don’t have to act like it doesn’t affect you.”

He yanks his hand free, not roughly, but abrupt. “It was a stupid dream,” he snaps quietly. “Can we drop it?” The sharpness in his voice isn’t anger, and it’s not directed at you. It’s underlying panic wrapped in irritation. 

You sit up straighter, keeping your tone gentle, but a frown tugs at your lips. “No.” You have to curl your hands into fists to keep yourself from reaching out to him. “I’m not dropping it.”

Minho stares at you. Then he looks away again. Slivers of moonlight catch the rise and fall of his chest—still too fast and uneven. 

His voice comes out low. “I don’t need this.”

Your brow furrows. “Need what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely between the two of you, frustration edging into the words. “You looking at me like I’m some broken shank.”

Your chest aches. “I’m not looking at you like that.”

“Hate to break it to ya, but you kind of are.” He laughs, bitter and quiet. “You just saw me lose it in my sleep.”

“You had a nightmare.”

“I was falling apart.” The words come out harsher than he probably intended. And then he goes still, like even admitting that was too much. 

You move closer, slowly enough that he can pull away if he really wants to. He doesn’t. “Minho,” you say softly. “You went through something traumatic.”

His jaw clenches. “We all did.”

“Not nearly as bad as what you went through.” Slowly, you place a hand on his back. When he doesn’t pull away, you begin to rub slow circles. 

He stares out into the darkness beyond the hammock, toward the inky black water. “I should be over it.” The words are so quiet they almost disappear into the night. 

You feel your heart crack a little. “Why?”

He swallows. “Because I’m supposed to be stronger than this.”

You shake your head. “Having nightmares doesn’t make you weak.” 

No response. 

“You don’t stop being strong just because you’re hurting.”

His face tightens. For a long moment, neither of you speak. But you can feel his muscles slowly loosen under your hand. 

Then, in a voice so quiet you almost miss it, he says, “When I was there…” He swallows again. “There were times I thought I was never getting out.”

You stay silent, not wanting to interrupt. 

“In the worst of it, I thought I’d never see you again.”

The confession hangs in the air between you. You’ve never known the extent of what happened to him there because he doesn’t like talking about it. 

“They made me see what they wanted me to see to get what they wanted. And they almost always used you. It got to a point where I didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t, didn’t know if they had actually killed you or not.” He huffs a humorless laugh. 

Your heart breaks for him. You know there’s nothing you can say that will miraculously make him feel better, but you try offering him some comfort anyway. 

“I’m here,” you murmur, tracing shapes into his back with your finger. His shoulders sag like a balloon deflating. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” he whispers, turning toward you. “But sometimes that’s not even enough.”

You don’t push him any further, seeing as this is clearly a sensitive topic for him. Instead, you open your arms, giving him the choice to come to you if he wants to.

“Come here,” you whisper, beckoning him toward you. He seems to hesitate, just for a moment. But then he leans into you, arms wrapping tightly around you. You give him a reassuring squeeze, then shift back into the hammock, tugging him with you.

He settles against you, head resting against your chest. You slowly run your fingers through his hair, and his breath tickles your neck as he exhales slowly through his nose. 

Neither of you says anything more. The two of you just lay there, listening to the waves gently lapping the shore, letting the quiet settle instead of forcing it away. 

Eventually, when your eyes finally flutter closed and your breathing starts to even out, his breathing starts to match it. 

The morning comes too peacefully for the weight still sitting in Minho’s chest. 

Sunlight filters through the sparse leaves in soft gold streaks, starting to warm the hammock and the blanket tangled around the two of you. Birds chatter somewhere near the shoreline, and from camp comes the faint sounds of people starting their day. 

Everything is calm. 

Minho hates it. 

Because in the daylight, with the world moving on like nothing happened, the memory of the night before sits sharp and humiliating in his mind. 

He still hates that you saw him like that. Panicking, losing control, still full of fear from what happened to him. 

He stares out towards the water, jaw tight, body rigid on top of you. He’d woken well before you and hasn’t moved an inch, not wanting to wake you again. But anxiety has him itching to move, so he slowly tries to push his weight up off of you. Despite how careful he tries to be, you still stir beneath him. He tenses instinctively. 

You blink sleepily, face scrunching as the sun's rays hit your eyes. For a second your face is soft with sleep, warm and unguarded. 

Then your eyes find him. 

“Hi,” you murmur softly. 

Minho forces his expression into something neutral, though he doesn’t fight the urge to press a kiss to your forehead and brush your hair away from your face. “Morning.”

Your voice is quiet. “You been awake long?”

“Not really.” That’s a lie. Minho hopes that you’ll just get up and go about your day, forget about the events from the night before. But then you push yourself up onto your elbows and study him, and his hope falls flat. He knows that look. 

He avoids your eyes. 

“Did you sleep at all after…?” you ask, concern etched all over your face. 

“Yeah. I’m fine,” he says quickly. The words come out too fast, too rehearsed. 

You’re quiet for a moment. “Minho.”

He exhales sharply and pushes himself all the way up, clambering over the side of the hammock. “I said I’m fine.” He stands before you can answer, grabbing the blanket and shaking it out like it’s the most important task in the world. 

You climb out of the hammock more slowly. “Why are you acting like this?”

He lets out a dry laugh without looking at you. “Acting like what?”

“Like I saw something terrible.”

That makes him stop. He grips the blanket tighter in his hands. “Uh, because you did.”

Your expression softens. He knows you care and that you’re concerned, but he hates that look anyway. He doesn’t want to be pitied. 

“Minho—“

He shakes his head, shoulders tensing. “No, seriously.” Another humorless laugh. “You saw me thrashing around like some scared little kid. Great look for me.”

Your chest tightens. You don’t know why he’s so afraid of being vulnerable around you or why he’s so embarrassed. “It wasn’t like that.”

He finally meets your eyes, frustration flashing through them. “Then what was it?”

You step closer. “It was a nightmare, Minho. Everyone has them.”

“It was pathetic.”

“No.”

“Yes.” He drops the blanket onto the hammock and turns away from you, running both hands through his dark hair. “You know what’s pathetic?” he mutters. “Everyone else moving on, rebuilding things, figuring out how to live again, and I can’t even sleep without—“

He cuts himself off. You wait patiently for him to finish. His shoulders rise and fall with a sharp breath. 

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he scoffs quietly and shakes his head. “Forget it.”

You move around until you’re in front of him again. “I’m not forgetting it.”

His eyes flash with something that resembles panic. And maybe irritation, too. But you’re too stubborn to let it go. “Why not?”

“Because you’re hurting,” you say firmly, arms folding over your chest. 

He laughs bitterly. “Everybody’s hurting. You’ve seen Thomas, right? You wanna talk about hurting? He’s hurting. But he’s got a damn good reason.”

“Stop.” You huff in disbelief. “Stop comparing your trauma. None of that means you have to pretend you aren’t hurting.”

He clenches his jaw. “I’m not pretending.”

“You are.”

Silence. His eyes drop to the ground between you. 

“You were scared,” you say softly. 

“I was asleep.”

You take another step closer. “You went through something traumatic.” You reiterate your words from last night, trying to make sure they stick. 

Minho shuts his eyes for a second. “We all did—“

“Yes.” You cut him off. “But right now we’re talking about you.”

His mouth tightens into a thin line. 

“You were taken, Minho. You were tortured. You were alone for months.”

“Stop.” The words come out harsher than anything he’s said so far. You still. He opens his eyes, and you can see the anger, shame, and fear tangled together in them. “Stop saying it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m…” He breaks off, jaw clenching. “Like I’m some damaged shank.”

Your voice softens even more. “You’re hurting. That’s not the same thing.”

He looks away again. “I should be over it.”

Your brows pull together. “Why?”

“Because I’m still here.” He says it like surviving should’ve solved everything, like the fact that he made it out means he has no right to still be suffering. 

You stare at him for a moment before speaking. “Being alive doesn’t erase what happened to you.”

He swallows hard. “I hate this,” he says defeatedly, voice much quieter now. 

You wait. 

“I hate feeling like this,” he says, staring somewhere over your shoulder. “I hate waking up like that. I hate…” He lets out a breath that shakes slightly. “I hate that you had to see it.”

“Why?”

His expression twists. “Because I’m supposed to be the one who keeps it together.”

Your chest aches. “You don’t have to be.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Minho—”

“No, you don’t get it.” His voice cracks with frustration. “I was one of the ones people counted on. I was one of the ones who had things handled, who kept moving, who stayed strong, and now I—” He stops, breathing hard. You wait, heart pounding. He swallows, throat bobbing. “Now I can’t even—”

Again, he stops. 

“Can’t even what?” You press, trying to get him to open up about what’s really bothering him. His eyes finally meet yours. 

“I can’t stand not knowing where you are.” The confession comes out rushed, like if he didn’t force it out immediately he never would. Your breath catches. He laughs bitterly. “There. Happy?”

“Minho..”

“I know it sounds insane.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does.” His voice sharpens. “I notice every time you walk away. Every time I can’t find you right away, I panic.” He drags a hand over his face, and his gaze drops again. “I know it’s stupid.”

“It isn’t.”

“It is.” His voice is quiet again, exhaustion bleeding through the words. “Because I know you’re here. I know we’re safe. I know you’re probably helping somebody or talking to Thomas or doing literally anything normal but my brain—“ He exhales shakily. “My brain tells me you’re gone.”

You feel your eyes sting. He keeps talking now, like once the words started, he couldn’t stop them. “It feels like if I lose sight of you, I’m back there. Where they constantly took you away from me even if it wasn’t real. Like I’m alone again and can’t do anything about it.” His voice cracks on the last words. “I hate it.”

You step forward and gently take his hands. He freezes momentarily. “I hate needing to know where you are,” he whispers. 

You give his hands a light squeeze. “You don’t have to hate it.”

He gives a weak shake of his head. “It makes me feel crazy.”

“It makes you human.”

His eyes flicker up to yours. “I don’t want to be like this. And I don’t want you to feel like I’m hovering or suffocating you—“

“You’re not, Minho,” you say gently, rubbing your thumbs over his knuckles. “You’re not crazy. You were trapped and terrified for months. Your mind is trying to protect you.”

He looks at you like he wants to believe that but doesn’t know how. 

“It’s okay to still be scared,” you continue. “And you don’t have to hide that from me.”

His face falls. “I don’t know how not to.”

“Then start small.” Your hands tighten around his. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” you say. “If you’re scared, tell me. If you need to know where I’m going, ask me. If you need to wake me up, wake me up. I’m never going to judge you or be mad at you for that.”

He stares at you. “You’d really be okay with that?”

Your chest aches at the way he sounds so uncertain when he asks. “Of course.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” he says, looking down at your joined hands. 

“You aren’t.”

“You say that now.”

“I’ll keep saying it.”

He exhales slowly, like the fight is draining out of him as he does. “You make it sound easy.”

“I’m not saying it will be,” you reply honestly. “But I don’t want you to deal with this alone even though I know your stubborn ass wants to.”

His lips twitch up in a ghost of a smile at that. He just nods, no longer able to find his voice. Instead, he leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. The contact is tentative, like he’s waiting for you to pull away. You don’t. 

“When I was there,” he says quietly, hands tightening around yours. “Thinking about you was the only thing that got me through it.”

You swallow hard. 

“And when you all broke me out…I kept waiting for something to take you away too,” he admits shakily. 

“We’re safe here, Minho. There’s nobody left to take any of us away again.” You release his hands, opting to rest them on his shoulders. 

“Sometimes my stupid shuck brain doesn’t believe that,” he murmurs, frustration creeping into his tone. 

You close the distance, wrapping your arms around him. He melts immediately, all the tension seeming to drain out of him at once. His arms come around you, locking tightly around your middle. You hold him just as tightly. 

“I’m here,” you say once again. “If you need me, you tell me.”

He nods, his face brushing where it’s currently pressed into your shoulder. “Okay.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “And stop acting like needing comfort makes you weak.”

The corners of his mouth twitch faintly. “No promises.”

You smile a little. “I’ll take it.” He huffs a quiet laugh at that. Then he pulls you against him again, chin resting on top of your head. 

There’s no quick fix to his trauma, Minho knows that. But as you hold him tightly under the morning sun, he lets himself relax. Even if just for a few moments.

“Wasn’t trying to be,” you bite back, resisting the urge to smack the Keeper in the back of the head. 

He huffs. “You’re like a shuck-faced child,” he grumbles, adjusting his harness slightly as he runs. 

“Well maybe if you weren’t so unbelievably irritating—“

“Left.” He cuts you off, taking a sharp left turn around the corner of one of the walls. 

Now it’s your turn to roll your eyes. “I know we’re going left, slinthead.”

“Then why are you half a step behind?”

“I’m not—“ you push harder, matching his pace now, breath already coming sharper than usual. “You think everyone’s slower than you because your ego is bigger than your running ability.”

Minho huffs out something between a laugh and a scoff. “Please. If my ego was truly that big, you’d be eating dust.”

“I might as well be. You kick it up like a horse,” you mutter. 

“That’s a new one.”

“Only cause calling you insufferable was getting repetitive.”

He finally glances back at you, eyes sharp but amused. His dark hair is already damp with sweat. “You know you could just admit you can’t keep up.”

You shoot him a look. “You know you could just admit you’d be bored out of your mind without me.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m not already bored.”

“Then stop talking.”

“You started it.”

“Me?! You literally haven’t shut up since we left the Glade.”

“That’s because someone has to be the entertaining one. And it’s not you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. That’s a load of klunk and you know it.”

“I’m just being honest,” he says with a casual shrug. 

You groan, exasperated. “You have to be the most irritating shuck I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

“You love it, though.”

“I do not,” you insist, even as the edges of your vision flicker faintly. You blink hard, shaking it off. 

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Keep telling yourself that.” He throws you another look over his shoulder. “Pick it up. We’re gonna be cutting it close.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you shoot back, lengthening your stride. “Next time I’ll just grow longer legs.”

“You could also just run faster.”

“I’m going to kill you. I am running fast.”

“Not fast enough.”

You scoff. “You realize not everything is a competition, right?”

He glances back again, a smirk plastered on his face. “Everything is a competition.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“And yet,” he says, turning forward again. “You’re still losing.”

“I am not losing!”

“Then why am I ahead?” 

“Because you started ahead!”

“That sounds like an excuse.”

“That is an excuse!”

“Exactly.”

Minho barely has time to duck before your hand swings toward him. He grins and you huff, pushing yourself harder just to wipe that stupid satisfaction off of his face. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re slow.”

“I am not slow!”

“Say that again when you’re actually next to me.”

You surge forward, closing the gap until your shoulder nearly brushes his. “There. Happy?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Took you long enough.”

“Oh my—“ you cut yourself off with a frustrated laugh. “You are unbelievable.”

“So I’ve heard.” A pause. “You still love it though.”

“Minho, give me a new running partner. I’m serious.”

He laughs as the two of you turn down another corridor. “Oh please. You really would rather run with one of those other shanks?”

“…On second thought, never mind.”

“That’s what I thought,” he hums, and you roll your eyes. You open your mouth to fire back, but the words get caught in your throat. Your chest suddenly feels tight—too tight—and the air in the Maze suddenly feels thicker. 

You suck in a breath. It doesn’t feel like enough. 

Minho notices immediately. His brows knit together as he glances at you. “Hey,” he says sharply. “You good? Don’t start slowing down on me now.”

“I’m not—“ you start, but your foot catches slightly on uneven stone. You stumble, recovering quickly, waving him off. “I’m fine. Just tripped.”

“On nothing?”

“There was a crack.”

“There’s always cracks,” he says matter-of-factly. “You never trip on them.”

“So observant. Well I just did.”

“Yeah, which is why I’m asking—“

“I said I’m fine.”

The words come out more strained than you’d like them to. You push forward, trying to regain your rhythm, but your legs feel off. Heavier and jelly-like at the same time, like they don’t quite want to cooperate with the rest of your body. 

Minho doesn’t try to speed ahead this time. He stays right next to you, watching intensely. “You’re breathing weird,” he states. 

“I’m literally running. How else would I be breathing?”

“Not like that.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Like you’re not getting enough air. Or like you’re about to pass out.”

You let out a short, sharp laugh. “I don’t pass out.”

“That’s not how that works. You planning to be the first exception in history?” 

Actually, you think there’s a pretty good chance that you might pass out. A feeling of dread lingers in the back of your mind. That’s the last thing that you want to happen in the Maze, let alone when you’re running with the Keeper.

“I’m planning,” you say, trying to force your pace faster, “to finish this run without you narrating my every step.”

Minho matches you easily, obviously slowing down some to run next to you. His expression shifts, less teasing and more focused now. “Fine. Then keep up.”

“I am keeping up.”

“You were.”

“I still am.”

“You’re not.”

“I—“

The Maze tilts, just for a second. You blink hard, shaking your head like that will fix it. The walls swim back into place, but your stomach drops with the motion. Your nails dig into your palms, trying to keep the sudden rising nausea at bay. 

Minho catches it this time. He grabs your arm briefly, steadying you. “Okay, no,” he says. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” you insist, pulling your arm back. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what? Stop you from face planting?”

You hadn’t even noticed you were swaying on your feet. “I didn’t—“

“You almost did.”

“I said I’m fine! Drop it!”

Your voice comes out louder than you anticipate, echoing faintly off the stone. For a second, neither of you speaks. 

Then Minho exhales through his nose, seemingly frustrated. “You’re not fine.”

“I’m fine,” you groan, even with black dots dancing across your vision. “Let’s just start heading back please.”

He doesn’t respond, but he slows his pace slightly as the two of you run. You notice immediately, feeling a twinge of irritation. 

“You don’t need to slow down. I’m not going to drop.”

“Then stop acting like you are.”

“I’m not—“

Your foot hits the ground wrong. Or maybe your legs just stop moving. The world lurches sideways, and this time it doesn’t snap back into place. 

Minho’s voice cuts through the grating ringing in your ears. “Hey-“

You try to correct, to catch yourself, but your balance is gone. Your vision tunnels, going dark around the edges, the Maze narrowing into a blur of gray and green. 

The air feels too thick again. Your breath hitches as you try to take a deep breath, but your lungs refuse to fill. 

Everything goes black. Your knees buckle, legs dropping from underneath you. You barely register the impact before the ground rushes up and everything goes with it. 

“Hey. Hey!”

Minho is on you instantly. His brain hasn’t quite caught up yet, but his body has. He quickly drops beside you, grabbing your shoulders, turning you onto your back. 

“This isn’t funny.” He frowns, part of him hoping that you’re just playing a cruel prank on him. “Get up.”

No response. Your eyes stay closed, body unmoving. His eyes quickly scan over you, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding once he notices the faint rise and fall of your chest. 

Something cold still shoots down his spine. 

“Hey,” he tries again, shaking you just enough to attempt to get a reaction out of you. “Come on. We don’t have time for this.”

Nothing. 

Minho’s grip on your shoulders tightens. “Seriously,” he says, panic creeping in at the edges. “Knock it off.”

Still no response. 

For once, the Maze is quiet. Too quiet. Minho swallows hard, taking in the appearance of your paler-than-normal skin and the thin sheen of sweat covering your forehead. He runs a hand through his hair, cursing relentlessly under his breath. For once, he truly has no idea what to do.

He reaches over and brushes a few stray hairs away from your forehead, his hands trembling slightly as he does. You’re still breathing, he notices, and that’s all that matters. He exhales slowly, placing an arm under your shoulders and lifting the upper half of your body up, bringing you to his chest. Your head lolls against his shoulder, and it pains him to feel how limp your body is.

As he moves to slide his other arm under your knees, he hears it. The first sound is faint, a metallic scrape somewhere deeper in the Maze. His whole body goes rigid, head whipping around to look down the corridor. 

Nothing’s there. Not yet, anyway.

Minho looks back down at you, limp in his arms, head rolling weakly against his shoulder as he crouches beside where you collapsed. Your breathing is shallow, and he realizes that you should’ve come to by now.

Then the sound comes again. A mechanical shriek tears through a corridor, even closer now.

“Of course,” he mutters, panic flaring hot in his chest. “Of course right now.” His eyes dart down both ends of the corridor, his Runner instinct beginning to kick in. Adrenaline surges through his veins. There’s a Griever nearby, and you’re unconscious. Perfect. 

He grabs your shoulders, giving you another quick shake. “Hey, come on,” he hisses. “Wake up. Right now would be really great.” To his despair, still no response, though he wasn’t really expecting one. 

Another screech, closer this time. 

His head swivels to look behind him, then he looks back at you. “Shuck,” he whispers furiously, jaw clenched so hard he fears he might break teeth. The sound of metal legs clanging against stone echoes nearby again. 

He sucks in a breath, then slides his other arm underneath your knees, hauling you up into his arms as he stands. “Can’t believe you’re making me do this right now,” he mutters jokingly, though his heart hammers fearfully against his ribcage.

Minho staggers into motion, breaking into a run down the corridor. Fast, but not fast enough. Every step is a struggle. You aren’t heavy, not really, but dead weight is different. Awkward. Slowing him down as he tries to be careful and not jostle you around too much, though it makes no difference anyway–you won’t know this happened regardless.

Another shriek splits the air behind him. 

His breath comes sharp and ragged as he scans ahead, trying to put his mapping abilities to use to remember where to go. Panic scrambles his thoughts and he curses, turning a corner sharply. He takes another turn, right this time, trying to put as much distance as possible between you and the Grievers.

Then, he sees it. A narrow corridor, empty, shrouded in shadow that offers at least a little bit of cover. He veers down the stretch of stone sharply, hastily making his way toward the far end of it. Once he makes it a little more than halfway down, he crouches against the wall, pressing the two of you into the thick ivy. His grip tightens, holding you closer against him. One arm presses your head into his chest, the other keeps your body braced against his.

Metal scrapes stone again, this time far too close for comfort. Minho holds his breath and squeezes his eyes shut, not daring to make a single sound. The clicking and whirring of the creature strikes fear into his heart, the sound almost deafening. 

Time passes agonizingly slow, and he can only imagine how late it’s getting. Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, the sounds fade away into the distance. Once he deems it safe, he exhales a shaky breath, head dropping forward with exhaustion. 

“Holy shuck,” he whispers to himself, blinking away sweat that drips into his eyes. He pulls you away from him, easing you down onto the cold stone ground, still crouched directly next to you. For a second, he just stares. At your face. At how still you are. An uneasiness rushes through him, not used to you being this quiet.

He swallows hard, running a hand through his hair. “You are the absolute worst, you know that?” he mutters, though his voice shakes slightly at the end. With a sigh, he drops down onto the ground beside you, forearms resting on his bent knees. His head tips back, resting against the wall behind him. “Unbelievable,” he says with a laugh, though it’s weak and humorless. 

After a few moments, he glances back down at you. He’s almost afraid to look away, like you’ll stop breathing if he doesn’t keep his eyes on you. Your head is tilted towards him slightly, hair damp with sweat, expression peaceful despite being unconscious. 

“This is such a stupid place to die,” he murmurs. “So don’t. Don’t wanna have to leave you here for Griever food.”

Silence.

Then, a small shift catches his eye. Minho straightens instantly, leaning over you. Your brow furrows, and your hand twitches weakly against the ground. 

“Hey,” he says, leaning in closer. “Hey.”

Your face twists slightly, like waking from a bad dream. Then your eyes flutter open. 

The first thing you see is towering stone overhead. The second is Minho hovering over you, eyes wide with anticipation. You blink slowly, trying to orient yourself.

“What…” Your voice is hoarse. “What happened?”

Minho lets out a breath so hard it’s almost a laugh. “Seriously?”

You frown faintly, trying to sit up. Dizziness hits immediately, and you sway slightly, a wave of nausea washing over you. Minho’s hand shoots out, pressing against your chest to push you back to the ground. 

“Woah, no. Don’t. Take it easy, shank.”

You blink at him, dazed. “Why are you–”

“You passed out.”

Your brows pull together. “I what?”

“You passed out,” he repeats, sharper this time, because if he doesn’t sound annoyed he’s going to sound relieved, and that might be worse. “Mid-run. Just dropped.” He pauses, removing his hand from your chest. “And I know you knew something wasn’t right. So what’s your excuse for not telling me?”

You stare at him, choosing to ignore the question. Then your eyes flicker to the narrow corridor around you. “...Where are we?”

“Hiding.”

“Hiding from what?”

“Take a guess.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Minho says. “Oh.”

You swallow hard. “Did you–”

“I carried you here.”

There’s a pause.

“You carried me?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’m not shocked, I just–”

“You were unconscious,” he snaps. “What was I supposed to do, leave you there?” The words come out harsher than he anticipated. Your expression still softens, though. He looks away. For a moment, neither of you speak. 

“Thank you,” you finally say, voice quiet.

Minho scoffs, though it lacks any real bite. “Yeah, well. Don’t make it a habit.”

You finally force yourself up, pushing yourself into a sitting position. Instinctively, his head turns toward you, hands lifting as if he’s ready to steady you if you need it. You push through the pounding in your head, turning your body so you can lean back against the wall next to him. Your head tips back, resting against the stone, face still pale.

Minho notices your lack of color immediately. “Still dizzy?”

“A little.”

He frowns. “Then sit still.”

You give him a tired look. “Bossy.”

“And alive,” he shoots back. You let out the faintest breath of laughter, and the sound hits him harder than it should have. But you don’t respond, and silence envelops the corridor once again.

The silence drags on. You sit beside him in the tangle of ivy against your backs, shoulder pressed lightly to his, your breathing steadier now but still not one hundred percent. The stone behind your back is cold, providing slight relief, and the air is damp and stale. Neither of you make any effort to move.

Minho keeps staring straight ahead at the wall in front of him. Like if he looks at you for too long, something might crack.

“You doing okay?” he asks after a while, knowing you have to get moving soon.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

He glances over immediately. “You sure?”

“I said yeah.”

“You also said you were fine before you passed out.”

You give him a weak, tired smile. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Nope.”

His answer comes so fast it almost makes you laugh. Almost. Instead, you tilt your head back against the wall, eyes half lidded. “You’re being weird.”

He frowns. “I’m not being weird.”

“You are.”

“How?”

“You keep checking if I’m okay every five seconds.”

“That’s because five seconds ago, you were unconscious.”

“Ten minutes ago, actually.”

“Same difference.”

You smile faintly. Minho notices and immediately narrows his eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“No I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Maybe I’m just happy to be alive.”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, shooting you a look. “You’re welcome.”

You meet his eyes. “Thank you,” you say again softly, completely serious. Minho shifts, suddenly very interested in the wall across from him again.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Whatever.”

“No, seriously, Minho.” Your voice stays soft. “You saved me.”

He shrugs, but the motion is stiff. “Anyone would’ve done it.” You raise a brow. He glances over, immediately defensive. “What?”

“You know that’s not true.” It’s certainly not. If you’d been running with any other shank, you would’ve been as good as dead.

“Yes it is.”

“Minho.” 

He exhales sharply through his nose, annoyed—not at you, but at the fact that you can always hear what he isn’t saying. “I wasn’t gonna leave you there,” he mutters.

Something flutters in your chest. He almost sounds offended at the idea of leaving you behind. You look at him for a second before speaking. “You were scared.” It’s not a question.

He scoffs. “No.”

“You were.”

“There was a Griever.”

“You were scared for me,” you say, a teasing edge in your tone.

“I was scared of getting caught and ripped apart by a Griever while carrying your dead-weight through the Maze.”

A smile tugs at the corners of your lips. “So dramatic.”

He looks at you then, finally, something sharper in his expression. “You stopped moving.” The humor leaves your face. His jaw tightens. “You just dropped. And I couldn’t wake you up.” His voice is low now, much too quiet for someone like Minho. “I had to watch your chest to make sure you were still shucking breathing.”

You don’t say anything. He laughs once under his breath, humorless. “So yeah,” he says, looking away again. “Maybe I was scared.”

The admission sits between you, heavy and fragile. You swallow. “Minho…”

“I thought—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “Doesn’t matter.”

You turn toward him a little more, ignoring the lingering dizziness and forming headache behind your eyes. “It does matter.” He doesn’t answer. You watch him for a second, then quietly say, “I’m okay.”

Minho huffs. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”

But he still looks tense, wound too tight. Your eyes flicker down to the hand he has clenched into a fist resting on the stone beside him. Carefully, slowly, you reach over, fingers gently uncurling his fist. He freezes, and you almost pull back. But then he loosens his grip, allowing you to slip your hand into his. His fingers intertwine with yours, giving your hand a tight squeeze. His thumb brushes once against your knuckles, and your heart skips a beat.

“You know,” you murmur after a moment. “For someone who acts like I’m the most annoying thing to grace the Glade, this is a very sweet gesture.”

Minho drops your hand instantly, and you find yourself immediately missing the contact. “Oh my god,” he groans, leaning his head back against the wall. “And there it is.”

You laugh, soft and tired but real. “What? I’m just saying.”

“No, you’re ruining it.”

“Ruining what?”

“The moment.”

You grin. “So you admit there’s a moment?”

“No.”

“You literally just said–”

“I think you’re imagining things. You sure you’re feeling okay?”

You laugh again, and Minho shakes his head, suppressing a smile at the sound of your laugh. He’s never been more relieved to hear a sound. “There’s the annoying part,” he mutters.

You nudge his shoulder lightly with yours. “You held my hand.”

“You imagined that.”

“I definitely didn’t.”

“No proof.”

Your hand raises into the air, palm facing him. “This hand says otherwise.”

He bats your hand away lightly with a groan, then scrubs his hand over his face. “I take it back. Should’ve left you behind.”

A dramatic gasp leaves your mouth. “Wow. After all that emotional vulnerability?"

“Now you’re just making things up.”

“You admitted you were scared.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You held my hand.”

“Didn’t happen.”

You smile, studying his face. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not blushing.”

“You are. Your face is red.”

“It’s hot in here, if you haven’t already noticed.”

“We haven’t even been moving.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Your smile only grows, and you smack his shoulder playfully. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

“Cute?!”

“Very cute.”

He stares at you, looking incredibly offended. “I save your life, and this is what I get?”

“Yes.” 

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” you say slyly, “you saved me.”

He points at you. “If you say that one more time, I’m leaving.”

“No you’re not.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Yes.”

He stares for another second before exhaling through his nose, trying and failing not to smile. “You are impossible.”

“And you like me anyway.”

He stands abruptly. “Okay, we’re leaving before you get any more insufferable.”

You blink up at him, tilting your head. “But what if I’m still dizzy?”

“You can walk.”

“What if I faint again?”

“Then I guess I’ll have to drag you out of here.”

You hold your hand out, looking up at him expectantly. Minho looks at it. Then looks at you, who’s innocently batting your lashes at him. He sighs dramatically, grabbing your hand and pulling you to your feet. As you stand, your knees wobble, still unsteady on your feet. His grip tightens immediately.

“Easy,” he murmurs, steadying you. You shake him off, taking a tentative step forward. The walls on either side of you shift slightly as you do, and you hold your breath. You shake your head, trying to clear your vision.

Minho’s having none of it. Suddenly, you’re swept off of your feet and hoisted into two strong arms, one secured under your knees and the other firm around your back. You squeal, not expecting the movement, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. 

“Minho!” you huff, one hand releasing his neck to lightly slap his chest. “I can walk, you know.”

He just shakes his head, picking up his pace until he’s jogging. “No you can’t. We’ll get back faster this way anyway. You know, because I am the faster one.”

You roll your eyes, wriggling in his arms so that maybe he’ll put you down. Instead, he just tightens his grip, and you quickly give up. Even if you’d never admit that he’s faster than you, he most definitely is stronger. 

“You’re so annoying,” you mumble, resting your head against his shoulder.

He grins, glancing down at you. “And you like me anyway,” he mocks, repeating your words from earlier. 

Instead of firing back, you go quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” you say with a smile. “I do.” With that, you pick your head up, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

And you can only burst out laughing when his face turns red. “Now you’re blushing!” 

He grumbles quietly under his breath, looking straight ahead again, though his smile widens. “Yeah, whatever, shank. You just wait.” 

Your stomach flutters and you giggle, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. 

You could get used to this. 

You ignore it. Everyone’s sore in the Glade, that’s nothing new. 

You stand, taking a moment to steady yourself, and force your body into motion. Even if you are sick, it’s probably just a small cold. And being sick isn’t much of an excuse in the Glade. 

When you step outside, the brightness of the sky makes your head pulse. You squint, then press the heels of your palms to your eyes, trying to alleviate the growing pressure. 

Taking a deep breath, you push onward, making your way over to get breakfast. Not that you think you’ll be able to eat anything anyway, but you might as well try. 

By mid-morning, it’s harder to pretend that you don’t feel like garbage. 

You’re moving slower, you can tell. Tasks that usually take minutes drag on, your focus slipping like water through your fingers. Every sound feels louder than it should be, voices overlapping and grating against your ears. 

You press your fingers to your temple, wincing as the pounding in your head suddenly increases. It’s no longer a dull pressure but something deeper, throbbing behind your eyes. 

“Hey, you good?”

You glance up at the voice. It’s Clint. Your hands slow over the supplies that you were sorting, offering a quick nod. 

“Yeah. Just didn’t sleep well.” You internally cringe at the excuse. As a Med-jack yourself, it’s a lame excuse. And you can tell he thinks so too, because he frowns as he studies you. Thankfully, he lets it go. 

A chill creeps up your spine then, subtle at first—just enough to make you rub your arms. The sun is warm overhead, but your skin prickles like a cold draft has swept through the room. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to ignore it. You have to. 

By the time afternoon rolls around, your entire body hurts. 

Not a sharp pain, but a deep, aching soreness that settles into your bones. Your legs feel weak, your arms feel like they’re filled with lead and they barely want to cooperate anymore. 

As you stand up from your stool in the Med-jack hut, you stumble. It’s barely noticeable but it’s enough to send a spike of irritation through you. You catch yourself quickly, glancing around to make sure no one saw. Thankfully, Clint and Jeff are too preoccupied to have noticed. 

You also happen to notice that your heart is beating faster than it should be. And—why is it so warm? You press the back of your hand to your forehead and pause. Your skin is hot. Way too hot. 

Almost immediately, another shiver wracks through you, sharper this time. It sends a chill down your entire spine, goosebumps rising along your arms. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to steady the sudden tremors running through you and fend off the chills. It doesn’t help. 

“Is it cold in here or is it just me?” you suddenly blurt out, causing Jeff and Clint to turn towards you. Clint raises a brow. 

“Just you,” the Keeper says. “You look like klunk. Go lay down, we don’t need you sharing your germs with us.” He wrinkles his nose, obviously bothered by the idea of possibly getting sick. 

You roll your eyes, but you happily oblige. You quickly exit the hut and make your way towards the Homestead, each step feeling heavier than the last. 

Once you cross the threshold, you collapse onto your bed. A wave of nausea rolls through you and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing it to pass. 

Your body curls in on itself almost instinctively, arms wrapping around your middle as another round of shivers tears through you. Your teeth begin to knock together, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet room. Good thing you’re alone. 

You’re freezing. 

But you’re burning at the same time. A soft groan slips out before you can stop it, your forehead pressing against the mattress. Your skin feels like it’s on fire, heat radiating off of you, but you can’t stop shaking. 

A fever isn’t the greatest thing, but at least you aren’t throwing up, you suppose. 

Your eyes flutter shut. You want to sleep off whatever illness you’ve contracted desperately, but the uncomfortable aching in your muscles and the tremors wracking your body prevent it. 

So instead, you lay there, silently bristling with anger as your body refuses to let you fall asleep. 

Minho barely slows as he crosses the threshold into the Glade, eyes already scanning, already thinking three steps ahead. It’s automatic at this point. Every Runner made it back? Check. Nobody’s about to collapse? Check. 

He finally slows before stopping, turning towards his Runners. “Alright, water up. Then go map, you know the drill.” He feels like he sounds like a broken record at this point, but as always, he gets a few nods. No arguments. Good. 

As the rest of them disperse, Minho runs a hand through his hair, exhaling as the tension of the Maze starts to loosen from his shoulders. 

He turns, ready to move on and check in with the others, but something stops him in his tracks. It isn’t anything anybody else would notice, but he does. His gaze flickers across the Glade, scanning over familiar faces, trying to find one in particular. 

You’re not there.

His brows knit slightly. Usually, you greet him at the doors when he comes back like clockwork, fussing over him with that Med-jack minded brain of yours that he pretends to hate but he actually loves it and he knows you know it. It’s so routine that when you aren’t there, it raises red flags. 

He turns to Ben who’s right behind him. “I’ll catch up,” he says, not giving the boy any time to protest before jogging off towards the Med-jack hut. 

When he enters, the only two Gladers he sees are Clint and Jeff. Clint looks up, then immediately turns back to whatever he was doing, clearly uninterested in whatever Minho is there for. 

Minho frowns. “..Where is she?”

Jeff shrugs. “We sent her to lie down earlier. She wasn’t feeling well.”

His frown deepens. That isn’t like you. You’re one of the most stubborn shanks he knows, and you push through things like it’s nothing. For you to disappear in the middle of the day must mean you’re really sick. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, turning on his heel and exiting the hut as quickly as he came. 

When he enters the Homestead, it’s quiet. That’s about what he expected, considering all of the other Gladers are outside working. But when he approaches the door to your private room that Alby and Newt graciously gifted you for being the only girl, it’s just as quiet. 

Minho’s fist raises, rapping on the door lightly with his knuckles. “Hey,” he calls out, voice firm but not loud. “You in here?”

No response. His jaw tightens. Without hesitation, he opens the slightly rickety door and steps inside the room. There, he finds you curled up on the bed, barely moving save for the slight shaking of your body.

He moves quickly, crouching down next to the bed within seconds. “Hey,” he murmurs softly, causing your eyes to open slightly. “Heard you’re feeling like klunk. You look it, too,” he jokes, but concern flashes through him.

You smile weakly, huffing a short laugh. “Well hello to you too,” you rasp, then clear your throat. Minho frowns, bringing his hand up to smooth the hair sticking to your forehead away from your face. He nearly freezes as he comes into contact with your skin. You’re burning.

He sucks in a breath. “Alright. Hang tight for me for a minute, yeah?” He doesn’t get a response as he rises to his feet, slipping back through the door. 

You try to curl in on yourself even more, praying and hoping that you can fend off this debilitating chill. Although it isn’t the chill that’s really getting to you now–it’s the soreness in your muscles. Your lower back especially aches, and your frustration grows tenfold.

Minutes later, Minho returns with an armful of supplies. You snap out of your self-pity, glancing at him curiously. 

“Minho, this really isn’t necessary–”

“Ah–slim it,” he says, immediately cutting you off. “Just let me take care of you for once.” 

That immediately shuts you up.

“First order of business,” he says, setting a canteen full of water on the small table next to your bed. “Drink.”

Uncurling one of your arms from your body, you reach for it with a shaky hand. He quickly seems to notice your struggle and grabs the canteen, uncapping it and handing it directly to you. You grab it and down a few large gulps, grateful for the cool liquid soothing your parched throat. Once you’re done, he grabs it from you and sets it back down. 

Next, he pulls out a large, thin blanket. He drapes it over your body, making sure to cover your goosebump covered arms. You nestle into it, wrapping it tightly around you, though it unfortunately doesn’t do much.

Your eyes follow Minho as he wrings out a small cloth, making sure it’s dampened and not soaked. He brings it to your forehead, pressing the fabric lightly against your skin. Despite the coolness soothing the burn of your skin, it still sends a shiver straight down your spine. 

Another round of tremors jerks your body. You press your lips into a firm line, trying to stifle a groan from escaping. It doesn’t work.

“Minho,” you whine softly. “This sucks.” 

He smooths your hair back again so that it doesn’t get stuck underneath the cloth. “I know,” he murmurs. 

For a long time, Minho sits on the floor next to your bed, occasionally dampening the cloth every now and then when the heat from your forehead seeps into it. Your eyes are shut, but you can feel his eyes on you. 

“Everything hurts,” you suddenly mutter, absolutely miserable now. Not that you weren’t before, but you just don’t seem to be feeling any better and you’re already over it. 

“You’re okay. You’ll get through this, you’re a tough shank,” he jokes again, but you don’t laugh. You don’t have the energy to even attempt to joke back. 

A frown tugs at the corners of his mouth. He glances at you again, watching as small involuntary shudders shake your body. The hairs on your arms that have escaped the blanket stand straight up, and you wince quietly as the pressure behind your eyes makes itself known again. 

“Alright,” he mutters to himself. He stands, kicking off his boots and shedding himself of his harness, tossing it onto the ground carelessly. The bed dips as he climbs in beside you, the motion careful despite the urgency behind it. 

Your eyes snap open as he eases himself behind you, pulling you gently toward him. His chest presses up against your back and you immediately melt into him, your tense muscles uncoiling. The warmth from his body makes you sigh quietly. 

Minho grins. “I’ve got you. You’re okay,” he murmurs into your ear. His hand rests on your upper arm. Then he starts to rub slow, firm strokes up and down the length of your arm, trying to chase away the chills wracking your body.

Your eyes flutter shut again. His hand doesn’t stop moving. Up and down, steady, rhythmic. His thumb drags lightly over your skin at the end of each pass, a small, grounding motion that he doesn’t even realize he’s doing. 

Then realization hits you. “Minho,” you say quietly. “You’re gonna get sick.”

He scoffs. “I don’t care about that. Don’t worry about me,” he replies, pressing a quick kiss to your temple as if to prove a point. “Besides, I have a lovely Med-jack right here who can take care of me if I do get sick.”

You snort. “Don’t hold your breath.” 

But you know you’d do the same for him in a heartbeat. 

He pulls you closer, pulling the blanket over the two of you. His hand slips under the fabric, continuing to rub your arm, although your shaking seems to have subsided some. 

“Get some rest,” he whispers. “You need it.” He presses another kiss to the back of your neck, his lips warm against your skin. 

You just nod once, already drifting in and out of consciousness in the comfort of his arms. 

However, you have one more request. 

“…Minho?”

“Yeah?”

“…Can you rub my back?”

His hand stills on your arm. “Now you’re pushing it.”

A smile creeps across your face, though, as he sighs dramatically, guiding you onto your stomach. His fingers brush against your skin as he lifts your shirt, and then his hands are gently yet firmly working at the knots in your back. The relief from your aching muscles is immediate. 

“Thank you,” you murmur drowsily. “You’re the best.”

He chuckles. “Trust me, I know.” Then, he lowers his voice, more sincere now. “Anything for you. You know that.” 

Your heart flutters. As sarcastic and straightforward as Minho can be, he has a giant soft spot for you. The smile on your face only grows at the thought. 

And with the warmth of his hands on your skin, you quickly succumb to a restful slumber. 

The soldier releases him and steps toward you. You tense, every muscle in your body coiling. He grabs the back of your collar, shoving your head down to expose the chip at the base of your neck. The scanner hums, and you see red. 

“B7.”

Before you can stop yourself, you twist violently and spit straight at him. It hits the soldier's visor. 

For a split second, everything freezes. 

Then you’re shoved, hard. You lose your balance and slam sideways into the dirt, shoulder aching from the impact. 

There’s only silence around you, no one daring to speak up in fear of what might happen to them. Minho’s jaw clenches so hard he fears he might break teeth, though.

The soldier wipes his visor clean with the back of his glove, then hauls you upright again. Your shoulder throbs as you’re yanked back into position. 

“Try some shit like that again and see where it gets you,” the soldier's muffled voice seethes, moving on to the next kid. 

You sit there breathing hard, dirt sticking to your clothing. 

After a moment, Minho shifts slightly beside you. “You’re an idiot,” he hisses. 

You just shrug like it was nothing. “Worth it.” 

When Thomas reappears, hell breaks loose again. 

It seems like there might be a chance when Jorge and Brenda show up. But not for you. Or Aris, or Sonya.

In the midst of chaos, you can see Harriet running back towards the truck. Relief floods through you, knowing she isn’t in WCKD’s hands. 

A surge of adrenaline and anger floods through you, and you throw your elbow back in an attempt to escape the grasp of the soldier who has you captive. It lands, and you twist in an attempt to break his grip. It almost works, but you’re shoved forward and both of your arms are locked behind your back. 

“Move,” the soldier growls, the ramp of the berg looming closer. 

Aris and Sonya are shoved into the berg at the same time as you. There’s no point in fighting it anymore. 

From your spot in the aircraft, your eyes catch sight of the Gladers running across the dirt. Minho is covering them, shotgun blasting soldiers left and right. 

Until his gun jams, and a launcher hits him square in the chest. 

You can only watch as he drops to his knees, slumping over a barrel as shockwaves tear through him for the second time that night. Thomas is yelling in the background, trying to move towards him, but his efforts are futile. 

WCKD soldiers surround Minho, grabbing him under the arms and dragging him backwards. He’s motionless, helpless as they haul him toward the berg ramp. 

A heaviness weighs on your chest as he’s brought into the cramped space, black uniforms holding him upright as he doesn’t have the strength to do it himself. Your eyes flicker over to the people still left outside, and you can see the Gladers in the distance. Thomas’s chest rises and falls quickly, mouth parted slightly in disbelief as the ramp doors begin to close. 

And as the doors finally seal, it feels like your fate does too.

The door slams shut with a metallic clang that echoes off of the concrete walls. 

You stagger forward as the guards shove you inside the room, barely catching yourself before you can hit the floor. 

Behind you, another body stumbles in. Then the door seals. 

Silence. 

You take a quick glance around the room. It’s small—bare concrete walls, a single harsh light overhead, and two small bunks bolted into opposite sides of the wall. A camera blinks red in the upper corner. 

Great. 

You turn. And freeze. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Across the room, rubbing his shoulder where a guard had shoved him, is Minho. He looks just as unimpressed. 

“Fantastic,” he mutters. “Out of every shank they could’ve picked, it had to be you.”

You scoff. “Feelings mutual.”

“Could’ve been anyone. Literally anyone else.”

“Yeah, because you’re such a joy to be around.”

“At least I don’t pretend I am,” he mutters.

For a moment you just stare at each other. He’s angry, that much is obvious, but the fact that he’s directing it onto you is pissing you off. Even now, bruised, dirty, and trapped in some WCKD facility, the feeling of blinding irritation is no different than when you’d first met in the Scorch. 

Minho breaks the staring contest first, walking towards the bunks and inspecting them. 

“Well,” he says. “Looks like we’re roommates.”

You cross your arms. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

“Oh please.” He points at one of the bunks on the side of the wall that isn’t in direct view when the door opens. “That one’s mine.”

You blink. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“That one’s better.”

“Exactly.”

Out of spite, you march over and shove past him, plopping onto the bunk before he can react. 

“Too slow.”

Minho stares at you like you just killed his friends in front of him. “You did not just—“

“I did.”

He lets out an incredulous laugh. “Unbelievable. They stick me in a prison cell and I still have to deal with Group B’s most irritating runner. I don’t know which is worse, honestly.”

“Oh, you mean the one who finished her maze faster than yours?” you shoot back. 

He narrows his eyes. “Don’t get too cocky now.”

“Oh, I will.”

The tension in the room crackles. For a second it almost feels like you’re in the desert again. Arguing over directions, trading insults while the others groan behind you. 

But now, you realize, there’s no one to stop you. 

Minho starts pacing the room. He tests the walls, the bunks, the door. It’s solid, no handle on the inside, no weak points. 

He glances at the camera. “They’re watching.”

You follow his gaze. “Well,” you snort, “hope they’re enjoying the show.”

He leans back against the wall. “Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to show them I’m the strongest.”

“Please,” you say as you roll your eyes. “Didn’t I have to save you from eating sand a few days ago?”

“As I said before, I had it handled,” he says matter-of-factly. 

You huff a laugh despite yourself. 

Then the silence creeps back in. It’s deafening, the only audible noise being the low hum of the ventilation system. Neither of you acknowledge how tired you are. Or how scared or alone you feel. 

Instead, Minho jerks his chin toward the bunk you’d stolen. “You’re really taking that one?”

“Yep.”

“Fine,” he huffs, dropping down on the other bunk with a metallic creak. 

You sit in silence for a long time, until the sound of the electronic lock on the door buzzes. Both of you sit up instantly, your pulse quickening. 

The door swings open, revealing two WCKD guards donned in black uniforms. They step into the room, and Minho gets to his feet immediately. 

“What do you want?”

Neither guard answers. Instead, one of them points directly at you. 

“You. Up.” 

Your stomach plummets. Slowly, you force yourself to stand. 

Minho looks between the guards, then at you. “Where are you taking her?” No response, as expected. 

“Relax,” you mutter. “Maybe they’re taking me somewhere nicer.”

“Yeah,” he says flatly. “That’s definitely it.”

One of the guards grabs your arm. Instinctively, you jerk back. Immediately, the grip on your arm tightens and you grit your teeth. 

“Hey—“ Minho goes to interrupt, but the second guard lifts a stun baton ever so slightly. He freezes. You meet his eyes for a brief second, giving him a warning look. 

“Don’t start something,” you say quietly. The guard shoves you towards the door. You twist back just long enough to throw one last jab. “Try not to miss me too much.”

Minho folds his arms over his chest. “Trust me. I’ll enjoy the quiet.” His jaw tightens ever so slightly, though, as the door shuts behind you. 

The cell door opens again about an hour or two later. Or maybe longer, but it’s hard to keep track with no way of knowing the time. 

Minho is on his feet instantly. 

You stumble inside as rough hands shove you forward. The door carelessly slams shut again, and you grumble to yourself quietly as you straighten. 

Minho takes in your appearance, noticing you no longer wear the clothes you came in with. Instead of your jacket and pants that were dirtied by the harshness of the Scorch, you now wear all blue–a dark navy blue t-shirt and lighter pants. Most notably, your shirt has the words ‘PROPERTY OF WCKD’ printed across the back in small but bold letters. On the front, it’s printed in smaller letters on the left chest, along with your number. ‘B-07’. 

Minho frowns. “What’d they do to you?”

You shake your head, sitting down heavily on your bunk. Minho also notices the piece of gauze taped to the inside of your arm. 

“Decontamination. Made me change into this garbage. Took blood, vitals, gave me some sort of injection like they did when we got to the compound in the Scorch. Basic stuff,” you pause. “For now.”

He nods, exhaling slowly. 

And not long after that, they come for him next. 

He returns in similar shape to you. He wears the same outfit, though he has ‘A-07’ printed at the top of his. 

You watch from your bunk as he tugs at the fabric of his shirt, expression morphing into one of disgust. 

“Branding us as shuck property,” he mutters distastefully. 

“Get used to it,” you reply, sighing heavily. “That’s what we are now.”

The rest of the evening, neither of you says much more. You're too tired to care.

The second day, you start arguing again.

By the fifth, it’s constant. The joys of being trapped together with nowhere to go, you suppose.

“You’re pacing again.”

You sit on your bunk, arms folded, watching Minho wear a path into the floor. 

“Thanks, captain obvious,” he snaps, continuing his pacing. “Not like there’s much else to do in here. I’m thinking, anyway.”

“You’re sulking,” you correct.

Minho stops mid-step and glares at you. “I don’t sulk.”

“You absolutely do. You’re doing it right now.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

He scoffs and resumes pacing. “You’re the one sitting here acting like it’s the end of the world.”

You stare at him incredulously. “...Um, we’re prisoners in a WCKD facility,” you say slowly. “How exactly is that not the end of the world?”

“Because they’ll come,” he says immediately.

You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Are you joking? You mean Thomas? Newt, Frypan?”

Minho’s jaw tightens out of irritation. “Yes. Them.”

“Minho,” you say flatly, voice void of any emotion. “They have no idea where we are, and do you really think WCKD is going to keep us in one place for too long?”

“They’ll figure it out.”

“And how long is that supposed to take?” you snap. “A week? A month? A year?”

Minho finally stops pacing, staring straight through you. “At least I haven’t given up.”

That hits a nerve. You push yourself to your feet, standing quickly. “I haven’t given up.”

“Really? Sure sounds like it.”

“My apologies for being realistic.”

“Listen, I get feeling hopeless, but don’t drag me down with you,” he hisses.

“You’re being delusional!” you fire back, hands running through your hair. 

The room falls silent except for the sound of the two of you breathing heavily. For a moment, it really does feel exactly as it did when you first met him. Except this time, there’s nowhere to walk away. No one to stop you. 

Minho’s glare doesn’t falter, but he looks away first. “Whatever. Talking to you is exhausting.”

You sit back down hard on the bunk. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “Whatever. You’re impossible.” You turn on your side to face the wall, shutting him out completely. 

Even when you close your eyes, the bright fluorescent lighting doesn’t disappear. The shirt you wear on your back feels like it’s suffocating you, the words printed on it making something in your stomach churn. 

Sleep doesn’t come easily. You quickly learn that it never will.

After so many days, long after you’ve lost count, the tests start to blend together. Some are worse than others. 

You’ve already been moved to another facility with all of the other kids, though you knew WCKD wouldn’t be dumb enough to keep you in one place for too long. 

Dark circles have started to form under your eyes. Your hair thins, energy diminishing—so much so that you almost don’t have the energy to argue with your roommate anymore. Key word almost. 

Now you’re the one that’s been pacing. It’s hard not to, when you have so much pent up energy and anxiety with no way to release it like you did in the Maze.

“Weren’t you just yelling at me a few days ago about pacing?” Minho’s voice cuts into your thoughts.

You don’t stop. “And?”

“It’s annoying.”

“Then don’t watch me.”

“Hard not to when that’s literally the only thing I can see. The room isn’t very big, if you haven’t noticed.”

You roll your eyes so hard you think they might get stuck, but don’t respond.

He pipes up again anyway, in that annoying way of his. “Maybe you should try sitting down. You’re gonna wear yourself out for no reason.”

“Don’t,” you say sharply.

“Don’t what?”

“Act like you’ve got everything under control. Because I know you don’t.”

“I don’t,” he replies. “But I’m not losing it either.”

“I’m not losing it.”

“You’re pretty damn close.”

You stop dead in your tracks, turning slowly. “You don’t know that.”

“It’s obvious.”

“You don’t. You don’t know anything about me,” you hiss, anger bubbling under the surface.

“I know enough,” he says, standing now too. “You were a Keeper, no? You’re the same as me. Same job, same pressure–”

“Then stop acting like I can’t handle it,” you cut him off.

“Then handle it.”

“I am.”

“No,” he says sharply, “you’re trying to control something you can’t.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. “And what are you doing?” Your voice drops. He doesn’t answer immediately, causing you to laugh. “That’s what I thought.”

“At least I’m not acting like our lives are already over.”

“I never said that.”

“You don’t have to say it out loud, shank. It’s obvious enough.”

You shake your head, turning away, dragging a hand through your hair in frustration. “Okay, whatever Minho. I’m done. Don’t talk to me, I’m sick of hearing your voice.”

“Gladly.”

True to his word, he doesn’t speak for the rest of the night into the next day. The room is plunged into a long, uncomfortable silence, but you’re not about to break it due to your pride.

You’re lounging on your bunk, staring at nothing in particular when you hear the buzz of the lock and the door swinging open. You don’t even lift your head. 

“B7. Let’s go.”

You sigh dramatically as you sit up, swinging your legs over the hard mattress. Minho catches your eye for a quick second, but says nothing. 

The guards lead you out, toward whatever your next test will be. 

The lab you’re led into smells like antiseptic and chemicals. 

Before you can even attempt to protest, you’re forced down onto a cold metal table. You yell out in protest, struggling as your limbs are held down and restrained. With your wrists and ankles bound, you’re powerless. Your expression hardens, glaring at the technicians around you.

“You people ever hear of consent?” you mutter, knowing that your consent means nothing in this place. As you expected, no one answers.

A needle slides into the vein in your arm, causing you to flinch. A second one is slid into your other arm, attached to a tube that disappears into a humming machine. You can only imagine what it’ll be used for.

A screen lights up with rows of numbers. One of the doctors in a white coat glances at it, then nods towards another one. “Begin cycle.”

You barely have time to process the words before a mask is placed over your face. No matter how hard you try to fight it, it only takes seconds before your vision goes dark.

Then, suddenly, you jolt awake. It felt like you had only been out for mere seconds, but you know it’s been longer than that. Your head pounds. The room spins slightly as your eyes crack open, the machines beside you beeping steadily.

Your arms are still strapped down. 

Two doctors stand nearby, arguing quietly over a tablet.

“...response levels are good. We can move her into phase two, if this continues to go well.”

You blink slowly, forcing your mind to focus. Tools sit on a sterilized tray on the table next to you. Scalpels. Needles. Other devices that you don’t recognize. Something sharp twists in your chest, something like panic.

You test the restraints on your wrists, hoping something will give. And then you feel it–one of them is loose.

“Hey,” one of the doctors snaps. “She’s awake.”

The other immediately reaches for a syringe. 

“Sedate her again.”

The doctor steps closer, and that same panic rears its head again. You rip your hand free from the loose restraint and swing.

Your fist connects hard with his jaw. He stumbles back, crashing into a table of tools. Metal clatters everywhere, loud clangs echoing through the room.

“Restrain her!” someone shouts. You try to sit up, ripping the IV from your arm as you struggle. A guard grabs your shoulder, and you lash out again out of pure desperation, catching him across the face.

For a brief, glorious moment, chaos erupts in the room. Then, a fist slams into your mouth. 

Pain explodes through your jaw as your head snaps sideways. Your vision bursts into white. Rough hands shove you back onto the table, forcing you down. A syringe plunges into your neck. Cold instantly spreads through your body. 

The last thing your consciousness holds onto is the feeling of warm blood dripping down your chin.

You don’t remember them bringing you back.

Minho does.

The door bursts open, much later than usual. Two guards drag your unconscious body inside and drop you carelessly onto your bunk. You don’t even stir as you hit the mattress, body completely limp. 

Minho is on his feet instantly. 

“What the hell happened to her?” he snarls. He doesn’t really expect an answer, and he doesn’t get one. The guards leave as quickly as they arrived. 

The door slams shut. Minho kneels beside the bunk, eyes scanning over your face. Your lip is split open, dried blood smeared down your chin. An ugly bruise is already blooming along your jaw. 

His stomach twists. 

“Hey,” he says urgently, shaking your shoulder. “Hey.”

You don’t wake up. His hands curl into fists, fury burning hot and sharp in his chest. 

For the rest of the night, he doesn’t sleep. He watches the rise and fall of your chest, just to make sure you’re still breathing. 

You stir sometime later. 

At first it’s barely noticeable. Your fingers twitch slightly against the mattress, but it catches Minho’s eye immediately. He’s on his feet again in an instant. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, crouching down beside your bunk again. 

Your eyes flutter open. For a moment you just stare at the bottom of the bunk above you, blinking slowly like you’re trying to remember where you are. Then the pain catches up to you. You inhale sharply, one hand flying up towards your mouth.

“Careful,” Minho says, grabbing your wrist gently before you press too hard against your split lip or swelling jaw. Then he realizes what he’s doing and pulls his hand away like your skin burns him. 

You squint at him, still trying to make sense of what was going on. “…Why does my face feel like I got hit by a truck?”

Minho exhales a humorless laugh. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

You slowly sit up, wincing as your head throbs. “What happened?” you mumble. 

Minho studies you for a second. “You don’t remember?”

You shake your head slightly and immediately regret it. “Not really, no.”

He leans back on his heels. “They brought you back out cold,” he says quietly. “Your lip is busted. And you have a real nice bruise on your jaw.”

“Oh.” Your eyebrows furrow as the memory flickers back in pieces. Then it hits you. “Oh. Shit.”

Minho raises a brow, silently urging you to continue. 

“I may or may not have punched a doctor.”

“You what?”

You rub your face, careful to avoid your jaw. “I woke up and panicked and one of the restraints was loose so I swung,” you say quickly. 

Minho pauses, then lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “You punched a WCKD doctor.”

“Well technically two people if you also consider the guard that I swung at.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Might as well not make it easy for them, right?”

“Don’t make it easy, but don’t be a dumb shank. That’s how you get hurt, like you are right now,” he says sharply. “Do you want them to make it worse for you?”

You frown, ignoring his question. Then you take a better look at him, noticing the dark circles under his eyes and the tired look on his face. 

“You didn’t sleep.”

Minho shrugs. “I was busy.”

“Doing what?” You raise a brow. 

He looks at you like the answer is obvious. “Making sure my shuck roommate wasn’t dead.”

Your chest tightens unexpectedly, and you look away quickly. 

“…I was fine.”

“Right,” he huffs. “Well I had to be sure. Would probably die of boredom if I didn’t have someone to argue with all the time.”

You can only roll your eyes in response. 

Over time, the hostility between the two of you lessens more and more. When it becomes clear that no one is coming for you, at least not any time soon, you only have each other to lean on. 

It starts as small gestures. Helping each other sit after a particularly hard day, subconsciously looking for injuries on the other. Reminiscing about your friends together, wondering if they’re okay. Sitting beside each other on the floor, backs against the bunk, shoulders brushing slightly. Light touches that ground you. 

Your arguments turn into something sillier, something lighter. 

“You snore, by the way.”

Your eyes snap open. “I do not.”

Minho doesn’t even look at you. Just stares at the ceiling like he’s been waiting for this moment. “You do.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You absolutely do.”

You push yourself up onto your elbows. “I would know if I snored.”

“Right,” he says. “Because people always hear themselves snore.”

“That’s not the point. It has nothing to do with hearing it.”

“It kind of is the point.” He completely ignores the second half of your statement. 

You glare at him across the room. “You’re making it up.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

You grab the thin pillow off of your bunk and throw it at him. It hits him square in the chest. He looks down at it, then back at you. 

“…Really?”

“You deserved that.”

“For telling the truth?”

“For being annoying.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“It should be.”

He picks up the pillow, turning it over in his hands like he’s considering something. 

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t throw that back.”

“I wasn’t going to. Matter of fact, I might just keep it.”

“Minho.”

You stare at him. He stares back. Without warning, he tosses it. You barely have time to react before it hits you in the face. 

You drop back onto your bunk with an annoyed groan, clutching the pillow to your chest. “You’re the worst.”

“And you snore.”

“I do not snore!”

“Do too.”

And then, Minho had been right before. WCKD was making it worse for you. When they came to get you for testing, you were handcuffed every time without fail. You always had some sort of restraints on you, and not once were they loose after the stunt you pulled previously. 

There was one time where you were stupid enough to fight against the guards taking you out of pure anger, and you and Minho ended up with a taser in your sides. You for fighting, and Minho for getting angry and threatening them. 

After that, you stopped fighting. There was no point. 

Currently, you sit on the cold floor with your back against your bunk, gaze fixed on the wall across from you. 

Minho has been watching you for the last fifteen minutes. 

“You’re doing it again,” he says. No response. 

“Hey, earth to runner.”

Still nothing. 

“You just gonna stare at the wall all day?” he asks, frustration creeping into his tone. 

“What’s the point?” you finally speak. 

Minho frowns. “What?”

“This.” You gesture weakly around the room. It’s a different room now, yet same concept—WCKD had moved you again. 

“The room?”

“All of it.”

Minho pushes himself off his bunk. “Don’t start that.”

You laugh humorlessly. “Start what?”

“The whole ‘we’re doomed’ klunk.”

You look up at him through tired eyes. “You don’t get it.”

“Try me.”

You stand suddenly, irritation surging through you. “They’re draining us, Minho!” Your voice echoes throughout the barely furnished room. “And that’s all they’re going to keep doing.”

He crosses his arms, unmoved by your outburst. “I’m well aware of what they’re doing. And until we’re out of here, you need to try not giving up.”

“You still think we’re getting out of here?” you ask, disbelieving. You know you sound hopeless, like you’ve completely given up, and maybe you have. 

“We will.”

“You don’t know that!” your voice cracks, barely noticeable but still there. “They’re not letting us go, and I have a hard time believing anyone is going to find us. We’re just lab rats now.”

Minho’s expression hardens. “Stop talking like that.”

“Like what? Being realistic?”

“No, like you’ve already given up.”

You throw your hands up, laughing bitterly, but say nothing more.

He takes a step closer. “You think I’m just going to sit here and let them win?”

“They already have!”

The room goes silent. Your chest heaves, and Minho just stares at you. Then, he snaps.

“Stop acting like you’re already dead!”

You stare at him. He looks angry, but there’s something else there too. 

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t worried about you. You, who carried enough sass in the Scorch for the both of you, who didn’t let anything get in your way, whose spirit couldn’t be broken because that’s how runners operated. 

And WCKD was taking that from you. 

You break your stare, opting to look down at your hands instead. “I’m tired, Minho.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“No,” you say softly. “I mean..tired.” Your voice cracks slightly again. “Tired of them taking us. Tired of waiting. Tired of wondering if the next time they drag me out there is the one where I don’t come back.”

Minho’s anger dissipates. He takes another step closer so that he’s standing right in front of you. 

“Look at me,” you say and laugh bitterly. “I used to run through a maze full of monsters every day,” you continue. “And somehow that felt easier than this.”

Minho doesn’t say anything for a moment as you try to still your shaking hands. Then, he says your name so gently that it startles you into looking up at him. He looks at you for a second, then does something you’d never expect him to do in a million years. 

He pulls you into a hug. 

It’s unsure at first, like he’s worried that you’re going to fight it and start swinging or start cussing him out. 

Instead, you melt into it. Your entire body sags against him, arms snaking around his midsection. His grip tightens once he realizes that you’re not going to protest, resting his chin on top of your head. 

You strangely find yourself hoping that he doesn’t let go. Until now, you didn’t realize how badly you craved this kind of comfort. It feels foreign to you, but your walls have been broken down enough that you welcome it eagerly. 

“You’re still here,” he murmurs. “After everything they’ve done.”

You don’t respond. 

“You keep getting up. You keep fighting,” he continues. “That’s what a runner does.”

All you can do is nod. 

After that, the two of you only grow closer. 

You constantly find comfort in each other's arms, especially after the hard days. It felt strange at first, but now it just feels routine. 

It was especially necessary after WCKD moved you to the Last City. 

On the journey there, you realized that Minho was right. Thomas and the rest of the Gladers did come for you. You could hear them pounding on the metal of the box car of the train, shouting Minho’s name. 

And you were hopeful, until WCKD pulled you and Minho from the box car and moved you to a different one before the Gladers could take off with it. 

You understood why they moved Minho, but why they moved you, you weren’t sure. 

Fury flooded through you while you watched Janson walk around from your spot in the dirt, asking how many they took. He approached the two of you with a smug look on his face that you wish you could’ve wiped right off of him. 

“We’re searching the area, but they’re probably long gone by now,” one of the men had said to Janson. 

The Rat Man looked down on the two of you with a sneer, like you were nothing more than a speck of dirt on his shoe. “Oh no they’re not going anywhere. He didn’t get what he really wanted,” he had said. 

When you reach the Last City, the two of you are thrown in a room once again. 

This one is smaller, more confined. It’s narrow, with bunks on both sides of the wall, though it’s only the two of you in there. 

You’d be lying if being in the Last City didn’t make you nervous. The facility is huge, and you can’t imagine what their plans might be bringing you here. 

As it turns out, especially with the threat of Thomas looming, they want to extract the cure faster than ever before. 

The simulations are horrible and cruel. 

It’s strange, the way your mind and body are constantly in fight or flight. More so your mind, because almost every test or simulation they bring you to, you’re sedated. 

The first time they put you and Minho into your respective simulations, they bring you to the same room. It was unusual for them to do so, and that’s what makes you nervous. It isn’t a huge room, but it still has that sterile, white feel to it that you’ve become accustomed to. There’s a large window overlooking the room, which you can only assume is for onlookers to watch you. The thought makes you shudder. 

There are two tables awaiting the two of you, directly across from each other. While you’re used to restraints at this point, you notice something a little different about these ones. Large harnesses, almost like ones you would see on a rollercoaster, with what looked like a headpiece attached to them. 

You share a worried glance with Minho. However, if he’s scared, he doesn’t show it. You wish you could say the same about yourself.

It doesn’t take long for you to figure out why they’d brought you in together. 

You’re both strapped down to your individual tables, and they’re tilted up until you’re upright. Now the harness makes sense.

WCKD doctors and technicians waste no time. They grab supplies, moving around you and Minho, poking and prodding with needles–nothing unusual. But then you see the large, dialysis looking machine next to you whir to life, and your heart drops. 

Your panic only rises as they attach more tubing to you. Then, one of the technicians hits a button on the machine. 

Minho’s chest tightens, watching as dark red begins to move through the clear tubing. It flows quickly, cycling through the machine, moving through the other tube back into your body.

He meets your wide eyes, panic written all over your face in a way he truly hasn’t seen before. Not like this. Not when you can usually hide it behind sarcasm or anger or jabs. This was different. It was raw, unbridled fear.

“Minho,” you swallow hard. “Minho, what are they doing?

He can’t give you a clear answer to that. Instead, he pulls hard against his restraints. “I don’t know,” he says, voice tight. “Just–hey, look at me.”

You do. Your breathing is uneven now, chest rising and falling too fast against the harness across it. Personnel adjust the contraption on your head to their liking, wires and electrodes attached to your forehead. You try to glance sideways at them, just to get a glimpse at what they’re doing.

“Look at me.” Minho’s voice snaps you back to him.

Your eyes flicker back to him, trying to focus on his face and his face only.

“There you go,” he says, softer now. “You’re good. You’re okay.”

“I’m not okay,” you choke out. Never in a million years would you have admitted that to anyone in the past, but you don’t care anymore. You don’t care. You’re terrified.

“Yes, you are.”

You appreciate the effort of him trying to be reassuring, but it hardly works. Especially when a doctor steps closer to you, large syringe in hand.

“Minho.” Your voice is smaller now, quieter. “I don’t want to..” you trail off.

Minho swallows. “I know.”

“I don’t want to go under again–”

“I know,” he repeats, voice strained.

Your eyes stay locked onto his. For a moment, everything else disappears. The machines, the guards, the doctors. It’s just you and him.

“Stay with me,” he says.

You shake your head weakly. “I’m trying. I’m scared, Minho.”

Those words coming from your mouth hit him harder than anything else. He leans forward as much as his restraints will allow. “Hey,” he says quietly. “You’re not alone. I’m right here.”

The only thing you can give him in response is a weak nod, before the syringe is plunged into your skin. Your body tenses sharply momentarily, hands curling into tight fists. Then, your movements falter. The sedative works quickly, and your eyes roll into the back of your head seconds later no matter how hard you try to fight it.

When the machines beside you beep steadily, indicating stable vitals, they move onto Minho. They hook him up in the same exact fashion as you, yet he hardly notices. His focus is solely fixed on you.

“Simulation initiated,” someone calls out from behind a computer.

Minho’s eyes narrow, still looking at you. There doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary happening quite yet.

Suddenly, just as they’re about to put him under, your body jerks against the restraints. Minho involuntarily flinches, not expecting the movement. Your chest rises and falls quicker, sweat forming a thin sheen on your forehead.

The needle hovers over his skin, but is not yet injected.

A scream tears itself from your throat, loud and terrified.  

He thrashes against his restraints. “What the hell?! Stop it!” he shouts, but it falls on deaf ears. 

His heart thuds against his ribcage. Horrifyingly, he can’t look away. Can’t stop hearing it echo in his ears. You’re screaming like you’re being torn apart, and they’re making him watch.

That’s when he realizes what they’re doing. This is purposeful—maybe even punishment. Control. 

Break one, break the other.

With despair, Minho remembers that WCKD has been watching. Your whole time here, they’ve been watching through the cameras placed in the corners of your rooms. They’ve been watching your relationship develop.

And now, they're using it to their advantage.

The needle finally pierces his skin. As he slips into his own unconsciousness, the last thing he hears is your screams. And the last thing he realizes is that WCKD makes sure of it.

-

Your simulations are filled with the Maze. Being hunted by Grievers. By Cranks in the Scorch. 

Your friends, paired with one of your biggest fears: not being able to save them. Not being strong enough. 

Then, Minho is there, strangely enough. 

And you get to watch him die, over and over again, in a dream that you have no control over and can’t voluntarily wake up from.

-

When the two of you are returned to your room, barely conscious and dragged in, it’s silent. What is there to say, really? You both had just been through one of the most traumatizing things you can remember, and it topped the Maze by a long shot. For you, at least.

You drag yourself to your bunk, climbing in, exhaustion settling deep in your bones. Your head still feels heavy from the sedatives, and when you lay down, it feels like your brain is rattling around in your skull. You figure with how tired your body feels, sleep will come easily.

It doesn’t. 

Every time you close your eyes, all you see are flashes of memories. Memories that aren’t real, and you know they aren’t real, but they haunt you just the same.

Over the next few days, it dawns on you quickly that the simulations are the quickest method of extracting the serum in large quantities, and the method that’s closest to the Maze. Serum extraction of this nature requires stimulation of neural pathways, you had heard one of the doctors say.

They don’t take you together anymore. Once WCKD made sure that Minho saw what they wanted him to see, it didn't matter anymore. They just wanted to make sure you both knew that they were using your relationship to their advantage; that they knew you weren’t just enemies anymore. You figure that’s precisely why the two of you were roomed together all this time, why WCKD took you off the train with Minho. It’s cruel, but that’s all WCKD knows how to be.

The next time Minho comes back from having more serum sucked from his body, you almost think he’s dead for a moment.

You don’t look up right away when the door opens. Your gaze is fixed on a small, insignificant crack in the wall opposite to you, like you could memorize it if you try hard enough. That has become your thing lately. Anything to stay grounded.

The sound of boots dragging against the floor makes you blink. You turn your head, and still. Minho is being dragged into the room, completely deadweight. The guards drop him carelessly onto his bunk, then leave as quickly as they came. 

For a second, you think they might’ve killed him. He’s so still, laying on his side, eyes unfocused. Your chest tightens. “Minho?”

No response.

You push yourself to your feet, despite your legs protesting. Ignoring it, you cross the room and crouch beside him.

“Minho?”

Still nothing. 

He’s breathing, though. Shallow and uneven, but there. Relief hits you like a truck. You hesitate for a moment, then reach out, hand hovering over his shoulder.

“Hey.”

Nothing. No snarky comment, no annoyed response, no anything. Just silence.

You swallow. “Okay…” 

Your stomach twists. You don’t like this at all. Trying again, your voice comes out softer. “Minho.”

His gaze doesn’t move, doesn’t shift towards you. He doesn’t acknowledge you at all. You stand there for a moment, unsure. This is new. Not the exhaustion or the silence, but the emptiness. Like whatever they’d done to him had scraped something out and hadn’t bothered putting it back. 

You rub your hands together, suddenly restless. Your chest feels tight. 

Then, you move before you can think about it too much. You climb onto the bunk beside him, careful, slow. 

He doesn’t react at first.

You hesitate for half a second, then you shift closer, laying down beside him. You’re facing him, looking into his eyes, though he doesn’t meet yours. “...You’re kinda freaking me out,” you mutter. 

No response, again. You exhale shakily. “Great. Cool. Love that.” You look at him again, and something in your chest feels like it cracks a little. “Okay. We’re not doing this.”

Slowly, cautiously, you reach for him. One of your arms snakes around him, hand feeling the warmth of his back through his shirt. You hesitate again, but your hand trails up and down his back in what you hope is a soothing motion.

“Minho,” you whisper after a while, after he still hasn’t reacted to your presence. “You’re here, right?”

Silence.

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Don’t do this,” you murmur. “Don’t..not be here.” You never thought you’d say it, but you miss him arguing with you right about now. You miss his sassy remarks, miss him being the one to not give up. There’s a part of you that wishes he would shove you off of the bunk right now, just so you’d have something to yell at him about.

“You can’t shut down on me like this. I can’t do this alone,” you say suddenly, quietly, not really meaning to. But it’s the truth, whether you like it or not. You can’t do this without him. 

And then, a shift. Minho’s muscles shift under your hands, and you can hear a sharp intake of breath as his breath hitches. You freeze for a moment.

Then he pulls you in hard. A startled noise tumbles from your lips as his arms wrap around you, pulling you fully against him. Tight. Almost too tight. Like if he let go, you’d disappear.

“Minho–” you squeak out, but his grip only tightens, crushing and desperate. 

His face buries into your neck, breathing uneven. “I’m here,” he rasps. “I’m here, I’m here–”

You almost sag in relief at the sound of his voice. You don’t hesitate, clinging back just as tight, hands fisting into his shirt. “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”

He shifts, rolling onto his back and bringing you with him. His arms don’t loosen. If anything, they tighten again like he needs to convince himself that you’re real. That he’s real, and that everything about this is real.

His mouth opens, as if he’s going to say something, but he falters. He starts to speak, but he cuts himself off as if he can’t bear to finish the thought.

You don’t push. You just shake your head, shushing him. “Minho, it’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”

He only nods, one of his hands sliding up to the back of your neck, fingers brushing the hair at the nape of your neck. It slides down after a moment, coming to rest between your shoulder blades. The other stays locked across your back, keeping you anchored to him.

The two of you stay like that. Your head rests against his chest, listening to his heart still hammer against his rib cage. His hand shifts slightly against your back, not loosening, just adjusting like he needs to make sure you’re still there. Still his to hold onto.

You don’t move away, don’t even consider it. “I’m not going anywhere,” you finally say quietly.

Minho lets out a shaky breath at that. “Good.” His voice was softer now. He peers down at you finally, you can feel it. You look up to meet his eyes. 

That must’ve been all he needed to see, because he pulls you back into him. Not as frantic this time, but still tight and still close. 

He wasn’t trying to stop himself from falling apart and unraveling anymore. He was just trying to hold onto something that kept him together.

And you were doing the exact same thing. 

The group of boys (and one singular other girl) are strung up around you in the same fashion. One of them, noticeably, is Aris. Who you happen to know very well. 

You could pick out his scrawny form a mile away. And while you have a lot of questions, your current predicament doesn’t allow you to ask them.

“Good plan, Thomas. Just hear what the man has to say. Really working out for us,” the tan-skinned Asian boy finally barks.

“Shut up Minho,” the brunette across from you mutters bitterly. Thomas tries reaching up for the rope, but his attempt falls flat. 

“Yeah, Minho,” you bristle, his name on your tongue laced with malice, livid that your cover was blown. “You idiots just had to walk in and ruin everything. Especially you.”

Minho twists his body instantly, rope swinging lightly as he does. He glares at you hard. “And who the shuck are you?”

“That’s my business,” you mock, recounting his words to Jorge from earlier. 

He rolls his eyes, a scoff leaving his throat. “The blood must really be rushing to my head right now, because there’s no way this random shank is talking to me like that.”

Before you can open your mouth to retort, Jorge enters the room.

“Enjoying the view?” The older man asks, stalking towards the group of you with his staff. 

“The hell do you want?” you can hear somebody ask.

“That is the question,” Jorge says, raising his staff. “My men want to sell you back to WCKD.”

You scoff. “As if.” 

Jorge ignores you, continuing to speak. “You tell me what you know, and maybe we can make a deal.” His hand hovers over the lever that controls how high you’re all currently hanging.

Thomas hesitates. “We-we don’t know much.”

Suddenly, your stomach drops as the lever is pushed. The ropes jolt, dropping everyone a foot lower. Panicked shouts ensue. Thomas yells out, “alright, alright!”

“They’re hiding in the mountains. They attacked WCKD, they got out a bunch of kids. That’s it, that’s all we know.”

You frown, knowing that your Maze is the one that The Right Arm ambushed. It still hurts that you didn’t make it out, but you’re glad that at least Harriet and Sonya are out of WCKD’s hands. 

Jorge takes a couple steps forward, opening his mouth to speak. He’s quickly interrupted by Barkley, one of the raggedy men who lives in the facility, who you can tell appears to be a bit suspicious.

“Hey, wait. You’re not gonna help us?” Thomas asks incredulously after Jorge tells Barkley that he’s done here. 

“Don’t worry Hermano. We’ll get you back to where you belong.”

He walks off, throwing a “hang tight” over his shoulder. 

You huff, deciding you’re not wasting anymore time. You start trying to gain momentum to swing your body, though it doesn’t work very well with no extra help. 

“Doesn’t look like that’s working out for you very well,” Minho says matter-of-factly, watching you with a smug look on his face. You wish you could smack it off of him. 

“I don’t see you trying. You realize you’re in the same predicament as me, right ceiling boy?” you snap. 

“She’s right. We gotta try something here, we can’t just sit around and wait,” Thomas says. Minho grumbles something incoherent, maybe something about how he “shouldn’t be agreeing with mystery girl over here.”

Next thing you know, Minho is pushing the girl closest to the lever towards the rail to the side of the pit you all hang above. It takes a few attempts, but she eventually manages to grab it, twisting her body to be able to grab the lever. You’re all dropped another couple of feet as she pulls it. 

She frees herself from the ropes binding her ankles. Then, quickly, she starts to free everybody else. She grabs a pole, using it to have each person grab it to pull them over to the floor. 

The energy in the room is frantic, rushed. Helicopter lights flood through the windows, illuminating the room as WCKD lurks outside. Looking for all of you. The words “WCKD property” coming out of Janson’s mouth sends a chill down your spine. 

Finally, you’re the last one standing. Or hanging. Thomas holds a pole out towards you, and you grab it tightly. 

“Are we seriously helping her? We could just leave her, you know. Let WCKD walk away with something,” Minho groans. Thomas’ head snaps back as he pulls you to safety, beginning to unwrap the rope around you. 

“I’m not leaving anyone behind,” Thomas says, tone warning Minho to knock it off. 

You’re choosing to ignore Minho’s comment for now, because there’s no time to break out into a fight, but anger boils beneath your skin like an itch you can’t scratch. You scramble to your feet once you’re freed, mumbling a “thanks” to Thomas. Before you can even take another step, your shoulders are grabbed and you’re spun around.

Your mouth opens to protest, but you falter once you notice that it’s Aris. His eyes are wide in disbelief as he pulls you into a tight hug. Your shoulders relax, squeezing him tightly. 

“Y/N, how the hell did you get here? Why are you by yourself, what happened?” he asks as you pull away. 

Minho huffs somewhere nearby. “Ah, so mystery girl does have a name.”

You shoot him a deadly glare, then turn back to Aris. “Long story. Don’t worry about it right now,” you say, hinting at getting the hell out of the facility as soon as possible instead of standing around chatting. 

And with Jorge’s surprising help, you all make it out safely before his facility blows to pieces. 

The Scorch almost feels the hottest it's ever been. It’s miserable, and it’s starting to show on everyone’s faces. 

The group that you’ve now found yourself tagging along with, including Jorge, laid low for the night after narrowly escaping WCKD. Now, you’re back to trekking through the desert, on your way to find Brenda and Thomas after they were separated from you. 

It seems to stretch on forever. There’s debris everywhere, bones of buildings half swallowed by sand. 

Minho walks stiffly in the front of the group. He’s focused–until he hears you behind him. 

“Left.”

He doesn’t slow. “I see it.”

“No, you don’t,” you say smugly. “There’s a dip there. Step on it and you’re gonna fall.”

He stops just short of it, looking down. Sure enough, there’s a sizable dip in the sand where a piece of debris has created a small ledge. He exhales slowly through his nose, not wanting to admit that you’re right. 

“...Lucky guess.”

“Sure,” you reply.

Minho shoots you a look over his shoulder. You aren’t even looking at him, just already scanning ahead, unfazed. 

He has decided that he doesn’t like you. Or rather, he doesn’t like how you’re so similar to him.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Who put you in charge?”

You blink. “No one?”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

From behind you, Newt pipes up. “She’s not wrong, mate. You would’ve eaten sand.”

Minho smiles tightly. “I had it handled.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Loud and wrong. Lucky I even said something, I could’ve just let you go down. Actually, I should’ve.”

He whirls around, irritation flashing through his dark eyes. “You always this mouthy, or am I special?”

“Definitely you,” you snap back. Aris overhears, and can’t help but smile in front of you. You’re not being completely truthful–you’ve always had a little attitude to you, he would know. But he can tell you’re just being like this to get under Minho’s skin.

A collective groan ripples through the group. “Great,” Frypan mumbles. “Now we’ve got walking attitude one and two.”

Everybody keeps moving, silence settling over the group for a few minutes. 

You, however, who prides yourself in being able detect change in an instant thanks to that Runner instinct, slow your pace.

The wind had been getting worse for the last hour, which was noticeable in itself. At first, it was just a low whistle through the dead buildings and broken concrete of the Scorch. But now, the direction has changed, the air carrying sharp grains of sand that scraped across skin every time the group pushed forward.

Up ahead, Minho walks at his usual pace. Fast and determined, like the idea of slowing down would kill him. Behind him, the rest of the group trudges along in a loose pack. Newt wipes sand from his face, squinting against the wind.

“Shuck it,” Frypan mutters. “Feels like the whole desert is trying to sand my face off.”

A few steps behind them, you lift your arm to shield your eyes. Something feels off. 

The wind picks up again, and up ahead, you see what almost appears to be a wall of dust and sand looming in the distance.

“Stop,” you say suddenly.

No one listens, or they don’t hear you. Either way, you roll your eyes and raise your voice. 

“Stop!”

This time a few of them halt in confusion. Up front, Minho takes a few more steps before realizing the group isn’t behind him anymore. He turns, irritation already written across his face. 

“What?”

You gesture to the barren landscape ahead, to the wall of sand that feels like it’s closer than it was a minute ago. “The wind shifted.”

“So?”

“So,” you repeat slowly. “That’s a dust storm. And it’s coming this way.”

Minho folds his arms. “And you know that how?”

“Because I have eyes.”

A few of the Gladers exchange looks. Minho glances up, then back at you, unimpressed. “We’ve been walking through worse.”

“Yeah,” you say flatly. “And it’s about to get a lot worse.”

Minho scoffs. “We’re not stopping every time you think something is wrong–”

“Take shelter for a few minutes,” you cut him off. “Let it pass, then we move.”

He stares at you like you just insulted his entire bloodline. 

“You don’t get to call breaks.”

You raise a brow. “Really?”

Minho takes a step forward, as if he’s challenging you. “Really.”

The wind whips harder between the buildings ahead, sending a powerful spray of sand in your direction. You gesture towards it. 

“It’s getting closer,” you say as if it’s obvious. Which it is now.

“It’s wind.”

“It’s wind that’s about to sandblast everyone’s eyeballs. And decrease visibility worse than it is now.”

“Okay, meteorologist. Dramatic.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

Behind you, Newt rubs his temples. “Please,” he groans quietly, “not another one.”

“What?” Aris asks.

Newt nods towards you and Minho, who are now standing two feet apart and glaring at each other like you’re about to break into a fist fight. “They’re the same bloody person.”

Minho points a finger at you. “We keep moving.” 

You cross your arms defiantly. “No.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Again, who made you–”

“Minho.”

“---in charge here?”

“MINHO.”

The wind whips up again, strong and unforgiving. A cloud of sand and dust surges towards the group, so thick that you can barely see when it blows over you. Everyone immediately turns their backs, shielding their faces. 

Frypan spits, trying to remove the gritty sand from his tongue. “Okay yeah maybe we should–”

“Move!” you snap, already moving towards the shelter of a partially collapsed building nearby. The group follows instantly. Minho stays planted for a second longer before muttering something under his breath and stalking after everyone.

Inside the crumbling shell of the building, the wind is blocked enough that you can breathe without inhaling half the desert. Everyone slumps against broken walls and piles of debris. 

Minho leans against a column, arms crossed, still glaring in your direction.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accuses.

“A little,” you reply instantly, shrugging.

Someone chuckles quietly. Newt drops down onto a chunk of concrete. “Seriously,” he says, looking between you two. “Where’d she come from again?”

“She said that was her business,” Minho mocks, recalling your words from earlier where you’d been mocking him.

You roll your eyes. Frypan, who sits nearby, seems to remember something. “Hey, wait,” he starts. “How’d you two know each other again?” he asks as he gestures towards you and Aris.

Before you can answer, Minho cuts in. “Yeah, actually. Been wondering that.”

Aris shrugs like it’s nothing. “Same maze.”

The group collectively quiets for a second.

“Same maze?” Newt repeats.

Aris nods. “Yeah. You know how I came from a maze full of girls? She was one of them,” he says. “One of the best Runners we had, actually. She was Keeper for a reason,” he continues, blissfully unaware he’s detonating something.

Silence. 

Every Glader slowly turns their head towards you. Then toward Minho. Then back to you.

“Oh, you have got to be shucking kidding me.”

Newt just laughs in disbelief. “Bloody hell. It all makes sense now.”

Minho straightens. Frypan points at the two of you like he’s just solved the world’s worst puzzle. 

“Great. Now there’s two of them. That’s just what we need.” 

You squint. “Wait, so you’re telling me that he was also a Runner?” The distaste in your voice is evident. 

Minho drags his hand down his face. “And you’re telling me,” he points at you, “you were the female version of me?”

You cross your arms over your chest. “The word version implies downgrade.” 

Newt leans against the wall, exhausted. “No wonder they’ve been arguing since the second they met.”

Minho scoffs. “I don’t argue.”

You laugh in response. “Oh, you absolutely do.”

He shoots you a look. “You called a sandstorm break.”

“And I was right, wasn’t I?”

He opens his mouth to argue, but another massive gust of sand roars past the opening of the building. After a beat, he exhales slowly through his nose.

“...Fine.”

You grin, satisfaction flashing across your face. “Thanks.”

He points a warning finger at you. “Don’t get used to it.”

In the background, someone mutters “we’re never getting any peace again”. Unfortunately, they’d be correct. 

When the storm passes minutes later, you all reemerge from the building. You’re in front now, not wanting to give Minho the satisfaction of leading the group.

He watches you, irritation buzzing underneath his skin. With that, though, is something dangerously close to respect.

He would never say it out loud, though. 

The banter between you and Minho continues for most of the afternoon, much to the Gladers displeasure. They would be lying if they said they weren’t sick of listening to it. 

“You’re slowing down,” Minho says at one point. 

“I’m not. You’re impatient,” you say flatly. 

“I’m efficient.”

“I’m conserving my energy. You’d think you would know a thing or two about that. Y’know, being a Runner and all?”

“I don’t need to conserve energy. Clearly, I’m just the better Runner.”

You snort. “Oh please. You’re just mad because you know that’s not true.”

“I’m mad because you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying. You wanna find out?”

Minho huffs a sharp laugh. “You ever think about not talking?”

“Do you ever think about listening to someone other than yourself for once?”

“No. That’s kinda my thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Your head truly couldn’t get any bigger.”

“And yours couldn’t? Arrogant shank,” he mutters under his breath. 

You still happen to hear it. 

“Impatient,” you seethe. 

“Difficult.”

“Snobby.”

“Cynical.”

“Bossy,” you continue as you hop up onto a slab of concrete from a fallen building instead of walking around it. Minho vaults it easily. 

“Show off,” you say. 

“You say that like you didn’t take the harder route on purpose.”

“It’s not harder.”

“Right. You just took the ‘look at me’ route.”

You drop down on the other side without missing a beat. “Funny coming from someone whose entire personality screams ‘look at me’. Always moving like you’re auditioning for something.”

“Auditioning for what?”

“Attention.”

Minho grins. “Jealous?”

“As if,” you scoff. “I can’t wait for the day you slip up and I have to drag you out of it.”

“Please,” he huffs. “You’d leave me.”

“Maybe. Or maybe not.” You meet his eyes. “I’d complain the whole time.”

He laughs, and it might be the first time you’ve heard him laugh at something you said. “You’re unbelievable.”

You shrug. “I try.” 

Silence falls over the two of you as you keep walking. The rest of the group chatters behind you, but you pay it no mind. 

After a few minutes, Minho speaks again. “If you’d been in my Maze, I would’ve hated you.”

You smile without looking at him. “If I’d been in your Maze, I would’ve taken your job.”

“Ouch.”

“Truth hurts.”

He bumps your shoulder lightly as you walk. “Good thing we’re not competing.”

You bump him back harder. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Behind you, Newt groans. “Are you two done yet?”

“No,” you and Minho both say in unison. You glare at him.

“Don’t do that,” you say. 

“Relax, shank. Guess we’re just more in sync than you thought.”

“God, I hope not. That might get me killed.”

“Very funny. I happen to believe the opposite, actually.”

“Well, I don’t,” you mumble. It’s not that you don’t think he’s capable—if he was Keeper of the Runners in his Maze, then he's obviously smart and knows what he’s doing. You’re very guarded, though. You don’t trust just anyone. It has to be earned. 

For once, he has nothing to say back to you. 

Entering Zone A is far from comforting. 

It’s full of life, yet run down and slightly unsettling. Music pulses through the air, bass vibrating through the cracked concrete and sand underneath you. People are talking and laughing, yet it all blends into something overwhelming and wrong. 

You’re still leading the group when you enter the Zone. Immediately, you’re on edge. There’s too many eyes. People stop talking as you pass, some openly staring. A few smile in a way that makes your skin prickle. It’s obvious that you all don’t fit in with the vibe here. 

Minho is still walking beside you, but far enough away that it doesn’t annoy you. 

You happen to notice, though, that he quickens his pace once he notices the attention that your group is drawing. He subtly moves in front of you, angling his body enough that you’re no longer fully visible from the front. 

You don’t like that. It makes you feel weak. 

You scowl, opening your mouth to protest. “Move.”

“What?” he says, not looking at you.  

“I said move.”

Minho ignores you, guiding the group through a small crowd of people. You can hear Jorge in the background directing you on which direction to go, but you’re too focused on the way Minho steps fully in front of you after someone’s gaze lingers on you a little too long. 

You grab the back of his arm and yank him to a stop. “Knock it off,” you snap. “I don’t need you doing whatever this is.” 

He finally turns to face you. “Doing what?”

“Protecting me,” you say sharply. “Or whatever it is you think you’re doing. I can handle myself and the rest of the group.”

Minho’s jaw tightens. “This isn’t about your pride.”

“Oh, spare me,” you fire back. “I’ve survived enough on my own. I think I can handle this.”

“You realize you survived a Maze full of girls, correct? And half of your journey through the Scorch has been spent with us. People who you now know you can trust.” His voice is sharp. “This isn't the same. We have no idea what these people did to Thomas and Brenda.”

Around you, everyone keeps moving—Aris, Newt, Frypan, Teresa and Jorge—probably not wanting to listen to your hundredth argument of the day. Minho’s focus locks entirely on you now. 

Your frown deepens, but he keeps going. “You think I don’t know you can handle yourself?” he says, voice low. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” you demand. 

Minho glances past you for a moment. His eyes scan the crowd, noticing the men and women watching too closely, the way some people lean in when they realize you’re new here. 

“We don’t know these shuck people,” he snaps, gaze returning to you. “We don’t know what they want or what they’ll do if they want something from us. We’re walking into their territory.”

You cross your arms. “I didn’t ask you to watch my back.”

He laughs once, short and humorless. “You think I’m doing this because you asked?”

“Then why?” you push. 

Minho hesitates, just for a second. “Because if something happens,” he says finally. “I won’t forgive myself for seeing it coming and doing nothin'. We have to stick together out here, even if you don’t like it.”

Your anger falters. Honestly, you’re surprised he even cares enough. “I don’t need a guard,” you say quietly. 

“I know,” he replies, but leaves it at that. 

Silence stretches between you, thick and tense. Then, you sigh, sharp and annoyed. You know you’ve lost this fight. “You’re impossible.”

He smirks faintly. “You noticed.”

You step around him, but this time, you don’t shove him away when he falls back into position beside you. Not in front, just close. And you let him—just this once. 

Everything after that escalates rather quickly, seemingly moving in a blur. 

You find Thomas and Brenda, thankfully unharmed (albeit maybe slightly hungover). With them, you also find Marcus. Jorge wastes no time in borderline torturing the information about the Right Arm out of the sleazy man. By the time Jorge is finished with him, his eye is swollen shut, blood leaking from a cut above his brow, pride shattered. 

His truck, which he calls “Bertha,” awaits your group once Marcus gives up where the Right Arm’s outpost is. The space is quite confined with the amount of people you have crammed in the back, and it would be your luck that you’ve managed to be squished up against Minho. You’re pretty positive the other boys did it on purpose. 

Minho, you quickly discover, doesn’t stop moving. He fidgets almost the entire time, either trying to get comfortable or trying to get on your nerves, you can’t tell. 

“Would you stop?” you finally snap, turning your head away from the window to glare at him. He flashes you a lazy grin, knowing he’s getting under your skin. 

“My bad. It’s a little tight back here, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Yeah, I have. And it would help if you’d sit still,” you say as you grit your teeth. 

He purposely stretches his arms, nearly smacking you in the head. He’s sitting with his legs spread slightly apart instead of keeping them together, taking up even more room. In the background, you catch Newt rolling his eyes. 

You slam your elbow into Minho’s ribs. Not enough to hurt, but hard enough that you can hear a quiet ‘oof’ escape his lips. 

He frowns. “What was that for?” 

“Stop moving and give me some more space or you’re gonna get it again,” you bristle, elbow drawing back again to deliver a second blow. 

“Alright, alright,” he says in surrender, begrudgingly giving you some more leg room. He folds his arms over his chest, trying to keep them contained. “Jeez, woman,” he mutters under his breath. 

“Stop talking,” you huff as you overhear his comment, giving him a quick pinch to the skin of his upper arm. He smacks your hand away, and your hand balls up into a fist as if you’re ready to punch him. Which you are. 

Before you can think about it any further, Newt interrupts—always trying to be the mediator. “Would you two bloody fools knock it off? See, I told you it was a bad idea,” he says to Aris, who has a smug look plastered to his face. You should’ve known he was up to something. 

Yourself and Minho, though, both go quiet. You lower your fist, placing both hands in your lap, fidgeting with your fingers. Although you’d love to keep arguing, the last thing you want is to annoy Newt further. 

“Thank you,” Newt mutters. The truck now goes almost completely quiet without you and Minho bickering. 

Minho has to pipe up, though, one more time. “See how boring it is in here without me talking? You shanks wouldn’t know what to do without me.”

You have to bite your tongue hard to prevent yourself from speaking again. 

The truck eventually rolls to a halt. 

The roadway is covered in old, abandoned, broken down cars. There’s multiple of them, and no way to get through, meaning you’ll have to keep moving on foot. 

The thought of that is slightly unsettling. 

Hopping out of the truck, you take in your surroundings. You’re surrounded by mountainous terrain on both sides, the rocky landscape towering over you. 

You all start to push forward, making your way through the mess of old vehicles. Crows caw in the distance, disrupting the silence, creating an eerie atmosphere. As if they know something that you don’t. 

Your fingers brush over the windshield of a car, flitting over a bullet hole that creates a small crater in the glass. It dips under your fingertips, jagged edges sharp against your skin. 

You’re about to pull your hand away when a bullet flies mere inches past your head, pinging off of the metal hood of the car behind you. A few more follow in its wake, causing everybody to duck down behind the cars. 

And of course, as you take cover behind a rusted out SUV, Minho is right next to you. 

You roll your eyes, even in the current situation you’re in. “How do I always get stuck with you?” you whisper-yell, sliding down so that your back is against the door. 

He scoffs, crouching down on the ground and facing the direction of the car instead of away from it. “Oh yeah, because I planned this.”

The round of shots finally subsides. Thinking that it’s over, you turn and slowly peek over the hood of the car–for about half a second, before Minho grabs the back of your jacket and yanks you down. 

“Are you trying to get your head blown off?”

You shove his hand away. “I was just looking.”

“Well maybe don’t look when someone’s actively trying to kill you.”

“Relax, I know how to handle myself.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that. Could’ve fooled me,” he pauses momentarily, then continues, like he wants nothing more than to piss you off. “You know, for someone who supposedly ran the Runners in Group B, you’re kinda terrible at following basic survival instincts.”

Your jaw tightens. “Actually, I’d beg to differ. I’m trying to scope out where my enemy is instead of cowering behind this car like someone else.”

Minho snorts. “Sure, if that’s what you wanna call it, go ahead.”

Your hands tighten into fists at your side. Faintly, you hear Jorge yell out to get ready to run back to the truck, but you barely register it. 

“Minho,” you say flatly. “I could kill you.”

“Would love to see you try,” he mumbles, muscles tensing as he prepares himself to run. 

You also get into position, moving to a crouch with your hand braced on the ground. “You better watch out. When we start running I’m tripping you.”

Minho barks a quiet laugh. “Good luck keeping up with me.”

You shoot him a look. “You’re not that fast.”

He looks at you for a second, then leans in, voice low and cocky. “Wanna test that?” His breath tickles your ear.

His face is much closer than you anticipate, his voice almost sending a shiver down your spine. You can feel your skin heat up at the proximity, and then you want to smack yourself for even considering that he might be attractive. Which he is. But you’d never admit that and boost his ego even more. 

Instead, you shove him away. A smirk is forming on his face, and it takes everything in you not to slap it off of him. 

Before you can even open your mouth to fire back, you hear the sound of a rifle being loaded. 

“Drop it.”

Silence follows. You shoot Minho a questioning look, but he looks just as confused. 

“Now. I said drop it!”

You turn your head, looking back to where the voices are coming from. A few cars back, you see two girls with rifles pointed down at who you can only assume are Thomas and Jorge. 

“On your feet. Let’s go.”

Thomas and Jorge rise from behind their car, arms raised up in surrender. 

“Move! Back up!” 

The rest of you don’t move, frozen to your spots. Thomas and Jorge back up towards the guard rail. 

“Come on, let’s go. On your feet!” the blonde girl commands, and one by one you can see everyone else get to their feet. You don’t move for a moment, contemplating doing something stupid, until Minho grabs your arm and yanks you up with him like he could sense what you were thinking. 

As you look closer, though, the two girls look awfully familiar. You steal a glance over at Aris, who looks equally confused. 

One of the girls falters, looking between the two of you. She lowers her weapon. 

“Aris? Y/N?”

Aris stays silent. You do as well. 

She pulls down her mask, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. 

“Oh my god, Harriet?” Aris exclaims, pushing past Teresa and Brenda. Harriet pulls him into a hug, then pulls you into it as well. 

Sonya brings her mask down next. She does the same as Harriet, arms wrapping tightly around you and the boy next to you. “You’re lucky we didn’t shoot your dumbasses,” the blonde says lightly, and you huff out a laugh. 

The Gladers stand to the side, arms still raised up in surrender. 

“Uh, what’s happening?” Minho finally pipes up, looking confused. 

Aris turns his head to look at them. “We were in the Maze together,” he replies. You nod, and you don’t miss the way everyone still looks a little lost. 

Harriet whistles through her fingers, giving the signal that it’s all clear. It’s then that you realize there are multiple snipers standing on top of the mountains above you. 

With that, you’re brought into The Right Arm’s camp. 

Not everything goes as smoothly as you’d all hoped (like Brenda almost cranking out in front of Vince, which almost went south quickly), but it’s thankfully quickly resolved thanks to Mary and Thomas and you’re all allowed to settle in. 

You’re currently sitting on a bench made out of large wooden sticks, deep in conversation with Harriet, Sonya and Aris. 

Your body feels lighter, muscles no longer tense and mind no longer in overdrive as you sit there surrounded by familiar faces. It feels like everything is finally settling into place. Like you’re finally going to be able to rest and stop running.

The camp buzzes with activity, still making final preparations for the following day. People move in and out of tents made up of patched canvas and salvaged tarps, carrying crates and passing supplies, moving quickly to speed up the process.

The sound of Aris’ name being called out snaps you out of your thoughts. You look up to where the sound comes from, eyes locking onto the Gladers on top of the ridge overlooking the camp. Aris lifts his hand in greeting, yelling a friendly ‘hey guys!’ back at them.

Standing, you wipe your hands on your pants. “I’ll be right back,” you say, looking at Harriet and Sonya. You’ve decided that there’s something you need to do. 

You make your way up the small hill, careful not to lose your footing on the rocky terrain. It doesn’t take very long for you to make it to the ledge where the Gladers reside, but as you do, your stomach churns nervously. 

Thomas, Newt, Frypan and Minho sit on a smaller rocky ledge, all of their eyes drinking in the sight of the camp before them. 

As you approach, you clear your throat so as not to startle them. The four of them turn to look in your direction. Frypan gives you a friendly wave.

“Hey!” he calls. “Look who decided to join us.”

Thomas gives you a friendly nod. Newt offers a small, tired smile. 

Minho glances over last. His eyebrows lift slightly. “Well, look at that,” he says. “Thought you’d finally ditched us.”

You stop a few feet away from them, crossing your arms. “Trust me, I considered it.”

He smirks faintly at that.

You hesitate for half a second, suddenly feeling more awkward than you expected. Then, you clear your throat again. “Actually…I just came up here to say thanks.”

This gets their attention. 

“For letting me tag along,” you continue, gesturing to the camp, to the entire miserable stretch of Scorch behind you. “You guys really didn’t have to. And I know it probably wasn’t ideal to add on another person.” Your eyes flicker over to Minho, and you can’t help but to throw in a quick jab. “Even though someone in particular did want to leave me for WCKD.”

For a split second, you think you almost see shame flash across his face. But it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.

Thomas gives you a small smile. “You kept up.”

Newt nods in agreement. “Better than some of these shanks, actually.”

Frypan points a thumb at Minho. “Especially him.”

Minho scoffs immediately. “Oh please.”

You just huff a small laugh. “Seriously, though,” you say. “Thank you.”

There’s a brief pause. Then Minho tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Huh.”

Your eyes narrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says casually, lips twitching. “You know, this might be the first non-insulting thing you’ve said to me since we met.”

Immediately, you roll your eyes. “Oh don’t worry. I can fix that.”

“There it is,” he says with a grin. “Thought we lost you for a second.”

“Whatever,” you shoot back. “This isn’t about you.”

“Pretty sure it always is.”

Frypan snorts in the background. Newt rubs his face, and you can’t tell if he’s trying to conceal a laugh or if he’s really just tired of the two of you.

You point at Minho. “Has anyone ever told you that you talk way too much?”

“Nope,” he draws out, popping the ‘p’ obnoxiously. “You always have something to say back, though.”

“Not true.”

“Sure.”

You shake your head, fighting a smile that you don’t want him to notice. 

The wind moves gently through the trees on the hilltop. For the first time in days, there’s no worrying about Cranks, or desert storms, or WCKD being hot on your trail.

After a few minutes of silence, Minho glances over at you again. “So you gonna stick around with the rest of us? Or are we gonna act like strangers once we get to the Safe Haven?”

You shrug. “Depends.”

“On?”

“If I can tolerate you for more than five minutes,” you say as you vaguely gesture at him.

He smirks. “Good luck with that. Doesn’t seem like that’s going well so far.”

You give him a small shove, a small laugh escaping you. Then, once you feel like you’ve intruded on their space long enough, you turn to make your way back down the hill. 

You pause before you take another step. Then, you look over your shoulder. “...Thanks, Minho. Especially for not leaving me as WCKD bait.”

His expression flickers with surprise for a split second, but he quickly recovers. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t get soft on me now.”

You scoff, but say nothing more as you make your way down the hill and back towards your friends. 

Behind you, Frypan elbows Minho. Hard.

“Shut up, man,” he mutters. But as he watches you head back towards the others, the faintest hint of a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.

You rejoin Harriet, Sonya, and Aris, who has a wide grin plastered to his face.

“Don’t,” you warn him, already having a slight idea of what he wants to say. He just shakes his head, arms going up in mock surrender.

Thanking the Gladers lifts another weight off of your shoulders. You feel lighter already, excitement growing in the pit of your stomach at what’s to come next, of how carefree your life will soon be.

Unbeknownst to you, that would all change in the blink of an eye. 

Smoke billows into the hallway as you stumble out into it, choking the air so thick it burns your lungs. Sparks emit from all of the damaged components of the compound, flying out in every direction. 

Fire is quickly engulfing most of the facility, faster than you thought possible. Teresa attempts to go around the corner down the hall, but more smoke billows out and the heat burns your eyes, forcing you to blink away unwanted tears. She swears, turning back around, eyes frantically darting back and forth for an out. Spotting the door to the stairwell, she quickly pulls you towards it. 

You force down another wave of nausea as she bursts through the door, quickly trying to gauge which direction is safer to go. She moves towards the stairs leading downward, but a small explosion sends flames flying up to block your path. You involuntarily flinch upon feeling the heat hit your face. Going up the stairs is your only other option.

The door slams open once you reach the top, revealing a scene that makes your heart sink in your chest. 

The roof is surrounded by fire. Flames lick across the concrete, the heat pressing down on you from every direction. The city around you is a blur of orange, a stark contrast to the cool tones it emitted when you first entered. 

Teresa’s footsteps falter once she takes in the destruction, trying to turn you around to go back down the stairs. Her attempt is immediately squashed by yet another explosion that sends fire up into your only exit. Her lips part slightly in shock, grip on you slackening just a hair. 

Your body suddenly feels like it weighs three times more than it should. Your legs give out, arm losing its grip around Teresa, collapsing backwards onto the metal grate beneath you. You roll onto your side with your hand still clutching your wound, breaths coming in short, pained gasps. 

Teresa is crouched beside you in an instant. She maneuvers behind you, pulling you semi-upright, almost like she was thinking about dragging you backwards. There’s no point, though. There’s nowhere to go. 

Instead, your friend holds you in her lap, looking around at the hopelessness unfolding around you. Sweat beads on her face from the heat, and you can feel it on yours too. It drips down your temple, off of the tip of your nose, the collar of your shirt feeling damp from it collecting on your chest. 

Your breathing quickens as another round of blinding pain surges through your body. Teresa’s hand hovers over your arms that are wrapped around yourself, noticing how the blood has covered your skin all the way up your forearms. 

Her eyes squeeze shut, a quiet sob escaping her lips through the panicked breathing. It pains her to know that there’s nothing she can do to help you. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I tried.”

“I know,” you whisper as you weakly lift your head to look at her. She presses her head against yours, trying to accept that this would be your fate.

You’ve already come to terms with it. Your head drops against her shoulder, eyes closing, arms slowly loosening around yourself. You just hope that you succumb to the darkness of the bullet before the agonizing heat of fire gets you.

Then, you feel Teresa’s head lift. 

You don’t hear it at first, or maybe it’s that you think your mind is playing tricks on you.

But there’s the unmistakable sound of aircraft cutting through the roar of flames.

You use what little strength you have left to lift your head, looking behind you. The berg roars into view, floodlights cutting through the smoke like a lifeline. 

The two of you look on in disbelief. You’re almost frozen to the spot, but Teresa wastes no time, scrambling to her feet.

“Come on!” She forces you to your feet and you cry out despite yourself, the movement sending white hot pain through your body. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” she apologizes, but still gives you a gentle, encouraging shove to get moving. 

The berg rotates around, getting ready to open the hatch as you slowly but surely get closer. It’s a bit difficult, as you feel like a newborn fawn learning how to use its legs. Your legs suddenly buckle, sending you hurdling towards the ground again. Teresa swears, hastily picking you back up. You will yourself to keep moving through the pain.

You can faintly hear someone yelling your name as the hatch opens. You’re not sure who, but it gives you the smallest spark of determination as you push forward. 

Wind from the rotors whips your hair into your face as you reach the edge of the roof. You can see into the berg now. Vince, Gally, Frypan, Brenda are all crowded around the opening. The only person that quickly catches your attention, though, is Minho. 

Relief floods through you despite everything else. He’s safe. That’s all that matters.

His hand is outstretched towards you, top half of his body hanging off of the ramp. “Grab my hand!” he yells, voice cutting through the noise. 

The berg isn’t close enough. “Get closer!” Teresa yells back, hand grabbing your arm that’s currently around her shoulders to keep you upright.

They’re trying, but Jorge can’t get the berg much closer. You reach for Minho’s outstretched hand anyway, and he grabs yours tightly. The ship moves just a fraction, though, forcing you apart. You careen forward, hitting the concrete hard as you try to catch yourself. Pain shoots up your wrist as your palm slams into the ground. 

“You gotta get closer!” You can hear Gally shout to Jorge, and they try again. You pathetically outstretch your hand from your position on your knees, while Minho reaches for you again desperately.

An explosion from the next building over sends the berg rocking, jolting all of its occupants. Part of the structure collapses, and Teresa looks behind her to see the damage. Debris flies towards the ground, towards the roof you stand on, making this all the more urgent. She turns back around, determination written all over her features. You’re dragged to your feet for the fourth time now.

Minho and Gally are shouting, both with their arms out. With the last little bit of strength you have, you force yourself to jump, feeling Teresa give you a shove from behind just to be sure you make it in. Gally and Minho grab at your arms, pulling you up onto the ramp and away from the edge of it. 

You have to ignore the pain ripping through your abdomen, suppressing a scream from tearing itself from your throat. Minho immediately kneels beside you, hands hovering like he doesn’t know where to start. You’re laying on your side, watching with your neck craned as Vince and Gally try to reach for Teresa next. 

Then, you hear a loud, thunderous groan. Not human, but rather the groan of steel and metal and concrete warping as it tries to hold itself together. 

The world seems to stop moving as the building directly next to the compound begins to fully collapse. The sound is deafening as it tilts, and the collapse almost feels slow for a second until gravity takes over. The top dips, the middle buckles and then the whole thing drops, dragging everything with it. 

It hits the facility with an explosion that sends Teresa flying off of her feet. You push yourself up with your elbows, eyes widening. Minho grabs your arm, like he’s nervous that you’re going to lurch forward to try to save her yourself.

“Teresa!” you scream, panic clawing its way into your throat. She whips around to look at you as she stands. 

The flames surge higher behind her, reflecting off of her skin. For a moment, relief floods through you. There’s still time, all she has to do is jump if Jorge just gets the berg just a little closer—

Realization quickly hits you like a punch to the gut as she stands there, unmoving. She isn’t making any attempt to save herself. 

By the look on your face, she knows that you’ve realized. She smiles sadly. 

And within seconds, you watch one of your best friends, the girl who just saved your life, fall into the fiery abyss with the rest of the building as it crumbles. 

You think you’re screaming, but you don’t know. 

The berg lurches as it pulls away from the collapsing tower. 

Your vision blurs as you stare at the spot where Teresa just disappeared, hardly registering the hands pulling at your shoulders. Everything feels like it’s happening in slow motion. You’re forcefully turned onto your back, multiple sets of hands grabbing at you. 

You faintly feel fingers brush against your skin as someone pulls up the fabric of your shirt. Your eyelids flutter, darkness clouding the edges of your vision. 

“Hey—hey, look at me. You’re okay.”

Minho’s voice cuts through the ringing in your ears that has started up again. You force your eyes open, feeling his hands on the sides of your head. He’s leaning over you, positioned at the top of your head. 

Brenda, Gally and Frypan speak in panicked, rushed voices, but it all blends together into one. There’s pressure on your wound, someone pressing gauze to it to stop the bleeding. A weak, pained groan escapes your lips. It’s the only sound your body will allow you to make. 

Your head is placed into Minho’s lap. His hands still cup the sides of it, thumbs brushing against your temples. 

The pain in your side has dulled to a deep, dragging ache that pulls at your consciousness every time you breathe.

Suddenly it’s too much.

Too much loss, too much fear, too much grief. Newts face flashes behind your eyes. His voice, his last moments, how quickly the virus took over his body. Teresa falling still plays fresh in your mind. The weight of everyone you couldn’t save presses heavily on you. 

Your breathing stutters, vision dimming. 

“Hey, no, you gotta stay awake,” a voice pleads from above you. You faintly feel lips against your forehead, Minho’s nose brushing your skin as he leans down. “Don’t you dare.”

Everything feels fuzzy. Darkness creeps in at the edges of your sight again. You try to keep your eyes on him, but his face blurs as he pulls away. Your arm lifts shakily, trying to reach for his hand, but it stops short.

“I’m sorry,” you manage to whisper, though you don’t even know who the apology is for. 

Then everything slips away. 

Your body goes slack in Minho’s arms. 

“No, no, no,” he breathes, panic crashing into him so hard it steals the air from his chest. He pulls you closer without thinking, despite protests from Frypan and Gally who are currently working on your wound. He glances up for a split second, meeting Brenda’s eyes. She’s kneeled beside you, eyes wet and red-rimmed. She looks at him, worry etched in every line of her face. 

He looks away. 

You’re dead weight in his arms, eyes closed. His mind betrays him, an image of Newt lying still on the concrete flashing through his head. 

Pale. Gone. No longer breathing. 

Minho feels sick, stomach churning with an anxiety he’s never felt before. Not from the horrors of the Maze, not from being struck by lightning in the Scorch, not even being captured by WCKD made him feel like this. “Please,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours. “Don’t do this to me. I can’t lose you too.”

“She’s got a pulse. She’s breathing, Minho. She’ll be okay,” Gally cuts into Minho’s dark thoughts as he looks up from where he’s bandaging your abdomen. 

Minho feels as though he should be relieved, but he isn't. Not until you’re awake again. 

As time slowly ticks by, his gaze is persistently fixed on the faint rise and fall of your chest. Just to be sure that you’re still breathing. 

Everyone else has cleared the area, giving Minho some space. Your wound has been flushed and dressed with what supplies they have on board, though your blood still darkens the floors beneath you. 

You’re still propped up in Minho’s lap, his hands running through your hair repeatedly. He knows you can’t feel it, but it helps to ground him. 

His eyes flit down to your face. You look peaceful, despite everything—eyes closed, lips parted slightly. A soft smile tugs at the corner of his lips. 

He leans down, lips gently pressing against your forehead. Then your nose, your cheeks, the sides of your head. 

His heart swells in his chest. He can’t wait until you wake up so he can tell you how proud he is of you. 

Your perseverance is unmatched. You blazed through the Last City for him, broke into WCKD, saved his life, jumped out of a window, took a bullet, watched two of your closest friends die right in front of you—yet you’re still holding on despite the emotional and physical trauma you just endured. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs to you, though you can’t hear him. 

“The Safe Haven is waiting for us.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You know he worries about you, and how could you blame him? 

“Be careful,” he insists, eyes softening. 

“Always am,” you say with a nod. 

The doors groan open moments later, stone scraping stone as they slide apart. You give Newt a small wave before jogging into the Maze, not looking back. If you did, you’d see the way he watches until you disappear around the corner. 

Your boots hit the ground in a steady rhythm, the sound echoing in your ears as you focus on your breathing. You twist and turn around the corners of the Maze, knowing it like the back of your hand at this point. Every section, every wall, almost every crack in the stone is engraved into your brain. 

It feels futile, running these same sections daily and never finding anything new, but you don't ever say it aloud. Being a Runner is the only opportunity you’ll probably ever have to get out of the Glade. 

The sun now shines brightly overhead, the heat almost taunting you as if it knows that you still have a lot of running to do. You assume it’s about midday, since it’s directly overhead. 

You start to slow your pace to take a quick break, feet scuffing the ground as you come to a stop. Leaning against the wall, you tilt your head back and close your eyes, taking deep breaths. The vines behind you brush the exposed skin of your arms, sending a shiver down your spine. 

Today, you’re running section four of the Maze. It isn’t a big deal, but you’re solo this afternoon. Minho is busy running with Thomas after he was appointed Runner. 

After what happened with Alby, Newt wants everyone to run in pairs. With the number being uneven now, though, you volunteered to run by yourself for the day. You know these sections well, and Minho trusts you, so the Keeper allowed it albeit reluctantly. 

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t nervous, a nagging anxiety in the back of your mind that lingers no matter how hard you try not to think about it. The thought of Grievers being out during the day makes your skin crawl. The chances of it happening twice have to be low, though. Right?

That’s what you tell yourself anyway. 

You sigh and open your eyes. You adjust your harness out of habit, preparing to ease yourself back into your run. Pushing yourself off of the wall, you take a few steps forward. 

That’s when you hear it. 

There’s a faint click. Almost unnoticeable at first, like your mind is playing tricks on you. You stop dead in your tracks, ears straining as you listen. 

You hear it again, an unmistakable sound. There’s a couple clicks this time, louder, and sounding much closer than you anticipated. 

You’re standing right around the corner from where the Maze corridors intersect, having stopped walking right before you could see into them. Slowly, quietly, you peek around the wall. 

Your blood turns to ice. 

It’s just standing there like it’s supposed to be there—massive, bulbous body taking up a good amount of space in the clearing. Blocking your path. 

Your back hits the wall behind you, panic rearing its head. You have no time to think, because the Griever shrieks, the sound rattling your bones. 

It knows. It knows. 

You instantly take off in the other direction, wanting to put as much distance as possible between you and the creature. 

It shrieks again behind you, and you dare to look back. It’s behind you, snarling, mechanical limbs slamming into the stone. 

“Shuck!” You swear, heart slamming against your ribs. The muscles in your legs are burning, feet moving faster than you thought was possible. 

But as you try to turn a corner, you lose your footing on uneven stone. You hit the ground hard, breath knocked from your lungs as pain shoots up your leg. 

The Griever is on you in an instant. 

A metal limb slams down beside your head, pinning you in place. Its body looms overhead, clicking and whirring, stinger unfolding from its body. 

You couldn’t move. 

Your breath comes in short, panicked gasps as it pins you. Your limbs lock, terror freezing you solid. The air feels thin, your lungs refusing to pull in enough oxygen. 

The stinger hovers, lowering, seconds away from piercing your skin. 

This is it. 

Your mind goes blank. 

Then, suddenly, your brain kicks into action. 

Get up. Get up. 

You kick out hard, rolling to the side as the stinger slams into the stone where your chest had been moments ago. You push yourself up, ignoring the pain in your hands and your leg, and run—lungs burning, vision blurred, until you burst into a clearer passage and you don't hear the Griever directly behind you anymore. 

Still, you don’t stop running until your legs nearly give out. 

When you reach the entrance to the Maze, your pace slows, yet your pulse doesn't. You’re back early, and none of the other runners are back yet. That’s going to raise some questions. 

You swear under your breath, but the dull ache in your leg that’s coming back full force now that your adrenaline is wearing off formulates an excuse. 

As you should’ve expected, Newt immediately notices that you’ve returned. He jogs over, brows furrowing as he takes in your disheveled appearance. 

“What happened? Why are you back already?” He instantly starts fussing, eyes scanning over you. 

You swallow, pushing the actual event to the back of your mind before you start spiraling. “I’m fine. I tripped on some loose stone and hurt my leg,” you say, lifting your leg up slightly and showing off the dirty patch of fabric on your pants from where you hit the ground. It wasn’t completely a lie—you just hope he still buys it. 

His brows furrow, glancing down at your leg. He exhales slowly, looking back up to meet your eyes. “Alright. Off to the Med-Jacks with you then.” 

You almost protest, but he grips your upper arm gently, guiding you in the direction of the hut. You shut your mouth, letting him walk you over. 

Jeff checks your leg while you sit on the cot, starting with your ankle. He moves it in different directions to test your range of motion, and while you have full range, it makes you grit your teeth. He moves up to the knee, having you bend it. A pained hiss escapes your lips. You can move it, but the pain is undeniably there. 

“Well, you should be fine. You’re just going to be sore and probably have some major bruising up into the knee. Ankle may be a cause for some concern as there’s some minor swelling, maybe a low grade sprain, but nothing crazy,” he says as you stand up, gently putting weight on that foot. “I’m not telling you to stop running, just telling you to be careful for a while.” 

You grimace at that. You thought you were being careful enough already. 

“Thanks, Jeff,” you say as you head out of the hut, not wanting to be in there longer than necessary. You nearly jump out of your skin as you see Newt leaned up against the wall next to the door. 

“Relax, just me,” he says and raises his hands up in mock surrender, while you place your hand on your chest. 

“Jesus,” you mutter. 

His eyes narrow. You’re not usually that jumpy. 

“So? What’d he say?” He asks as you start to walk away, him falling into step next to you. 

“I’ll be fine. Just some soreness, maybe a minor sprain.” 

He nods, though his jaw tightens. “Alright. Go finish up, then I want you to rest.” You open your mouth to protest, but he cuts you off. “Uh uh. Rest. You wanna keep running, yeah?”

Your mouth snaps shut, grumbling to yourself quietly. You start to head off towards the Map Room, listening to him anyway because he is your Second-in-Command before he’s your friend. 

In the back of your mind, though, you know there will be no rest for you. 

As the sun dips low behind the walls and the Glade is starting to slowly darken, your chest tightens until it hurts. Like fingers are wrapping around your heart and lungs and squeezing, refusing to let go. 

While the boys are settling down for the night and the hustle of the Glade comes to an end, you no longer have any distractions. 

You slip away quietly. You need to be alone.

It doesn’t take Newt very long to notice. 

He scans the Glade once. Then another time. He usually can pick out your face in the crowd instantly, but you’re not there. He straightens, already moving—because despite what you said earlier, no matter how good you tried to hide it, something was wrong. 

You don’t realize how far you wander until the sounds of the Glade disappear completely. The laughter, the low hum of the boys all chatting amongst each other—all of it dulls until there’s nothing but the soft rustle of the trees and your own uneven breathing. 

Your back hits the stone wall, somewhere near the edge of the Deadheads. The stone is cool and unforgiving on your spine. 

Now that you’re alone in the quiet and finally facing reality, it’s like a dam breaking. 

Your knees give out and you slide down, hands coming up to press against your mouth as a sob tears itself out of your throat. It’s sharp and loud in the quiet. Your chest aches as your breathing stutters, each inhale feeling too shallow and useless. 

You’re a Runner. You’re supposed to be brave.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to control your breathing. It doesn’t help. 

All you see in the back of your eyes is the Griever towering over you. How you froze, the stinger lowering, the sounds it made, how it looked that close up. 

You curl forward, arms wrapping around yourself as your shoulders shake. Tears flow freely down your cheeks, and you don’t bother with wiping them away. What’s the point? They’re coming too fast, and no one else is out here but you. 

Or so you think. 

“Hey.”

The voice is soft. Careful, like you might bolt if he’s too loud. 

You nearly jump out of your skin anyway, not expecting a visitor. You scramble to wipe at your face, turning away instinctively. 

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, defensively, even though your voice cracks so badly it gives you away. “Just..just needed some air.” Dumb excuse considering the entire Glade is air, but it was the first thing that came to mind. 

Newt takes a careful step forward, not wanting to startle you any further. “Yeah,” he says gently. “I figured.”

He doesn’t call you out. Doesn’t push and ask why you weren’t honest earlier. He just lowers himself to the ground a few feet away, back against the wall, knees bent. He’s far enough away to give you space, but close enough that you can feel the heat radiate off of his body through the chill in the air. 

For a moment, neither of you says a word. 

You’re trying to steady your breathing, trying to get your hands to stop shaking, but nothing works. You feel embarrassed. Having a full blown panic attack in front of someone, especially Newt, was not what you had in mind when you came out here. 

Newt watches quietly, eyes soft, noticing the way you’re curling in on yourself like you’re trying to disappear. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says eventually. “But I’m here to listen.”

Something about that unravels you even more. A sob slips out before you can stop it, and then another quick one immediately follows, face crumbling as you press it into your knees.

“I thought I was going to die, Newt,” you whisper. “I ran by myself, I know I wasn’t supposed to but I thought it’d be fine. I really thought–it was right there, and for some reason I couldn’t move, and—”

The words tumble out fast and messy. Your breath catches hard as you cut yourself off.

“I didn’t think I’d be scared like that. And I didn’t think it would bother me this much. I feel so stupid.”

Newt’s jaw clenches, something pained flickering across his face. He’s not angry with you, just concerned. He shifts closer without thinking, one hand hovering between you.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Hey. Come here.”

You waste no time. You scoot closer and lean into him, head dropping against his shoulder as your body shakes. Newt’s arm comes around you and pulls you into him immediately, pulling you closer until you’re tucked into his side. 

“I thought there was no way that what happened to Alby could happen twice. And then I couldn’t get away and thought that was how it was going to end. And I’m sorry I went against what you told us,” you choke out. 

Newt swallows, tightening his hold slightly. “Shhh. Don’t apologize,” he whispers. “All that matters is that you’re okay. I’ll just blame it on that shank Keeper of yours,” he tries to joke. Your lips twitch, almost a smile, but you’re still too deep in your own head.

You shake your head weakly, face brushing against the fabric of his shirt. “It was my idea. He said yes, but I brought up running alone. It’s my fault.”

“Well it doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done. You’re safe, you’re alive, that’s what matters,” he counters softly. His hand comes up to rest between your shoulder blades, rubbing slow circles. “I noticed,” he admits. “When you came back. I could tell there was something you weren’t telling me. Your stubborn arse would’ve run on an injured leg no matter what. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You let out a shaky laugh through your tears. “So much for hiding it.”

“You’re terrible at lying,” he says gently. “Always have been.”

You scoff, but don’t say anything more. There’s a pause, and both of you are silent minus a few of your sniffles. Newt’s hand doesn’t slow on your back, and you’re grateful. His touch is grounding, bringing you back to reality. He leans his head against yours, cheek pressed against your hair. 

“You don’t have to be brave all the time,” he says. “Not with me. It’s bloody scary out there, I would know. You’re allowed to be scared. You don’t have to face it alone.”

You sniffle, letting your eyes close. “Thanks, Newt,” you whisper. 

By the time your breathing evens out, the Glade is asleep. The torches have burned out, and the insects have taken over as the sole sound of the night.

You were still curled up against Newt, though you’ve shifted a little. His legs are now straight out in front of him, your own thrown across his lap. Your head is nestled in the crook of his neck. His arm is still wrapped around you, though his other hand now rests on your knee, thumb rubbing small circles.

He doesn’t move once. Not when your shoulders finally stop shaking, not when you finally still. He stays exactly where he is, like an anchor. And in this moment of weakness, he is your anchor.

“Better?” he asks quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

You nod once. “I think so.” Your throat felt raw, eyes burning and aching from crying, but your initial panic has dulled to something manageable.

Newt shifts just enough to rest his chin on top of your head. “Good,” he murmurs.

The grass is cool beneath you, the night air brushing against your skin, but his warmth chases away any chill it might’ve given you. Your eyelids grow heavy, exhaustion finally catching up to you now that the adrenaline has been completely drained from you.

He notices immediately.

“C’mon,” he says softly. “Don’t want you sleeping outside.”

He hooks an arm under your legs, the other arm already secure around your back. He stands, careful not to jarr you too much. 

Your eyes remain closed, pressing yourself closer to him if that were possible. You let him bring you to the Homestead, knowing you’ll be disappointed once he sets you down. But right now, as long as you’re in his arms, you know you’re safe.

As you speed walk through one of the intersected hallways in the medical wing, Thomas’ steps stutter. He does a double take, looking to his left. Ava Paige comes into view, her steps slowing as she notices him. He draws his gun, pointing it directly at her.

Your gut tells you to look down the opposite end of the hall. It’s a damn good thing you do, because Janson appears at the other end. 

“Shit. Thomas!” you yell out, shoving the boy to the side as bullets start spraying towards you, pinging off of the metal framework. You all duck around the corner, narrowly avoiding being hit. “C’mon!”

Hell is starting to break loose. This is no longer the quiet, stealthy mission that it was in the beginning. It has now turned into “find Minho at any cost and get the hell out.”

You move through the hallway, launcher drawn. People are screaming and running, trying to get out of your way. 

“Minho!” you yell at the top of your lungs frantically, hoping he can somehow hear you. Thomas does the same, pointing his weapon down every single intersecting hallway you pass, just in case. 

A guard appears at the end of the corridor. “Freeze!” he yells, but you fire your weapon before he can make a move. A few more start to appear right behind him, and Newt takes them out as you disappear around the corner. 

“Minho!” you scream louder, heart slamming against your ribs. Panic is starting to set in. You’re dangerously close to being completely outnumbered. 

“Shit, I’m out!” you swear as you throw your launcher down to the floor, having just used the last of its ammunition to take out another guard. You draw your real gun, it feeling much smaller in your hands. 

The three of you keep backing up, trying to take out as many WCKD personnel as possible. They just keep appearing, though—like pests that you can’t get rid of. 

“Get down!” Newt says as he ducks around the nearest corner. You and Thomas follow suit, sliding to the ground and backing up against the wall. Your lungs burn as you try to catch your breath, adrenaline surging through your veins. Thomas checks his handgun, swearing under his breath.

“I’m almost out,” he says as he peeks around the corner, firing a few more rounds. Newt scrambles over to the body of the guard that he had just taken out, coming away with a small grenade-like object. 

“Get back!” He throws his arm in front of you and Thomas, rolling the object towards the remaining group of guards. It detonates into a ball of sparks and electricity, sending them dropping to the ground like flies. 

You push yourself to your feet. “Nice,” you say casually, before you all break into a run down the next hallway. You’re looking behind you to make sure no one’s following, not in front of you, and nearly slam into the back of Thomas as they come to a sudden halt.

“You three, freeze!” 

Your heart sinks. You’re out of ammo, and you know they are too. 

“Get on the ground, now!”

Nobody moves. Whether it’s from fear or stubbornness, you don’t know.

“I said, get your ass–”

A figure rushes forward in a blur of movement. They slam the guard against the wall, momentarily stunning him just long enough to get the upper hand. You watch in shock as the guard is then sent through the window on the opposite wall like he weighs nothing, glass shattering in every direction. They yell out, one that sounds like it holds a lot of pent up frustration. Then, they turn towards your group.

The air feels like it gets punched straight out of your lungs.

Minho, your Minho, stands before you. 

He looks sharper around the edges. He doesn’t look like the same confident, arrogant Runner that he was back in the Glade–it was like WCKD drained him of everything that made him, him. His eyes are darker underneath, the bright overhead lighting enhancing the circles, and exhaustion is evident in his face. But it’s still him.

For a fleeting moment, time stands still. Thomas and Newt stare in disbelief. You stare in disbelief, lips parting in shock. Your chest aches, a million different emotions running through you. Relief, disbelief, anger, love. It all clashes together so hard it makes your hands shake. 

Minho’s chest heaves as he turns his head to look at the three of you. His eyes lift, and they find yours first. 

“Minho!” His name tears from your throat, raw and desperate.

Your body moves before your brain can make sense of it. You shove between Thomas and Newt, legs carrying you as quickly as they can. You crash into him, almost taking you both down from the sheer force of the impact. Your arms wrap tightly around his shoulders, face burying in the crook of his neck like you’ve done a thousand times in your head. He smells like sweat and something sterile that makes your nose wrinkle. But underneath it, he’s still him, and he’s here.

For a split second, he doesn’t move. 

Then his arms come up hard, crushing you against him like you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip. His fingers clutch at your back, digging into your jacket like a lifeline. His breathing is ragged against you.

He pulls back, just enough to get a good look at your face. His hands release their grip on the fabric of your jacket, smoothing over your hair before settling on your face, cupping both of your cheeks. It feels exactly as you remember, his palms rough but warm against your skin. 

His eyes rake over every feature and detail of your face, like he’s having trouble coming to terms with the fact that you’re actually standing in front of him. You’re not some figment of his imagination, not some cruel simulation that WCKD is using against him—you’re really here.

“...is this real?” he whispers, and you nod wordlessly, hands gripping his arms because you need to be touching him. You’re afraid to speak, because your throat is strained too tight. 

His eyes flit up, looking between Newt and Thomas. You take notice, and take a step back so they can have their moment too. They, too, wrap him in a bone crushing hug and give him that typical boyish slap on the back.

Everyone is all smiles. It’s like you forget the situation you’re currently in. 

Until the sound of more guards coming up behind you catches your attention.

The three of you take off quickly. Minho grabs your arm, pulling you along with him, fingers clasped tightly around your wrist like he’s terrified to let go. You run through the halls, trying to evade guards that are closing in on you. 

You come to yet another intersected hall, and once again almost slam into Thomas as he skids to a halt. Janson is standing at the other end, gun raised. 

“In here! Go go go!” Thomas yells, pushing open the door to your right as bullets start flying towards you. You duck, scrambling into the room, Minho basically shoving you into it. Thomas slams the door shut, twisting the lock immediately.

Fists pounding on the metal echo throughout the room. Newt and Minho work quickly, shoving a metal shelf over to block the door just in case. The four of you look around frantically, trying to find an out.

The room feels too small. It is too small. There’s nowhere to go. 

Thomas and Newt argue in hushed, frantic voices near the door, throwing ideas back and forth that keep dying the second they’re spoken. 

All you can focus on, though, is Minho. 

He’s pacing in front of the large window at the back of the room, like a caged animal. His hands clench and unclench at his sides. His eyes keep darting around the room–at the window, the door, the ceiling. You can see the anxiety unfurling in real time. Like WCKD has him cornered again, which they kind of do. 

You step towards him. “Minho,” you say softly.

He stops short, like the sound of your voice physically halts him. When he turns towards you, your heart breaks a little at the look on his face. He looks scared, doubtful, like you’ve never seen before. 

You don’t hesitate. You reach for him, pulling him into your arms. He sags against you, exhaling slowly. You feel how tense he is under your touch, muscles twitching like he’s ready to bolt. Pressing your forehead to his, you force him to meet your eyes.

“Hey,” you whisper. “You’re okay. You’re with us. They don’t have you anymore.”

His eyes flicker, struggling to believe your words.

“They will,” he mutters, defeated. “They won’t give up.”

“No,” you cut in firmly. “They’re not doing shit. We’ve got you.” You brush your thumb gently across the skin of his cheek. “I’ve got you,” you correct. He swallows hard, his walls cracking.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he admits quietly. “And now we’re here, stuck, in this room. What if they get you, too? I couldn’t live with myself–”

“Stop.” Your grip on him tightens. “We didn’t get this far for nothing. We’re getting out of here.”

His eyes squeeze shut, forehead fully pressing into yours now. Your heart aches for him. His fingers clutch your jacket, knuckles turning white. He’s exhausted, you can tell. Months of being trapped and tortured are finally crashing down on him now that he’s safe enough to really feel it. 

But it’s not over yet.

A loud whirring, the grinding of metal on metal, starts on the other side of the door. 

Slowly, you turn your head, as does Newt. Sparks are flying from the crack between the door and the frame, making your pulse jump. Everyone backs up towards the window, unsure of what to do. Thomas stalks closer to the glass, looking out and down.

“Any ideas?” you yell.

The brunette turns around to face the rest of you, and you don’t think you like the look on his face. “Maybe.”

Before you know it, Thomas and Minho are sending a large metal tank through the glass. It seems like it falls in slow motion as you watch, falling several stories before hitting the water below. 

“Okay. Doable,” Thomas says, and you look at him incredulously. “Just need a little running start.”

You and Minho share a look, before looking back down again. Your stomach turns at the sight. 

“You sure about this?” Minho asks as you all back up towards the door. 

“Not really.”

“Great,” you mutter. Sparing a glance at Minho, you can see he looks unsure. You grab his hand before he can spiral. “Hey,” you say. “We’re in this together.”

He intertwines your fingers, giving your hand a squeeze. “Don’t let go.”

“Never,” you promise. And as Janson bursts through the door and you have no choice but to jump, you do it together.

You’re never letting go of him again.

“You’d haunt me anyway,” you huff. “You’re annoying like that.”

He scoffs. “Wow. I let you rescue me from an evil organization, and this is the thanks I get?”

You tilt your head up slightly just enough to look at him. “Hey. We did infiltrate their facility and got the entirety of the Last City blown to pieces for you.”

Minho’s lips twitch. “Yeah. About that.” He glances out at the horizon, the sun just barely peeking above now. “Little excessive, don’t you think?” he jokes. 

You shrug, cheek settling back down against him. “I think we could’ve done more, honestly.”

“I probably wouldn’t have made it out alive! And for the record, you should probably never touch a weapon again.”

“Oh please. You loved it.”

“I did not—“ He stops himself, then sighs dramatically. “Okay. Maybe a little. Hard not to feel special when someone commits large scale destruction for you.”

“You can’t give me all the credit. It wasn’t just me,” you say as you laugh quietly, the sound vibrating against his chest. Minho feels it like a warmth spreading under his ribs. He lets his head fall back against the hammock, eyes closing for a moment. 

It’s strange how quiet it is now. No more running, no sound of the maze doors opening and closing, no box alarms. Now it’s just you, the ocean breeze, and the sound of your breathing. 

Minho clears his throat. “You comfy?”

“Mhm. Very. Could stay here forever.”

“You’re not gonna flip us over again, right?” 

“That was one time.”

“One time too many,” he says. His hand slides up your arm, thumb brushing absent circles against your skin. “Still got the scar.”

“Oh, shut up. You were fine.”

“Emotional scar,” he corrects. “Very traumatic.”

You shift slightly, readjusting yourself against him. He helps without comment, lifting his arm for a moment and resettling you like it’s the most natural thing for him. The hammock sways gently, a slow and soothing motion. 

For a while, as the world darkens around you, neither of you speaks. 

“Still can’t believe this place is real,” Minho suddenly murmurs quietly. 

You nod in agreement. “Feels fake sometimes. Like we’re gonna wake up back in the Maze.”

“Don’t say that,” he mutters, tightening his grip on you. “We went through so much to get here.”

You smile, but there’s something else behind it. “Yeah. I know.”

He glances down at you. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you say after a second. “Just thinking.”

“Oof. Dangerous.” 

“Rude.”

“Accurate,” he says with a grin. 

Another long pause. The faint call of the seagulls are quieting as the sun finally dips all the way down. 

Minho exhales slowly. “When WCKD took me,” he starts, tone casual but you know there’s weight to it. “I kept thinking, this is it. This is how it ends. In some sterile white room with people torturing me.” 

Your fingers curl tighter around his shirt. 

“But then,” he continues. “I hear explosions, and screaming. And honestly I thought they finally got to me and I was finally losing my mind.”

You snort. “Come on, was it really that far-fetched for us to come and save you?”

He smiles faintly, but then grows serious. “I guess it felt that way.” He pauses. “You didn’t have to do that. Come back for me.”

You lift your head instantly, looking him in the eyes. “Yes. I did.”

Minho searches your face, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Gratefulness, maybe. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Only for you.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.” His thumb presses into the flesh of your arm a little firmer, though. 

“I thought I was going to lose you,” you admit softly. 

“Yeah. Me too.” He swallows. The words hang between you, heavy and honest. 

Then he clears his throat, ruining the moment purposefully. “Still. Next time you feel like saving me, maybe skip the destruction part.”

“No promises. Where’s the fun in that?”

“You’ve got a point there. But to be fair, Thomas almost became a victim. He could’ve used less destruction.”

You laugh again, a little brighter this time. You settle back against him, now tucking your head under his chin. Minho lets himself relax fully, the sound of the water and the weight of your body against his almost lulling him to sleep. 

Your eyes remain open, staring off into the distance. A thought hits you suddenly, one that makes your heart a little heavier. 

“You know, if Newt was here right now, he’d be all over us for this,” you say fondly. 

Newt was one of your best friends. In the Glade, he took you under his wing when you first arrived, seeing how hard it was on you to be the only girl in a group full of boys. He was like a brother to you, someone who always looked out for you and someone you put all of your trust in. 

He knew of your feelings for Minho from day one, and as a brotherly figure would, teased you endlessly about it. If only he could see you now. 

Minho chuckled, opening his eyes and staring up at the sky. “I can only imagine. Shank would never let us live it down.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Your body tenses without realizing it, the mere thought of his death clouding your mind like a black fog. Minho feels it, the way your weight goes rigid against him. 

“…Hey,” he murmurs, glancing down at you. “You okay?”

You don’t answer right away. Your gaze is fixed on the water, fingers curled tight around the fabric of Minho’s shirt. The hammock sways slightly as he shifts, propping himself up just enough to look at you properly. “Hey,” he repeats quietly. “Talk to me.”

Your voice comes out strained, throat tightening. “I just keep thinking…if I’d have known sooner.”

His chest tightens. 

“If I’d have realized sooner,” you continue, the words rushing out. It wasn’t really something you had talked about yet, and it was like a burden on your shoulders. “He was one of my best friends, you know? How did I not notice? I should’ve seen something. I could’ve prevented it. I could’ve—“

Your breath hitches, trying to swallow back tears. “I feel like it’s my fault.”

Minho’s entire body stills. He waits for a moment to see if you pick your head up, and when you don’t, he tilts your chin up to look at him. Your eyes are glassy and unfocused, expression sorrowful. 

“You couldn’t have known,” he says firmly. 

You shake your head, unconvinced. “Don’t say that. I should’ve paid more attention. I—“

“No,” Minho cuts you off, not harshly, but stern enough to get you to stop. He gently shifts on the hammock so that you’re fully facing him now, one arm sliding up your back. His palm is warm against your shirt, grounding you. “Listen to me.”

You hesitate, but you nod. 

“You couldn’t have known. None of us could have. He didn’t want you to know. He hid it from us until it was too late.”

Your bottom lip wobbles. “But what if I checked on him more? What if I—“

Minho leans his forehead against yours, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek. “You’d still be asking yourself the same questions. You saw the way he snapped at everyone. He hid it until he couldn’t anymore. It was too late.”

“But if we had just gotten the serum quicker—“

“He wouldn’t want this,” he interrupts, voice softening. “You tearing yourself apart over something out of your control.”

That makes you pause. You squeeze your eyes shut, the first of your tears escaping. “I just feel like I could’ve done more.”

He wipes your eyes, then pulls you into his chest wordlessly. He holds you tightly as the sobs come, quietly at first, but they turn heavier. It was like a dam of emotions finally breaking, no longer holding back. Since your arrival to the Safe Haven, you hadn't really fully processed the blonde's death. Everything was moving so quickly and it was pushed to the back of your mind. Now, everything was bubbling to the surface.

Minho's hand rubs up and down your back, the other cradling the back of your head. “You did what you could. You cared. You fought for him. That mattered to him. It still does,” he murmurs into your hair. 

You cling to him, soaking the fabric of his shirt with tears. “I miss him.”

“I know,” He whispers. “I do too.” 

You say nothing else. For a long few minutes, there’s nothing but the sound of your shaky breathing and the slow creak of the hammock. Minho just holds you, letting you get it all out. No jokes or sarcasm, just a tenderness that makes your heart swell. 

When the tears finally slow, you pull back slightly, wiping your face with the heel of your hand. “Sorry,” you mumble, sniffling. 

Minho frowns instantly. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t mean to—“

He cups your cheek again, thumb brushing across your skin. “Don’t apologize for being upset.”

You sniffle again. “You really don’t think it was my fault?”

“Not for a second,” he says, looking at you like the answer is obvious. 

Your eyes scan his face, and what you see finally eases your guilt, even if just a little bit. “…Okay,” you whisper. 

He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, letting it linger. “He’ll always be with us,” he says quietly. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. That’s not what he’d want.”

You nod, settling back against him. You’re exhausted, and your eyes are heavy, but you feel lighter. Like a small weight has been lifted off your shoulders. 

Minho rests his chin atop your head, arms secure around you. “It was never your fault. I want you to know that.”

You exhale slowly. For the first time since Newt’s name became something painful instead of familiar, you believe it. 

You’re becoming anxious. Your clothes are sticking to your skin. Your head throbs in time with your pulse, and your lungs feel like they’re on fire. 

You’re lagging behind, you know you are. But you tell yourself that you’re fine. You just have to keep walking. 

Ahead of you, Minho glances back for what feels like the hundredth time. He’s been doing that—counting heads, making sure everyone keeps up. You don’t blame him, though. Your group had already lost so much, he couldn’t bear to lose any more. 

As soon as he notices you falling behind a bit, he frowns. 

“You’re dragging,” he calls out over his shoulder without slowing. “Pick it up, shank.”

You roll your eyes, forcing your legs to pick up the pace. “I’m literally right behind you. We can’t all be as fast as you, slinthead.”

“Yeah, and five minutes ago you were literally right behind me. As in you’re now further behind,” he snaps. “What’s your point?”

“My point,” you say breathlessly. “Is that you don’t need to babysit me.”

Minho decides to glance back, eyes narrowing as they land on you. “I’m not babysitting,” he says. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“Wow, dramatic.”

“You almost passed out an hour ago.”

“I tripped.”

“You stopped answering me.”

“I was ignoring you.”

That earned a sharp laugh from him, one that held no humor and was laced with frustration. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re bossy,” you shot back.

“You’re overheating.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“You love it, though.”

Minho nearly stumbles at that, and if looks could kill, the one he was shooting at you right now would’ve had you dead instantly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He slows his pace anyway, falling back enough to walk beside you. His eyes scan over you, taking in your appearance. Your flushed skin, sweat soaking through your clothes, the way your breathing seems alarmingly fast.

“You drink your water?” he asks. 

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

You hesitate for a split second, and he catches it instantly. “Give it to me.”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“I’m not a kid, Minho.”

“And I’m really not in the mood to watch something happen to you,” he snaps. “Hand it over.”

You scoff, shoving your canteen into his chest. “Happy now?”

He shakes it once. It feels way too full. Immediately, he glares at you. “You barely drank any.”

“I was trying to be conservative.”

“Seriously?” he fires back. “Drink the damn water. Don’t be a stubborn shank.”

You sigh dramatically as he shoves it back into your hands. You take a chug anyway, although it’s probably not enough to matter at this point, but you do it just to appease him. It does alleviate the feeling of sandpaper in your mouth though, even if just for a moment. 

Everyone keeps trekking forward. Your feet are dragging through the sand, pulse racing. 

Suddenly, the ground tilts. The world lurches sideways, your vision darkening around the edges in little specks of black. 

You panic, heart skipping a beat. You stop abruptly for a moment to regain control of your senses, arms out in front of you to steady yourself. 

Of course, Minho’s right there. His hand shoots out, gripping your upper arm.

“Don’t,” you warn as you shake off his grip, still stubborn as ever. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not. You’re shaking.”

“It’s hot.”

“You’re not even steady on your feet!”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re lying.”

That makes you snap, irritation surging through your veins. “I am NOT–”

The world tilts again, more violently this time. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to get the feeling to stop. Your stomach lurches, nausea clawing its way from your stomach up your throat.

“Hey! Look at me,” he says sharply, not asking you but telling you.

You try to, you really do. But the second you look at his face, it swims in and out. Everything is too bright and too far away all at once. There’s a distant ringing in your ears, quiet at first, but it progressively gets louder. Your limbs feel like they’re filled with lead, too heavy and weighing you down. 

“I just need a sec,” you mumble. The desert spins, like a roller coaster you can’t get off of. 

Your knees buckle. 

“Shit!” Minho swears, loud and sharp. Suddenly you’re falling forward, the ground rushing up way too quickly. You can’t even brace for impact, your body moving like a ragdoll. Thankfully, you never hit it.

His arms catch you, strong and immediate, pulling you against his chest. Momentum from your sudden dead weight pulls both of you down, Minho dropping to his knees in the scorching sand. 

“Hey, hey! No, no, no—" his voice is right in your ear, panicked, a stark contrast to the fiery banter he was just having with you minutes ago. “Don’t do this right now. Stay with me.”

He cradles your head against his chest. Everything feels distant, like you’re underwater and can’t resurface. The noise of the others fades, replaced by the thud of his heartbeat under your cheek. 

You hear him say your name once. Then again, louder. You try to answer, but your mouth doesn’t cooperate. Your tongue feels thick and useless, like it doesn’t belong in your mouth. Your eyelids flutter, refusing to stay open. 

Minho shifts, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. Hands shaking, he brings the other up, placing two fingers under your jaw to check for your pulse. It’s there, albeit fast and weak. 

“C’mon,” he pleads, voice cracking. “Open your eyes. Please.” 

You manage a weak sound, something between a sigh and a whimper. It’s all your body will allow. For him, though, it’s enough. 

“That’s it,” he says quickly, heart pounding against his rib cage. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got you.”

He removes his fingers from below your jaw, brushing them across your cheek before placing the back of his hand on your forehead. Despite the heat, your skin is cool. 

Newt crouches beside you, expression grim. “Heat exhaustion, probably. She’s dehydrated, her body can’t–”

“I should’ve stopped her sooner,” Minho cuts him off, barely even hearing him. He pulls you closer, forehead dropping against yours. Even half conscious, you can feel him shaking. “Damnit, Y/N. Why do you have to be so stubborn?”

The world keeps dimming, the edges of your vision swimming in darkness. You hear him again, softer this time. Terrified, even. 

“Shit. You’re not allowed to leave me, you hear me? You don’t get to win the argument like this.”

You force your eyes to crack open. His face is right there, cheeks streaked with dirt, eyes wide. Fear is etched into every line of his face. He looks like he’s barely holding it together, something you’ve never seen in your time knowing him. 

“Minho,” you breathe, using every ounce of energy to get a single word out. 

Relief hits him so hard it’s violent. He sucks in a breath, pressing his forehead back to yours. 

“There you are,” he whispers, closing his eyes for a moment. “Don’t scare me like that.”

Your body sags, the side of your face pressing against his chest. “‘M tired,” you mumble. 

“I know,” his voice softens. “I know. But you gotta stay awake for me, alright? Just a little bit longer.”

You nod, or at least you think you do. Your eyes flutter shut again, the darkness trying its hardest to pull you in. 

“Nope.” His grip tightens. “Hey. Eyes open.”

You force them open, blinking against the blinding sun. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, smoothing your hair away from your face. His touch is gentle despite his rough hands, treating you like the most fragile thing on the planet. “I’ve got you. Not letting you go.”

Someone says his name—Thomas, probably—but Minho doesn’t take his eyes off of you for a second. “I’m not putting her down,” he snaps without looking. “I’ve got her.”

He adjusts you in his arms, shifting you so your head rests against his shoulder. One arm secures itself under your knees, the other wrapped tightly around your back. 

Your consciousness drifts in and out, but every time it starts to slip, his voice pulls you back. He’s murmuring encouraging words, but you’re honestly not sure if they’re meant for you or for him to make himself feel better. Regardless, you force your ears to listen, focusing on the vibrations of his chest when he speaks to keep yourself awake. 

Because in all honesty, you’re just as scared as he is. 

You faintly hear them talking about finding shelter. Minho and someone else argue back and forth about something, but you tune it out. You just listen to his voice when he speaks, letting it lull you into a state of calmness.

Eventually, some kind of commotion brings you back to reality. You don’t know how long it's been, but you were still half out of it. Someone shouts “there!” and suddenly Minho is moving quicker. 

They find something just in time. It’s a half collapsed concrete structure, barely even standing, and they have no idea what could be lurking inside. It isn’t much, but it’s shade, and right now that feels like salvation.

Inside, the air is cooler. Not by much, but you aren’t taking a beating from the sun anymore, so it’s something. 

Minho wastes no time, lowering himself to the ground with you still cradled in his arms. He moves slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll break if there’s any sudden movements. Refusing to let you go, he shifts so your back is to his chest. His legs are on either side of yours, arms locked around you like a barrier. 

Your head lolls forward, and one of his hands shoots out to bring it back towards his body. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, guiding your head to rest against the crook of his neck. “I’ve got you.” His hand is pressed against your forehead as he does, and he can feel the sweat still beading on your face. Your skin is cool and clammy, your body still actively fighting to cool you down. 

He swears, fumbling around for his canteen. His hands are shaking so badly that he almost drops it, but he manages to raise it to your lips.

“Small sips,” he says. “Don’t rush.” 

You barely swallow but manage to get some down, wearing half of it down your chin and on your shirt while the rest trickles down your throat. You know you need to drink and rehydrate, but the exhaustion is reeling you back in. Your eyes start to flutter shut again.

“No, hey–” he mutters, jostling you a little bit to get your eyes back open. “No sleeping yet.” Your breath hitches, like you want to argue but don’t have the strength. He leans his head against yours, eyes squeezed shut. He grabs one of your hands, thumb brushing over your knuckles in small, soothing circles. It anchors you in the moment, something your mind can hold onto when your body is too tired. “I’m right here,” he whispers, as if he knows what you’re thinking. 

He watches the rise and fall of your chest as a reminder that you’re still with him. “You scare the hell out of me, you know that?” He doesn’t get a response as expected, but you’re breathing, and that’s all that matters.

Time has passed and the worst of it is over. You’re not sure exactly how long it’s been, but long enough that you’re no longer in and out of consciousness. 

You’re sitting against the wall now, letting the coolness of the concrete behind you seep through your skin. You’re stripped of your jacket, boots and scarf in an effort to keep you from overheating. Thankfully, you stopped sweating a while ago. Now you're just exhausted, and feel gross, but at least you feel human again. 

Minho never strayed far. He sits next to you, shoulder pressed up against yours like he’s afraid that if he isn’t touching you, you’ll slip away again. 

He picks up the canteen, nudging it into your hands without looking at you. “Drink,” he says quietly. 

You lift it up to your lips, hands still trembling as you do. You chug it like you haven’t had water in days, which is exactly what it feels like. When you’re done, he takes it back and screws the cap on, setting it down next to him. 

He doesn’t say anything else, just sits there quietly. 

You turn your head to glance at him. His eyes are fixed on the ground, jaw tight, hands clasped together on his lap. 

“I’m sorry,” you say softly. It’s the first thing you’ve said since everything first took place. Your voice is hoarse, and you have to cough to alleviate the dryness in your throat.

Minho reacts instantly, and his head snaps up. “Don’t.”

You blink. “Min—“

“I said don’t,” he repeats, his voice low. “You’re not apologizing for something you can’t control.” 

That shuts you up, your next words dying on your tongue. He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. He’s stressed, that much is obvious. 

“I thought I lost you,” he admits quietly, battling with his words like he’s not quite sure how to say it. “You should’ve seen yourself. I didn’t think you were coming back from that.” His voice cracks at the end, and your heart squeezes in your chest. You reach out without thinking, your hand brushing his. 

He stills for a moment, then grabs your hand and grips it like it’s a lifeline. “I should’ve stopped you sooner,” he continues, staring at your joined hands. “Should’ve made you rest. I knew something was wrong. I just—“ He swallows. “I can’t lose you. I won’t.” 

You squeeze his hand weakly, your strength still not one hundred percent. “I’m still here.” You offer, because that’s all you can say. And that’s all that matters. 

He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, they’re wet and red-rimmed. “Yeah. You are,” he says softly. 

He doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night. Even when exhaustion pulls at him, he doesn’t rest. He just watches you as you sleep curled up against him, listening for the sound of your breathing.

Just in case.