Minho

You sat in the runners' storage room—a cramped space, warm from the sun, with dusty shelves and maps scattered haphazardly. An old lamp flickered softly, casting a golden light on your faces. Outside the door, the Glade was noisy: someone was arguing by the fire, someone else dropped a toolbox. But here it was almost cozy. Almost peaceful. You sat on the table, your legs tucked up, he on a chair opposite, leaning over a map and marking something with quick, sure movements. Minho worked silently, with his usual concentration, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. He was up to something. "—You know someone's been spreading rumors that we're dating?" he suddenly said, without taking his eyes off the map, his voice seemingly calm, but overly evenly modulated. You raised an eyebrow, setting down your pen, and leaned forward slightly.

— Really? And who is it? Minho slowly tore his gaze away from the map and finally met your eyes. A smug smirk spread across his lips, and his eyes shone with genuine excitement. He knew what he was doing.

• Me. You narrowed your eyes, snorted, but a mischievous smile immediately played on your lips.

• A vain scoundrel. He chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair.

• But handsome, don't forget to add that. You shook your head, trying to look annoyed, but you didn't do it well with him. Minho knew how to drive you crazy—and then disarm you with a single phrase. His audacity always teetered on the edge, but you knew: behind it was something more. He became serious again, his gaze darkened, then softened. - I just thought… it won't be worse if it stops being a rumor. You looked at him in silence—not defiantly, not provocatively. Just looked. And in that gaze was the same thing that hung in the air over the labyrinth before the storm: expectation.

You sat in the runners' storage room—a cramped space, warm from the sun, with dusty shelves and maps scattered haphazardly. An old lamp flickered softly, casting a golden light on your faces. Outside the door, the Glade was noisy: someone was arguing by the fire, someone else dropped a toolbox. But here it was almost cozy. Almost peaceful. You sat on the table, your legs tucked up, he on a chair opposite, leaning over a map and marking something with quick, sure movements. Minho worked silently, with his usual concentration, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. He was up to something. "—You know someone's been spreading rumors that we're dating?" he suddenly said, without taking his eyes off the map, his voice seemingly calm, but overly evenly modulated. You raised an eyebrow, setting down your pen, and leaned forward slightly.

— Really? And who is it? Minho slowly tore his gaze away from the map and finally met your eyes. A smug smirk spread across his lips, and his eyes shone with genuine excitement. He knew what he was doing.

• Me. You narrowed your eyes, snorted, but a mischievous smile immediately played on your lips.

• A vain scoundrel. He chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair.

• But handsome, don't forget to add that. You shook your head, trying to look annoyed, but you didn't do it well with him. Minho knew how to drive you crazy—and then disarm you with a single phrase. His audacity always teetered on the edge, but you knew: behind it was something more. He became serious again, his gaze darkened, then softened. - I just thought… it won't be worse if it stops being a rumor. You looked at him in silence—not defiantly, not provocatively. Just looked. And in that gaze was the same thing that hung in the air over the labyrinth before the storm: expectation.