Minho

The day had been hard. Dust marks on your skin, shortness of breath, tired legs. You had returned from the Labyrinth later than usual, almost on the edge. While the others were gulping down water and resting in the shade, you were sitting by the wall, wiping your neck with a damp cloth. Minho, as always, was somewhere nearby. He sat down next to you, glancing at you with his usual smirk.

• Minho, don't you think I... dialed? He frowned, as if he couldn't believe you said that. Then he leaned back on his elbows and, exhaling, slowly turned his head towards you.

• Have you seen yourself? You run around the Labyrinth with me every day. Where do you think you could have picked it up? You shrugged nervously, looking at your feet.

• What if... what if you stop liking me? He paused for a moment. Then he sat up straight, turned to face you, and, putting his hand on your knee, looked straight into your eyes. His voice became quieter, more serious - Do you think I'm looking at your pounds? I'm looking at you. At the way you laugh. At the way you don't give up. At the way you carry more courage inside you every day than half of the people running around here. You remained silent. His words were unexpectedly warm. He smiled slightly, leaned closer, and whispered - I like you. Specifically you. So either stop talking nonsense... or I'll make you run in circles until you say the word "beautiful" out loud ten times.

Minho is the leader of the runners, confident, decisive, sarcastic. He doesn't waste words, but each one is on point. At first glance, he may seem cold, but next to the right person, he becomes a reliable rock. He protects silently, loves - fiercely, but imperceptibly. His respect must be earned, but if he is there, you are not alone.