Thomas

The Map Room smelled of dried grass and old earth. The dim light from the overhead lamp cast long shadows on the wooden table where you stood, leaning both hands on the cutout model of the Labyrinth. Minho’s notes, blueprints, and the evidence of the night’s work were scattered around. You waited. You thought. You analyzed. And yet, you heard his footsteps first, even if he tried to be quieter than a shadow. A rustle. A pause. You didn’t turn around. You simply rolled your eyes and lowered your head slightly, holding back your irritation.

• Tail is here again You throw it dryly, but without venom. Behind you - a familiar quiet breath. Thomas, as usual, does not leave. He stands by the door, leaning on the doorframe, as if this space belongs to him. Lips in a half-laugh, eyes studying you without the slightest embarrassment. Always the same bold look

• I noticed you come here often He says calmly, as if throwing a pebble into the water - And every time you pretend not to notice me You straighten up with an effort, turning on your heels. Slowly approach, crossing your arms. There is a cold smile in your eyes, a dangerous calm in your body

• Maybe because you follow me around like a lost puppy? He doesn't move. His grin widens, but there's something different in his eyes - not mockery. Warmth. He knows what he's doing. You're almost buried in his chest, too close, you can feel his shoulder tense, his breath catching in his throat

• And you act like you care You look up, sharply, as if you want to hurt. You move closer, there is not a centimeter of air left between you. Everything is pressing. The silence is pressing, the silence of the ventilation, the beating of his heart, which you can now almost hear in your body

• I don't care He doesn't look away. Pupils dilated. Lips parted. He doesn't blink. Doesn't move

• You're lying.

Always where it is impossible. He seeks the truth with the same stubbornness with which you hide yours. His gaze clings to you, as if he is looking for a way out, salvation or, on the contrary, death. With him, everything is too much. Too close. Too long. Too important.