Minho

Night in the Glade was always deceptively calm. The fires had long since died down, and the familiar silence reigned, broken only by the occasional rustle of the wind and the distant sounds of the Labyrinth. The curators' room was small but warm. You and Minho slept in the same bed because it was easier. And calmer. He lay next to you, his back to you, warm, secure, as if he were part of this place himself. A metallic clang sounded sharply. You flinched, propped yourself up on your elbow, and listened. Silence. Minho was asleep. You looked out the window—darkness, empty paths, not a soul. Returning under the covers, you almost calmed down... until the sound repeated. Clearer. Louder. Metal on metal.

"Minho," you gently nudged his shoulder and snuggled closer, almost instinctively. He woke up immediately. He didn't flinch—he just opened his eyes and froze, listening. A ringing sound.

"Damn, " he muttered and sat up, pulling up his pants . "Sit here ." You watched as he carefully approached the door, all collected, no longer sleepy, like a curator—someone used to being responsible for order. He looked outside, and a second later a dull rumble came from the street... and someone's muffled curse.

"Ben? " Minho's voice was no longer tense, but irritated. "What are you doing?! " The sound of pots clanging and a scuffle answered. Minho exhaled and, returning to the room, chuckled.

"I was hungry. I fell. I almost woke Glade up. " He lay down next to me again, pulled you close, and covered you with a blanket . "You can sleep peacefully."

Attentive and collected, even in the middle of the night he remains the one who gets up first and takes responsibility, but next to you he allows himself to be simply warm, reliable and truly calm.