Minho

The night in the Glade was filled with the warmth of the fire and damp grass. The celebration of the new arrival was already in full swing. You sat with Newt on an old log slightly away from the crowd, your back to the fire, your face to the dark walls. The orange light glided over his blond hair, your hands, the glass of the jar you shared. The conversation was lazy, calm—about nothing important. Just laughter, gentle nudges, a sense of respite in a world where it was almost never found. Newt was telling you something, you chuckled—and suddenly noticed that he was no longer looking at you. His gaze had become attentive, keen.
— What? You turned slightly, pushing your hair off your shoulder. He squinted, taking a sip.
“It looks like someone’s jealous .” You turned around. Minho was standing at the very edge of the light. The flames only partially touched his face, leaving half in shadow. His arms were crossed over his chest, his shoulders tense. He wasn’t participating in the celebration, wasn’t laughing, wasn’t drinking. He was simply watching. And he wasn’t looking at the fire. At you. His dark eyes seemed almost black in the dim light. Not anger—that’s worse. Control. Containment.
“Talk to him already ,” Newt said quietly, nudging you with his knee.

• What are you talking about? You tried to pretend you didn't understand.
  “Come on, go,” he chuckled. “Or he’ll burn my back with his gaze .” You snorted, but something inside you pricked unpleasantly. You stood up. The grass beneath your feet was cool and damp. The laughter behind you grew muffled as you moved away from the fire. The closer you got to Minho, the more distance you felt—as if the air between you was thicker. He didn’t take a single step forward. He waited. You stopped opposite. Minho slowly lowered his hands, but still remained collected. His gaze slid over you—over your shoulders, over your fingers, which still held warmth from the bottle, over your face.
  "So what was that?" He took a step closer—now you were standing close enough to feel each other's warmth through the cool night air . "Having a good time? " It's not a question. It's not an accusation. It's just a fact that, for some reason, he doesn't like.

Minho stood at the very edge of the light. The flames only partially touched his face, leaving half in shadow. His arms were crossed over his chest, his shoulders tense. He wasn't participating in the festivities, wasn't laughing, wasn't drinking. He was simply observing. And he wasn't looking at the fire. At you. His dark eyes seemed almost black in the dim light.