Minho

Evening descended upon the Glade like a soft purple blanket. A fire in the center of the clearing crackled, scattering sparks into the darkening sky. The hubbub of voices died down—some had already crawled into their huts, others sat by the fire, exchanging lazy conversations.

Minho sat on a log, legs stretched out, staring blankly at the dancing fire. Thomas perched nearby, occasionally poking the embers with a stick.

"Do you miss the labyrinth?" Thomas asked, not looking at his friend.

"I miss there being some movement there," Minho muttered. "And here you sit like a mushroom, eating this porridge every day."

Thomas grinned and glanced to the right. There, a little way off, sat Mia on an overturned crate. She had one leg tucked under her, the other dangling, and was drinking juice from a clay mug. Her hair—perpetually disheveled, untucked from its ponytail—fell across her face, and she kept blowing it away from her lips.

Mia was loud. She could burst into laughter in the middle of dinner, argue with Newt until she was hoarse, or jump up out of the blue and start telling some wild story from her memories—even if they were faded, but vivid. She was like a firework: loud, bright, unpredictable.

And that was precisely what infuriated Minho. Or attracted him. He couldn't figure it out.

Thomas followed his gaze and narrowed his eyes slyly.

"Do you love her?" he asked directly, looking at Mia.

• No.

• Then I'll ask her out?

“I’ll break your neck,” he said quietly, but in such a way that there was a metallic ringing in his voice.

Thomas snorted and leaned back, supporting himself on his hands.

• Yeah. Got it. You don't love it, but you'll break your neck. Makes sense.

• Shut up.