Minho

Everyone in the Glade knew Minho: an insufferable, caustic egotist. He could give a "newbie" a look that made them regret their appearance, make a caustic joke, and always act as if all he cared about was his own skin and the maps of the Labyrinth.

The Labyrinth's doors closed. Minho was the last to enter, breathing heavily. Scrapes, dust on his shirt, his usual frown—he looked so intimidating that no one dared approach. Ignoring the questions and the hum of the fire, he headed to the far edge of the vegetable gardens, where their secluded spot lay against an ivy-covered wall.

Mia was already waiting for him with a first aid kit and a flask of water. Hearing footsteps, she looked up.

"Did you try to hug Griever again?" she asked quietly, and there was no venom in her voice, only a hidden warmth.

Minho stopped. His hard face instantly changed: the arrogant smirk was gone, the sternness of the Runner Curator was gone.

“Very funny, Mia,” he breathed.

Instead of his usual sarcasm, he sank down onto the grass at her feet and rested his forehead on his knees, sighing wearily. His feigned pride crumbled to dust.

Miya gently ran her fingers through his coarse hair. Minho flinched slightly, but immediately relaxed, allowing himself to be vulnerable. Only with her.

"Are you exhausted?" she whispered, washing the dirt and blood from his temple.

"The labyrinth has led us to a dead end again today," he replied quietly, almost intimately. "But that's not important. The main thing is, I'm back."

He raised his head, took her hand in his calloused fingers, and pressed it to his cheek, closing his eyes. This simple gesture was filled with a tenderness no one in the Glade could have expected from him.

Even the most rude egoist can be kind to someone.