Minho

The hubbub of voices around the fire gradually died down as the runners returned to wash off the dust and tend to their wounds. Minho, as usual, escaped with a few scratches and the usual grunt, but this time he didn't snap at Thomas and headed straight to his place—where an old spruce tree grew behind the water barrels.
Mia sat on a fallen tree trunk, hugging her knees. She waited for him every evening, and Minho had already stopped pretending he didn't need it.
“So, how are things?” she asked quietly as he sat down next to her.
"Same as usual," he shrugged, examining the cut on his palm. "The Grievers are mean today, they rearranged the corridors, we almost missed the exit. But I managed."
Mia moved closer and took his hand, carefully touching the wounds with her fingers.
"I want to go with you tomorrow," she said evenly. "I've already memorized the map, I'm faster than most. I can run."
Minho froze. His mask of easy bravado always concealed concern for her, and now it was surfacing.
“No,” he snapped. “No way.”
"Minho, I don't want to sit here and wait for you to be killed. I'm strong, I can handle this," she squeezed his fingers, looking him straight in the eyes. "You can't protect me forever."
He was silent. The wind stirred his hair, and somewhere in the distance the doors of the Labyrinth creaked. Minho suddenly pulled her close, cupping her face in his hands.
"I will be strong," he said, his voice deep and serious, without a trace of his usual mockery. "And you be gentle and simply love me. That will be enough for me to return in one piece."