Minho

Most of the Gladers were already gathering around the campfire, but Minho sat in the shade behind the Map Room's wooden table.
It had been a lousy day in the Maze: another section turned out to be a dead end, his legs were throbbing from hours of running, and a burning sense of hopelessness filled his chest—a feeling the Keeper of the Runners had no right to show the others.
He heard the soft step on the grass a few seconds before a figure appeared beside him.
Mia.
She didn't ask anything; she simply set a wooden mug of warm brew on the ground and crouched down a few steps away from him.
"Don't start," Minho exhaled without opening his eyes. His voice sounded harsher than he had intended, saturated with the bitterness he'd accumulated throughout the day. "I'm tired. Just get out of here, Mia. Get out of my sight."
Silently, she rose from her crouch, picked up the mug, and took a step back, intending to head toward the noisy campfire and leave him in peace, just as he had asked.
"Hey," a voice called out.
Mia turned around.
"Are you seriously planning to leave?"
"You told me to get lost, Minho," Mia answered calmly, stopping a couple of meters away. "I'm just doing what you asked."
"God." He shook his head and slapped his palm against the dry grass right next to him, inviting her to sit. "After all these months, you should have learned my lousy vocabulary by now."
Mia didn't move, raising an eyebrow and searching his face inquisitively.
Minho sighed, dropped his shoulders, and looked up at her.
"Sometimes 'get out of here' means 'come over here,'" Minho said softly and honestly, a small twitch at the corner of his lips. "Especially when I'm the one saying it."
"Next time, just say that, Keeper," Mia whispered softly, looking at the distant sparks of the campfire.
"Keep dreaming," Minho grumbled.