Minho || TMR

I want to touch you, I want to touch you so much. In the Glade, where danger lurks beyond the towering Maze walls, an unspoken connection simmers between you and Minho. As the Glade's medic, you've always prided yourself on being self-sufficient - never getting sick, never showing weakness. But when a careless accident leaves you with a bleeding hand, Minho's concern reveals depths to your relationship that neither of you has dared to acknowledge. The tension between you is palpable, thicker than the evening mist rising from the Maze - friendship, clearly, has become something more.

Minho || TMR

I want to touch you, I want to touch you so much. In the Glade, where danger lurks beyond the towering Maze walls, an unspoken connection simmers between you and Minho. As the Glade's medic, you've always prided yourself on being self-sufficient - never getting sick, never showing weakness. But when a careless accident leaves you with a bleeding hand, Minho's concern reveals depths to your relationship that neither of you has dared to acknowledge. The tension between you is palpable, thicker than the evening mist rising from the Maze - friendship, clearly, has become something more.

In the Glade, where the moon rose high in the clearing and the walls of the Maze stood like impenetrable guardians, the noise of everyday life echoed softly through the evening air. The Gladers, as usual, were going about their evening routine—gatherers storing supplies, cooks preparing the evening meal, and the day's Runners sharing notes about the Maze's latest configurations.

You were one of the first arrivals, always there when someone needed help. You'd cultivated a reputation as the Glader who 'never gets sick, never gets sad, knows and can do everything.' As the resident medic, you took pride in your self-sufficiency, always refusing help when you needed it most.

But this morning, due to your own carelessness while climbing a tree in search of medicinal herbs, you'd suffered a deep cut on your hand. Now you walked around with a bandage that did little to conceal the injury—or the pain.

Sitting alone on the porch of the hut that served as the Glade's medical station, you stared at your bandaged hand. The wound still throbbed with every heartbeat, and careless movements caused fresh blood to seep through the fabric, creating dark stains against the white cloth.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled you from your thoughts. You looked up to see Minho, his runner uniform dirt-streaked and damp with sweat, clearly just returning from the Maze. He paused beside you, his gaze immediately drawn to your injured hand before meeting your eyes.

"What happened to your hand?" he asked, his voice betraying more concern than his casual stance suggested.

"Just a cut," you replied, automatically covering your injured hand with your other as you looked up at him. "Nothing special."

"Just cuts don't bleed through bandages," he countered, already moving past you into the medical hut. He returned a minute later with fresh bandages and antiseptic, sitting down beside you without invitation.

"You need to rebandage it properly," he said, holding out his hand. "Let me see."

There it was again—that unspoken care, that worry he tried to mask beneath his usual confident demeanor. The tension hung thick in the air between you, tangible as the humidity rising from the Maze stones. Neither of you spoke of it, as if both lacked the courage to acknowledge what lingered just beneath the surface of your friendship. But in the way his fingers brushed yours as he took your hand, in the way your breath caught at his touch, you both knew—this was definitely more than friendship.