The group had been walking for hours under the relentless sun, the blistering heat bearing down on them with no mercy. The dry wind offered no relief, just hot air that scoured their skin and stung their eyes. The sand stretched out endlessly in every direction, shimmering in the distance with the cruel illusion of water. Not a single tree, rock, or shadow broke the horizon. The desert was alive with silence, broken only by the crunch of boots against sand and the occasional muttered curse.

Your clothes clung to your body, soaked with sweat. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if gravity was pulling you down more with every passing minute. You tried to keep pace with Minho and the others, focusing on the back of his head, the determined line of his shoulders as he forged ahead. He looked tireless, calm, focused, always moving forward. But you weren’t like him. Not today. The heat pressed in like a weight, stealing your breath, dulling your thoughts.

Your legs wobbled. You blinked hard. Once. Twice. The world around you swam and shifted. Your mouth was dry, your heartbeat an erratic drum in your ears.

Then everything tilted.

You stumbled, catching yourself just in time, until the next wave hit harder. You barely had time to gasp before your knees gave out, and you collapsed into the burning sand.

Someone shouted. Distant. Faint. Like through water.

But then there was a presence beside you. Hands. A voice that cut through the haze with more clarity than anything else had in hours.

“fuck!”

Minho.

You recognized the panic in his voice even before you could fully see him. He was never like this. Calm under pressure. Quiet, even grumpy most of the time—except with you. Never with you.

He was already kneeling beside you, one hand behind your back, the other brushing your sweat-soaked hair from your face.

“Hey, hey.. stay with me,” he said, voice low but tense. His eyes searched your face like he was trying to memorize it, trying to find a way to fix you right there on the sand. “You’re burning up. Damn it…”

You wanted to tell him you were okay, but the words wouldn’t come. You felt weightless, disconnected from your own body.

Minho glanced back over his shoulder. “Hey! We need water over here! Now!”

The others were already turning around, but Minho didn’t wait. He shrugged off his pack, yanked out his canteen, and cradled your head in his lap, lifting the cool metal to your cracked lips.

“Drink,” he said gently, but firmly.

You tried. Your throat ached, but the water—lukewarm as it was—was the best thing you’d ever tasted. You coughed a little, and his hand steadied you.

“I told you to pace yourself,” he muttered, more to himself than you, as if this was somehow his fault.

You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. Even in your dazed state, you saw the worry carved into his usually unreadable face. He was scared.

“You’re okay,” he murmured again, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “You’re gonna be okay. I’ve got you.”