The air was sharp with morning cold, but you barely noticed it. You were standing at the edge of the Glade, hands clenched, chest aching. Time had slowed ever since the walls closed last night—without him. Everyone had told you it was over. Even Newt had placed a steady hand on your shoulder, as if preparing you for grief.

Minho wasn’t supposed to survive the night in the Maze. No one did.

You hadn’t slept. You couldn’t eat. You just waited. Eyes locked on the wall that swallowed him hours ago. Hoping, praying. Silently making promises to the sky that if he came back, you’d never take a moment with him for granted again.

And then— The gates groaned open.

For a split second, no one moved. The whole Glade seemed to hold its breath.

And then you saw him.

Staggering forward. Dirt smeared on his face. Shirt torn. Blood staining his side, but walking—alive. Supporting Alby’s unconscious body. Thomas right behind him.

The crowd erupted in disbelief. Gasps, cheers, chaos. But you didn’t hear any of it. Your legs were already moving before your brain could catch up.

“Minho—!”

His head turned the second your voice reached him. And even through the exhaustion, the bruises, the sheer weight of what he had just survived—he smiled. A crooked, tired, but real smile. Like he saw the world in color again.

You collided with him, arms thrown around his torso. He let Alby slump gently onto the stretcher Newt rushed in with, then wrapped his arms around you. Tight. Unyielding. Real.

“I told you I’d make it back,” he whispered into your hair, voice hoarse.