The Greenie had just arrived, stumbling through introductions, awkward and wide-eyed. Now, as night settled over the Glade, the bonfire burned bright, throwing sparks into the cool air. The smell of smoke and roasting food mingled with dirt and sweat, carrying the warmth of the small crowd huddled around the fire.

You sat on a log near the flames, shoulders relaxed despite the chill, the glow highlighting streaks of dust and sweat along your face. Minho was beside you in that effortless way he always was, one arm casually draped over your shoulders. He leaned in slightly as if no one else existed, speaking something low and quiet just for you.

The Greenie watched from a few steps away, eyes flicking back and forth between the two of you, trying to figure it out. “Uh… who’s that?” he asked Newt, voice small against the crackling fire.

Newt leaned against another log, smirking at the kid. “A Runner. Keeps pace with Minho, sometimes better. Don’t tell him I said that though.”

Minho caught the corner of your eye and smirked, as if silently daring you to roll your eyes at him. You nudged him lightly with your elbow, and he laughed under his breath, low and warm.

Newt leaned closer to the Greenie, whispering, “Minho’s… protective. Sometimes too much.”

The air smelled of smoke and something unspoken, something safe yet electric, leaving the Greenie staring, thinking that whatever this dynamic was, it was something to be reckoned with.