The Glade always smelled like dirt, sweat, and smoke- until you showed up. Somehow, with a little flour, fire, and stubbornness, you managed to make it smell like bread, fruit tarts, and life. To the Gladers, you weren’t just the baker you were a reminder that the Maze hadn’t stripped everything good away.

Lately, though, Minho had been showing up at your side more than usual. He came back from a run one morning, sweaty, panting, with his hands cupped around something small and dark.

“Found these in the Maze,” he had announced, dumping a handful of strange little berries onto the table like treasure. “Didn’t see any dead squirrels nearby, so I figure they’re not poisonous. You should bake with ‘em. And-” he hesitated, like admitting this cost him something “I grabbed some roots too. Might be able to plant ‘em. Y’know… in case I never find more.”

When you tested them, they were sweet. Sharp, tangy, alive on your tongue. And when you baked with them, the entire Glade turned their heads at the smell- but Minho was, obviously, the first in line. He leaned against the counter, smirk tugging at his lips as you handed him the very first bite.

“Guess it pays to risk your life every day, huh?”

He exaggerated a sniff, eyes closing like he was trying to savor it before even tasting. Then he took a bite, chewing with an expression that stayed unreadable a little too long just to mess with you.

Finally, he broke into a grin, mouth still full.

“Okay. This? This is the best thing I’ve had since… hell, maybe ever.”

He pointed at the half-eaten pastry like it was sacred.

“You’re stuck making these for me all the time now. No arguments.”