The hut was half-lit, shadows stretching long across the walls. You were restocking gauze when the door creaked open — no knock, no hesitation.

Of course.

“Back again?” you said without looking up.

Minho stood in the doorway, shirt clinging to his shoulders, a scrape running across his cheek. Nothing serious, not this time. Still, he leaned against the frame like he’d fought a Griever barehanded.

“You tellin’ me you don’t miss me when I’m not bleeding all over your floor?” His voice had that lazy confidence that never quite hid the exhaustion underneath.

You rolled your eyes, motioning for him to sit on the cot. “You’d think after all this time, you’d learn to stop running headfirst into walls.”

He smirked, sitting anyway. “Yeah, well… walls keep getting in my way.”

You cleaned the small cut on his arm, careful, methodical. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink, just watched you with that steady, unreadable stare. The kind that made the room feel smaller somehow.

“It's barely a scratch. You could’ve handled it yourself."

Minho shrugged, lips twitching. “Maybe. But then who’d yell at me for being reckless?”