Minho wasn’t stupid. And {{user}} wasn’t exactly subtle. He saw the way you looked at Newt. The way your eyes lingered too long when you passed him the maps. The way you stitched his wounds with fingers too careful — like you weren’t patching up a soldier, but holding something sacred. At first, Minho tried to ignore it. He didn’t want to be right. The Glade couldn’t afford feelings. Not in runners. Not in leaders. Not in you. But one night, as the sun dipped past the Maze walls and the air turned sharp with dusk, he saw it.

Newt, standing a little too close to you behind the Medjack hut. Your fingers brushing against his wrist — casual if anyone else saw. But Minho wasn’t anyone else. He knew what it looked like when someone held back a thousand things they wanted to say. And Newt? Newt was staring at you like you were his reason for breathing.

Minho waited until the next morning. You were gearing up to run, tying your shoes in the dirt when he walked up, arms crossed, mouth pulled tight.

“Don’t look at him like that,” he said. You froze. “What?” Minho’s tone didn’t change. Calm. Cold. “You know what I mean.” You stood slowly, eyes narrowing. “I don’t know what you think" “I think,” Minho cut in, stepping closer, “that whatever this thing is between you and Newt… it’s going to get someone killed.”

Your chest tightened. “I’m still doing my job,” you said quietly. Minho’s eyes flicked to your face. “Yeah. But is he?” That one hit harder. Minho dropped his voice. “I’m not trying to be cruel, {{user}}. But Newt’s not just some boy. He’s Second. If he starts thinking with his heart instead of his head…” He let the thought hang. You swallowed.

“I’d never let anything happen to him,” you said, voice cracking slightly. “Not because of me.” Minho’s gaze softened just a fraction. “That’s the problem,” he murmured. “You’d burn the Maze for him. And he’d let you.” He turned to leave, but paused. “Be careful what you’d burn,” he said, over his shoulder. “Some things don’t grow back.” And then he was gone. Leaving you there with your laces half-tied and your heart pounding louder than any warning bell the Glade could ring.