EVERYTHING WAS PLATONIC, here in the Glade.

Perhaps it was the constant life threatening situation or the urgency to survive and leave the Maze, but having 'more than friends' relationship never really crossed anyone's minds.

To Frankie herself, well, she never let anything other than taking care of her newfound family and finding a way out for all of them occupied her mind.

And it was Minho, out of all people.

It was Minho.

The face she saw when she woke up in the Glade years ago. The one she slapped when she realized that mourning about their forgotten past wouldn't do them any good. The first of all to run into the Maze and came up with the idea to map it. The boy who didn't need to put up a tough facade or hide his vulnerability, because he really became tougher.

The boy who lived up to his important position of the Keeper of Runners.

The boy who wanted to help.

Frankie had known him all her (Glade) life.

Whether it was years of friendship or she had unconsciously paid an attentive eye on him throughout the days, she knew his habits and features by heart. His sassiness, pride, and casual bringing. His obsession of styling his hair every morning. The way his eyebrows furrowed together when he was feeling serious. The crookedness of his smile...

...but when his lips touched her cheek, she was thrown to a whole new other world in which she knew nothing of Minho.

No, it wasn't a spur of the moment or just the kiss, as if she was pecked by any other boy she would feel the same heartache towards him.

Everything was platonic, here in the Glade. Until now.

(Minho woke up the next day claiming to have no memory of the previous night, but when people inquired both him and her of his bold move in last night's celebration, they just shrugged their shoulders as if it meant nothing —but, secretly, it meant a lot)

〰️

"THAT SHUCKFACE," FRANKIE grumbled, "But he was so drunk, I can't get mad at him for it."

Gally grimaced, knowing what this was all about.

The first two days after the Celebration, everyone looked at her weird. Like they didn't know how to greet and talk to her properly anymore. Like, how were they supposed to act? Minho's example was to kiss her cheek, and that was definitely out of the question.

Frankie finally lost it when a lot of boys decided that their best option was to avoid her like plague, so she marched up to Minho and punched his jaw, right where she had slapped him a few nights ago. To top it all, she ruffled his perfectly styled hair.

"What the shuck is this about?!" He exclaimed.

"What do you think!"

"Nothing!"

"Shuckface!"

"Slinthead!"

"Shuck you!"

"You too!"

Her bad mood outburst popped the 'Frankie is actually a girl so how the shucking hell do we try to treat her like one' bubble.

The answer was obvious: to act like they usually did, without telling each other how much of a boy Frankie was. Nothing suggested them to do otherwise —she had earned everyone's respect and her position. She had to admit that Minho was actually a bit right.

"He's dodging me," Frankie said, playing with a rogue stone she found on the floor.

It had been more than a week since they exhanged words with her sick in bed. Even Chuck, the new Slopper, asked her about it last night ("Frankie, can I ask you a personal question?"

"Yes?"

"What's happening between you and Minho?").

"I see it, too, even behind this shucking bars," Gally confessed, "Maybe he still feels bad for saying what he said."

"He did the right thing, though," she said with a deep frown and confessed, "Surprising but right. I'm grateful for him."

"I know that I'm locked up so I'm your best option to talk to. But you should talk this out with him, not me," Gally shrugged. He was sitting cross-legged on the cold Slammer floor, "Go. Get up."

"What? No!"

"He's probably in the Map Room. You have twenty minutes before the Door opens, might as well clear out the tension, right?"

As much as she didn't want to do it, she knew that it had to be done.

"Right. I'll see you later."

She marched into the concrete block building and twisted the gigantic handle open. A few Runners were there —lounging around, memorizing previous maps, putting on weapons or shoes or watches, including Ben and the said Keeper.

"Minho, can I speak with you in private?"

Minho looked up from his drawing, a bit startled. He was searching for an escape, obviously, but Frankie began throwing hard glares to everyone else that they couldn't help excusing themselves from the room.

When the last one left, Frankie closed the door and pressed her back against it. Probably afraid that Minho would make a run for it.

"I'm sorry."

Minho raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms, "For what?"

"For whatever I did that offended you. Thank you for standing up to me. I— I don't like not speaking with you."

Minho pressed his lips into a thin line. His slanted eyes swam deep into her wide ones.

"I like you, Frankie."

Frankie looked at him in alarm. Some beast within her chest leapt, but she didn't know if it was due to fear or joy.

"I've been thinking through the week and I don't know if I like like you yet," he smiled, "Wait. Maybe I'll know by this evening. I'll see you after running."

Both Frankie and Minho didn't even know that she had it within her, but finally, after years of living as the only teenage girl in a quite large population of hormonal boys, she blushed.