Page 105 of Resurgent

"I appreciate it, but I didn't grab any clothes on the way out."

I push myself up slowly, the blanket sliding into my lap as I listen.

"You're going to walk back to the barracks now? Alone?" Korr asks, sounding mildly concerned.

"I'll be fine."

My stomach sinks. There's still a bloodthirsty monster lurking around campus.

"Don’t be stubborn, Matt," I call out, my voice rough with sleep, ‘You’re staying here and sleeping with me. It’s not like I haven’t seen you in your underwear a million times.”

Silence falls for a beat.

Then Matt's footsteps fill the room as he walks toward me, looking equal parts surprised and entertained.

“While I wish I could hold you all night so you get a good night’s rest, the Captain gets pissy about sleepovers.” His voice lowers slightly, only pretending to whisper, “Big guy’s just upset he’s not invited. Now, go climb in bed, I’ll be back tomorrow at nine to pick you up for brunch.”

“No way! If it's safe enough for you to walk home in the middle of the night, it’s safe enough for me to meet you at the barracks.”

“Fine, I’ll meet you at the obstacle course at nine.”

“That’s not—”

“Lee, just give me this win,” he laughs.

“Okay, fine. I’ll meet you at the obstacle course at nine.”

Matt squeezes me one last time before letting go and pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Sleep, Lee.”

“Let me know when you make it to your room, Mattey.”

“Always.”

Chapter thirty

Annalise

I’m just wrapping my wet hair from my shower in a towel when Korr slams the door behind him harder than he probably means to, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, “That root came out of nowhere.”

He’s back early, and I’m halfway down the hall before I even take in the rest of him— covered in sweat and mud, a few pine needles poking out of his hair, and a line of blood running from his cheekbone to the edge of his jaw.

“Hunter!” My voice pitches high, “What happened?”

He lifts a hand, waving off my panic. “Nothing, it’s just a scrape. I slipped like an idiot, and embarrassingly, the ground won.”

“You’re joking, right? That needs stitches,” I say immediately.

“That bad?” he asks, stupidly hopeful that I’ll say no.

“It’s literally wide open.”

His shoulders drop in defeat. “Great, can’t wait to hang out with all of the hungover recruits in the infirmary puking out their celebration drinks and trying to get hangover tonics from the healers.”

I let out a little laugh. “You can't really be that thick-headed," I say, shaking my head. "We both know I have plenty of experience doing stitches, and I know you have a medical bag, so just let me do it.”

I watch the debate play across his face—stubbornness, pride, practicality—before he finally exhales. “Fine. But I’m trusting you. Don’t use this as an excuse to stab me for that overcooked burger or anything.”

Dragging him to the kitchen where the lighting is best, I point to the stool at the breakfast bar, "Sit." He obeys instantly, though I don’t miss him grumbling under his breath about not taking orders.