Gladers choice | TMR | Thomas | Minho

Chapter Twenty Eight

Lyra sat next to Minho, her back still pressed against the tree. She stared at the hut where the coma girl had been holed up for days, now surrounded by a flurry of activity. Gladers were swarming around the hut, talking in low, urgent voices, and the whole Glade seemed to have come to a standstill. For what? A girl waking up? The sight irritated her more than she wanted to admit.

She wasn't sure why it bothered her so much. Maybe it was because everything in the Glade was always treated with such high stakes, but this? This girl? She didn't see what made her so special that half the Glade had to drop everything to see her. Lyra's fingers dug into the dirt beneath her, the cool earth a welcome distraction as her mind fumed.

Her eyes narrowed as she watched. Despite herself, she couldn't look away, trying to see what all the fuss was about.

"You're staring pretty hard, Lyra," Minho's voice cut through her thoughts, and she turned to see him giving her that look—the one he always gave when he thought he knew something she didn't want him to know.

"Stop giving me that look," she muttered, her voice a little sharper than she intended.

Minho raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "What look?" he asked, feigning innocence in that infuriating way only he could.

Lyra rolled her eyes, leaning her head back against the tree. "You know what look."

He laughed, a low sound that made her even more irritated. "Yeah, I do." He didn't even try to deny it. His gaze lingered on her for a beat longer before shifting back to the hut, where the others were still gathered. She could tell he was holding back something.

Just as Lyra was about to respond, something caught her attention. Her eyes flicked to the hut again, just in time to see the coma girl climbing out of the window. For a moment, Lyra thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. The girl was making a break for the Deadheads, darting off like someone was chasing her.

Lyra shot up, her body moving on instinct. She didn't know what she was planning to do—go after the girl—but Minho's hand closed around her arm before she could take another step.

"Not now," he said, his voice low but firm.

Lyra glared at him, her pulse quickening. "She's running for the Deadheads. You want her to cause chaos in there too?"

Minho didn't let go, his expression unreadable. "It's not our problem. Not yet. Let Newt and Alby handle it."

She opened her mouth to argue but closed it quickly. Minho was right—causing a scene wouldn't help anything. But she couldn't shake the feeling of frustration bubbling up inside her. The tension between them only heightened her awareness that Minho was watching her too closely, like he was putting pieces together, maybe seeing something she didn't want him to see.

She realised that he was suspiscous of her, the thought sending a sharp jolt through her chest. He had been watching her, and she'd been giving off too many signs. She didn't want him knowing about the kiss. Not now. Not ever. Not with how complicated everything was.

Reluctantly, she sank back down, her heart still racing. Minho's grip loosened, and he settled back beside her, but she could feel the unspoken tension hanging between them. She didn't like it.

Moments later, Chuck came barreling towards them, his face lit up with a mix of excitement and disbelief.

"You guys won't believe what just happened!" Chuck said, nearly breathless from running.

Lyra looked at him, her brow furrowed. "What?"

Chuck grinned, his eyes wide with the thrill of the moment. "She kicked Clint right where it hurts! Like, wham! And then she took off!"