Gladers choice | TMR | Thomas | Minho

Chapter Thirty Seven

Lyra's first conscious thought as she began to stir was warmth—the kind of comforting, all-encompassing warmth she hadn't felt in what felt like years. The dormitory's cool air barely registered against her skin because she was tangled so deeply into Minho that it felt as if they were one person.

She blinked up at the dull gray of the ceiling and shifted slightly, trying not to jostle him too much. His arm was draped loosely over her waist, the weight of it grounding, even if it sent her pulse skittering. She didn't move it. Didn't want to move it.

Instead, she turned her head just enough to glance at him. His dark lashes fanned out against his cheekbones, his face relaxed in a way that made him look younger, softer. It was almost unfair how peaceful he seemed. As if the looming Scorch Trials weren't waiting for them, threatening to rip away every shred of normalcy they'd clung to.

She might've stared longer if not for the voice that broke the quiet.

"Well, look who's all cozy this morning."

Lyra stiffened, her head snapping up to find Newt standing at the foot of the bunk, his arms crossed and a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," she groaned, scrubbing a hand over her face.

At the sound of Newt's voice, Minho groaned, burying his face against Lyra's shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Five more minutes," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep.

"Five more minutes of this, and I'll need therapy," Newt shot back, leaning forward with a grin.

Lyra groaned, trying to sit up, but Minho's arm didn't budge. Instead, he pulled her closer, his face still half-hidden against her shoulder.

"Minho," she hissed, her voice low and warning.

"Relax," Minho mumbled, cracking one eye open to glare at Newt. "If he keeps talking, I might actually strangle him."

"Oh, I'd like to see you try," Newt quipped, clearly enjoying himself.

Lyra sighed, throwing her head back against the bunk frame. "You two are impossible."

"No, you're impossible," Newt retorted, jabbing a finger in her direction. "First, you two act all normal—best friends, no funny business. Then suddenly, you're sneaking into each other's bunks? Do you know how confusing that is for the rest of us?"

"We're not sneaking!" Lyra shot back, her voice rising.

Minho smirked against her shoulder before finally sitting up. "Speak for yourself. I'm totally sneaky."

Newt groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I don't know how I survived all those years in the Maze with you lot."

"Because you love us," Minho said smoothly, leaning back against the wall like he didn't have a care in the world. "Admit it, Newtie. You'd miss me if I was gone."

Newt rolled his eyes but didn't deny it.

The sound of rustling fabric drew their attention, and Thomas sat up from the bunk across the room, rubbing at his eyes like he'd been dragged from the depths of sleep. His hair stuck out in every direction, and his expression was a mix of groggy annoyance.

"What's going on?" Thomas muttered, his voice hoarse.

Newt didn't miss a beat. "Oh, nothing. Just Lyra and Minho redefining the phrase 'close quarters.'"

Lyra's stomach twisted uncomfortably as Thomas's gaze flicked to her. His expression was hard to read, but there was something in his eyes—something tense, almost guarded.