Page 24 of Resurgent

Now, our mornings have settled into an oddly settling routine.

I shower and cook while Hunter goes on his morning run, and then, without fail, he comes back forty-five minutes later drenched in sweat, breathing hard, and looking entirely too damn pleased with himself.

I pretend not to notice. Pretend I’m not watching the clock. Pretend I’m not mentally counting down the days until my body heals enough for me to run again—until my lungs are burning, my legs are shaking, and I can push myself hard enough to find the mental Zen that’s been evading me since the attack.

It’s pathetic, really, how badly I miss it.

Pouring the last of the coffee into Korr's mug, the heat seeps into my fingers as Hunter emerges from the hallway a moment later, hair damp and pulling his shirt over his head.

“Smells good,” he says, voice rough from his run. His eyes flick to the bandage peeking beneath the hem of my shorts, then to my face. A silent check-in. A habit he thinks I don’t notice.

“Thanks, I figured some breakfast burritos were in order since you have Delta’s first qualifying obstacle course run today. I’ve heard recruits can get a little overzealous."

I smirk up at him, expecting a snort or something, but he’s staring at me like I’m crazy.

“Gods help me, it’s a joke, Hunter.” I pull every ounce of sarcasm into my voice, “I’m sure all of the recruits will be on their very best behavior for you.”

His head shakes as he takes his seat. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re crazy?”

“Maybe a time or two.” I smile bigger, “Has anyone ever told you that you should lighten up and smile more?”

“Maybe a time or two,” he mirrors, and I swear there’s a spark of amusement in his eyes.

Thankfully, he spends most of the time we're eating complaining about how some of the recruits are either dumb enough—or cocky enough—they actually might try something even more reckless than I did if the opportunity presented itself…

Something like the girl who survived the landslide coming to observe their classes this afternoon since I'm still not cleared to ride and Tyr and I have spent most of our days together while I've been on mandatory R&R.

Hunter's stories of their idiotic first week are enough to distract me from my own scheduled itinerary for twenty minutes.

When we’re done eating breakfast, Hunter returns to his room to finish getting ready while I begrudgingly head to the couch, opening my laptop for the daily Mental Health call.

While Hunter had his stipulations for fighting on my behalf, this was Dean Stevens’ lovely little condition for working my way back to classes early.

I was ready to fight her on it. I insisted I didn’t need some stranger poking around in my head, and that I’d be fine on my own. Gods, if she knew half of what I’d lived through, she would have bought it too.

But then I fell into a medicine-induced nap that afternoon, and my years of suppressed trauma decided to call me on my bullshit.

My dad’s fists.

The crack of bone.

Blood in my mouth.

Platt.

Webb.

Pain.

Trapped.

Saliva licking away the scent of iron trickling down my chest.

The usual greatest hits, and I didn't even flinch.

I could’ve handled that. Hell, I have handled that.

But then my mind decided I hadn't suffered enough, because suddenly, I wasn’t the one trapped there anymore.