Page 31 of Resurgent

"What? You actually standing a chance at being better at yoga than me?"

"Well, that too," he says, his smile softening. "But mostly just you being able to stand on your own two feet.”

The joke dies on my tongue, and I quickly look away before he notices the sudden sting behind my eyes.

"I missed standing too."

A comfortable silence settles between us for a few moments—the kind only decades of friendship can create.

Eventually Matt clears his throat, “It was fun watching the constant showdown between your Alpha and ‘the Alpha of the house',” Matt mocks.

“There is no way Korr actually referred to himself like that! What a douche.”

“Okay, maybe he didn’t say those exact words…it was something closer to ‘This is my house, and I make the rules, so no food in the bedrooms’.”

My snort is so loud, it’s borderline offensive. “You do realize those are just facts, right? And to be fair, you said he gave in as soon as you asked nicely—which I’m still shocked you did, by the way.”

“What?” he asks, his hand shooting to his heart in faux-offense. “I’m always nice!”

“To me? Sure…but sweet-talking has never really been your style when you’re determined.”

“What can I say, Lee? He fell for my charm. Now, what do we need to do so I can get out of this heat and get some food in my stomach?”

We move through hip stretches, balance work, gentle lunges—which are significantly less fun. By the third lunge, my injured leg is trembling so hard I nearly lose my footing.

Matt's hand catches my elbow before I can tip sideways.

"I had it."

"You absolutely did,” he agrees, though his tone says the exact opposite.

Shoving his shoulder, I’m immediately frustrated by his lack of movement—truth be told, I think I may move more than he does.

Show-off.

"I hate how strong you've gotten."

"I've been training."

"Way to rub it in. I've been unconscious."

"Yeah, you seemed a little overly committed to the bit if you ask me."

I snort. "You’re the worst, you know that right?"

"Yup!"

We finish stretching after nearly thirty minutes, and I’m thoroughly disgusted by how much sweat has already soaked through my shirt and how embarrassingly heavier I’m breathing.

Before my coma, stretching would've been the warm-up before the warm-up—no joke, I used to volunteer to teach yoga classes to warm me up for my one-on-one training lessons, before group classes started.

Now it feels like half a workout.

Unsurprisingly, Matt notices me panting like a pug after playing fetch.

"We can stop after resistance bands."

"We're lifting."