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"HEY, SAMMY. Wake up!"
Samson jumped forward at the sound, his head crashing into someone else's. A sharp pain ran through his head on impact and he groaned, bringing a hand up to touch the bump that he anticipated would bruise quickly. Newt was sprawled out on the ground in front of him, rubbing at his own head. Samson almost wanted to laugh. Of course it was Newt who had found him.
"We've gotta stop meeting like this, Sammy." Newt grinned.
"What--" Samson began, but Newt cut him off.
"I think you fell asleep out here. Nobody's been able to find 'ya all morning, but then Clark told Alby he'd seen you out here last," Newt said. He stood up and offered Samson his hand. "Are you alright?"
Samson nodded, hesitating for a moment before taking Newt's hand. "I was out here talking with Leo and Clark. I must've dozed off," he lied, keeping his eyes on the ground below them.
Newt shook his head. "Anyway, you're late for work," he smiled down at him.
"Oh," Samson sighed. "Well, I better get back then."
"I'll walk you to the Cookhouse," Newt replied, starting back towards the Glade.
Samson frowned but followed him nonetheless. As they walked in silence, Samson tried to think of something to say to try and diffuse the tension between them. He had to admit, being in the Deadheads alone with Newt again made him nervous. It was hard to believe it had been an entire month since that day, when Newt had held him while he cried under those trees. Samson's cheeks reddened just thinking about it. The way Newt had carried himself since then led Samson to believe that that day hadn't affected him at all, at least not in the way it had affected Samson.
Still, he appreciated Newt looking out for him after all this time, despite everything. It was clear that he cared about the Gladers, and that he cared about Samson. Samson hoped one day he could repay him somehow.
After what seemed like the longest walk, they finally arrived at the Cookhouse, and Samson had finally found the courage to small talk. "What're you doing today?"
Newt clicked his tongue, cocking his head at Samson. "Erm..getting ready for the new Greenie, I suppose. They're late, too."
Samson's face scrunched up in curiosity. "They're late?"
Newt nodded. The two of them bid their goodbyes before it got too awkward and Samson watched Newt hobble back out into the Glade for a moment, biting his lip. Shaking his head, Samson pushed the door of the Cookhouse open and was greeted with the smell of bacon and the sound of Frypan yelling his name from across the room.
