Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 117

Max is hiding something.

I don’t know what yet. But I’ve seen that look before — the careful silence. The sharp little glances when no one’s watching. The way his hand brushed Penny’s when he handed her the soda earlier, like it meant something.

He told her people on the team don’t like Tyler. Told her to be careful.

He wasn’t wrong. Tyler’s lazy with her. Careless. He didn’t even notice her wince when she tried to pick up her suitcase earlier. I did. She brushed it off. She always does.

But Max notices that kind of stuff too. That’s the part I don’t like. He’s watching her. He’s nice about it, sure. Sweet, even. But it’s the kind of nice that makes my spine stiffen. Because *why?*

And then there was that girl.

Kayla, or Kelsey, or whatever her name was — the one with the red sweater, the too-sweet voice, the hand that lingered on my arm like I was something to unwrap. I could smell the vodka and body spray from a foot away. She asked if I had a girlfriend. Asked if I had a room. Asked if I liked *company*.

I said no.

She said I was cute when I was grumpy.

I almost left the room.

But then Penny looked at me — just once — and I swear to God there was something there. The kind of look that anchors you.

So I stayed.

Now it’s after nine. Everyone’s full, slightly buzzed (some more than slightly), sprawled out in the massive living room like we’re at some holiday retreat for reckless twenty-somethings with no concept of boundaries. Somehow, the space fits all twenty of us — couches, chairs, bean bags, and a pile of throw blankets forming makeshift seating in front of the fire.

I take the far end of one of the couches. I’ve got my arm resting along the back, legs spread, watching everyone settle in. Penny ends up sitting right in front of me — not on the couch, but on the floor, leaning back against the edge of my leg like it’s instinct. Like she forgot to think about it.

I don’t move.

Don’t breathe.

I just let her stay there, her shoulder against my shin, her hair brushing against the fabric of my jeans.

“Okay, okay,” someone says — Zoe, I think — “Movie or game first?”

“Game,” Jonathan calls out. “Obviously.”

“Truth or dare,” Rebecca says, already smirking. “No better way to find out which of you are secretly disasters.”

“I thought we said no drinking games on the first night,” someone mutters.

“You don’t need alcohol to tell the truth,” Rebecca shoots back. “Cowards.”

There’s some laughter, and the agreement spreads fast.

Truth or dare it is.

Penny goes still in front of me. I can feel it — the way her spine tightens just slightly, the tension in her shoulders. She’s not the kind of girl who enjoys being put on the spot.

I press my hand lightly on the back of the couch, not touching her, just… ready. Just in case.

“Alright,” someone says. “Zoe, you go first. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Have you ever kissed someone in this room?”

“Duh,” she grins. “Literally like four of you.”

Everyone laughs.

“Tyler,” someone calls. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“Text your mom and tell her you want to become a male stripper.”

“Bet.” He pulls out his phone. “She’ll be proud.”

It keeps going.

Silly dares. Embarrassing truths. Who hooked up with who. Who lied about it. Who has a crush on someone in the room. Someone’s dared to lick hot sauce off a spoon. Someone else is dared to show their last text message.

It’s loud. Messy. Too warm.

And then—

“Asher.”

I look up.

One of the guys on the soccer team — Matt or Mark or something — is pointing at me.

“Truth or dare?”

“I don’t play,” I say flatly.

“Come *on*, man,” someone groans. “Just *one* round.”

“Yeah, what’s the worst that could happen?”

*You have no idea.*

I sigh. “Fine. Truth.”

They light up like they just cracked a safe.

“Have you ever killed someone?”

Penny tenses again.

I don’t blink. “Classified.”

“Aw man,” someone says.

“Pick something else,” another chimes in.

“Alright, alright,” the guy says. “Did you ever, like, capture someone famous?”

“Classified.”

“Break into a government building?”

“Classified.”

“Jesus,” someone mutters. “What *can* you answer?”

There’s a pause. Then Zoe smirks.

“Can you shoot a target with a knife or a gun… *blindfolded?”*

The room quiets. People look at me.

I shrug once. “Yes.”

It’s like I dropped a grenade.

“WHAT?”

“Shut *up*.”

“Dude, that’s insane.”

“Do you do, like, knife twirls?”

“Can you teach me?”

They’re laughing and cheering like I just said I had a cool party trick.

I stare at the fire, jaw tight.

They think it’s cool.

It’s not.

That kind of skill comes from necessity. From muscle memory carved through fear. From months in combat where blinking at the wrong moment meant your team didn’t come home.

They don’t understand.

And I guess I don’t want them to.

“Okay,” someone says. “Penny, your turn.”

My eyes snap to her.

She freezes.

So do I.

“Truth or dare?”

I’m already calculating—what’s the worst they could ask? Who would I need to drag outside if they say the wrong thing?

Then the guy who asked her sees my face and laughs anxiously, probably changing his mind about the question last minute.

“Would you dare… punching Asher?”

I raise an eyebrow.

Before she can answer, I speak.

“She already has.”

A few people laugh.

Penny groans and face-palms.

“Not my best moment.”

“I would never hurt a man like *that*,” one of the girls says, leaning forward with a syrupy voice. “That’s, like, a crime against humanity.”

I am so done with this game.

But Penny leans back a little against my leg again, her shoulder brushing me just slightly. She’s not laughing much. Not joining in.

And I don’t care what game they’re playing.

As long as she’s sitting right here, I’ll stay.