Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 118

I can’t stop staring at him.

I don’t even care that we’re in the middle of a truth or dare game that’s rapidly spiraling into something between chaotic and full-on feral. There are pizza crusts on napkins and half-empty cups and people sprawled on oversized couches like it’s a frat movie set.

But all I can look at is Asher Hayes.

Still as a statue. Calm like a storm right before it breaks.

The truth or dare game should be winding down, but of course, it doesn’t. Someone dares Rebecca to do five push-ups — she whines, then does three and fakes the rest. Someone asks Jonathan if he’s ever cheated on a test. Half the group gets caught up in arguing whether cheating in gym class counts.

I tune most of it out. Until someone — some guy from soccer I barely know — squints at Asher like he’s just now really noticing him.

“Okay, serious question,” the guy says, leaning forward with a sloppy grin. “If everyone in this room attacked you at once, could you take us all down?”

Laughter breaks out, but Asher doesn’t even flinch.

He lifts a brow, tilts his head slightly, and says, voice low, “You don’t want the answer to that.”

Someone behind me snorts. “No, come on. We do.”

His gaze flicks to me for the briefest second — then back to the group. “I don’t hit women.”

“Okay, okay,” another guy says, raising his hands. “Let’s say just the guys, then. All of us. In the dark. No weapons. Would you still win?”

There’s a pause. Asher exhales through his nose and drops his head, shaking it just a little, annoyed.

“Yes,” he says, flat.

People groan and cheer and laugh, like they think he’s bluffing.

“What?! Nah, man. We’re all athletes. You’re telling me you could beat five of us?”

“More than five in this room,” someone adds, gesturing.

“Dude, you could not beat me and Joel at the same time,” a wide-shouldered football player says, puffing his chest a bit.

“Try us.”

Asher leans back, arms crossed. “I don’t hurt civilians.”

“What about just arm wrestling?” another voice chimes in. “No damage. Just a flex test.”

“I’m not—”

“Come onnnn, army guy.”

Someone says, “We need proof. Otherwise how do we know?”

I open my mouth to shut it all down but it’s too late.

Asher sighs, long and slow, then uncrosses his arms. “Fine. Once. Then it’s over.”

People go nuts. Phones are already out. Bets are being made. I want to crawl into the couch cushions and disappear.

They clear the coffee table. The strongest guy gets picked — Joel, I think — broad as a fridge and probably proud of it. Asher looks at him, then at the second guy they call over to double up.

He blinks slowly. “Just two?”

Joel grins. “We’re the biggest here.”

Asher just nods once and crouches.

Not kneels — *crouches*. Balanced perfectly on the balls of his feet like it’s nothing, like gravity is a joke to him.

He plants one elbow on the table, forearm rigid, hand open.

And for the first time, I *really* see it — the arm. Veins, scars, the way muscle wraps over bone like he was carved out of something older than time.

The two guys put both hands on his. One on top. One under.

“Go,” someone says.

And I swear I blink and it’s over.

The crash of their hands hitting the wood is so loud it makes the whole room jolt.

Gasps. “Holy shit!” “No way!” “Dude!”

Both guys groan and pull their hands back like they touched fire. They hold their arms and rub their shoulders and say they don't know how that happened.

I’m still catching up. Asher just stands and walks back to the couch like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just demolish two athletes like he was swatting flies.

He lowers himself behind me again, his legs spread comfortably on either side of where I’m sitting on the floor.

I glance back at him with a big grin because, well, that was impressive.

“On a scale of one to ten,” I whisper, “how hard was that?”

He doesn’t even look at me when he answers. Just lifts one shoulder and murmurs—

“Two.”

Heat spills down my spine like warm syrup.

I try to turn around fully, but I’m met with his hand lightly pressing between my shoulder blades, steadying me so I don’t twist too far.

“Careful,” he says, voice so quiet it doesn’t carry past me.

“I’m not made of glass.”

“No,” he says, after a pause. “You’re made of sugar.”

I freeze.

I don’t even know what that means. But I feel it like it was whispered directly into my chest.

More laughter, more yelling — the game goes on.

But I’m still stuck in that two-second silence. Still burning.

Still wondering what it would feel like if that hand on my back didn’t move away.

If instead… it pulled me closer.

God help me.