Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 125

The snow squeaks beneath our boots as we stomp across the packed trail toward the little roped-off area where the snowman contest is taking place. The sun’s sharp above, the kind that gleams off every white surface and makes you squint, but the air still tastes like ice and pine.

I glance sideways at Asher. He doesn’t look cold. Obviously. He’s in a black thermal and a charcoal beanie pulled low over his dark hair, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the thick veins in his forearms. I, on the other hand, am layered like a marshmallow — coat, scarf, gloves, the works — and still slightly freezing.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come here,” I say, watching him kneel down and start rolling a snowball like he’s done this professionally. “I figured you’d pull out a wide range of excuses and stay at the lodge.”

Asher smirks, the smallest twitch of his mouth. “You were excited. I’m not a monster.”

“Yeah, you're not.”

His hands work with absurd efficiency. The snowball he’s rolling is already half the size of a tire, and still perfectly round. I blink at it. Then at him.

A voice from behind us calls, “Hey! Is it even fair for a guy like *that* to be competing in this?”

I turn to see some girl pointing directly at Asher while whisper-laughing with her friend.

I laugh under my breath. “You’ve been clocked, Hayes.”

He just glances over his shoulder, shrugs, and keeps going. “I’ve been clocked before. That one was friendlier than most.”

I try not to smile. But fail.

For the next twenty minutes, we work in rhythm. Or, more accurately, he builds at lightning speed while I hover and give creative direction. I’m carving the base for a snowy little crown while he stacks massive snowballs like he’s loading artillery. His face is serious, focused, as he slides on a chunk of snow to stabilize the torso.

“Can you slow down for two seconds?” I tease. “This isn’t a military operation.”

He raises a brow, hands on his hips. “You’re more intense than half the squad leaders I’ve met.”

I cackle. “Did you just call me a sergeant?”

“You're almost there.”

“Wow. Rude.”

“I said almost, you have to shout a bit more to make it official.”

I throw a snowball at him. He catches it midair without looking.

Unfair.

Eventually, we settle into a quieter pace. The wind brushes my cheek and the distant sounds of other people working and laughing drift on the air. For a few minutes, neither of us speaks.

Then—

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Asher asks.

I look over. “What?”

“That Tyler just kind of… dips.”

I pause. Not because I didn’t expect it — I’ve been expecting something like this from him for days — but because the answer isn’t easy.

“Yes and no,” I say slowly. “I mean… yeah, it sucks sometimes. Just knowing he doesn’t even *think* about asking me, like it doesn’t even occur to him. But… this was supposed to be a trip with his friends. I tagged along. I can’t expect him to *not* hang out with them.”

Asher nods, like he’s listening but doesn’t agree.

“He begged you to come,” he says.

I sigh. “Yeah. And like I said… I think I just slip his mind sometimes.”

Silence again. I focus on shaping little wings for the snowman’s back, trying to shake off the sadness curling inside me.

But then I say it. The thing that’s really been sitting in my gut.

“I’m more sad for you, honestly.”

Asher freezes, mid-pat of the snowman’s head. “What?”

I look at him. “Every time Tyler disappears or ditches me, you’re the one who ends up having to deal with me. It’s like you feel bad, so you… pick up the slack. And I hate that. I’m mad at him, because it makes *you* feel responsible.”

He turns slowly to face me, something dark and unreadable in his eyes, something almost scary. He crouches low, right in front of me, until we’re eye to eye.

“Listen carefully,” he says, voice low, almost rough. “I’m only saying this once.”

I hold my breath.

“No amount of time I spend with you is because Tyler wasn’t there. Not one second. I’m here because I want to be here. With you.”

I blink at him.

“And maybe I don’t know a lot about what I want yet,” he adds, “but I know *that*.”

My cheeks burn instantly. My heart is somewhere near my throat. He’s still looking at me like I’m something important, like I’m a target he’s chosen for a different kind of mission.

He stands and goes back to work like he didn’t just blow a hole through my emotional stability.

I manage to recover by focusing on the crown I’ve made — or tried to make. I’m about to lift it when I realize just how tall this snowman is.

“Um… Asher?” I call.

“Hmm?”

I point. “How am I supposed to put the crown on that? It’s taller than you.”

He actually steps back, eyes the snowman, then me, then the crown. Smiles a little. “You’re not wrong.”

“I can’t levitate, you know.”

“Lucky for you…” he mutters, stepping behind me. Without warning, his hands settle on my waist and I squeak.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing, holding me steady as I press the snow crown onto the top of our monster snowman’s head. I’m laughing the whole time.

“Okay, okay, I got it!”

He lowers me, but not before my mittened hands land on his shoulders, and for a second too long, we stay like that. Close. His breath curling warm through the cold air. My heart doing absolutely unhinged things in my chest.

I clear my throat and step back.

We finish the snowman with claw-like branches, a tiny owl perched on its shoulder made from a snow lump I shaped earlier, and a goofy face that somehow still looks a little threatening. Asher adds stick legs — too long, awkward — and I burst out laughing.

“It’s perfect!” I grin.

He stands beside me, watching our strange creation like it might salute him at any second. His smile — barely there — makes me feel warmer than my coat does.

We wait around for a few more minutes while the volunteer-judge walks around to inspect the entries. Some people made adorable ones, some scary, and one group just made a giant snow-taco, which is confusing but impressive.

Then, she points to ours.

“Winner! Most creative use of limbs and accessories. That owl is a nice touch.”

I squeal and throw my arms in the air. “YESSS.”

Asher holds up a hand. I high-five him like we’ve just won a world championship.

The volunteer hands us a small gold plastic medal with a snowman on it. I hold it like it’s made of real gold. He leans down just slightly, voice quiet.

“Ready?”

“Ready for what?” I ask, confused.

He glances sideways. “Didn’t I promise that winners get pastries and hot chocolate?”

I stare at him for a second, grinning like a maniac.

“You did. You *so* did.”

“Then let’s go, princess.”

And when he gently places his hand at the small of my back and nudges me toward the nearest booth with steam rising from the roof and the smell of sugar floating in the air, I think — for the first time in a while — that I don’t feel like a tagalong at all.

I feel exactly where I’m supposed to be.