Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 126

The medal clinks softly against my chest as we walk, snow crunching under our boots, cheeks flushed from the cold and laughter.

The bakery is exactly what it should be — warm, golden, glowing. A tiny cabin of a building strung with lights, with fogged-up windows and a crooked chimney that smells like vanilla and cinnamon.

Asher holds the door for me. I step in and instantly feel my nose thaw.

It smells like sugar and spice and everything I’m not allowed to eat during ballet season.

Which is exactly why I head straight for the pastry case.

We pick our poison — mine is a flaky raspberry croissant and hot chocolate with real whipped cream. Asher gets a black coffee and something that looks vaguely like a chocolate turnover but three times the size. When I raise an eyebrow, he says, “They said it had protein.”

We settle by the window, on one of the benches that runs along the wall. The space is small, cozy. Too many scarves and coats around us. Our arms brush. Then again. Then his thigh. I shift my leg. He doesn’t move his.

I tear a piece of my croissant and pop it in my mouth. It melts like a dream. When I glance over, Asher’s watching me, that unreadable look of his back in full force.

“What?” I ask, brushing powdered sugar off my lips.

“You’ve got…” he lifts a hand, brushes a thumb along the corner of my mouth. “Crumb.”

My breath stutters.

He pulls his hand back like nothing happened and takes another sip of coffee. I hide behind my hot chocolate and pretend like the world hasn’t just tilted.

I’m about to say something — anything — when the bell over the door rings again.

Zoe walks in.

Followed by Jonathan. Rebecca. A few of the other guys.

And Tyler.

He’s got snow in his hair and a smirk on his face and Zoe practically clinging to his arm.

He leans down to whisper something in her ear. She swats him, giggling.

I blink.

No.

No, that’s— It’s just a joke. A dumb one. It doesn’t mean anything.

Still, I can’t help the twist in my stomach as I watch her giggle again and him smile down at her like—

Like he used to smile at me.

They don’t even see us. Or maybe they do and don’t care. They order drinks to-go. Tyler pays for Zoe’s. Rebecca looks bored out of her mind. The others laugh like it’s all just a regular Tuesday.

When they finally leave, I realize my pastry is crushed in my hand.

I let out a slow breath, try to unclench my jaw.

Asher’s eyes are on me. Of course they are.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

I force a smile. “Yup.”

He raises an eyebrow. I don’t budge.

Then he leans closer, says quietly, “I read once that sometimes the second-born gets all the recessive genes. Like the ones that turn you into a complete dumbass.”

It takes me a beat.

And then I laugh.

It’s not even a polite laugh. It’s the kind of laugh that escapes without permission. Ugly and real and grateful.

He smirks and nudges his shoulder into mine. I nudge back.

And just like that, the tension breaks.

Until it doesn’t.

Because that’s when the three guys across the shop turn to look at us.

The one closest to us leans forward, eyes raking over me with a look I know all too well.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, too loud.

I stiffen. “Um. Thanks.”

His friend frowns, notices the faint purple under my jaw, the bruise near my temple. “Wait… does your boyfriend hit you?”

My stomach drops. “What? No—”

The third guy joins in, standing halfway from his stool. “Hey man, that you?” He gestures to Asher. “You hit her?”

“No,” I say. “He didn’t—he would never—”

But they’re already talking over me, crowding closer, angry in that fake protective way that feels more about performance than justice.

Asher stays still. Too still.

I glance at him. His jaw ticks. Hands on his thighs, flexing once. Twice.

“Asher,” I whisper. “Let’s go.”

He nods, stands slowly.

We head for the door.

But they follow.

I turn in the snow. “Seriously, it was an accident. I fell. I have a concussion.”

“Yeah, yeah,” one of them says. “That’s what they all say. Pretty girl like you shouldn’t have to explain.”

The guy who called me beautiful reaches for my arm. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

His hand wraps around my wrist.

And that’s it.

Asher’s eyes go dark. I’ve seen him mad. But this is different.

“Let her go,” he says.

The guy just smirks. “Why? You gonna hit me too?”

Asher sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m trying to be civil.”

“Oh yeah?”

Behind us, I hear footsteps. Voices. The rest of the retreat crowd arriving, or maybe just drawn to the scene.

No one helps. They just watch.

“Tyler,” I call. “Guys. Tell them he didn’t hurt me.”

Rebecca shrugs. “Tyler, just shut up, I want to see how that plays out,” she says with a huge grin before he can say anything.

Of course.

The guy’s fingers tighten around my wrist. I try to pull away, but his grip is like a vise.

“Come on, sweetheart. We’ll get you a real man. Someone who doesn’t bruise you up.”

“Let her go,” Asher says again. Louder. Sharper.

But they’re not listening. They’re laughing, jeering. Feeding off each other.

“Don’t be jealous, man,” the one with the beanie says, stepping closer. “We’re just trying to help her out of a bad situation.”

“She’s not in one,” Asher says flatly.

“Right. So that bruise on her neck? Makeup? Or just your signature?”

“I fell,” I snap. “I hit my head during rehearsal. He’s the one who sat with me overnight in the hospital—”

“Oh yeah?” the first guy cuts me off. “I’ve seen that trick. Hurt her, then be the hero who ‘cares.’ Classic manipulation.”

“I’m fine,” I say. My voice is shaking now. “Please. Just go.”

The one holding my wrist tugs me again. “Nah, you’re scared. We can see that.”

I jerk back, but he doesn’t let go.

And that’s when Asher moves.

It’s subtle at first—just one step forward. But the air changes.

He’s not shouting. He’s not swinging.

He’s still.

Too still.

And that’s somehow worse.

He exhales slowly. “I don’t want to do this.”

The guy with the beanie sneers. “Do what, man? You gonna cry?”

“No.” Asher finally lifts his eyes. And when they lock on the guy holding me, there’s nothing soft in them. Just a cold, merciless stillness.

“Do you have health insurance?”

There’s a beat. A second of pure silence, like even the snow is holding its breath.

The guy scoffs. “What does that—”

“Don't make me repeat,” he says. “*Do* you have health insurance?”

All three guys laugh like this is the most ridiculous question someone's ever asked them. They ask him why he even cares.

Asher's eyes are dark, his stance relaxed but ready. “Because if you don’t, this is about to get expensive.”

Then one of them lunges.

It’s stupid. Amateur. Sloppy.

But it’s fast. And I'm scared for Asher.

He throws a right hook at Asher’s face—

—and he catches it.

*Catches* it.

Like he was expecting it. Like it’s just another Tuesday. His other hand is still in his pocket.

I see his fingers flex ever-so-slightly and... there’s a snap. A horrible, quick pop. Then another.

The guy howls and drops to his knees, cradling his hand.

“It's only two fingers,” Asher says, voice low and calm. “You’ll live.”

His friends freeze.

One starts toward me. “Get behind me, Penny,” Asher says without looking.

I move.

The second guy raises his fists but hesitates.

Smart.

Because Asher shifts his weight and the tension in his stance crackles like lightning under skin.

“You don’t want to find out what three broken ribs feel like,” he says simply. “Back off.”

The guy blinks. Steps back.

The third one—the one still holding his buddy’s shoulder—mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

Then they’re gone. Limping and grumbling and swearing as they disappear into the snow and the watching crowd.

Silence hangs in the air.

Then—

“Yooo!” Tyler shouts. “My brother is so cool!”

There’s laughter. A few people cheer.

Someone actually claps.

And I could scream.

I whip around. “What’s your problem, Tyler?”

He looks surprised. “What? I was just—”

Asher doesn’t stop to watch the rest. He turns and walks, long strides carrying him away from the circle, away from the café, away from all of it.

“Wait,” I call, already following.

Because he just took a blow for me that wasn’t physical—but I know it still got to him.

And I’m not letting him walk away alone.