Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 127

I run after him, boots crunching against the frost-bitten gravel.

“Asher,” I call. “Please slow down. Each of your steps is like five of mine.”

He doesn’t answer, but his pace eases just enough for me to catch up, the back of his coat brushing my arm. He keeps his eyes ahead, jaw sharp with tension.

Behind me, there’s a shuffle of faster steps.

“Penny, wait.”

I turn. Tyler catches up, breath fogging in the cold, looking genuinely confused.

“I don’t get it,” he says, “What did I do wrong?”

I stare at him. “Three random guys were holding me. They were threatening your brother. And you stood there. You did *nothing*.”

Tyler blinks, like he hadn’t even thought of it that way. “I knew Asher would handle it.”

I stare harder. “That’s the problem, Ty. He *shouldn’t* have to handle it. Not just because people think he’s indestructible.”

Tyler starts to speak, but I keep going.

“You could’ve just… said something. Told them you were my boyfriend. Told them I just fell. It would’ve stopped everything.”

He nods slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Okay. I see what you’re saying.”

He glances toward Asher, who’s still walking ahead.

“I’ll go apologize.”

I watch him jog forward, see their silhouettes exchange a few short words. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Asher nods once, barely.

Tyler comes back, shrugs, and says, “He said it’s fine. I’ll grab the others and meet you guys back at the lodge.”

I nod.

Then I run after Asher again.

He’s just crossing past a quiet, snow-dusted alley that leads toward the edge of the parking lot, where the sun’s already starting to dip a little. Not quite golden hour, but the world looks hushed and softened, like it’s holding its breath.

“Asher, wait.”

I reach for him, grabbing the edge of his sleeve and then his hand.

He stops.

But he doesn’t turn.

“I’m so sorry,” I say softly.

He still doesn’t speak.

“I tried to tell them. I really did. I shouldn’t have left the bruises out like that, I should’ve put on makeup or—”

“Penny,” he says, voice low, quiet.

But I keep rambling.

“I didn’t think it would be a problem. And now this—what if it put you in a bad headspace or triggered something or—”

He turns so fast I nearly stumble backward.

His hands come up—not rough, not hard—but firm. One palm presses the brick wall gently behind me, the other lands on the opposite side of my head, bracketing me in.

And then his forehead drops to mine.

The breath freezes in my lungs.

He breathes in, sharp and long, like he’s trying to calm a storm inside him.

Once. Twice. Three times.

And I don’t move. Not an inch.

“Stop blaming yourself,” he says, voice gravel and control. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But—”

“No.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet my eyes. His gaze is fierce. Focused.

“If anyone’s in a bad headspace, it’s because some entitled assholes thought they could get in my space and lay hands on you. Not because of you.”

My eyes sting. “They… they didn’t hurt you, right?”

He lets out a breath that’s almost a chuckle, but it’s bitter. “Come on, Penny. You probably punched me harder than he did.”

That makes me laugh—just a little. A breath of levity in the cold.

Then I ask, “Did you really break that guy’s fingers?”

He shrugs, barely guilty. “Two. Maybe three. He’ll be fine.”

“But you didn’t even flinch.”

“Doesn't take a whole lot of energy to break fingers.”

He reaches for me again—this time slower—and lifts the sleeve of my coat. His fingers trace lightly over the marks on my wrist.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “They didn’t even squeeze that hard.”

He studies the skin, quiet. Then lowers my sleeve again.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He looks up.

“This probably… triggered something,” I say. “The crowd. The shouting. Being attacked. I’m so sorry.”

He exhales slowly. “It didn't trigger anything, Penny. I'm not mad because there was a fight. If you can even call it that. Drunk idiots try this stuff on me all the time.”

“But you looked… so upset.”

He’s quiet for a beat.

Then he moves forward—slowly—puts one hand on my shoulder, the other at my waist, and pulls me against him.

Not a bone-crushing hug. Not dramatic. Just… warm. Protective. Steady.

And it completely breaks me.

I don’t move at first, frozen against his chest, my palms hovering like I’m afraid to make it real.

Then I melt.

I lean into him, cheek to his collarbone, nose to the curve of his neck, arms folding around his waist like I’m holding onto a tether in a hurricane.

He smells like smoke and winter wind and something sharp underneath that’s just… him.

“I don’t like people touching me,” he says quietly. “You know that.”

I nod against him.

“But you… you’re different.”

The words hit me like a weight to the lungs.

“I’m glad you were there,” I murmur.

“You shouldn’t have needed me to be.”

We stay like that. Still. The alley around us quiet. The market noise fading with distance. His thumb brushes softly against the edge of my back.

I close my eyes.

Safe.

Warm.

Held.

And for the first time in hours, the tremble in my spine eases.

He pulls back first, just enough to look at me.

“Let’s go,” he says, voice a little rough.

“Where?”

He tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear. “Anywhere but here.”

And this time, when we walk, he doesn’t stay ahead.

He walks beside me.

Close enough that our shoulders touch.

Like he doesn’t want the space anymore.