Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 165

The storm still growls outside, all wind and whisper, but it’s quieter now—tired, maybe. Like it’s winding down. I sit cross-legged on the bed, knees hugged to my chest, wearing one of Asher’s t-shirts that practically swallows me whole. It smells like him—something piney, clean, dark—and even though I’m warm now, I keep catching myself pressing my nose to the collar.

The fire’s come back to life, licking at the air with soft orange light, and the whole cabin has this golden glow. Like safety. Like quiet.

Then I hear the door to the washroom open, and he walks out.

My breath catches in my throat.

Asher in nothing but grey joggers should be illegal. They hang low on his hips, revealing more muscle than should be possible. His chest, carved and dusted with water droplets. The scars, carved and slashing across his skin like stories written in flesh. And he’s not even trying. Just casually running a towel through his hair like he hasn’t wrecked me in every way imaginable. Like he doesn’t know he’s made of marble and war.

I can’t stop staring. My gaze traces the jagged line that cuts down from his neck to just above his hipbone. I’d seen the top of it before, peeking above his collar—but never all of it. And now, now I know it runs the entire length of him. Like a line drawn between death and survival.

His back… god. It’s even worse. Deep slashes across his shoulder blades, down his ribs. I try not to think about what could have done that. Shrapnel. Fire. Steel. He told me once he wasn’t supposed to survive. I believe him.

But even like this—raw and marked—he’s the most breathtaking thing I’ve ever seen. All sharp lines and power and quiet restraint.

He drops the towel on the bed, sits across from me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His hair’s messy now, damp and curling slightly at the ends. His stubble’s grown back in, shadowing his jaw, making him look even rougher. Older. Real.

“I can feel you staring,” he says, voice low, like gravel warmed by fire.

I blink, caught. “Sorry.” My voice is small. Embarrassed.

He smirks. “Don’t be.”

God, he’s unfair.

I drop my chin to my knees to hide my blush, but I still ask, “How’s your arm?”

He glances at it like he forgot it even existed. The claw marks are red and angry against the pale bandage. A few spots bled through. But he just shrugs like it’s a scratch. “It’s fine.”

“You were literally mauled by a wolf.”

He lifts a brow, like that’s a cute exaggeration. “Wolf was just doing her job. Protecting her baby. I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to care,” I murmur.

He just watches me for a moment. Something softer settling into his features. Then, without a word, he reaches over and pulls me into his lap.

I go, of course I go, because being close to him feels like peace now. I settle sideways across his thighs, one of his arms wrapping instinctively around my waist, the other hand warm on my bare knee. His skin is hot. Always. Like he holds fire under his flesh.

We sit like that for a long moment, listening to the wind die out beyond the walls.

“I still can’t believe you forgot about your own injury,” I say quietly.

He chuckles low in his throat, leans back a bit, eyes narrowing on me. “I was a little distracted.”

My heart stutters. I know exactly what he means.

So I smile at him, soft. “Yeah. Me too.”

He watches me like he can read every thought I’ve ever had. Like he already knows I’m trying to memorize every scar, every line, every angle of him. Like he knows I’ll never stop wanting to.

I touch his chest. Lightly. Trace a fingertip over the top of the long scar that runs down his torso. “I hate that you had to go through this.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just holds me tighter.

I rest my head on his shoulder and whisper, “But I’m really glad you’re still here.”

His breath catches. Only for a second. Then he buries his face in my hair, and holds me like he might never let go.

And god, I don’t want him to.

Not ever.

I run my fingers down the scar again. The long one. The one that traces from his neck down past his ribs.

I’ve barely let myself think about it before now.

But now, with his heart thudding under my cheek, with the way his hand is absently stroking the back of my thigh like it calms him to touch me, I think I can ask.

Should I ask?

Rooster’s fiancée—Anna—she’d said something once. Offhand, like she wasn’t even sure I’d heard.

That nine of them didn’t make it.

Nine.

The number echoes in my skull.

I hesitate, then pull back just enough to look up at him. His face is in shadow, lit faintly by the glow of the fire.

“Asher?”

His eyes open slowly. Watchful. Calm. “Yeah?”

“I… can I ask you something?”

A small flicker in his gaze. “You can ask me anything, Penny.”

I trace the scar on his chest again with two fingers. “The long one,” I whisper. “That was… from the last mission?”

He doesn’t answer right away. But he doesn’t shut down either.

“Yes.”