Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 167

I can’t breathe.

Not because I’m scared. Not because I’m hurt. But because I’m overwhelmed—with him, with the weight of everything he’s lived, everything he’s seen.

And everything I haven’t.

I stare at his chest. At the brutal, raw scar that slices from his collarbone down his torso, vanishing under the waistband of his joggers. The one that nearly killed him. The one he barely talks about.

My hand is resting on his chest, just beside it, not quite brave enough to touch it again.

I look up at him, and I whisper, “I’ve had such an easy life.”

He frowns slightly, confused by the shift in tone, but doesn’t speak.

“I mean it,” I say, quieter this time. “The worst thing I’ve gone through is Rebecca being mean to me. Or bleeding toes after rehearsals. And those are both things I chose. I chose ballet. I chose that life. I’ve never had to fight for my survival. Or lose friends in the field. Or get... scars like these.”

I reach out, trace a fingertip gently along the jagged path on his ribs.

“I feel silly,” I whisper. “Silly being next to you. You’ve lived a hundred lives. And I’ve lived this one. Soft and sheltered.”

His eyes stay on mine for a long, heavy moment.

Then he shakes his head slowly, like he doesn’t understand how I could ever think that.

He shifts, pulls me against him tighter, wrapping both arms around me.

His voice is low, steady, firm. “People like me do what we do so people like you never have to.”

A tear escapes me before I even realize it’s coming. I bury my face in his chest, breathing him in.

His warmth. His quiet strength.

I tilt my head and glance down again at the scar. At him.

I wipe my eyes and whisper, “What happened to you? That one. The long one.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He looks down at it, his expression unreadable, like he's watching the memory play out in the curve of that scar. Like he can still feel it.

He pulls me even closer, pressing my cheek against his chest. And then, finally, he speaks.

“When we got surrounded, I knew something was off. The guys closing in on us—they didn’t have real gear. No kevlar. No helmets. Just basic weapons and desperation.”

He exhales, jaw tightening.

“They were never meant to make it out,” he says. “They knew it. We just... hadn’t figured it out yet.”

I hold still. Not breathing. Listening.

“I told two of my guys—Pulp and Draco—to get the package out immediately. I didn’t wait for orders. I just knew.”

I lift my head slightly, confused. “Pulp?”

He almost smiles, a small huff of breath escaping him. “Remember Rooster’s story? How he got his name?”

I nod. He was being chased down a road half-naked by a rooster. It was so ridiculous, so unexpected, it stuck.

Asher nods. “Not all our names are badass. Pulp once threw a tantrum because there was pulp in his orange juice. Even though we hadn’t had anything fresh in months.”

I blink. “You’re kidding.”

“It made everyone laugh so hard,” he says, voice softer now. “Even our CO. So the name stuck. Juice Pulp. Pulp.”

I smile a little at that, but my throat still burns.

“And Draco?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Whiny blond kid. Liked Harry Potter. We thought it was fitting.”

That almost makes me laugh. Almost.

But then I catch the shift in his voice. Not *is*. *Was*.

My chest tightens.

I don't ask. Not yet. I don’t have to.

He leans forward, presses his forehead to mine, and closes his eyes.

And I know.

I know without words that Draco didn’t make it. That Pulp might didn't either.

And that this man, this strong, scarred, impossibly beautiful man holding me, carries more grief than I can comprehend.

So I don’t speak.

I just stay right there. Wrapped up in him. In his silence. In his pain. In the truth of it.

And in the fact that he’s still here.

Still alive.

He says, “Anyway,” like he’s brushing the edge of something sharp. But I can hear it in his voice—whatever comes next, it’s branded into him. His eyes aren’t really here anymore. They’re back there, in the valley.

“They managed to get the person out,” he says. “Ran him toward Night and Smoke. The whole thing was such a mess no one noticed at first, so they got him out clean.”

I exhale slowly. “That’s good, right?”

His jaw tenses.

“That’s when the real chaos started,” he says.

My stomach twists.

“There were more of them. At least three, maybe four times as many. We were doing okay—managing, holding ground. But then they dropped smoke. Thick, heavy, everywhere. And they pushed us against the valley wall. We lost two guys in the confusion.” He pauses. “There was nothing we could do.”

I reach for his hand without thinking. I just need to touch him. To anchor him.

He doesn’t look at me. His eyes are still somewhere else. Somewhere too far from here.

“I told everyone to stay still. I don’t know why. Instinct, maybe. But I felt something shift. The air. The ground. I knew something was off.” His voice lowers, like he’s ashamed to speak this part. “And they listened. For a second, I thought maybe we’d make it out.”

I can feel my pulse in my throat.

“But then Pulp and Draco came back.” His voice cracks just a little. Just enough for me to notice. “They weren’t supposed to. I screamed at them to stop. They didn’t.”

He goes silent for a beat.

“They got shot mid-sprint. Dropped instantly.” His hand grips mine tighter. “And that’s when it happened.”

I don’t ask what it is. I don’t need to.

His breath leaves him like it’s laced with lead. “The explosion leveled the ridge. Took out most of the enemy squad. But it took Pulp. Draco. And two more.”

Six gone. Just like that.

I can barely breathe.

“There were five of us left,” he says finally. His voice is steady again, but I know better now. I know what it’s costing him to hold it together.

I want to cry, but I don’t. I can’t. Not when he’s here beside me, alive. Not when he’s carrying this much. I lean into him instead, pressing my face to his shoulder, wrapping my arms around his waist.

He lets me. Quiet now. Heavy.

And then I whisper, “I’m so sorry, Asher.”