Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 199

I watched them walk away before I turned to face the door.

Penny’s golden hair was the last thing I saw before she disappeared with Boomer, her hand brushing the wall like she needed something to hold onto. Boomer glanced back once — like he was checking if it was okay — and I saw it.

The way his jaw went slack.

The way he blinked twice, too fast.

I saw her through his eyes, just for a second.

Soft. Bright. *Unbelievably* out of place.

And I hated that it made me want to rip him in half — because Boomer’s a good kid. Loyal. Sweet. The kind of soldier who apologizes when he has to give orders. I trust him. I do. But trusting him doesn’t mean I liked seeing his eyes go wide when he looked at her.

Then again… I can’t blame him.

She’s beautiful.

More than that — she’s *herself* in a place that grinds people down into code and silence. And that alone makes her look like she belongs in a different world.

I press my palm flat to the door. Take one last breath.

And step inside.

Ramsey’s already standing. His posture is stiff, fingers curled into fists he probably doesn’t even realize he’s making. There’s another man beside him — not military. Civilian security, maybe CIA, maybe something deeper. His jacket’s too clean and his eyes are too old.

Rooster’s close behind me. We don’t speak.

Ramsey gestures to the seats across from his desk.

We sit.

The office smells like leather and ink. Like things that should feel solid. But everything feels loose. Off-balance.

Ramsey looks at us like we’re strangers. Then like we’re glass.

“I don’t like this,” Rooster mutters.

Ramsey takes a breath.

“There’s no easy way to say this,” he starts. His voice is low, almost uncertain — and Ramsey doesn’t do *uncertainty*. I've never seen him like this.

My gut tightens.

“I’m sorry to bring you in last-minute. And I know you’re both off duty. I know how much your last mission meant — to you, to your team, to us as a unit.”

He swallows. Clears his throat again.

“Only four of you made it out alive.”

*Made it out.* What a way to phrase it. Like we weren’t covered in blood and half-carrying each other across the last ridge line. Like “made it out” meant something clean.

Rooster shifts in his seat.

Ramsey closes his eyes, just for a second. When he opens them, they’re dim. Worn.

“I got a call last night,” he says. “Night’s gone.”

Rooster jerks like he’s been slapped. “What? What do you mean *gone*? Like he left? He was—”

“Passed,” the other man cuts in quietly.

Rooster’s voice rises. “*What do you mean passed?* How?”

But I already know.

My shoulders drop. My head lowers.

I knew the second I saw Ramsey’s face.

I heard it in his pause. I felt it in the silence.

Night was the one who didn’t come back bleeding.

The only one who didn’t have a scar to show for it — which meant he carried his somewhere deeper.

“He was being monitored,” the man says. “Psychiatric evaluation. Weekly sessions. Meds. Crisis lines. He was compliant. Quiet. Said he was coping.”

I stare at the floor.

“But?” Rooster demands.

“But last night, his mother found him.”

He doesn’t explain how. He doesn’t need to.

Rooster lets out a sound — half-growl, half-grief — and sits back, rubbing his ruined arm.

“He didn’t even tell anyone,” he mutters.

The man nods. “Sometimes they don’t. It’s not always about signs. Sometimes it’s about silence.”

I know that silence.

I lived in it for weeks after we came back. Watching Smoke struggle to breathe, Rooster unable to dress himself for days. I kept thinking about what we could’ve done differently. About where I went wrong. What I missed.

But Night?

He didn’t bleed. He didn’t break bones. He just stood there afterward — still, shaking, untouched.

I wonder if that’s what killed him.

Ramsey slides a letter across the desk. An envelope, creased and finger-worn.

“It was addressed to both of you.”

Rooster stares at it. Then picks it up and opens it with careful hands.

He reads aloud, his voice quiet, like it might crack.

*Tank. Rooster.*

*I’m sorry.*

*Not for what I’m doing now. This… this is the only thing that’s felt clear in months. But I am sorry for everything I didn’t do.*

*I should’ve run when Smoke called. Maybe I could’ve pulled him back. Maybe I could’ve helped you, Rooster. Maybe you wouldn’t have lost the use of your arm.*

*Maybe I would’ve died. And maybe that would’ve been fair.*

*I can’t sleep. I can’t stop hearing them. The ones we didn’t save. The ones I couldn’t help.*

*Asher bled. I walked.*

*And I can’t carry that anymore.*

*I’m sorry I failed you.*

*— Night*

Rooster doesn’t speak.

Neither do I.

It’s like someone took the last solid piece of the world and cracked it down the center.

I sit back in my chair, closing my eyes. The weight is unbearable and familiar all at once. A grief that’s sharp, but old. A wound that never healed, reopened like it never closed.

Thirteen of us went in.

Four came back.

Now it’s three.

Me. Rooster. Smoke.

And if I’m being honest, part of me doesn’t know how long we’ll even stay at three.