Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 200

The door shuts behind us with a soft click, and I don’t move.

Night’s letter is folded in half in my back pocket — sharp and stiff like it wants to dig into my spine. Rooster handed it to me and just said, “I don’t want to hold that anymore.”

So I do. I hold it.

Rooster walks a few paces down the hall before slamming his hand against the wall. The sound cracks through the silence like a shot. He doesn’t say anything at first, just breathes hard, knuckles tight against the plaster.

I lean against the opposite wall and tilt my head back. Let it thud. Close my eyes.

So many emotions simmer beneath the surface, all clawing for space — guilt, grief, shame, helplessness. I’ve seen men die before. In the field, on the floor, in goddamn desert heat with their eyes open and lungs empty.

I’ve seen more die *after* the fighting was over — drinking themselves to death, taking a pistol into the shower, swerving into trees. Men who walked off the battlefield only to collapse somewhere no one could see.

But this? This hits differently.

Because it was Night.

And Night didn’t even bleed that day.

He made it out. Like me. Like Rooster. Like Smoke.

We cheated death together. Ran from fire. Dragged each other through hell. Thirteen of us went in. Four of us crawled back.

That day didn’t just take nine of ours.

It took *dozens* — on both sides.

Explosions don’t check for uniforms.

And we carried that weight. Every day. Every hour.

But the only thing that made it survivable… was knowing that *some* of us made it. That we could carry the memory forward, speak names into silence, refuse to let it all be for nothing.

Now one more is gone.

And he *chose* to leave.

I press a hand to my face.

I could’ve called more. I could’ve checked in. I could’ve made the drive to his place and knocked on the door, forced him to talk to me. I could’ve done *something*.

But I didn’t.

Across from me, Rooster lets out a choked sound — not quite a word, not quite a scream — and kicks the baseboard hard enough to crack it. Then he crumples to a crouch, hands over his face.

He’s shaking.

I step over, drop beside him, and pull him into a rough hug. We hold it. Neither of us says anything.

His voice breaks when he finally mutters, “I can’t do this again.”

“I know.”

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

He wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand, then stands abruptly. “Ramsey said the funeral’s next week.”

I nod. “You going?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

We linger in that silence again — heavier now. Like fog that knows it’s staying for a while.

Then I step forward and hug him one last time. A short one, this time — just a slap on the back and a nod.

“Keep in touch.”

“You too, Tank.”

He disappears around the corner, and I finally breathe again.

But not for long.

Because then I hear it — a voice I do recognize.

“Mac,” Boomer says slowly, voice low and trembling. “I’m telling you — you don’t want to do this.”

My spine straightens.

No.

No, no, no.

I move. Fast. Footsteps tight and silent on the floor. I turn the hallway corner — and my heart nearly detonates.

Boomer is on his feet, one arm angled behind him, his hand locked with Penny’s. He’s standing like a wall in front of her, shielding her from two men I never could stand.

Mac and Josh.

Two assholes who mistake rank for power and silence for permission.

Mac is grinning. Josh is lounging against the vending machine like he’s entitled to everything in this room.

My jaw clenches at the sight of Boomer holding her hand. At the way she’s gripping the back of his shirt, trying not to shake. But the heat in my veins isn’t for them.

It’s for *Mac*, stepping too close to something that isn’t his.

I don’t give them the chance to say another word.

“She’s with me.”

Three words. No louder than a whisper.

But Mac flinches like I shouted it in his ear.

He turns. His smirk falters.

Boomer exhales like I just pulled the pin out of something explosive and threw it far away.

Josh takes one look at my face and decides to pretend the vending machine needs his full attention.

“You want to try that again?” I ask, voice flat.

“Nah,” Mac mutters. “We’re good.”

They leave like ghosts, slipping down the hall without another glance back.

Good.

Because if they hadn’t?

I would’ve made damn sure they regretted it.

I exhale and finally let myself look at her.

*Penny*.

Pressed against Boomer's back, eyes wide, her hair a golden mess across her shoulder, her lips parted like she was just about to cry out. She looks up at me like she doesn’t know whether to cry or run or run to me.

And suddenly, nothing else matters.

Not this awful place.

Not the mission.

Not the blood or guilt or ghosts still whispering in my ears.

Just her.

She’s the only thing in this whole goddamn building that feels right.

I step forward, tension bleeding out of me with every step. My anger peels back just a layer — not all the way. But enough.

I glance at Boomer, still standing awkwardly with her hand in his.

“I think you can let go of her now, Boomer.”

He startles like I smacked him. “Oh! Uh—yeah—sorry, sir.”

He drops her hand like it burned him, backing away, stammering. “I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—”

But before he can finish, Penny hugs him.

Full arms around the shoulders. Tight and grateful.

“Thank you,” she says softly.

Boomer’s face turns bright red. He freezes like he doesn’t know what to do, then half-hugs her back. I could swear he leans in slightly — just enough to catch her scent, like it’s something rare.

I grind my teeth.

Boomer pulls away. “I should… go.”

“You should,” I say.

He nods, salutes awkwardly, and bolts like he’s running from fire.

I turn to her.

She doesn’t speak. Just stares up at me, wide-eyed and waiting.

I reach out, tug her into my arms.

Her cheek presses against my chest. Her arms slide around my waist like they were meant to be there.

And for the first time in hours, my pulse steadies.

“I’ll tell you everything,” I whisper against her hair. “But first—”

I kiss the top of her head, eyes closed.

“Let’s get out of here.”