Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 202

Asher unlocks the door and pushes it open without a word.

The soft click of the deadbolt echoes louder than it should. He steps inside first, his movements slow and mechanical, like he's running on fumes. The door creaks just slightly as it swings shut behind me. I follow him into the quiet.

He doesn’t turn on the lights. Just lets the soft orange glow from the streetlamps outside pour in through the windows, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.

His boots hit the ground heavily as he toes them off by the door — one, then the other. He doesn’t line them up like he normally does. Doesn’t even glance down at them. Just leaves them there like his energy’s drained out of him completely.

He walks to the couch and sits. Hard.

His elbows rest on his knees for a second. Then he shifts, leans back, exhales through his nose. Closes his eyes.

I stay quiet. I take off my heels slowly, placing them side by side on the mat. The arches of my feet pulse with relief, but I barely feel it.

All I can do is look at him.

He looks... heavy. Like the world finally caught up to him and landed on his shoulders all at once.

I cross the living room quietly and lower myself onto the couch next to him. Not too close. Just enough that he knows I’m here.

His eyes stay closed.

I hesitate. “What happened?”

He’s still for a second. Then a long breath drags out of him, slow and deliberate.

“Do you remember Night?” he asks, voice low. Scratchy.

I blink. It takes me a second.

Then it clicks.

One of the four.

One of the ones who made it out.

“Yes,” I whisper.

Dread prickles across my skin, curling in my stomach like frostbite.

Asher nods once. Still not looking at me.

“He’s gone.”

I stop breathing.

“Last night.”

My hand rises slowly and finds his — resting limp on his thigh. He lets me take it. His fingers don’t tighten, but they don’t pull away either.

A tear slides down my cheek.

“I’m so sorry.”

He lets out a breathy sound — not quite a laugh, not quite anything human. It’s hollow. Sharp at the edges.

“By now I should be used to this,” he says. “Guys dying. It’s not like it doesn’t happen. It *always* happens.”

His jaw works, like he’s grinding down on something he doesn’t want to say.

“Some hit harder than others. This one…”

He trails off.

His head finally turns toward me. His eyes catch mine — dark and glassy. He looks exhausted, but not in the way that sleep could fix. More like his soul’s been scraped raw and he’s just trying not to fall apart.

“This one hits hard.”

I scoot closer, until our knees touch. I slide my other hand gently across his arm and rub it in slow, calming strokes.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “Were you two close?”

He shrugs — but it’s a tight, choked little motion.

“Yes and no,” he says. “I mean, I knew him. I knew he hated when his socks didn’t match. I knew he always ordered his burgers plain and dry — said toppings distracted from the taste of the meat.”

A tiny flicker of something close to a smile pulls at his lips. It doesn’t last.

“He wanted a daughter one day. Told me he already had a name picked out. Calla. Like the lily.”

I swallow hard.

“He said he liked the way it sounded,” Asher murmurs. “Soft. Feminine. Said it felt like the opposite of war.”

I squeeze his hand.

“We weren’t best friends,” he adds. “But yeah… I knew him. Enough.”

He leans back again, lets his head rest against the couch. His eyes close.

“They made us do therapy after the mission. Mandatory. Sit through debriefs, talk to shrinks, check the boxes. You know the drill.”

I nod even though he’s not looking at me.

“They said not to blame myself. Not to take it on. That I wasn’t responsible for every life lost out there.”

His voice is hollow. Almost robotic.

“But I *do* take it on. All of it. Even now. Especially now.”

Silence settles between us. Not awkward — just full.

“Night came back fine. Physically. Not a scratch. But his mind…”

His words break off.

And then he shifts, scrubs a hand over his face.

“I feel worse for Rooster,” he mutters. “He was already barely holding it together. And now he’s going to stand there at that funeral next week and look Night’s family in the eyes and think it’s his fault. He’s gonna carry this like it was his to bear. Like he should’ve done more. Called more. Checked in more.”

He glances at me, and his eyes are darker now — heavier.

“And honestly?” he says. “I feel that too.”

His throat moves as he swallows hard. His whole body is tense, like he’s waiting for something to snap inside him.

“I should’ve gone to see him,” he whispers. “I thought about it. A few times. But I didn’t. I just… assumed he’d be okay.”

He laughs again, bitter and broken.

“I mean, he looked okay.”

I lean in slowly and press my forehead to his temple.

“Some images don’t leave your head,” I say quietly. “Some memories… they settle into your bones and stay there. And for some people, it’s too much. It doesn’t mean it’s your fault. Or Rooster’s. It just means… Night couldn’t carry it anymore.”

He nods once. Barely.

“I know,” he says. “I *know* all that. But I feel it anyway.”

I don’t try to argue with that.

I just reach behind him and run my hand up and down his back, slow and steady, tracing soft circles into the fabric of his shirt.

And he lets me.

He doesn’t cry. Not exactly.

But I can see it in the way his shoulders drop, the way his fingers twitch around mine, the way his breaths come deeper, slower, like they’re trying to carry something heavy out of him.

I don’t say anything else.

Because some moments don’t need words.

Some moments just need to be *held*.