Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 21

The first thing I notice when I wake up is how much it hurts to breathe.

It’s not the quick, stabbing kind of pain — not the kind that screams injury — it’s heavier than that, slower and meaner, as if the weight of yesterday, of everything, has settled into my body while I slept, anchoring me to the mattress like a stone at the bottom of the ocean. My arms won’t lift right. My legs feel like they belong to someone else — someone heavier, someone half-drowned in exhaustion.

I blink against the soft morning light leaking through the cracks in my curtains, the room still caught between shadows and day. Every part of me protests the movement, a dull, all-consuming ache blooming from my shoulders down through my spine, curling around my knees, stiffening the tendons in my feet until even the idea of standing feels impossible.

For a minute, I just lie there, breathing carefully, like any wrong movement might tear something loose inside me.

Usually after a day like yesterday — after a brutal practice or a punishing rehearsal — I know how to take care of myself. A warm bath to ease the strain. Ice packs wrapped around aching joints. Long, deliberate stretches to keep my muscles from knotting into misery.

But last night... last night was different.

I didn’t soak. I didn’t ice. I didn’t stretch or breathe or even really think. I just came home — or maybe it’s more honest to say Asher dragged me home — and collapsed into bed, fully clothed, too raw to move, too shaken to remember any of the routines that are supposed to protect me from mornings like this.

I shift slightly, trying to turn onto my side, and a sharp jolt runs down my hip into my knee. I hiss under my breath and let myself fall still again, staring up at the familiar cracks in the ceiling I’ve known since I was five.

Last night wasn’t just hard on my body.

It’s my mind that feels heavier, somehow — my heart that’s bruised just as badly.

I remember the sidewalk.

The laughter — mean, ugly.

The sudden, jarring fear when I realized I couldn’t outrun them, couldn’t outtalk them, couldn’t charm or dodge my way free.

And then — Asher.

The way he appeared out of nowhere like something summoned from all the broken, scared pieces of me.

The way he stood between me and the dark, the way his voice tore through the night like a weapon, the way his hands — hard, steady, furious — didn’t touch me but felt like they were holding me up anyway.

I close my eyes against the sting that rises uninvited behind them.

I’m safe now. It’s over. It’s done.

But my body still remembers the terror.

And so does my heart.

The clock on my nightstand blinks 7:14 AM in too-bright red letters.

First class starts at 8:30.

I could make it, technically.

If I dragged myself up. If I forced my muscles into compliance. If I pretended not to notice how my fingers tremble slightly when I flex them against the blanket.

But today... I don’t want to force it.

I reach blindly for my phone, the cool glass slick against my palm, and scroll through my contacts until Tyler’s name blinks up at me, and without letting myself think too hard, I hit call.

It rings twice before he answers, his voice rough with sleep but warm the way it always is when he first wakes up.

“Hey, Penny. You heading out?”

I drag a hand over my face, trying to smooth out the tightness in my chest. “Not yet,” I say, keeping my tone easy, like I’m just a little tired and not barely holding myself together. “I’m feeling pretty wrecked. Think I’m gonna skip first period. Stretch a little, try to loosen up.”

There’s a pause — just a small one — and then Tyler says, “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just sore. Yesterday was a lot.”

“You want me to come over?” he offers, immediate, no hesitation. “I’ll skip first class. Seriously. I can swing by and hang out until you’re ready.”

For a second, I almost say yes.

The word is right there, caught on the tip of my tongue, because the idea of not being alone sounds really, really good right now.

But something holds me back — something quiet and stubborn that I don’t know how to name.

“No, it’s okay,” I say, lighter this time, forcing a small laugh. “You should go. I’ll meet you after.”

“You sure?” Tyler asks, still sweet, still trying.

“Yeah. Promise,” I say, meaning it even though a small part of me wishes I didn’t.

He hesitates for just a second longer, then lets out a breath. “Okay. I’ll grab you a coffee. Extra whipped cream.”

That makes me smile, small and real. “Perfect. Thanks, Ty.”

“Text me when you’re leaving?”

“Will do.”

“See you soon, baby.”

The nickname floats between us, and I let it sit there, warm and a little distant, before I whisper, “See you.”

We hang up, and the silence that falls after feels too loud.

I let the phone slide from my hand onto the mattress and lie there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of everything I didn’t say settle onto my chest like another kind of bruise.

I could have said yes.

I could have let him come over, let him pull me into his easy warmth and simple sweetness and pretend, just for a few hours, that nothing inside me had changed.

But something in me — something stubborn and small and burning — didn’t let me.

I roll onto my side, my muscles complaining with every inch of movement, and pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, letting the world stay far away for just a little longer.