Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 23

By the time I get to school, I’m regretting every life choice that led me here.

My bag feels heavier than it should — probably full of emotional baggage and half-eaten granola bars — and my sneakers squeak with every step like they’re personally offended I’m making them work this hard. The air still has that morning sharpness, too, biting at my cheeks and making my fingers stiff.

I adjust the strap of my bag and weave through the courtyard, trying not to look like someone who's internally screaming. Groups of students cluster around the steps, jackets half-zipped, coffee cups in hand, moving in slow, lazy ripples like schools of half-conscious fish.

And there — right there near the steps — is Tyler.

For a second, I just watch him.

He’s standing with a loose circle of guys from his soccer team — the usual suspects, messy hair and team jackets and half-laced cleats like they’re allergic to doing anything properly. He’s laughing about something, head tipped back, easy and unguarded in that way that always made me like him before I even realized I loved him.

It should make me feel better.

And it does, mostly.

At least until I notice who else is standing nearby.

Rebecca and Zoe.

Leaning against the railing like they own the place, coffee cups in hand, side-eyeing me like they’re auditioning for a reboot of Mean Girls nobody asked for.

Awesome.

For a second, my feet stutter.

Some traitorous part of me wants to turn around, pretend I didn’t see anything, go crawl back into bed and binge baking shows until my brain melts.

But no.

Today is supposed to be good.

Today is mine.

I square my shoulders and head straight for Tyler.

When he sees me, his whole face lights up.

There’s no hesitation — no guilty look, no awkward shuffling — just pure, easy happiness at seeing me.

My chest loosens in a way I didn’t realize it was tight.

He steps away from the group without a second thought, arms open, and wraps me into a hug that’s warm and solid and just a little too tight, like he’s trying to glue all my broken pieces back together without knowing where the cracks are.

And then, without even giving me time to think, he presses a kiss to my forehead — soft, real, grounding.

“Congrats, Penny,” he says, smiling down at me like I’m the only thing in this stupid noisy courtyard that matters. “You did it. Now it's over.”

I grin up at him, the tension draining out of my muscles like a slow exhale.

“Thanks,” I say, my voice a little more breathless than I mean for it to be.

It would be perfect — except, of course, life never lets me have anything perfect for more than thirty seconds.

Because when I glance past his shoulder, Rebecca is watching us with a look that could kill crops.

And Zoe’s whispering something behind her hand, both of them laughing that tight, sharp laugh that feels aimed right at the hollow of my spine.

I want to roll my eyes so hard they fall out of my head.

Instead, I just lean a little closer to Tyler, resting my chin briefly against his chest like I couldn’t care less about them — which is about eighty percent true, honestly.

Tyler either doesn’t notice the girls or doesn’t care, because he squeezes my shoulders and tugs me toward the building.

“C’mon,” he says. “We’re gonna be late.”

He tosses a casual goodbye over his shoulder to the guys, doesn’t even glance at the girls, and walks me toward the doors with his arm still draped around me like it belongs there.

And honestly?

For a second — a real second — it feels like nothing is wrong in the world.

Tyler keeps his arm snug around my shoulders, navigating us through the hallway like it’s no big deal, like carrying me through his space is second nature.

Maybe it is.

We dodge a kid sprinting full-speed toward the cafeteria — probably trying to beat the end of breakfast — and Tyler leans down a little, voice low next to my ear.

“So,” he says, “how was it? Yesterday?”

I glance up at him, and the warmth in his smile makes my chest ache in a way I can’t quite name.

“It was...” I search for the right words, brushing past a group of freshmen clustered like confused ducklings by the trophy case. “Weird at first. I thought Madame Loretto forgot to add my name to the roaster. I panicked for a good thirty minutes.”

Tyler chuckles under his breath. “Classic Penny drama.”

I elbow him lightly in the ribs, pretending to glare. “Rude.”

He laughs again, and the sound makes my stomach flip in a way that feels so stupidly teenage I almost want to roll my own eyes.

“But,” I continue, pushing open the door to the science wing, “then I got called up. And... it just clicked. I didn’t miss a beat. I hit everything. Even the stupid quadruple pirouette I always mess up during practice.”

Tyler’s grin widens. “That’s amazing, babe.”

I flush a little, ducking my head. “Yeah. It felt amazing. Like... like maybe I actually belong there.”

He tightens his arm briefly around me, like he’s proud, like he always believed I could do it even when I wasn’t so sure myself.

I want to stay in this moment — in this bubble where everything is simple and good.

But the words rise up anyway — the edge of what happened after, the sharp, bitter twist of the night that undid all the pride I fought so hard to build.

I open my mouth —

and then snap it closed.

No.

Not now.

Not today.

Tyler doesn’t notice the hesitation. Or maybe he does and chooses not to push. Either way, he just bumps his hip against mine playfully as we reach our classroom.

“We should celebrate,” he says. “Get pizza or something after school.”

The offer catches me off guard, but in a good way.

“Yeah,” I say, smiling up at him. “I’d like that.”

We slip into our usual seats in the back just as the bell rings.

Tyler stretches out lazily, arms crossed behind his head, looking about as concerned about schoolwork as a housecat would be about paying taxes.

I pull out my notebook, tapping my pen against the margin.

Beside me, Tyler leans over and bumps his knee against mine under the desk.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear over the chatter of the classroom.

And even though part of me — the small, sore part — remembers that he forgot about me when it mattered most, another, louder part of me melts under the simple kindness of it.

Because today, he’s here.

Today, he’s trying.