Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 37

The hot water runs over my shoulders, sluicing down my back and taking most of the mud and grime from the day with it.

There’s something about physical work that makes sense in a way almost nothing else does.

The roof patch needed fixing before the next heavy storm wrecked it.

The fence was leaning like it was trying to make a break for it.

Minor things, but my parents couldn’t handle climbing ladders or digging out rotten posts anymore.

When the rain finally came in the afternoon, I took the hint and came inside.

Now I dry off, change into sweats, and start chopping vegetables at the counter while the wind rattled the window frames.

Carrots, onions, celery — just to make it easier later when my parents decide to make dinner.

I work quietly, knife flashing, the cutting board filling up with neat piles.

Until I hear the bag crinkle.

Tyler drops onto the stool across from me at the island, a bag of chips in one hand, the other already shoving a handful into his mouth.

"You want some?" he asks around a mouthful.

I glance at the greasy mess of artificial cheese dust and salt and shake my head.

He shrugs, like it’s my loss, and keeps eating.

"You don't eat chips?" he asks after a minute, genuinely curious.

"No," I say shortly.

He leans back, crunching loudly.

"Is it, like, a Navy thing?" he asks, gesturing vaguely with a chip.

I scrape diced onions into a bowl.

"It’s a staying-alive thing."

He laughs, like he thinks I’m joking.

I don’t bother correcting him.

He crunches another chip, watching me.

"So, seriously," he says after a moment, "how hard is it? The Navy, I mean."

I pause, cleaning the knife.

He’s not asking to be nosy. He’s asking because he genuinely doesn’t know.

Because the last time he saw me, he was sixteen, and I was already halfway out the door.

I rinse the blade and answer without looking up.

"Harder than you think. Easier than it could be."

He snorts. "That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only one you’re getting."

He throws a chip at me. It bounces off my arm and hits the floor.

"You’re so annoying," he says, laughing.

"Better than being stupid," I mutter.

He laughs harder and grabs another handful of chips.

The house creaks around us, the wind howling low and steady outside.

The storm’s getting worse.

Not dangerous yet, but close.

Tyler’s phone buzzes on the counter. He checks it, grinning.

"Yo," he says, answering. "Nah, nothing. Just hanging out."

He laughs at whatever the other guy says.

"Oh really? I’m so down. Yeah, I’m coming."

He hangs up and grabs his jacket from the chair.

"Tell Mom and Dad I’m heading out," he says, shoving his arms into the sleeves. "Shouldn’t be long."

I raise an eyebrow.

"The storm’s getting bad."

He waves it off.

"It’s, like, a ten-minute drive. I'll be fine."

"You're an idiot," I say flatly.

He just grins and slaps the counter twice.

"Love you too, big bro."

And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him, the wind immediately howling louder in the sudden absence.

I finish tidying up the counter, dumping vegetable scraps into the trash, wiping down surfaces until they shine.

After a few minutes, I start making rounds through the house.

Checking windows.

Locking doors.

When I get to the front room, I find a couple windows cracked open — probably from when my mom tried to "air out" the house earlier.

I close them and latch them, feeling the immediate difference as the cold edge of the storm is sealed out.

By the time I circle back to the kitchen, the house smells like something good — onions and garlic sautéing, fresh bread warming in the oven.

My mom’s standing at the stove now, stirring a pot with her back to me. My dad stands next to her slicing bread.

They both glance up when I walk in.

"Hey, honey," my mom says warmly. "Everything good?"

I nod, sliding onto a stool at the island.

Dad finishes arranging the bread and starts setting the table.

"Where's your brother?" Mom asks, glancing around.

I shrug.

"He got a call and headed out. Said it’s close by."

She frowns slightly but doesn’t argue.

Boys will be boys or whatever dumb phrase people use to excuse idiocy.

"So," Dad says, pouring three glasses of water, "how’s it feel being home?"

I roll my shoulders, considering how honest to be.

"Different," I say finally.

He nods like he understands — and maybe he does, in a way.

He left home young too. Different reasons, different generation, but still.

"Well," Mom says, turning off the stove and carrying the pot to the table, "we’re glad you’re here."

We sit down around the kitchen table — plates full, the storm rumbling steadily outside like some giant clearing his throat.

"So," my mom says, clearly trying to sound casual, "how long are you thinking of staying?"

I shrug. "Don’t know yet."

"Good," she says immediately. "You need time to just be here."

Dad points at me with his fork. "You need to relax. No orders, no drills, no alarms."

"Just chores," I mutter.

"Chores build character," Dad says, dead serious.

I snort into my bread.

Mom shakes her head fondly. "Ignore your father. We’re just happy to have you home."

We fall into an easy rhythm of eating for a few minutes — the clink of forks, the hum of the storm outside filling the spaces between conversation.

Then Dad sets his glass down and says, "Oh — invited Penny for dinner tomorrow."

I glance up, raising an eyebrow.

"Figured she shouldn’t be stuck eating frozen dinners alone during this mess," he adds.

Mom perks up immediately, wiping her hands on her napkin. "I’m thinking lasagna. You think she likes lasagna?"

"Everyone likes lasagna," Dad says.

Mom laughs so hard he almost chokes on her water.

"Poor girl," dad says.

Mom’s eyes soften. "She’s sweet. I don’t like the idea of her being all alone."

"She’s tougher than she looks," I say before I can stop myself.

They both glance at me.

Not suspicious, exactly — but curious.

Mom smiles. "Well, that’s good to hear."

Dad grins. "Maybe you’re finally making friends, Ash."

I scowl at him. "She’s not my friend."

"Sure," he says, drawing out the word like he doesn’t believe a syllable of it.

Mom claps her hands together. "Lasagna, salad, maybe that lemon cake she can take home after."

Dad pretends to swoon. "You're an angel."

"Flattery will get you dessert," she says, laughing.

They fall into easy banter about groceries and recipes, and I sit back, listening, letting their warmth wash over me without having to participate much.

Dinner wraps up. We clear the table together — scraping plates, rinsing dishes, loading the dishwasher.

I’m wiping down the counters when it happens.

The lights flicker.

Once.

Twice.

Then the whole house plunges into darkness.

The TV shuts off mid-sentence.

The stove clock blinks out.

The fridge hum dies.

For a second, the only sound is the rain lashing against the windows and the sharp pop of something electrical failing somewhere nearby.

"Well," Dad says into the dark, "there goes that."

Mom laughs, more amused than worried.

I stand still for a second, letting my eyes adjust, listening.