Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 41

*Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.*

I stare down at my tea like it’s personally responsible for my entire crumbling emotional state.

*Don’t cry.*

Tyler told me he was home.

Home.

So why did Asher say he left hours ago?

Why is he lying to me?

The questions twist inside me, low and sour, but I force myself to blink fast, to breathe slow.

I am not crying over this.

Not here.

Not now.

Not when Asher is sitting right there — quiet and still, staring straight ahead like he didn’t just save me from dying of hypothermia and bad decisions tonight.

I finish my tea, setting the mug carefully on the coffee table so I don’t accidentally shatter it with my shaky hands.

I glance sideways at him.

"Thank you," I say, voice a little rough.

He doesn’t look at me.

"Nothing to thank me for."

I huff, shifting to face him more fully.

"It’s not nothing," I insist. "That storm was awful. You didn’t have to come check on me."

His jaw ticks — a tiny movement — and then he turns, meeting my eyes. His eyes darken and for a second they hold a storm bigger than the one outside.

"I did."

Simple.

Certain.

I blink, feeling my cheeks heat, the flush creeping up my neck before I can stop it.

"Well," I mumble, awkward now, "thank you."

He nods once, like that's the end of it.

I rub a hand over my face, trying to cool off.

And immediately flinch when my fingers brush the cut on my cheekbone.

"Ow," I mutter, wincing. "Forgot that was there."

Before I can say anything else, Asher shifts toward me.

His hand comes up — fast but not rough — and his fingers catch my chin between them, tilting my face to the side.

His thumb brushes lightly along the edge of the scratch, inspecting.

His fingers are warm — no, hot —

like the storm soaked all the heat out of the world and left it coiled under his skin instead.

The touch is careful.

But it still feels like it sears right through me.

"You cleaned it?" he asks, voice low.

I nod. "In the shower. With water."

He exhales through his nose, unimpressed.

"Not enough."

Before I can protest, he’s standing, jerking his head toward the kitchen.

"Come on."

I hesitate — because standing, moving, being closer to him feels dangerous right now.

But... he was there for me today.

Again.

So I push myself up and follow.

I stumble after him, still clutching at the waistband of his way-too-big pants like they're personally trying to assassinate me.

The hem drags against the floor, threatening to trip me with every step, and after a particularly aggressive stumble, I mutter a curse under my breath, yank them off, and kick them to the side.

The t-shirt I'm wearing — his t-shirt — is long enough to cover everything important anyway.

Asher glances back at the sound, arching an eyebrow.

"What are you doing?" he asks, voice half serious, half amused.

"Saving my life," I mutter. "Those things are a hazard."

He smirks — that rare, deadly one that always feels like a secret — and shakes his head, jerking his chin toward the kitchen counter.

"Come here."

I move toward him — and before I can brace myself, he steps forward, strong hands closing around my waist.

Without effort, he lifts me onto the counter.

I gasp, clutching the edge for balance, heart hammering wildly in my chest.

He steps in close between my knees, and suddenly the air between us is too tight, too hot, too heavy.

I can’t not notice him —

the way his t-shirt clings to the sharp cut of his shoulders and chest,

the way the muscles in his arms shift easily under his skin as he moves,

the way he smells — not just soap and clean laundry, but something darker underneath, like amber and smoke and rain.

I think of how he looked earlier — standing in my doorway — grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, white shirt plastered against a body that looked carved from stone.

And standing here now, inches from him, breathing him in, I realize something bone-deep:

This man could destroy anyone.

Not with violence.

With sheer gravity.

With the way he pulls the air out of a room without even trying.

With the way he makes it impossible to look anywhere else.

And me?

I’d never stand a chance.

I force myself to focus as he rummages through the first aid kit under the sink, pulling out supplies with quick, efficient movements.

"Hold still," he says, voice low enough to rattle loose something deep inside me.

He tears open an alcohol swab and dabs it against the cut on my cheek.

I wince, sucking in a sharp breath.

He doesn’t apologize — just steadies me with one broad hand at the base of my jaw, thumb skimming lightly under my chin, fingers warm and rough and careful.

"Princess," he mutters under his breath, shaking his head in that exasperated way that somehow doesn't feel cold at all.

He spreads antibiotic cream gently along the scratch, his touch featherlight now, almost reverent.

Trying to distract myself from the way my heart is trying to hammer its way through my ribs, I ask, "Did you learn this in the Navy?"

He nods once, concentrating on the tiny wound.

"Basic first aid's mandatory."

I hum, not trusting my voice to do anything coherent.

The house groans under another blast of wind.

A second later, a thunderclap so loud it feels like it splits the sky in two crashes right overhead.

I flinch hard — involuntary, stupid — and his hand flashes out again, gripping my thigh just above the knee to steady me.

His palm presses against bare skin, rough and warm and solid, branding me with the contact.

He pulls back almost immediately, but it’s too late.

The touch lingers — electric, searing, alive. I catch a glimpse of his dark eyes before he looks away.

I'm breathing too fast, pulse rabbiting in my throat.

"I can’t wait for this storm to be over," I mutter, forcing a shaky laugh.

He just nods, packing away the first aid supplies like nothing happened.

We move back to the living room — a little too quickly, like we’re both pretending that didn’t happen.

He drops onto the couch again, sprawling back like he owns it.

"You going to bed?" I ask, sinking onto the far end.

He shakes his head.

"Not yet."

I pick up the remote, twirling it between my fingers.

"Wanna watch something?"

He shrugs.

"You pick."

I scroll through options and land on a dumb comedy I've seen a hundred times before — safe, brainless, easy.

Exactly what I need.

I curl up at my end of the couch, pulling the hem of the t-shirt over my bare knees, letting the dumb jokes and laugh tracks fill the silence.

Asher doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t move much either.

But he’s there —

solid, warm, steady.

And slowly — slowly — the fear in my chest starts to loosen its claws.

My eyelids grow heavier with each minute.