Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 43

The first thing that drifts into my mind when I wake up is the heavy, deep quiet —

not the normal kind of stillness that comes with early mornings, but the thick, weighted kind that feels earned after chaos has finally worn itself out.

For a moment, I just lie there, the warmth of the blanket cocooning me and the faint memory of the storm brushing against the edge of my thoughts.

I try to piece it together —

the roar of the wind, the bright white flash of lightning slicing across my ceiling, the way panic had taken me hostage before I even realized it was happening.

I stretch slightly, shifting under the blanket — and that’s when I feel it.

Something heavy, something hot, pressing against my waist.

I blink fully awake, glance down — and freeze.

A hand.

A big one, rough-looking, veins standing out, fingers long and relaxed, resting low across my waist like it belongs there.

The kind of hand that could crush or protect with equal ease.

I follow the line of his arm up, my heart thudding louder with every inch.

Asher.

He's still sitting on the couch, exactly where I last saw him, but now slouched slightly, head tipped forward, chin resting against his closed fist, fast asleep.

How he can sleep like that — cramped in an uncomfortable position, barely supported — is beyond me, but even as the thought crosses my mind, a pang shoots through my chest, sharp and aching.

He’s probably used to it.

Used to sleeping sitting up, used to not sleeping at all, used to being uncomfortable, used to hard floors and cold nights and everything else he doesn’t say but wears like a second skin.

For a long, still moment, I let myself look at him.

Really look.

Even in sleep, there’s nothing soft about Asher Hayes.

The scar carved down the side of his neck disappears beneath the worn collar of his shirt, a violent, silent reminder of things he never talks about.

A smaller scar cuts across the edge of his left eyebrow, giving him a permanent, faintly dangerous edge that no amount of sleep can erase.

His jaw is dusted with stubble now, rough and dark, the sharp angles of his cheekbones thrown into even harsher relief by the faint light creeping in through the curtains.

His hair is a little messy, damp strands falling forward onto his forehead, softening him just slightly, betraying the fact that under all that steel, he’s still just... human.

I take in the rise and fall of his chest, the flex of muscle even in rest, the way the shirt clings to the breadth of his shoulders, hinting at the strength he usually keeps contained so tightly.

It’s stupid, but sitting here, watching him like this, he doesn’t seem real.

Not compared to everything else I know.

Not compared to Tyler, with his movie-star smile and polished charm, the easy way he walks through life like nothing can ever touch him.

Tyler is handsome in the way people expect —

short brown hair, brown eyes warm enough to drown in, the kind of laugh that makes everyone lean in closer.

Asher is...

Breathtaking.

But in a way that feels dangerous.

Like standing at the edge of a cliff during a storm and realizing you’re not afraid to fall —

you’re afraid of how badly you want to.

The thought burns through me, hot and fast, and I’m still grappling with it when a rough voice rumbles low across the space between us, making me jump.

"Staring’s rude, you know."

I jerk back a little, cheeks flaming, eyes wide.

His head hasn’t moved, his eyes are still closed, but the smirk curling across his mouth is unmistakable.

"I—"

I scramble for something to say, anything, heart hammering.

"How do you *do* that?"

He doesn’t answer.

Just shifts slightly, the smirk deepening like he’s enjoying the fact that he’s short-circuited my entire brain without even trying.

I push myself upright, clutching the blanket tighter around my shoulders, and feel his hand slide off my waist, slow and lingering like even gravity’s reluctant to let go.

I stretch my arms up high over my head, groaning softly as the tension pulls from my muscles, the hem of his t-shirt riding up my thighs dangerously high.

I don’t even realize what I’m doing until I glance over and catch Asher’s eyes —

open now, heavy-lidded and dark, watching every movement like it costs him something not to reach out.

Flustered, I stretch my legs too, pointing my toes automatically like I’m back at the barre, only to feel a prickle of self-consciousness when I catch him frowning.

His gaze drops to my feet, lingering, a small crease forming between his brows.

"What happened to your feet?" he asks, voice raspier than before.

I look down, heat crawling up the back of my neck.

The bruises and raw patches stand out vividly against my pale skin, brutal souvenirs of years spent forcing my body to bend and break and rebuild itself into something close to perfect.

I tuck my feet under me quickly, wishing the couch would swallow me whole.

"That's just what ballet feet look like," I mumble, trying for casual.

He doesn’t say anything for a second — just stares — and then nods once, slow and deliberate, like he’s cataloging the information without judgment.

The weight of his gaze settles heavy over me, and for a second, all I can feel is the fact that he saw me —

really saw me —

and didn’t flinch.

I pull the blanket tighter, heart pounding for reasons I don’t want to name, and glance down at my phone to distract myself.

No new messages.

No missed calls.

Nothing from Tyler.

The ache that flares in my chest is sharp and stupid, and I crush it down before it can spread.

Of course he didn’t text.

Of course.

The sound of footsteps overhead pulls me from my spiraling thoughts, and I glance up as Mr. and Mrs. Hayes appear at the top of the stairs.

They look impossibly put-together for people who survived a hurricane last night —

Mrs. Hayes in jeans and a sweater, hair pulled back neatly, Mr. Hayes already halfway into his jacket.

The second they see me, Mrs. Hayes beams, coming toward me with her arms wide open.

"There she is!" she says brightly, wrapping me in a warm, mom-scented hug before I can even think to move.

I let her fold me against her, the blanket and all, breathing in the comfort without question.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?" she asks, pulling back just enough to study my face.

I smile, small but real.

"Good," I say. "Really good. Thank you so much."

"Nonsense," Mr. Hayes says, clapping me lightly on the shoulder. "We’re just glad you’re safe."

Mrs. Hayes smooths my hair back like she’s been doing it all my life, her touch gentle, familiar.

"We have to step out for a bit," she says. "But we’ll see you tonight for dinner, okay?"

I nod, a lump catching in my throat that has nothing to do with the storm or the night before.

"Okay," I manage.

Mrs. Hayes kisses the top of my head like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and with a few more smiles and reassurances, they disappear out the door, leaving the house feeling strangely bigger and quieter without them.