Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 44

The air still smells like rain when I stretch out under the blanket, savoring the rare, warm quiet.

But then practicality kicks in —

and the fact that my stomach growls loud enough to embarrass me into action.

I push the blanket off and sit up, smoothing down Asher’s t-shirt over my bare legs as I turn toward the kitchen.

"Okay," I announce, voice still scratchy with sleep but determined. "I’m making breakfast."

I don’t look directly at him — don’t dare —

because if I look, I’ll remember exactly how it felt waking up half-sprawled across his lap, feeling the steady heat of him anchoring me to the earth.

I busy myself immediately, pulling open cabinets and drawers, grabbing pans and eggs and whatever else looks semi-breakfasty.

Behind me, Asher doesn't move from the couch, still stretched out like a lazy stormcloud, scrolling through something on his phone without much interest.

Good.

I can do this without melting into a puddle of embarrassment.

Mostly.

I crack eggs into a bowl with far more aggression than necessary, whisking them like they personally insulted me, all while pretending very, very hard that I don’t feel the phantom memory of his hands gripping my waist last night — lifting me onto the counter like it was nothing.

The thought sends a slick, molten kind of heat curling through my stomach, and I tighten my grip on the whisk until it squeaks against the glass.

Focus.

Food.

That's it.

Nothing else.

I'm reaching for the toaster when I hear the soft creak of the couch cushions, the quiet shuffle of feet against hardwood.

I don’t have to turn around to know he's behind me now, I'm getting used to it —

the air shifts when Asher enters a room, like the gravity gets heavier, like everything that matters is suddenly orbiting around him whether it wants to or not.

I keep my head down, pretending I’m laser-focused on buttering bread.

He crosses to the coffee maker, moving with that same effortless control, and starts grinding fresh beans like it's a ritual.

I tell myself to ignore him —

to just keep cooking and pretend my heart isn’t doing Olympic-level flips inside my chest.

But then —

because the universe hates me —

he speaks.

"You don’t cook much, do you?"

I snap my head up, gasping dramatically like he just slapped me across the face.

"Excuse *you*," I say, pointing the butter knife at him. "You will eat this even if there’s eggshells in it."

He snorts — an actual, genuine, almost laugh — and shakes his head.

"No way."

Without another word, he strides over, nudges me aside easily with a gentle bump of his hip, and takes the pan from me like I’m a toddler with a loaded weapon.

I throw my arms up in mock outrage.

"Hey!"

He just grunts, expertly cracking eggs one-handed like he’s judging me with every move.

I lean my elbows on the counter, pretending not to be impressed, and cock my head to the side.

"Would you eat eggshells for a week straight for a million dollars?"

He doesn’t even look at me.

"Don’t start again with your questions."

I giggle, not even trying to hide it.

There’s something endlessly satisfying about poking at him —

about seeing the small cracks in his permanent grumpy armor.

He flips the eggs neatly in the pan, still not smiling but somehow radiating the kind of exasperated patience that makes me want to push even more.

I hop up onto a stool, swinging my legs, feeling lighter than I have in days.

Asher reaches up to grab a plate from the highest shelf, and my eyes widen despite myself.

"How tall are you?" I blurt out before I can stop myself.

He glances down at me, one brow raised.

"Six-four."

I blink.

"Damn."

He smirks — just a little — and sets the plate down like it doesn’t cost him anything.

"And you?" he tosses back.

I grimace, reluctant.

"Five-three," I admit. "But! On pointe, I’m like five-five."

He shakes his head, deadpan.

"Doesn’t count."

I gasp, clutching my chest dramatically.

"Rude."

He shrugs, completely unbothered, and starts plating the eggs like he didn’t just insult my entire existence.

"You’re basically fun-sized," he adds, and this time I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting a real smile.

"Fun-sized," I repeat, scandalized. "I’ll have you know I am *normal-sized*."

He just grunts, handing me a plate like he’s already decided this argument is beneath him.

I huff but accept it, stealing a fork from the drawer with exaggerated dignity.

The eggs actually look amazing — fluffy and golden and way better than anything I would’ve managed.

The kitchen fills with quiet — not the uncomfortable kind, but the kind that feels... easy.

Warm.

Even with the storm still rumbling faintly in the distance, even with the uncertainty still lodged deep in my chest like a splinter.

I sneak glances at him over the rim of my plate —

the way he leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely, the casual strength in the way he moves, the scar on his throat catching the morning light.

The way he exists so solidly, like nothing could ever move him unless he chose to be moved.

My stomach twists — not from the eggs.

From something heavier.

Guilt, maybe.

Guilt because this is wrong.

Because my body shouldn't be responding to him like this —

shouldn't be reacting to his nearness, to the easy banter, to the low rumble of his voice like it's been starved for it.

He's Tyler's brother.

Tyler, who didn’t even text last night to see if I survived the hurricane.