Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 49

Tyler’s been snoring — actual, honest-to-God *snoring* — for at least thirty minutes now, draped across the couch like a starfish that gave up on life halfway through Monopoly.

His head is tilted back, mouth slightly open, hair a mess of wet curls still drying from earlier, and somehow he looks… peaceful.

Carefree in a way I haven't seen in a long time.

I smile a little despite myself, stretching my arms overhead before sinking deeper into my end-of-practice routine.

Somewhere outside, I hear the faint scrape of metal against stone — Asher still dragging patio furniture back into place like it's part of some personal mission to restore order to the chaos the storm left behind.

He disappeared about twenty minutes ago, wordless as usual, just a grunt and a nod before vanishing into the backyard.

I kept practicing — because the thought of Madame Loretto sniffing disapprovingly at me through the phone if she knew I skipped a day is enough to keep me moving.

But now, after forty solid minutes of barre exercises, stretches, and a few rusty pirouettes that left my toes complaining, I’m slowing down, reaching that heavy, satisfied kind of tired where your muscles hum like a well-played instrument.

I sink down onto the mat, legs stretched straight in front of me, reaching forward until my hands brush my ankles, forehead hovering inches above my knees.

This is usually where I’d call it.

End the session.

Shower.

Eat something massive.

The front door creaks, and a second later Asher steps back inside, shaking rain from his sleeves.

He scans the room in that sharp way he does, like he’s assessing threats even here, in a perfectly safe suburban living room.

Then he moves — not to the couch where Tyler’s still dead to the world, but to the armchair across from me, sinking into it heavily with a low sigh.

I keep stretching, feeling the tug in my hamstrings, but my mouth moves before I can stop it.

"You ever wonder what it’s like to live your whole life bent like a pretzel?"

Asher’s mouth quirks — barely — and he leans back in the chair, arms folding across his chest.

"Not once," he says, voice low.

I laugh under my breath, reaching a little further forward.

"It’s weird," I admit. "Most people think it’s glamorous. Tights and stage lights and flowers at the end. But it’s just a lot of bruises and blisters and standing in front of a mirror being told everything you’re doing wrong."

He watches me, face unreadable.

"It shows," he says finally. "The work."

The words land heavier than I expect.

I lift my head slightly, resting my chin on my knees.

"Honestly," I say, motioning vaguely at the barre, the scattered mats, the chaos of my living room-turned-practice-space, "I kind of get why you think I’m a spoiled princess."

His brows draw together, a slow furrow.

"I don’t," he says, voice rough around the edges. "Not anymore."

Something warm unfurls low in my stomach, dangerous and too much.

I clear my throat and look down at my toes.

Focus, Penny.

Madame Loretto’s disembodied voice echoes in my head: Stretch, Penelope. Lengthen.

I exhale, folding forward again.

A stubborn knot in my lower back refuses to loosen, no matter how hard I breathe through it.

I hesitate — then glance over at Asher, still sitting there, watching me with that steady, unnerving focus that makes my skin feel too tight.

"Can you —" I stop, cringing at myself.

He raises an eyebrow.

"What?"

I wince.

"I hate asking. But it’s an important stretch. Can you... push on my back?"

He blinks.

Like I just asked him to fly a helicopter blindfolded.

"Push?" he repeats, skeptical.

I nod, bending forward again, arms stretching toward my feet.

"Yeah. Just — steady pressure. Nothing crazy."

He stays frozen for a beat too long, then scrubs a hand through his hair like he’s already regretting his life choices.

"Please," I add, grinning wickedly over my shoulder.

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a curse and pushes himself up from the chair.

I fight a grin as he walks around behind me, every step slow, deliberate.

He crouches down, the air shifting around us —

hot, heavy, electric —

and even though he hasn’t touched me yet, I can feel him.

The heat of him.

The way the room gets smaller when he’s close.

Then —

his hand, large and rough and warm, rests carefully in the middle of my back.

One hand.

And somehow it feels like it covers the entire span of me.

"Now push," I instruct, voice tighter than I mean it to be.

He applies pressure —

light, hesitant.

I make a noise of pure annoyance and sit back up, twisting to glare at him.

"You have to push harder than that," I say.

His jaw tightens.

"No."

I blink.

"What do you mean, no?"

He shifts, tension radiating off him in waves.

"You’ll get hurt."

I huff a laugh.

"Asher, at the studio we literally step on each other’s backs for this stretch. I’ll survive."

He stares at me a second longer — then exhales sharply through his nose.

When I bend forward again, he braces himself —

both hands steadying on my back this time —

and pushes harder.

The pressure sinks into my muscles, deep and sharp, and then —

pop-pop —

my spine cracks in two clean places.

Asher jerks his hands away instantly, like he touched a live wire.

"You okay?" he asks roughly, already half-standing.

I straighten slowly, rolling my shoulders, grinning wide.

"Perfect," I say. "That’s exactly what I needed."

He stares at me like he doesn’t fully believe it, muscles still coiled tight like he’s ready to catch me if I so much as wobble.

I wave a hand dismissively, stretching my arms overhead again.

"Okay. That’s enough for today."

He doesn’t move, still watching me with that hawk-like intensity.

"You look... disappointed," he says after a beat.

I shrug, trying not to let it sink under my skin.

"Usually a full session at the studio is like three hours minimum," I admit. "This feels... lazy."

He frowns.

"You’re injured?"

I shake my head quickly.

"No, no. Just... it’s different. Being alone. Practicing here. It’s hard to push yourself when no one’s yelling corrections at you every five seconds."

He nods once, slow.

"I get that."

And somehow, stupidly, that makes my chest ache.

The way he says it — of course he understands. Probably even better than me now that I think about it.

I drag the barre across the floor, struggling to wedge it back behind the couch.

Before I can even properly wrestle it into place, Asher steps in, one hand gripping the frame, lifting it easily like it weighs nothing.

Show-off.

I mutter something under my breath that makes him smirk as he tucks it away.

"You should go rest," he says, dusting his hands off.

"Or get ready. I’ll wake this idiot up and we’ll head home."

I glance over at Tyler, still snoring blissfully.

Lucky him.

Asher pauses by the door, glancing back at me.

"And when you come to our place for dinner," he says, voice dropping a fraction, "if it’s still a mess outside, call Tyler to come get you."

I nod, heart thudding a little too fast.

He stares at me a second longer —

like he wants to say more,

warn me about something I don’t see yet —

but then Tyler lets out a snort and a mumble and the moment breaks.

Asher sighs and heads toward the couch.