Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 76

The fan turns slow, slow, slow above my bed. My eyes follow each blade’s lazy spin like they’re tracing the thoughts I can’t organize in my head. The late morning sun sneaks through the blinds in slices across the wall, warm and still.

I should move. I should get up. Maybe text Mila. Maybe go over rehearsal notes again or start picking something to wear to this party I don’t really want to go to. But my limbs feel like lead. Heavy with all the things I’m trying not to feel.

There’s a knock. One knock, soft, almost polite.

“Come in,” I call, voice flat.

The door creaks, and I tilt my head just enough to see him—Asher, standing there in a plain black t-shirt and jeans, keys hooked around one finger.

“I need to grab a few things before I head out,” he says.

“Okay,” I reply, and look back up at the ceiling.

He doesn’t move right away. I can feel him looking at me, even though I won’t look at him. Not yet.

He steps closer. “May I?”

I glance over. He’s pointing at the bed.

My heart jumps a little. “Uh… yeah. Sure.”

I shift to the side, pressing myself closer to the wall, and he lies down on top of the blanket beside me, leaving just enough space between us for a whisper. One arm bent behind his head, the other resting across his stomach. His gaze follows mine—up, toward the slow-turning fan.

We’re quiet for a while. It’s not uncomfortable. Just quiet in that weird, almost reverent way. Like neither of us wants to be the first to breathe too loud.

Then I say, “Can I ask what your friend’s name is? Or is it like classified and you’ll have to kill me if you tell me?”

His low chuckle vibrates the bed between us. “It’s Eric. But everyone calls him Rooster.”

I blink. “Why?”

He exhales through his nose, a soft laugh. “We were deployed in Colombia once. Every morning, without fail, this insane rooster near our camp would start crowing at like 3:30 a.m. Eric swore he’d kill it. So one day, he gets up shirtless and half-asleep and tries to chase the thing down. That rooster chased him. Full-on sprint across a field. We all woke up to him running like hell, yelling and swearing, with a bird at his heels.”

I snort. “No way.”

“Swear on my life.”

I laugh into my arm, burying my face. “Please tell me someone got it on video.”

“Oh, there are videos. Every angle.”

When I finally stop laughing, I glance at him. “Do you have a nickname?”

“Yeah.”

I wait.

He smirks, still looking at the ceiling. “Tank.”

My eyebrows go up. “Because you’re built like one?”

“No,” he says. “It’s short for oxygen tank.”

I squint at him. “What?”

“I don’t need one,” he explains. “We do a lot of underwater missions. Most guys need a tank. I don’t. I can hold my breath longer than most.”

“Four minutes,” I say quietly.

He turns to me, brow raised.

“You said so, remember?” I explain.

He nods. “Right. Yeah.”

“So you’re like, a literal tank.”

He lets out a soft laugh. “Well… yeah. That too. But most of us are, really.”

I turn on my side to look at him, eyes roaming over his biceps, his shoulders, his everything. “No offense, but I doubt the rest of them look like this.”

He glances at me. “You don’t believe me?”

“Nope.”

“Come to base someday.”

“Maybe I will.”

Another beat of silence. Then I ask, “How does a forced leave work?”

He exhales slowly. “It’s when someone higher up—or medical—decides you need time. Mentally, physically, emotionally. Doesn’t matter. If they think you’re compromised, they pull you out.”

My heart tightens. “Is it permanent?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

I swallow. “So… you’re going back?”

“Probably.”

I stare at the blanket between us. The threads blur a little. I blink fast.

He shifts his head to look at me. “But not for a while. They mandated six weeks. I’m only two in.”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

Then I ask, “Are you ever scared? When you’re out there?”

He’s quiet for a long time.

“Not really,” he says finally. “Not like people think. You don’t have time for fear. But sometimes... when things go sideways, when someone gets hurt... there’s a moment.”

I nod, still watching him.

He continues. “You only get scared when you have something to lose. That’s why I keep my distance. Easier for everyone if something happens.”

And just like that, I’m crying.

It sneaks up on me. Just a few tears slipping quietly down my cheek, soaking into his hoodie. I wipe at my face quickly, hoping he doesn’t see.

But he does. Of course he does.

He turns to me. “Hey...”

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” I whisper. “You talk like you’re disposable. Like people could just get over it if you... if something happened.”

He watches me, his jaw tight.

“I don’t think anyone could just get over you,” I say.

His eyes meet mine then. Dark. Steady. Something flickering beneath the surface.

“Would anyone make you scared to lose them?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just reaches out with that same thumb and brushes away another tear, slow and careful like always.

“Maybe,” he says, voice low.

I don’t breathe.

He holds my gaze for another second, then shifts, sitting up. He walks across the room, grabs a few things from the chair—wallet, phone, a hoodie—and pauses at the door.

“I’ll see you later.”

I nod, still lying flat on the bed, eyes on the fan again.

He disappears behind the door with that same quiet grace he always moves with.

And I stay there, with a heart that’s beating a little too fast and a tear still cooling on my cheek.