Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 79

The second I step into the bar, I’m hit with a wave of noise — people talking over each other, glasses clinking, some terrible classic rock playing through the speakers. I haven’t been here in months, maybe longer, but it hasn’t changed. Still smells like beer and fried grease and whatever stale hope people bring with them when they walk through the door.

I spot him immediately.

Eric — or Rooster, as most of us still call him — is in a booth near the back. His bad arm is wrapped up, propped awkwardly on the table as he scrolls through his phone with the other. When he looks up and sees me, he grins.

“Bro, look at you. You’re all… civilian and shit.”

I walk over and give him a nod before bumping his good fist. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late. You look like you belong in an ad for flannel and tortured loner vibes.” He smirks, then winces and adjusts his arm. “Sit your ass down.”

I slide into the booth across from him. It’s good to see him, even if it’s weird seeing him here — not half-drenched in sweat or blood or adrenaline, but here. Safe. Drinking a beer.

“You still on pain meds?” I ask, nodding toward the arm.

“Not since last week. Still hurts like a bitch, but I’d rather feel that than feel nothing.” He shrugs. “Burns are healing though. Doc says I got lucky.”

I nod. I’ve heard that word too many times lately. Lucky. Like surviving means you win something.

A waitress walks up, notepad ready. We order drinks — a beer for him, whiskey for me. Neat. I need the heat tonight. She walks off, and Rooster leans in, his voice lowering just a bit.

“Between you and me? I don’t think they’re letting us back.”

He says it like it’s a joke. But I see the look in his eyes. The uncertainty. The weight we’ve all been carrying since the mission. The one no one wants to talk about.

I don’t laugh. “How many of us got forced leave?”

His smirk fades. He adjusts his arm again, more tense now. “All the ones that made it.”

I just nod. My chest’s already tight thinking about it. Thinking about who didn’t make it. Thinking about the blood. The screaming. The way everything tilted sideways that day and never quite leveled out again.

“How’s your back?” he asks.

“Fine.” It’s the answer I’ve trained myself to give. Then I add, “Barely got touched compared to you.”

He barks a short laugh. “Say that to the four doctors who were covered in your blood. I heard they had to hose down the floor after you.”

“That's dramatic.”

“It's also true,” he shoots back.

The waitress comes with our drinks, places them down, and takes our food order. We go with burgers, fries, and something greasy enough to soak up everything neither of us wants to say.

When she’s gone, there’s a moment of quiet between us. It’s the kind that used to happen during stakeouts or when we were both watching the same horizon for different things. Rooster leans his head back.

“Anna’s good now. She was freaking the hell out when I got hurt. Showed up crying in the hospital with my mom. Haven’t seen her like that before.”

“You tell her you’re not going back?”

He exhales slowly. “I think I’m done, man.”

That makes me look up. “You?”

He shrugs. “Almost died too many times to count, but this one felt different. I don’t want her worrying every second I’m out there. And for what? Glory? Honor? I’d rather just be alive.”

I don’t blame him. I should say that. But I don’t. Because if I say it, it might make it real for me, too.

“You?” he asks, eyeing me. “You thinking of going back?”

“Still got four weeks left on leave. After that, we’ll see.”

He narrows his eyes at me like he knows I’m lying.

“What’ve you even been doing while you’ve been off?” he asks.

I stare down into my drink. “Not much. Hanging around my brother.”

“Tyler?”

I nod.

“That’s got to be… loud.”

I smirk. “Louder than a flashbang.”

“You see anyone?”

I hesitate, then shake my head. “No one.”

“Liar.” His grin is smug. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I can’t stop thinking about this girl’ look.”

I say nothing.

He leans forward. “Tell me.”

I stare at my glass. Then I say, “There’s someone.”

He raises his eyebrows like he just won something. “Knew it. Who is she?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“She’s taken.”

Rooster whistles low. “Shit. Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

“Is she worth it?”

That’s the question, isn’t it?

The flash of her smile at the fair. Her laugh when I handed her that ridiculous teddy bear. The way she said my name like she wanted me to feel something when she said it.

I don’t answer.

He leans back. “Damn. You’ve got it bad.”

I glare at him. “Don’t make it a thing.”

He raises his hands. “It’s already a thing.”

The food comes, steaming and smelling like comfort. We dig in. It’s easy for a few minutes — the familiar rhythm of eating in silence, chewing through memories we’re not brave enough to talk about.

Finally, he looks up and says, “You know, Tank, you’re the best guy I know at pushing people away. You do it even better than me. But if she’s making you feel something, anything real, maybe don’t run this time.”

I don’t say anything.

Because the truth is… I want to run. I want to get on a plane and go back to the place where I know what pain looks like. Where the rules are clear and the monsters wear uniforms just like me. Where I don’t have to deal with soft hands and stolen hoodies and the sound of her laugh making a home in my ribs.

But I’m still here.

And somehow, that scares me more than any battlefield ever has.