Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 84

When I open my eyes, the world is draped in velvet black.

Not the soft kind. The kind that clings, that swallows everything whole. There’s no moonlight sneaking in from behind the curtains. No streetlamp glow. Just dense, heavy darkness. It takes me a few seconds to register why everything feels so warm and solid and… steady.

Then I feel it.

My forehead is resting on something hard. Not uncomfortably hard—solid, warm, unmoving. It rises and falls in slow, rhythmic breaths beneath me. My hand is curled against it, pressed lightly just above his heart.

Asher.

His chest is where my head is. His arm is wrapped tight around my waist, anchoring me in place. His other is folded beneath his head, bent at the elbow. I can feel the weight of it behind me. And his chin—his chin is resting gently on the crown of my head like it belongs there.

I don’t move.

I barely even breathe. I know I should. I know this—whatever this is—crosses some invisible line.

But I stay still.

Because right now, I’m safe. Really safe.

Not the kind of safety that comes with locked doors or a phone in your pocket. But the kind that comes with the quiet certainty that someone would burn the world down to protect you.

And it’s him.

Asher hated me when we first met. Or at least he acted like he did. He barely looked at me, and when he did, there was always this weight behind his eyes, like he couldn’t be bothered to see me as anything other than his little brother’s annoying girlfriend. That’s who I was to him. A title. A formality. Nothing real.

But then things changed.

He started talking to me. Sitting beside me. Showing up for me.

Tonight he drove like a madman across town when I needed help—even though I didn’t say what was wrong. Even though I couldn’t say.

He found me. He looked at me like I mattered. Like whatever hurt me mattered.

But he’s like this with everyone, right?

That’s what I keep telling myself.

He’s in the Navy. He’s a protector. A rescuer. His whole identity is built on being the person who shows up when others don’t. And I’m just… someone who needed help.

That’s all this is.

I repeat the lie again and again, hoping the repetition might kill the ache forming in my chest.

But then I breathe in.

Vanilla and laundry detergent. Me. That’s what I smell like. That’s what his arms smell like now too. And it hits me—I don’t want to move. I want to stay here, in this impossible space that’s not mine to claim.

And because I’m weak—or because I’m stupid—I let myself feel.

I let my hand shift, slowly, carefully.

I trail my fingers across his chest. Over the strong curve of muscle under his shirt, down to the arm that’s holding me. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe I want to memorize this. Or maybe I just want proof he’s real.

His arm is enormous. Like, ridiculous. My fingers barely reach halfway around it, and I’m not even gripping it. Just… tracing. Feeling. It’s hard and strong and warm and—

I pause.

There’s a scar.

I can’t see it, not in this darkness. But I feel the texture change under my fingertips. Raised. Long. Not smooth at all. Like it healed messy. It makes something in me hurt.

I trace it gently. Featherlight.

And then, a sound rumbles from deep inside his chest—a low, gravelly, half-awake noise that sends shivers through me.

"It won’t go away even if you rub it, princess," he mutters, voice thick with sleep.

I freeze.

My hand flies back like I touched a burner. "I’m sorry," I whisper, heart pounding.

But he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even move.

He just tugs me closer. One smooth pull of his arm and I’m flush against him. And I feel everything. His warmth. His strength. The steady beat of his heart.

I don’t move. I can’t. Liquid heat pools at the bottom of my belly, making me feel things I shoudln't feel and don't know if I've ever even felt.

My fingers return to his arm almost instinctively, to the scar. It’s long—almost the entire length of his forearm. And crooked, like the wound wasn’t clean.

“What happened?” I whisper.

He’s silent for a moment. Then, softly, "Machete."

"What?" I breathe, horrified.

"Bad mission," he says, voice husky. "No food, no sleep, days of marching. One of the guys—he snapped. Thought I was the enemy. I had a choice—take him down hard, or take the hit and bring him down without killing him."

"You let him cut you?" I ask, sick to my stomach.

"He was on my team," he says, as if that explains everything. Maybe to him, it does.

"Did you need stitches?"

"Thirty-four," he murmurs.

I’m quiet. What can I say to that?

Nothing fair. Nothing that makes it okay.

"It’s not fair," I whisper, my fingers moving gently over the old wound. "You shouldn’t have to carry that pain."

His hand slides up my back, slow and deliberate, lifting the hem of my shirt just enough for his fingertips to touch bare skin.

He draws slow, soothing circles there.

I shudder.

And then I hate myself for shuddering. Because this—whatever this is—it’s not supposed to feel good. Not like this. Not when he’s just trying to help. Not when the only reason he's being this nice is because I'm his brother's girlfriend and he takes pity on me. Not when said boyfriend is wasted somewhere else, completely unaware of what I’m feeling in someone else’s arms.

"Physical pain’s not the worst thing there is," he says softly, voice rough.

I close my eyes.

A long silence stretches between us. It should be awkward. It should feel wrong.

It doesn’t.

"I’m sorry for ruining your night," I whisper eventually.

"You didn’t," he says. "I was leaving anyway."

"Still. You could’ve ignored the call."

"Never crossed my mind."

I don’t have an answer to that. I just shift closer. Press my cheek against his chest again.

He rubs small circles on my back, just above my belt. It’s distracting in the worst, most intoxicating way. I don’t want him to stop. I also don’t want to want this.

"Did you have a good time with your friend?"

He exhales a soft laugh. "I did. He’s good at pulling me out of my head."

"You laugh with him?"

He chuckles again, and the vibration rumbles through me like thunder. "Occasionally."

"Was he part of the same team?" I ask.

"Yeah. We’ve been through some shit together."

I nod, trying not to think about all the things that could mean. Trying not to think about how easily he bears pain, how quietly he carries the weight of it all.

His hand is still on my back.

Mine is still on his arm.

And even in the dark, with guilt crawling through me, I can’t bring myself to move.

I’m burning for him.

And I’m absolutely certain… he has no idea. And that he would run like hell if he knew.