Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 94

The next week is a blur of sweat, sore feet, and not enough sleep.

Every morning starts with school. Then rehearsal. Then sometimes another class. And sometimes both. My life has condensed into plies and pirouettes and bruises I stopped counting by Wednesday.

Tyler’s… trying. I’ll give him that.

He picked me up twice when rehearsal ran late. Both times he was waiting outside the studio, leaning against his car with his soccer hoodie on, smiling. He brought me an energy bar once. It was chocolate chip. I ate it even though I hate chocolate chips. He was trying.

The one night he fell asleep and forgot me, I took the bus. It was almost midnight. I didn’t really mind it, not until I got home and Asher was sitting in the dark living room like a statue. He stood the second I opened the door, voice low and sharp—Why the hell didn’t you call me?

I told him I didn’t want to bother him. He looked at me like that was the stupidest thing I’d ever said.

I’ve been avoiding him since.

Which is hard to do when you live in the same room.

We share breakfasts and dinners in near silence. I see him at the counter pouring coffee or in the backyard doing pushups like the ground personally offended him. Sometimes I catch him coming back from a run as I’m heading to school. Shirt drenched, chest rising and falling like he just ran away from something that almost caught him.

I try not to look. Looking hurts.

Tyler’s been talking about this trip he wants to take in two weeks—a chalet, snow-covered trees, firewood, beer, friends. And me. Of course. And Asher too, even though he said no right away.

I told Tyler I can’t go.

Rehearsals.

The gala.

Being a lead is a commitment and I won’t mess it up.

We fought about it once—just once. I think he knows pushing again won’t change my mind. Still, every couple days he brings it up. Like maybe I’ll change my mind.

I won’t.

Now, it’s Friday. Seven PM. My thighs ache. My arms are trembling from being caught too many times mid-spin. My ribs are sore. My toes… I don’t want to talk about my toes.

The house is quiet when I walk in. The kitchen light is off. No music. No TV.

Tyler’s at practice. Asher must be out.

Probably with his mysterious girlfriend. The one I still don’t know anything about. Not that I want to know. Not really.

I drag my feet upstairs, unzip my bag, drop it by the bed. I don’t bother turning the light on. The dusk outside filters in enough that I can see well enough to move. I shrug off my jacket and that’s when I hear it.

A shift.

A breath.

I freeze.

Then a shadow moves in the corner.

I scream.

“It’s me,” a low voice says. “It’s just me.”

My heart thunders in my chest. My mouth goes dry.

“I didn’t think anyone was home,” I breathe, hand over my heart. “You scared the life out of me.”

He stands slowly and walks toward the light switch, flipping it on. His face is blank, but there’s tension in his jaw.

This is the first time we’ve been alone since the Korean BBQ night.

I blow out a shaky breath and turn away, trying to calm down. I keep peeling off my zip hoodie, fingers trembling. I pull it over my head, about to toss it on the bed when I feel it—his hand on my wrist.

He spins me.

“Penny,” he says. Sharp. Controlled. But his eyes are fixed on me—not my face. My ribs.

My bare midriff.

He’s not looking at me.

He’s looking at the faint yellow and purple bruises blooming across my sides, like ink blots pressed into delicate paper.

“What the hell happened?” he demands.

I stiffen. “Nothing.”

He steps closer. “Penny.”

His hand goes to my arm. Not hard, not gentle either. “Answer me.”

“Ballet,” I snap, pulling back. “It’s ballet.”

He stares at me, jaw tight.

“Luc has to lift me,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “He catches me when I fall. Sometimes I fall wrong. Sometimes he grabs too hard. That’s how it works.”

He blinks.

Then breathes.

And I can see it—all that fury trying to crawl its way out of him. But he nods, slowly. He believes me.

He looks like he wants to say something else. Like he still might punch something, or someone, but instead his eyes drop again. To the bruises. The soft place just beneath my ribs.

His fingers twitch.

I’m suddenly too aware of everything.

The way the light hits my skin.

The sound of our breathing.

The heat in the room.

He lets go of my wrist, finally, but his eyes stay on me a second longer.

Then he turns, walks to his bed, sits down like he’s grounding himself.

I don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

The silence stretches.

Until he says, “You shouldn’t have to hurt this much for something you love.”

And I don’t know how to answer that.

So I don’t.

I just stare at the bruises on my skin and wonder how many more it’ll take before I stop seeing them at all.

The days pass like a loop.

Wake up. School. Rehearsal. Eat something with Tyler if he’s around. Try not to look at Asher. Try not to think about Asher. Try not to remember the way he held me. The way he tucked my hair behind my ear. The way he smells like clean laundry and danger and home.

Start over.

The routine helps. A little. There’s no time to fall apart when my muscles are screaming from training and I’ve got Swan Lake choreography swirling through my head like a fever dream.

Tyler is busy. I’m busy. Asher is always either out or working out or somewhere I’m not supposed to be thinking about. And yet, I see him everywhere.

At school in the pickup line when Tyler drives me in.

In the kitchen, reaching for his protein powder, sweat still shining at his collarbones.

On the porch, talking on the phone, voice low and serious.

Once, in the hallway, passing me with a towel slung over his shoulder. Water from his shower still trailing down his throat.

I look away every time. Because I have to.

Because if I don’t, I’ll break something. Probably me.

And then, just like that, it’s the end of the week.

My parents are coming back tomorrow. The boys will be moving out, going back to their own place.

I don’t think I’m ready.

Not because of Tyler. He and I are okay, I think. Steady again, sort of. We have dinner when we can. He texts me more. He’s trying. I see that.

But it’s not about Tyler.

It’s about the way the air in the house feels different lately. Thicker. Heavier.

Like something's missing already.

The mattress in my room is gone. Folded up and stored or hauled away—I don’t ask. The drawers are empty too. I open one just to check and find nothing but dust and the faintest whisper of his cologne.

Except.

The bottom drawer isn’t empty.

A black shirt. Folded, like he meant to leave it. Like it’s waiting for me to find it.

The one he gave me the night of the storm. The night he wrapped me in it like armor. The night he sat with me in the dark and stayed.

I sit on the edge of the bed, holding the shirt in my hands. It still smells like him. That same clean-and-safety scent that makes my chest hurt.

Did he forget it?

Did he leave it?

No. Surely not.

I tell myself I’ll ask Tyler to give it back to him. Eventually.