Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 95

It’s almost two in the morning and I haven’t slept.

I’m lying in my old bed, in my old room, surrounded by walls that haven’t changed since the last time I've seen them. Obviously. There’s a crack in the ceiling I used to stare at during sleepless nights like this—back when I thought the worst pain was getting quicked out of the Navy because more than half my team got blown up and I almost did too. When I thought that missing being in the corps was the worst thing there was.

Now I know better.

The worst pain is this: wanting someone you can’t have. Needing her. Missing her when she’s still technically in your life but feels a million miles away.

It’s been two weeks since the dinner. Two weeks since Rooster, in his usual tactless glory, shoved a match into a room full of gasoline and blew everything up.

“You’re so mad for her,” he said.

Right in front of her.

And the thing is… he wasn’t wrong.

But I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. I just stared at my plate like the coward I am while she laughed awkwardly and changed the subject. Then, later, she apologized. Told me she didn’t mean to get in the way of my love life. Told me she hoped the girl I liked wouldn’t be upset with how much time I’d been spending with her.

She did what she always does—takes responsibility for things that were never her fault.

And I let her. I let her walk away with that guilt and confusion and didn’t say a fucking word to fix it. I didn’t tell her that she is the girl. That every minute with her is a test of my control. That I can’t think straight when she’s around, and I can’t fucking breathe when she’s not.

I stare at the ceiling now, that old familiar crack splitting across the plaster like a jagged scar. My chest feels tight. My fists curl against the sheets. My skin itches like something inside me is trying to break out.

I miss her.

It’s pathetic how much.

Even when she was in the same room as me, avoiding my eyes, barely speaking unless Tyler was there, I still missed her. Missed how she used to look at me like she was trying to solve a puzzle. Missed how her laugh cracked through my chest like a bullet. Missed how she used to say the most absurd things at the most random times and then blink up at me like I was supposed to have the answers.

Now she barely says anything.

And I deserve it. I know that.

She thinks there’s some girl I’m in love with, and she’s trying to be noble and respectful by backing off. And I’m just letting her. Because I’m a fucking coward. Because if I told her the truth—if I looked her in the eye and said, “You’re the one. It’s always been you”—I don’t know what would happen next.

Would she run?

Would she stay?

Would she cry, or scream, or kiss me?

I don’t know.

And that uncertainty is scarier than anything I’ve ever faced in combat.

So now I lie here in the dark, wishing I could tear the silence apart with my bare hands. Wishing I could go back to the nights when we still shared a roof. Because even then, even when she wasn’t talking to me, I could listen.

I’d lie awake and wait for her breathing to settle into that soft, rhythmic pattern. I’d stare across the room—just enough moonlight to see the slope of her cheek, the way her hair spilled across the pillow, the outline of her body under the blankets.

Creepy? Probably.

But it was the only time she didn’t flinch from my presence. The only time I could be near her without her retreating like I was something dangerous.

Every night, I’d wait for it.

Her voice. So quiet, like a breath. But unmistakable.

“Asher…”

I don’t know why she says my name in her sleep. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe she’s dreaming of something horrible and I happen to be the one she associates with safety. Maybe she’s annoyed with me, and I haunt her even when she sleeps. Or maybe… maybe it means something.

I used to pretend it didn’t matter. That I was just imagining things. That it was nothing more than sleep-talking.

But I know better.

Because she never says Tyler’s name. Not once.

Tyler sleeps like a corpse. Out cold the second his head hits the pillow. He never hears her. Never notices how she curls toward my side of the room in her sleep. Never sees how she pulls the blankets closer around her when I shift beneath mine.

But I noticed. I noticed everything.

Now I’m in this bed, in this house, with dozens of miles between us, and I feel like I’m dying.

Is this what withdrawal feels like?

Because that’s what this is.

Withdrawal from her laugh. Her smell. The vanilla shampoo she uses. The way her voice goes quiet when she’s tired. The way she sings off-key when she’s making breakfast. The way she looks at me like I’m something dangerous but also something safe.

I want to scream. I want to drive over there and bang on the door until she opens it and then—I don’t even know what. Fall to my knees? Tell her everything? Beg?

But I won’t.

Because it’s past two in the morning. Because I left so she could have space. Because Tyler’s still in the picture. Because no matter how much I want her, she’s not mine to want.

I close my eyes and roll to my side, burying my face in the pillow.

But sleep won’t come.

Because I already know what I’ll hear.

That voice.

That whisper.

“Asher…”

And I’ll wonder, all over again, what it means.