Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother novel Chapter 230

Chapter 230: Boomer

I don’t think I’ve ever been this aware of a single human being in my entire life.

She’s sitting across from me at my tiny dining table, legs curled under her, drinking a second cup of tea like it’s the only thing tethering her to the world. Her hair’s still a little damp from the shower, a soft curl behind her ear. She keeps tugging the sleeves of her hoodie over her hands and then releasing them again.

The same hoodie that makes her look about a thousand sizes too small.

She hasn’t said much since breakfast. I haven’t pushed.

She eats in quiet little bites, like food still doesn’t sit right in her stomach. I get it. She went through hell less than twelve hours ago. Her shoulders keep jumping at small sounds–the wind, a door creaking, the old pipes under the floorboards. My jaw tenses every time.

I want to punch a goddamn wall.

No. I want to find the Vultures and gut them.

But Asher made me promise to stay with her. To keep her safe. And if there’s one thing I will never do, it’s break a promise to Asher. Or to her.

Especially not her.

I clear the plates while she drifts into the living room, running her hand along the back of the couch like she’s trying to ground herself in the feel of something familiar. She pauses in front of my bookshelf, fingers ghosting over the spines of old military memoirs and beat–up sci–fi paperbacks.

“You read Dune?” she asks softly, glancing over her shoulder.

I nod, rinsing out the pan. “Like six times. It’s kind of a comfort book.”

She smiles at that–small, but real.

Her smile does something weird to my chest. Like the air moves wrong inside me when she does it.

God help me, this girl is going to be the end of me.

We spend the rest of the morning in this strange limbo–me pretending not to stare, her pretending not to notice. I want to ask a hundred things. About the nightmares I know she’s probably having. About what she remembers. About what Asher wrote in that note I saw her holding tight like a lifeline after her

shower.

But I don’t.

Instead, I hand her a blanket when she curls up on the couch. Bring her water when she rubs at her temple. Offer her my phone charger when hers dies.

She doesn’t thank me every time, and I’m glad. It means she’s letting herself just exist here. Like this space isn’t just a fallback plan–it’s a place she can

breathe.

Around noon, I suggest we get out. Just for a walk. She/hesitates, eyes flicking toward the window like the world might still be waiting to hurt her again. I get that too.

So I say, “There’s a park two blocks from here. No one’s ever there. It’s just ducks and a weird old guy who feeds them popcorn.”

That earns me another almost–smile.

And twenty minutes later, we’re walking side by side, hands stuffed into jacket pockets, cold air turning her cheeks the faintest pink. She doesn’t talk at first. Just listens to the crunch of her boots on snow, the way the wind makes the bare branches clatter. But then-

“I used to come to a park like this. Back home,” she says.

I glance sideways. Before the break–in?”

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Chapter 230: Boomer

She nods. “I liked pretending I wasn’t afraid of being alone.”

That makes my chest ache.

We sit on a bench. She tucks her feet under herself again, chin in her hands. And I just

watch her.

God, she’s beautiful.

Not in some glossy magazine way. She’s tired and makeup–free, hair curling in weird directions and hoodie hanging off her like it was made for someone twice her size. But she’s so real. And soft. And fierce in the most unexpected, quiet ways. Like she’s still standing even though the ground’s been yanked out from under her again and again.

“I’m sorry,” I say, surprising myself.

She looks up. “For what?”

“For everything. For what happened. For how I couldn’t stop it. For not being able to tell you more. For… everything.”

Her eyes soften. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t wish I could go back and change

all

of

it.”

We head back as the sun starts sinking low. I want to keep her outside, where things feel lighter, but I can tell the cold’s getting to her.

When we get inside, she kicks off her boots and immediately heads for the couch again. She moves slow. Like her body still remembers the weight of a man sitting on her spine.

I go still.

My knuckles are white from how tight I’m gripping the doorframe.

I need to get her mind off it.

So I say, “We’re watching a movie.”

She blinks at me.

“Your choice,” I add, grabbing the remote.

“Anything?”

“Even The Notebook, if you’re feeling particularly cruel.”

She actually snorts. “No. I want something violent.”

“Jesus,” I laugh. “Okay, then.”

She picks John Wick. I don’t even ask if it’s cathartic of ironic. We sit in silence for the first twenty minutes, and then halfway through the second act, I feel

her lean.

Barely. Just enough to rest her head on my arm.

My whole body locks up.

I look down.

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