Filed to story: Penny and Navy Brother Asher
His head hasn’t moved, his eyes are still closed, but the smirk curling across his mouth is unmistakable. anything, heart hammering
I scramble for something to say, any
“How do you do that?
He doesn’t answer.
Just shifts slightly, the smirk deepening like he’s enjoying the fact that he’s short-circuited my entire brain without even trying
I push myself upright, clutching the blanket tighter around my shoulders, and feel his hand slide off my waist, slow and lingering Ske even gravity’s reluctant to let go.
I stretch my arms u my arms up high over my head, groaning softly as the tension pulls from my muscles, the hem of his t-shirt riding up my thigh dangerously high.
I don’t even realize what I’m doing until I glance over and catch Asher’s eyes open now, beavy-lidded and dark, watching every movement like it costs him something not in reach out
Flustered, I stretch my legs too, pointing my toes automatically like I’m back at the bane, only to feel a prickle of self-consciousness when I catch him frowning. t, a small crease forming between his brows.
His gardrops to my feet, lingering, a
“What happened to your feet?” he asks, volor saspier than before. look duen, heat crawling up the back of my neck.
The bruises and cas patches stand out something close to perfect, d uut vividly against my pale i brutal souvenirs of years spent farcling my body tu bend and break and rebuild itself into
I tuck my feet under me quickly, wishing the coach would swallow me whole.
That’s just what ballet feet look like,” I mumble, trying for casual
He doesn’t say anything for a second – just states – and then möcht mee, sliner and deliberate, like he i cataleging the information withed jadas
The weight of his gaze settles heavy errt me, and for a second, all I can feel it the feet that fe really saw me and didn’t flinch…
I pull the blanket tighter, heart pounding for reasons I don’t n’t want tu name, and glance down at my by distract myself.
No missed calls
Nothing from Ty
Tyle
The ache that flares in my chest is sharp and stupid, and I crush it down before it can spread.
Of course he didn’t text.
Of course.
The sound of footsteps overhead pulls me Eroes my spiraling thoughts, and I glance up as Mr. and Mrs. Hayes appear at the top of the sta
They look impossibly put-together for people who survived a hurricane last night
Mrs. Hayes in jeans and a sweater, hair pulled back neatly, Mr. Hayes already hallway y into his jacket.
The second they see me, Mrs. Hayes beams, coming toward me with her arms wide open.
“There she is!” she says brightly, wrapping me in a war, mon-scented hug before I can even think to move.
I let her fold me against her, the blanket and all, breathing in the comfort without question
“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” she asks, pulling back just enough to study my face.
I smile, small but real
“Good,” I say. “Beally good. Thank you so much.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Hayes says, clapping me lightly on the shoulder. “We’re just glad you’re safe. “
Mes
Hayes smooths my hair back like she’s been doing it all my life, her touch gentle, familiar.
“We have to stop put for a bit,” she says. “But we’ll see you tonight for dinner, okay?”
I nod, a lump catching in my throat that has nothing to do with the storm of the night before.
“Okay,” I manage
Mrs. Hayes kiss the top of my head like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and with a feriore similes and reassurances, they disappear out the door. leaving the house feeling strangely bigger and dubeter without thems enos Navy brother
The mit still smells like rain when I stretch out under the blanket, santing the rane, wan
But then practicality kicks in and the fact that my stomach growls loud enough to embarass me into action. –
I push the blanket off and sit up, soothing down Asher’s I shirt over my bare legs torn toward the kitchen.
“Okay,” I announce, veier sill scratchy with sleep but determined. The making birakfast.
I don’t look directly at him- don’t dare because if I look, I’ll remember exactly how it felt waking up half-sprawled across his lap, feeling the steady heat of him anchoring me to the earth myself immediately, pulling open cabinets and drawers, grabbing pans and eggs and whatever else looks semi-breakfasty.
I busy m
Behind me, Asher doesn’t move from the couch, still stretched out like a lazy stormcloud, scrolling through something on his phone without much interest.
Good
I can do this his without melting into a puddle of embarrassment.
Mostly.
I crack eggs into a bowl with far more aggression than necessary, whisking them like they personally insulted me, all while pretending very, very hand that I don’t feel the phantom memory of his hands gripping my waist last night-lifting me onto the counter like it was nothing.
The thought sends a slick, molten kind of heat curling through my stomach, and I tighten my grip on the whisk until it squeaks against the glass.
Focus
Food.
That’s it.
Nothing else.
I’m reaching for the toaster when I hear the soft creak of the couch cushions, the quiet shuffle of feet against hardwood.
I don’t have to turn around to know he’s behind me now, I’m getting used to it – the air shifts when Asher enters a room, like the gravity gets heavier, like everything that matters is suddenly orbiting around him whether it wants to r
I keep my head down, pretending I’m laser-focused on buttering bread,
He crosses to the coffee maker, moving with that same effortless control, and starts grinding fresh beans like it’s a ntual.
I tell myself to ignore him to just keep cooking and pretend my heart isn’t doing Olympic-level flips inside my chest.
But then- because the universe hate me hr speaks.
‘You don’t coo much, do you?”
I snap my head up, gasping dramatically like he just slapped me across the face,
“Excuse wos,” I say, pointing the butter knife at h him. “You will rat this even if there’s eggshells in it.
He snorts-an actual, genuine, almost laugh- and shakes his head.
Without another word, he strides over, mulges me aside easily si a gratie hump of his hip, and takes the pan from me like I’m a toddler with a loaded weapon.
I throw my resu
“Hey!” up in mock outrage
He just grants, expertly cracking eggs one-handed like he’s judging me with every move.
I lean my elbows on the counter, pretending not to be impressed, and cock my head to the side.
“Would you eat eggshells for a week straight for a million dollars?”
He doesn’t even look at me.
“Don’t start again with your questions.”
Lgiggle, not even trying to hide it.
There’s something endlessly satisfying about poking at about seeing the small cracks in his permanent gru grumpy armor.
He flips the eggs neatly in n the pan, still not smiling but somehow radiating the kind of exasperated patience that makes me want to push even more.
I hop up onto a stool, swinging my legs, feeling lighter than I have in days.
Asher teaches up to grab a plate from the highest shelf, and my eyes widen despite myself.
“How tall are you? I blurt out before I can stop myself
He glances down at me, one brow raised.