Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother novel Chapter 295

**TITLE: Wrong person 295**

**Chapter 295**

The hallways of the school always carry that unmistakable scent—an odd blend of cheap sanitizer, the faint aroma of pencil shavings, and the lingering mystery of something spilled in a locker three months ago, left untouched by anyone brave enough to confront it.

It’s not the most comforting of fragrances, but it’s undeniably familiar.

And after the whirlwind of chaos that winter break had thrown my way, that familiarity feels like a small treasure.

—

The sound of lockers slamming reverberates around me, a cacophony of noise that somehow feels like home. I pull the sleeves of my hoodie down over my wrists, navigating through the throng of students, expertly dodging a group of freshmen huddled together, their eyes glued to someone’s phone, completely oblivious to the world around them.

I step over a crumpled protein bar wrapper, treating it like an Olympic obstacle course, the hustle and bustle of my peers creating a symphony of chatter—everyone talking over one another, shuffling binders, and laughing as if they’ve already erased the memory of yesterday being a Monday.

Day two back. The first full week of the new semester has begun.

As soon as break ended, rehearsals kicked back into high gear. Nine hours at school, followed by four in the studio, and then there’s Asher waiting outside with food—his way of saying he’s trying not to hover but failing spectacularly.

And that look on his face when he sees me—

I can’t help but smile.

He never lets me skip dinner, no matter how late it gets.

Some nights, it’s steaming bowls of pho. Other times, it’s delicate sushi. Just last Friday, it was tacos so overloaded they fell apart in my lap, and he handed me a stack of napkins as if he’d anticipated the impending disaster.

He watches me eat like it’s his job, like I might just vanish into thin air if he blinks.

I’ve never felt so seen. Or so steady.

I adjust my backpack higher on my shoulder and sidestep a student who’s walking far too slowly for my liking. I’m already halfway to my locker when I check my phone and see his response to the message I sent earlier.

“Thanks for the good luck text. Already made someone nervous with just a look. I think I’m thriving.”

A grin spreads across my face as I type back, “Try not to make anyone cry before lunch.”

He reads it instantly but doesn’t reply. He’s probably caught up in a briefing or intimidating someone with his infamous resting murder face.

I round the corner, my mind already racing ahead to my rehearsal schedule, when suddenly something warm and solid wraps around my shoulders, pulling me sideways without warning.

“Relax,” a voice whispers close to my ear. “It’s not a kidnapping. Unless it gets me out of Calc.”

I don’t even need to look to know who it is.

Max.

“You’re a bit touchy before noon,” I remark, adjusting my bag as I regain my balance.

“Don’t pretend you’re not thrilled to see me,” he retorts, his tone playful.

I tilt my head up and, sure enough, there’s that smug grin plastered on his face. He’s layered a hoodie under a denim jacket, his scuffed-up sneakers hinting at a casual rebellion, and his hair is a tousled mess, as if he either just rolled out of bed or actively chose not to brush it. Knowing Max, it’s probably a little of both.

“Are you actually walking me to class now?” I tease. “This is a first.”

“Just securing my image,” he replies, steering us past a gaggle of theater kids practicing choreography with far too much enthusiasm.

“Friend of a celebrity and all,” he adds with a wink.

I snort, unable to suppress my laughter. “You’re such an idiot.”

“I’m your idiot,” he declares, loud enough to draw the attention of a nearby student. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

I shake my head, a smile creeping onto my face despite my best efforts.

It’s been a week since I last saw him—the night outside the restaurant when he showed up with Piper, who tackled me like I was her long-lost fairy godmother. That moment still lingers in my mind. Her tiny voice asking if I’d still be dancing at the gala, her warm hug, and the way Max looked at her as if she were the center of his universe.

“How’s she doing?” I ask softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Piper?” Max nods, his expression turning fond. “She’s still spinning through the house like every floor is a stage. Nearly broke the coffee table yesterday doing what she called a ‘flying twirl of elegance.’”

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify