Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother novel Chapter 300

**TITLE: Wrong Person**
**Chapter 300**

The kitchen is enveloped in a gentle gloom, illuminated only by the soft glow of the under-cabinet lights and the soothing hum of the kettle as it reaches a boil. My legs are still slightly unsteady from the earlier activities, but I push that aside as I open the cupboard to retrieve a tin of jasmine tea. It’s a small act, but one that I pretend has no significance, even as I feel a flutter of excitement in my chest.

Asher stands behind me, his shirt absent, the waistband of his sweatpants sitting low on his hips, and he looks every bit the man who just left me breathless in bed and has now decided to make tea as a sort of afterthought.

He reaches around me, his movements casual yet deliberate as he grabs two mugs from the rack. My heart stutters, a wild rhythm in my chest, especially when he leans in to place a soft kiss on the back of my neck. The warmth of his lips sends a shiver down my spine.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice low and laced with concern.

I nod, a smile creeping onto my face, almost involuntarily. “I’m great.”

He snorts lightly, his amusement evident. “Yeah, you look it.”

I roll my eyes, tossing a teabag into each mug with a flourish, trying to mask the warmth spreading across my cheeks. “Shut up.”

“Can’t,” he replies, his tone playful, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m too busy watching you float around the kitchen like I didn’t just—”

“Tea, Asher,” I interject, biting back laughter. “Focus.”

He raises both hands in mock surrender, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smirk, as if he knows he’s already won this little exchange. Just then, the kettle lets out a sharp whistle, prompting him to turn away and pour the steaming water. I can’t help but admire the way his muscles shift beneath his skin, a natural grace that makes even the most mundane tasks seem effortless.

It’s as if this whole domesticity has become second nature to him, and perhaps to me as well.

I lean back against the counter, allowing myself to simply watch him. He’s in the middle of a story now, animatedly recounting his first real week at the new job—how his office still looks like a battlefield of unpacked boxes, how his colleagues are a mix of “mostly decent idiots,” and how his boss seems to believe that sarcasm is an acceptable form of leadership. I listen intently, the sound of his voice wrapping around me like a warm blanket, the rough yet soothing cadence that has come to represent safety for me. When he hands me my mug, I curl my fingers around it, savoring the warmth that radiates from the ceramic.

He leans against the opposite counter, sipping from his own mug, still engrossed in his storytelling.

But then, something shifts within me, a subtle change in the way I perceive him. My gaze softens, disbelief mingling with affection.

I think back to the first version of this man I encountered.

He wasn’t standing in a cozy kitchen at midnight, sharing tales of his job while I wore one of his old T-shirts and little else.

He pauses mid-sentence, his words trailing off as he talks about some prototype goggles they’re testing. His eyes flick to mine, narrowing not in irritation, but in curiosity, a laser focus that makes my heart race.

Setting his mug down on the counter, he steps forward, sliding one arm around my waist and pulling me into his lap as he settles onto a stool by the island.

“Okay,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, lips brushing against my temple. “I can see the wheels turning in your head. What’s on your mind?”

I blink, caught off guard, then smirk. “You’re annoyingly perceptive.”

“Years of military interrogation training,” he replies with a chuckle. “You’re not that hard to read.”

I lean my cheek against his shoulder, feeling the warmth radiate from him, settling comfortably into his embrace.

“It’s stupid,” I confess, tracing my finger along the rim of my mug.

“Doesn’t matter. Tell me anyway,” he encourages, his grip tightening slightly around my waist.

I take a deep breath. “I was just thinking about… when I first met you.”

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