Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother novel Chapter 312

**Chapter 312**

I find myself waking before the alarm has a chance to jolt me from my slumber.

Not by design—

–

but perhaps it’s just instinct, some deep-seated awareness of the day ahead. The room is still cloaked in the soft, muted light of early morning, the city beyond our window wrapped in a sleepy haze, and beside me, Penny begins to stir beneath the blankets, as if her body is already aware of the significance of this day before her mind can fully grasp it.

When the alarm finally buzzes at 6:30 a.m., she blinks awake, exhaling a breath as if she had been holding it all night long. Her gaze turns to me, her eyes still puffy from sleep but wide with a cocktail of nerves and anticipation.

“It’s today,” she whispers, her voice barely above a breath.

I nod, gently brushing a stray strand of hair away from her cheek. “It is.”

She stares up at the ceiling for a moment, then rolls onto her back, letting out a sigh that could probably be heard by the neighbors. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

“You’re not gonna puke,” I reassure her, my voice steady.

“I think I’m gonna puke emotionally,” she clarifies, her expression serious. “Like… my soul is nauseous.”

A soft laugh escapes me, and I lean down to plant a kiss on her temple. “Come eat. I made breakfast.”

“You cooked?” she groans, a mock horror creeping into her tone. “Are you trying to make me cry before sunrise?”

“Only a little,” I tease back.

She drags herself out of bed, enveloping herself in her blanket like a superhero donning a cape, and plops down cross-legged at the counter while I prepare her favorite breakfast: fluffy scrambled eggs with sharp cheddar, roasted tomatoes glistening with olive oil, a medley of fresh fruit on the side, and, of course, sourdough toast. Coffee, too, with just the right amount of oat milk and a sprinkle of sugar, waiting to warm her hands.

She gazes at the meal as if it were the final act of a grand love story.

“I love you,” she murmurs, her voice laced with sincerity.

“I know,” I reply, stealing a bite of the toast, savoring the moment. “Just try not to combust before the curtain goes up.”

Her phone buzzes incessantly while she eats, a barrage of good luck texts and memes flooding in. Voice notes from Boomer and Max erupt in unintelligible shouts and cheers. Mila’s selfie with Luc arrives, captioned, “The curtain rises for our queen.” Her mom sends a trio of identical heart emojis, while Tyler’s message simply reads, “You got this.”

The relentless buzzing from her phone becomes too much, and she flips it over, face down on the counter. “I can’t deal with anyone else’s feelings today. My own are already overwhelming.”

I reach for her hand, squeezing it gently. “Then just focus on mine. All I’m feeling is stupidly proud.”

For a moment, she doesn’t respond. She just squeezes my hand tighter, continuing to chew her food, lost in her thoughts.

We arrive at the venue around ten o’clock, and it’s a world apart from the rehearsal room or the studio. The theater is a sight to behold, dressed to the nines, with the lighting rig humming with purpose, backstage alive with production techs, dancers, and assistants bustling about. Penny grips my hand tightly as we walk from the car to the entrance of the greenroom.

“I can’t believe this is actually happening,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve had nightmares about this place since I was eleven.”

“And now you’re headlining it,” I remind her, my voice steady and encouraging.

She looks as if she might faint at the thought. “No pressure at all.”

Wrapping my arms around her, I pull her close, resting my chin atop her head for a moment, letting us both breathe in the gravity of the moment.

“You’ve already won,” I say softly. “Just go out there and make the stage wish it had known your name sooner.”

She laughs into my hoodie, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “You and your cheesy military metaphors.”

I plant a kiss on the top of her head. “Break a leg, baby.”

“I love you,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.

“Knock ‘em dead,” I reply, my heart swelling with pride.

And now, as evening descends, it’s 7:22 p.m. to be precise.

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