Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother novel Chapter 320

**TITLE: Wrong person 320**
**Chapter 320**–

Today carries a warmth that feels like a gentle embrace. It’s not oppressive or stifling; rather, it’s that delightful spring warmth, accompanied by a soft breeze that whispers through the trees, creating a soothing melody. The sky above is an almost surreal blue, so vibrant that it appears to have been meticulously painted, too bright to be anything close to reality. A few birds flit about, their chirps filled with an energy that suggests they are sharing secrets only they can understand. Nearby, I can hear the occasional hum of a bee busily working among the colorful blooms, and to my left, the faint crunch of footsteps on gravel indicates that someone else is meandering through the rows of gravestones.

But in this moment, where I sit, everything is still.

–

Still and golden, as if time has paused just long enough to allow me to breathe deeply, to collect my thoughts and emotions.

I run my fingers through my hair, leaning forward with my elbows resting on my knees. The bench creaks beneath me, a familiar sound that has become a part of my routine.

This place has been my refuge every few months. Sometimes Penny joins me, and sometimes I come alone. Sometimes I find myself speaking freely, while other times, I simply sit in silence, enveloped by my thoughts.

But today… today, I choose to speak.

“Hey, Night.”

My voice is low, not quite a whisper but grounded, as if I’m trying not to disturb the tranquility that surrounds me.

“I brought your favorites.”

I gesture toward the bottle of root beer I’ve placed beside the headstone, its surface already glistening with condensation from the warmth of the day.

“I’m not sure if you’re still into that whole ‘pretend it’s beer but make it Mormon-friendly’ thing, but I thought I’d keep the tradition alive.”

A moment of silence stretches between us, the kind that feels more like a conversation than a monologue, as if Night is listening intently.

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately,” I admit, dragging a hand down my face in frustration. “Shit. That sounds like the beginning of a breakup letter.”

A bitter laugh bubbles up in my throat, but it dissipates just as quickly as it appeared.

“I think you’d appreciate the new job,” I continue, my voice gaining a little more strength. “Well… maybe not the paperwork. You always said any man who could survive BUD/S only to be crushed under a mountain of administrative reports was a sucker. But the rest? I think it would’ve made you proud.”

I cast a glance toward the grave, feeling a connection that transcends the physical barrier.

“I made some changes. I pushed for mandatory evaluations after deployment, not just one, but several. Spaced out, consistent, detailed. You always said it was the little things that went unnoticed. Like…”

I pause, my mind drifting back to a moment from the past.

“Remember when you suggested Rooster and I should probably see a psychologist because cranberry juice reminded us too much of blood?”

A short laugh escapes me, a flicker of warmth amid the heaviness. “You called it ‘liquid trauma in a plastic cup.’”

I shake my head, a smile creeping onto my face, even as my heart feels heavy.

“I thought you were being dramatic. I thought it was just one of your weird observations that didn’t mean much. But you were onto something.”

My gaze wanders across the rows of white marble gravestones that stretch like frozen waves across the hills, a stark reminder of the lives once lived.

“It’s never the big things that get to you, not at first. It’s not the explosions or the firefights or even the blood. Sometimes it’s the taste of metal in your mouth after biting your lip too hard. Sometimes it’s the sound of your boots echoing in an empty hallway. Sometimes… it’s cranberry juice.”

I look back down at Night’s name etched into the stone, the letters sharp and unwavering, a testament to a life that was once vibrant.

“You were always the first to notice when one of us started to drift. You picked up on Rooster chewing the skin off his knuckles before anyone else did. You caught Boomer going silent after that operation in Libya. You noticed me when I couldn’t sleep for five days straight but kept insisting I was fine.”

My throat tightens, emotions swirling within me.

“I wish I’d noticed you sooner.”

The silence that follows feels heavy, almost palpable.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify