Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother novel Chapter 305

**TITLE: Wrong person 305**
**Chapter 305**

Rooster leans against the frame of Studio 3, exuding an air of ownership as if the whole building is his personal domain. He appears utterly nonchalant, relaxed even, as if the situation unfolding is anything but chaotic.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, my voice low, edged with sharpness.

He raises one hand in a gesture of surrender, the other still tucked away in the pocket of his jacket. A lazy smile spreads across his face, as if he’s about to share a delightful secret.

“Listen,” he begins, his tone shifting slightly. “Penny did something.”

At the mention of her name, my heart clenches involuntarily.

He raises both hands quickly, almost as if to ward off my impending panic. “Nothing bad. I mean, it’s Penny. So you know it’s going to be wildly thought-out, emotional, and dramatic as hell.”

That sounds about right.

“She wanted to surprise you,” Rooster continues, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “But halfway through, she freaked out.”

“Why?” I demand, my curiosity piqued despite the tightening in my chest.

Rooster tilts his head, gesturing toward the studio door with a certain gravity. “Because she realized who you are, and what surprises can do to a guy like you. Her exact words were, ‘What if he walks in and thinks it’s an ambush and shoots everyone in there?’”

I can only stare at him, the weight of his words settling over me like a heavy cloak.

He grins, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “And honestly? She’s not entirely wrong.”

“I’m not carrying,” I mutter, trying to calm the storm brewing inside me.

“I know,” he replies, his voice steady. “But Penny doesn’t always remember that your brain doesn’t have an off switch. She practically begged me to intercept you and make sure you came in without, you know… deckin’ anyone.”

My pulse races, a relentless drumbeat of anxiety. I loathe this feeling—the unknown, the suffocating darkness looming behind that door. My instincts coil tightly within me, like a spring ready to snap. I envision a thousand scenarios, each more dire than the last—training has burned these images into my mind before I can even stop them:

Someone’s hurt.

This is a trap.

The Vultures have returned.

Penny’s missing.

There’s a body in there.

It’s a cruel joke.

It’s a setup.

She’s saying goodbye.

Rooster rolls his eyes, as if he can see the battle raging in my mind. “You good? Just—don’t punch anyone.”

I grit my teeth, jaw clenched tight. “Not making any promises.”

Still, I step forward, compelled by an unyielding force.

The doorknob feels cool against my palm as I push it open slowly, my heart pounding in rhythm with my breath.

Inside, it’s pitch black.

But darkness has never been an obstacle for me.

During my time in the Navy, I learned to perceive without relying solely on my eyes. My senses expand, sharp and honed. I detect the subtle shift in air, the warmth of breath nearby.

I hear the soft scuff of shoes and a stifled laugh echoing from a corner. There are people—at least a dozen, maybe twenty—huddled in the shadows.

They’re quiet.

But I’m quieter.

Rooster’s voice drifts to me from behind, a lazy whisper that feels oddly comforting. “Yeah, I know. She thought she was being clever. Humor her.”

And then—

The lights flicker on.

“SURPRISE!”

I flinch, just barely. Years of discipline keep my hands from instinctively reaching for weapons I’m not even carrying.

I kiss her again, just a little longer, before pulling away when I remember that her parents are likely watching, and I hold her hand as I scan the room.

Now that I’m truly absorbing the scene around me—really looking at the delightful chaos—I start to notice the details.

Everyone is decked out in some kind of gear. Not the whimsical costume type, but rather… tactical. Camouflage pants, combat boots, aviator sunglasses worn indoors (thanks, Max), and full-blown bulletproof vests that are definitely not regulation. Mila has face paint smeared across her cheeks, while Anna sports dog tags that clink against her glittery tank top. Even Boomer is rocking his old uniform pants paired with a black shirt that hugs his arms like a walking recruitment poster. Someone—probably Rooster—has handed out patches, belts, and fake radios to complete the ensemble.

It’s as if a SEAL team crashed a costume party and decided to stay for the festivities.

And the decorations?

All black. Jet black streamers twist across the mirrors, balloons float near the ceiling like ominous little sentinels. A massive poster hangs prominently, proclaiming OPERATION: ASHER 2-4, complete with a skull emblazoned on it. Classy, right? But what truly captures my attention are the cardboard cutouts.

They’re everywhere.

In every corner, tucked behind tables, and lurking behind chairs, are characters who all share one thing in common—they look utterly done with life.

Anger from Inside Out stands with arms crossed, teeth bared.

The Grinch scowls mid-sneer.

Squidward glares.

Batman stands stoically.

The grumpy old man from that balloon house movie scowls.

Even Eeyore made the guest list.

I spot a sign taped to a chair that reads: Reserved for Asher’s Emotional Support Mood.

I blink, then a grin breaks across my face.

And suddenly, I burst into laughter.

Not just a chuckle, but a genuine, loud laugh that erupts from deep within me, unexpected and unrestrained. It’s so absurd, so specific, and yet so wonderfully over-the-top.

But in its own way, it’s also… perfectly fitting.