Page 11 of Boomer (SEAL Team Tier 1, #7)

He disconnected. She lowered the phone slowly, like it might bite her.

Her breathing went shallow. Bunking with the teams. Bunking near Boomer.Seeing him in hallways, passing him at coffee stations, sleeping one thin wall away from that voice, that body, that memory.

She swayed where she stood. She might need a paper bag.

Or a goddamned defibrillator.

Too tired to actually make it all the way back to her little cottage, she went back out to the car, grabbed the bag she kept for emergencies out of her trunk, then went back inside, securing the door.

Her room was spacious but private. Bed, desk, en suite bathroom, and a keyed locker for her weapon and comms. Tomorrow, she’d issue badges, giving all of them access to the compound, to MAOC (N) headquarters, and to the encrypted brief servers.

Tonight…she just needed sleep and space.

The tile was slick beneath Boomer’s flip flops as he stepped inside the group shower, towel slung low on his hips, his kit under one arm and a faint scowl clinging to his face.

Steam curled thick in the air, turning the overhead lights into soft-edged halos.

Voices echoed, bare skin gleamed, and someone’s soap had surrendered completely in the corner drain.

Heads turned.

Breakneck was the first to spot him. He leaned back against the wall, water cascading off his shoulders, cobalt eyes gleaming like trouble incarnate.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “I’m studying at the feet of a master.”

Boomer dropped his kit on the bench and sighed. “Don’t.”

But Breakneck was already grinning wide. “With two fucking lines , you put Bash in his place and double-tapped Taylor straight to the ovaries. Legendary.”

Boomer groaned, dragging his hand down. “Seriously, kid. Have some respect for her.”

From the far end of the showers, Skull snorted.

“The kid’s right, BoomMonster.” He clapped his hands once, the echo sharp off tile.

“There was a sonic boom when that line went off.” He turned slightly, holding up a bar of soap like a mic.

“ I’m a demo expert, ” he intoned solemnly. “ I know all the explosive languages. ”

Even Boomer laughed at that, just a quiet, broken exhale that hurt his ribs more than he’d admit. “I hate all of you,” he muttered.

“You love us,” Hazard said from the next stall over, rinsing shampoo from his hair. “I’m not even lying. I got a little hard.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Boomer shot back, stepping under the spray with a wince.

Hazard shrugged, unapologetic. “It was the way you said it. All low and calm, like you were about to propose and detonate a claymore at the same time.”

“You’re not opening a door,” Breakneck mimicked, deepening his voice into a sultry growl. “You’re leveling the fucking room.”

“You forgot the part where he stares a hole through the guy’s soul,” Skull added. “Didn’t blink. I was three seconds from confessing shit I didn’t even do.”

Boomer turned into the water, letting it soak his face, his chest, his bruised pride. “He deserved it,” he mumbled.

“Damn right he did,” Hazard said. “But what I want to know is—what did Taylor say after ?”

Boomer didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The pause was enough.

Breakneck’s eyes lit up. “No. No . She looked at you, didn’t she? One of those ‘I’m not touching you in public, but I am absolutely writing your name on my notebook in cursive’ looks.”

“She sighed ,” Boomer muttered. “That’s it. That’s all she did.”

“Did she sigh in German?” Skull asked, mock-gravely. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

“Shut up,” Boomer said. But he was laughing now. Quietly. Helplessly. Like he couldn’t stop it even if he tried.

Preacher leaned out. His voice was low, like a benediction.

“You laid him out without ever raising your voice, no threat, no posturing. You preached. ” He looked at Boomer with quiet fire in his eyes.

“We kid you, Boom, we do. But what you said out there? That wasn’t just a beatdown. That was truth. ”

GQ cried, “Amen.”

“We have Gospel here. That’s the God’s honest truth. He doesn’t need a Bible. He does his thumping with detcord and C4.”

The water washed over them all. Steam rose, and somewhere in the corner, GQ started whistling “Careless Whisper” like it was a funeral dirge for Boomer’s dignity.

Ten minutes later, Boomer lay flat on his back on the comfortable, roomy bed. What a fucking luxury. Break was finishing up in the shower, and Boomer was thankful for the quiet moment. Fuck. He had his own personal goatfuck in the shower.

He hadn’t been much of a church-goer, but being a demolitions expert was a calling, and he didn’t have a house. He knocked shit down, blew shit up, and made sure no one met their maker.

If anything, he was the patron saint of controlled chaos. Of structural precision and walking the line between too much and not enough.

But Gospel?

Gospel meant they listened.

Gospel meant they believed him.

God help him, that scared him more than any breach he’d ever cleared. It wasn’t a joke now. It wasn’t just Skull and Breakneck laughing in the steam. It was Preacher, calm and steady, looking him dead in the eye like Boomer had said something worth remembering. Like it meant something.

For a man who’d built his entire identity around what he could do with his hands, his charge loads, his body, not his words, that kind of belief was dangerous.

He didn’t know how to live up to that.

He made space where nothing should’ve survived, and maybe, just maybe, he was afraid that included himself.

He closed his eyes, wrecked . Bone-deep tired. The kind of exhaustion that usually knocked him out in minutes. But not tonight. She was still in his head.

Taylor.

Every damn breath she’d taken since he stepped off that plane was etched into his brain, the way she’d looked at him, the pause before she answered, the tremble in her jaw, like she was holding something back.

Then she spoke. Crisp, controlled, her voice still laced with that soft German edge that curled around her consonants like a secret.

Was she responding to him?Was that real? Those blown pupils, those unsteady exhales, the way her body had softened, surrendered, against his when she tripped?

Was that him? Or was it the moment? The fatigue? The pressure?

God, he was so hard it hurt. Just shifting made him want to groan.

His body had already decided it knew what it wanted.

He rubbed his hand down, gritting his teeth against the pressure pulsing low in his gut.

He was fighting it, not because he didn’t want her, but because he did , and it scared the hell out of him.

She was younger. Smarter. So goddamn composed it made him feel like a boulder crashing into glass. She was out of his league. She always had been.

He’d felt it the first time they met. Now it was worse. If he wasn’t imagining it, if he was reading her right, she wasn’t angry anymore. She was hurt. That gutted him.

That meant he’d mattered. If he’d mattered enough to hurt her, then he’d fucked up in a way that went deeper than silence or missed texts.

He could still see her, the smear of mascara making her eyes darker, sharper. The way her hair had been up, but loose around her temples, like she’d been asleep, like she’d rushed to meet them. Half armor, half vulnerability.

Fuck, her body, her body against his. The soft press of her breasts crushed against his chest when he caught her. The way her breath had stuttered. Her hands on him. The heat of her skin through her blouse. Her lips just inches from his.

That look in her eyes…had it been real?

Or was he being a fool, projecting what he wanted to see?

He exhaled slowly, trying not to let the ache drown him.

He didn’t just want her body, though he wanted that desperately.

He wanted her forgiveness.

He wanted a second chance.

He wanted to know that maybe, just maybe, she was as involved as he was.

But in the silence of that dark, foreign room, with his team sleeping all around him and the mission looming in the hours ahead, all he could do was lie there. Wide awake. Hard as stone, hoping like hell he wasn’t imagining the way her walls had started to crack.

Break interrupted his thoughts as he entered and went to his bunk. He rummaged in his duffel and pulled on a pair of soft gray shorts, dropping the towel. Jesus, that kid was ripped. “Boomie?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Boomer responded, turning his head.

“We tease you, Boomer, because we love you, but there's nothing funny about being exposed to the team when you've got it bad for a lady.” He pulled the covers over himself.

“Just...be careful, with her heart, sure, but be extra careful with yours, brother.” He turned over and was soon breathing deeply.

Boomer didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Be careful with yours, brother.

The words landed quieter than the rest but harder. Like they’d been dropped in the exact place Boomer kept locked up tight behind his grin and easy drawl.

He let out a slow breath, one that didn’t reach his lungs.

Breakneck didn’t know. None of them did. None of them knew that his heart wasn’t something you could be careful with. It had already been scraped raw and wired back together with whatever was left. He didn’t even know if it still beat right.

Most days, it just…worked. Like the rest of him.

Another tool in the box. Another job to do. Another weight to carry.

He always had a joke. Always. Especially when he was bleeding. Humor was the safest armor, sharp enough to misdirect, soft enough to pass as charm. He’d worn it so long, most people couldn’t even tell when he was using it to deflect.

But Breakneck had looked him in the eye.

Taylor had seen something, too, and that scared the hell out of him.

If she saw past the mask, past his bullshit, the shoulders, the laugh. If she saw him and still leaned in?

God help him.

That meant she wanted more than what he could do. More than his body. More than the warm breath and strong hands and quick fixes he was so good at giving.