Page 48 of Boss and Brat

They unloaded everything into the cabin’s living room. Ethan dropped his duffel by the couch, then hovered like he wasn’t sure where he was allowed to stand.

Carter leaned against the counter. “You can put your stuff in the spare room. Closet’s empty.”

Ethan looked at him, eyes softening. “Thanks. For… all of this.”

Carter shrugged. “You needed a place.”

“That’s not all you did,” Ethan said.

Carter felt that one land. He looked away, pretending to straighten a stack of mail on the counter. “Don’t make it a big thing.”

“It is to me.”

Carter exhaled through his nose. The kid had a way of saying things that hit too close. “Alright. Then you’re welcome.”

Ethan smiled—small, tired, but real—and carried his stuff down the hall.

Carter watched him go, feeling that same mix he’d been fighting for days now. Protective. Proud. And something else he kept shoving back behind a line he wasn’t supposed to cross.

A few minutes later, Ethan came back out, hands shoved in his pockets again.

“So,” Ethan said, “I’m really living here now.”

“Yeah,” Carter said. “You are.”

Ethan nodded slowly. “Feels… good.”

Carter met his eyes. “Good.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The cabin felt too full of something unspoken.

Then Carter cleared his throat. “You hungry? I can make something.”

Ethan’s smile widened. “Yeah. I could eat.”

Carter turned toward the kitchen, grateful for something to do with his hands. “Alright then. Welcome home.”

Ethan’s footsteps followed him, soft and sure.

And Carter tried not to think too hard about how right that sounded. He pulled the steaks off the grill pan and set them onthe counter to rest. The baked potatoes were already split open and steaming, butter melting into the cracks. He tossed the salad last, crisp lettuce snapping under his hands. It felt good to cook—simple, steady work that didn’t talk back or hide things from him.

He plated everything and set the dishes on the table. He’d barely taken a step back when someone started pounding on the front door. Not knocking—pounding. The kind of knock that meant trouble.

Ethan appeared behind him like a shadow, eyes wide, shoulders tight.

Carter muttered, “Great,” under his breath and went to answer it.

Officer Rafael Duarte stood on the porch, uniform neat, expression unreadable. Carter’s stomach dropped. Nothing good ever came from a cop showing up at dinnertime.

“What do you want?” Carter asked.

“I’m here to issue a complaint against Ethan Evans.”

Carter felt Ethan stiffen behind him. “What complaint?”

“Can we talk inside?”

Carter didn’t like the way the man said it, but he stepped aside anyway. He led him to the living room. Ethan stuck close—too close—like he needed the couch to swallow him whole. Carter sat, and Ethan practically glued himself to his side.