Page 52 of Boss and Brat

Carter softened. “Trying’s enough.”

He let that sit for a moment before adding, “And third rule: no more calling Tomás a pussy in front of law enforcement.”

Ethan snorted—an actual laugh, short and startled. “He deserved it.”

“Probably,” Carter said. “Still not the point.”

Ethan’s shoulders loosened. The tension that had been coiled in him since Duarte knocked on the door started to unwind. He looked younger like this. Softer. Like he wasn’t waiting for the world to collapse on him.

Carter stood and started clearing the plates. “You did good tonight. Even if you scared the hell out of me.”

Ethan blinked. “I scared you?”

“Yeah,” Carter said. “Because I care what happens to you.”

Ethan didn’t say anything, but the look he gave Carter—wide, uncertain, grateful—hit him harder than he expected.

Carter turned back to the sink before he said something he wasn’t ready to unpack.

“Alright,” he said, rinsing a plate. “That’s enough heavy shit for one night.”

Ethan nodded. “Okay.”

But Carter could feel it—the shift between them. The trust settling in. The kid believing he wasn’t going anywhere.

And Carter knew, deep down, he’d fight anyone who tried to take Ethan away.

The cabin settled into that deep kind of silence that only came after a long, ugly day. The dishes were washed, the lights dimmed, and Ethan had disappeared into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Carter stood in the kitchen, leaning both hands on the counter, staring at the dark window like it might give him answers.

He felt wrung out. Not from the fight with Tomás. Not from Duarte. From Ethan. From the way the kid looked at him like he was the only solid thing left in the world.

Carter scrubbed a hand over his face. He didn’t know when it had happened—when concern had turned into something heavier, something that sat under his ribs and refused to move. He cared. Too much. More than he should. More than made sense. And he didn’t know how the hell to stop.

Footsteps were coming up behind him, real quiet-like. In the window, Carter could see Ethan hovered in the doorway, hair damp, wearing one of Carter’s old shirts that hung off him like it belonged there.

“Carter?” Ethan’s voice was low, hesitant. “Are you… still mad?”

Carter turned, and the kid looked like he was bracing for impact. That hit harder than anything Tomás could’ve thrown.

“No,” Carter said. “I’m not mad.”

Ethan’s shoulders dropped a little, but he still looked unsure. “You were earlier.”

“Yeah,” Carter admitted. “Because you scared the shit out of me.”

Ethan blinked. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know you didn’t.” Carter stepped closer, slow, careful. “But you gotta understand something. When you hide things from me, when you deal with crap alone… it makes me feel like I’m failing you.”

Ethan’s breath caught. “You’re not failing me.”

Carter looked at him—really looked. The tired eyes, the bruised pride, the kid who’d been carrying too much for too long. And something inside Carter twisted again, sharp and warm and terrifying.

He cared. God, he cared so damn much. He didn’t know how to turn it off. Didn’t know if he even wanted to.

He reached out and rested a hand on Ethan’s shoulder, thumb brushing the fabric of the borrowed shirt. Ethan leaned into it without thinking, like it was instinct.

“I’m not mad,” Carter said again, softer. “I’m just… worried. And I don’t want you thinking I’m gonna throw you out every time something goes wrong.”