Page 24 of Boss and Brat

Ethan glanced up, wary.

Carter kept his eyes on the table, voice low. “Growing up, I tried fitting into whatever shape my family wanted. Didn’t take.” He gave a small shrug, the kind that tried to make light of something that wasn’t light at all. “Figured the Corps might straighten it out.”

He remained silent, letting the quiet fill the space where words might have been. He never explained how he stood rigid for years or how he trained his voice to sound flat so no one heard anything off. He never spoke of the nights spent awake in the barracks, overhearing crude jokes aimed at people like him.

Instead, he tapped the edge of his soda can—once, twice—an old habit from long briefings when he needed to stay calm. “Turns out you can follow every rule in the book and still not fit.”

Ethan’s eyes softened, just a fraction.

Carter looked at him. “You’re not the only one who’s had to tuck pieces of yourself away.”

Ethan’s fingers tightened around the table’s edge, a small, unsteady movement. The silence between them shifted—less defensive, more exposed.

Carter leaned back, giving him room. “You don’t have to spell it out,” he said. “I’m not asking for that.”

Ethan’s breath hitched, barely audible.

Carter nodded once, slow. “Just letting you know I get the shape of it.”

He refrained from saying more; the air was thick with unasked questions. Didn’t pry. But he stayed right there, steady and unflinching, letting Ethan see that whatever truth he carried—whatever daylight he feared—Carter wasn’t going anywhere.

Ethan’s eyes flicked up, quick and wary. “Is that how you felt?”

“Yeah,” Carter said. “Like I had to hide parts of myself just to get through the day.”

Ethan’s throat tightened, like he was grinding down something bitter. When he spoke, the words came out low, almost careful.

“There are parts of me that don’t play well out loud,” he said. “Once people catch a glimpse, things go sideways fast. Some folks don’t handle it… and I’m the one who pays for it.”

He kept his eyes on the table, shoulders pulled in, like he expected the room to turn on him for saying even that much.

Carter felt the warning under the words—not poetic, not dramatic.

Just the kind of truth a kid learns the hard way.

The words hung there—careful, shaped around the truth without naming it. A warning wrapped in understatement. Ethan kept his eyes on the table, shoulders pulled in, like he expected someone to swing at him for saying even that much.

The shift in the room. Not fear—Ethan wasn’t the type to crumble—but a kind of bracing, the way a man tenses before a hit he’s taken before. Too many times.

Carter had seen Marines talk like that—men who learned early that the wrong truth in the wrong room could get them hurt. Men who learned to tuck pieces of themselves away just to stay alive.

Ethan’s fingers pressed into the edge of the table, knuckles pale. He kept his gaze lowered although he didn’t need to. The meaning sat between them, heavy and unmistakable.

Carter leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. “You don’t owe anyone full broadcast,” he said. “Some things stay off comms until you decide otherwise.”

Ethan’s fingers twitched at the phrase—recognition, maybe. Carter kept going, voice steady. “And if someone can’t handle the parts you keep locked down? That’s on them, not you.” His world ran on a need-to-know basis, and Ethan deserved that kind of protection.

The words hit somewhere Ethan didn’t want to show.

Carter held his gaze on him, quiet and solid. “And you’re not alone in this room.”

He didn’t say more. Didn’t push. Didn’t reach across the table even though every instinct told him to. But he let the silence settle in a way that told Ethan exactly what he meant.

Carter had suspected Ethan carried something heavy, but from the raw honesty in the kid’s voice, he rarely let anything slip.

Carter leaned further forward, moved his forearms to the table. “Let me protect you,” he said. “And teach you how to protect yourself.”

At first, Ethan remained completely still, the silence around him thick. His fingers stilled. His breathing slowed. But his eyes—those gave him away. A flicker of something like hope, buried under fear and anger, and exhaustion.