“Ash, don’t,” Ethan said. “I’ve got it.”
“I’m not leaving him alone right now.”
“He’s not alone. I’m with him?—”
“Ethan.” My voice dropped. “I’m not leaving my brother alone. Get in the car.”
He looked like he wanted to argue but thought better of it, and he slid inside.
I shut the door after him.
Taking a breath, I turned to Mateo, still standing by the curb. “If I find out you did anything to hurt him,” I said, voice low and cold, “I’m coming back for blood. I’m not fucking kidding.”
His hazel eyes went wide.
I shut the door with a sharp snap, and the car sped away.
When I looked back, Henry was staring out the window, face still ashen—his hand clasped tightly in Ethan’s, their fingers intertwined.
I faced forward again and watched the city blur past, trying to swallow down the doubt creeping up my throat.
Back at the apartment, Henry looked much better and kept repeating that Mateo hadn’t done anything. He didn’t say much else, though—not to me. He went straight into his room, and Ethan followed, closing the door behind them.
I probably should’ve left. Instead, I sat there for over an hour, whiskey in hand, scowling at the goddamn door.
If Mateo didn’t do anything, then what the hell did they have to talk about? What was taking them so long? What were they doing in there?
Questions and resentment circled my brain like vultures.
If I’d never left them alone, would they even be this close? What did I miss? What was happening between them?
The thoughts sat wrong in my chest. And at the same time, Henry needed this. He deserved someone he trusted. Someone he could open up to. I should be relieved he’d found that. I should be proud of Ethan for breaking through walls none of us ever could. Instead, bitterness settled in, stubborn and unwelcome.
The creak of the door jolted me out of my spiral.
Ethan stepped out, eyes tired, giving me a small smile as he shut it carefully.
“I thought you’d left.” He walked to the bar, his back to me. The soft pour of liquid into a glass followed.
“Without saying goodbye?”
Ethan’s brows lifted as he turned and came to sit beside me. He sank into the couch, legs spreading lazily, still somehow managing to look inviting even in exhaustion. “Why are you mad?” His voice was rough, worn thin around the edges.
“I’m not mad, darling. I’m worried.”
He pressed the rim of his glass to his mouth and took a slow sip. “Mateo didn’t do anything to him, Ash. Henny had a panic attack.”
“Why?”
His lips pulled down. “He got triggered.”
“Why?” I pushed.
“Why do you think?”
“Don’t be fucking coy with me, Ethan. If Henry wants to protect that guy?—”
“Do you honestly think I’d let someone hurt him and walk away?”
