Chapter Five
Ethan turned away from the cabin and walked toward the lake, unsure if he was supposed to start working or wait for instructions. The water shimmered through the trees, calm and silver, and he let himself stare at it just to settle his nerves.
Ethan twisted around. “We’re done?”
“Nope,” Carter said, stepping closer. “We’re gonna talk about my expectations for you.”
Ethan rolled his eyes and tipped his head back. Of course we are. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and took a long drag.
Carter raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t anyone tell you smoking’s bad for you?”
“What’s it to you?” Ethan muttered, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth.
“No smoking in my presence,” Carter said. “No smoking on the job or in your barn.”
Ethan ignored him and took another slow drag, exhaling the smoke directly toward Carter just to see what he’d do. He didn’t have to wait long.
Carter stepped forward, plucked the cigarette right from Ethan’s lips, tossed it to the ground, and crushed it under his boot.
“Don’t do that again,” Carter said, voice low but firm.
Ethan’s pulse kicked up. “What are you gonna do if I smoke?”
Carter didn’t answer. He just jerked his chin toward the cabin. “Follow me.”
Ethan tilted his head, half defiant, half curious, but he trailed behind him anyway even when he pretended he wouldn’t. Carter took the short path toward the cabin, trying not to stare but failing anyway. He’d been inside once, back when another ranch hand lived there.
Carter turned the key, the lock clicking open, and stepped into the entryway.
Ethan followed Carter inside, trying not to look like he was casing the place even though that’s exactly what it felt like, and let the door swing shut behind him.
The place hit him with that warm, woodsy smell he already associated with Carter—clean, steady, and no-nonsense.
“Remove your boots and socks.”
Ethan yanked off his boots, stuffed his socks inside, and tossed them against the wall without thinking. They hit with a dull thud and landed crooked, one tipped on its side.
Before he could turn away, Carter’s voice cut through the room—sharp, low, and impossible to ignore. “Straighten those boots. Like mine.”
Ethan glanced over his shoulder. Carter wasn’t yelling, but the look he gave him—steady, unimpressed, and way too calm—hit harder than a shout.
Carter stood by the door, his own muddy boots lined up perfectly in the tray, toes even, heels touching.
The man didn’t have to raise his voice; that stare alone made Ethan’s stomach dip.
For a second, Ethan considered ignoring him. Just to see what would happen. Just to push back. But Carter didn’t look away. Didn’t blink. Didn’t budge. That did it.
Ethan let out a quiet breath, more annoyed at himself than at Carter, and stooped to fix the mess he’d made. He set each boot beside Carter’s, matching the angle without knowing why he cared so much about getting it right.
He straightened up, feeling weirdly exposed. “Didn’t know boots had to pass inspection,” he muttered.
But he understood at least a little. Carter lived in a world where everything had a place, and Ethan… didn’t. Not yet. And maybe that was the part that bothered him most.
He trailed Carter through the living room, feet treading softly on the floor.
The living room was the first shock. The leather couch looked practically new, the chairs angled just right, the huge TV mounted perfectly level.
Nothing was crooked. Nothing was tossed aside.
Nothing looked lived-in the way Ethan understood it.
Pictures of Carter in the Marines—uniform crisp, expression serious. A couple of Texas Tech degrees in Agricultural Business. Certificates arranged in perfect rows. But no people. No family photos. No friends. Nothing personal, except the proof that Carter had lived a whole life before this ranch.
They drifted down the hallway, and Carter nudged open the bathroom door. Ethan leaned in and blinked. The place smelled like cedar soap, sharp and clean. Fresh towels hung straight. The sink gleamed. No mildew. No clutter. No damp towel thrown over a chair because someone forgot about it.
Ethan said nothing, but something in his chest tightened. He wasn’t used to spaces that didn’t feel like they were one bad day away from falling apart. Next, he trudged behind Carter into the kitchen, and that’s where it hit Ethan—really hit him.
The warm brown cabinets, the mosaic tile, the spotless counters… everything looked arranged with purpose. Not obsessive, but intentional. Like someone who knew exactly where things belonged and why.
Ethan dragged his fingers along the counter, the smooth surface cool under his hand. And suddenly the comparison slammed into him without warning.
His barn.
His chaos.
His life that never had edges or structure or anything that stayed where it was supposed to.
This kitchen wasn’t just tidy.
It was a life built on discipline.
A life that made sense.
And for a moment, Ethan felt something twist low in his stomach—envy, maybe. Or grief for the version of himself who might’ve grown up in a place like this, with someone who taught him how to keep things steady.
He pulled his hand back quickly, like the counter had burned him. Carter didn’t comment. Didn’t look smug or judgmental. He just watched him, arms crossed, like he knew exactly what Ethan was feeling and would not make him say it out loud. And that made the moment land even harder.
“Let me show you the bedrooms so you know where things are.” He showed Ethan the two bedrooms.
Both simple. One clearly Carter’s bed made tight, more boots in disciplined rows, a folded blanket at the foot. The other room was empty except for a spare bed and a dresser, as if it were waiting for someone who never came. And all walls in both rooms were empty.
The realization hit Ethan harder than he had expected. It wasn’t just the empty walls—it was a quiet that didn’t belong to a man who’d lived this much life.
A small chill slid down his spine, the kind that had nothing to do with temperature.
His throat tightened before he could stop it, and for a second his own mess of a barn flashed in his mind—clothes everywhere, half-finished projects, the chaos he lived in because he didn’t know how to live any other way.
Carter’s cabin had none of that. No clutter.
No noise. No people. Just order. Just silence.
And suddenly that silence turned heavy, like a weight pressing against Ethan’s ribs. For a man who seemed so put-together, the emptiness on those walls said something else entirely—something lonely, something private, something Ethan wasn’t sure he had any right to notice. But he noticed anyway.
“We’re going to talk in the kitchen,” Carter said.