“Hey, kid!” he slurred, leaning in close enough for the stench of alcohol to overwhelm Ethan’s senses.
“Why are you so quiet. Did the cat get your tongue?”
Ethan shrank back, his body folding inward. His heart raced. His throat locked. Sound disappeared.
“Come on,” the man laughed, raising a heavy hand. “Smile for me.”
Ethan squeezed his eyes shut and stopped breathing.
Then—
“Excuse me, sir.”
The voice wasn’t loud, but it was solid.
Martha stepped between them, her body forming a barrier. She held a tray of glasses but stood as firm as a locked door.
“I need to clean this area,” she said evenly.
“There’s broken glass on the floor. It’s not safe.”
The man scoffed, muttered, and wandered off in search of another drink.
Only then did Martha turn to Ethan.
She didn’t tower over him.
She lowered herself slowly, placing the tray aside, until her eyes met his at the same level.
She said nothing.
She simply held out her hand—open, steady, close but not too close.
A silent promise: I’m here. You’re safe.
Across the room, Charles froze mid-conversation, watching.
Ethan studied her face.
No pity.
No demand.
Just presence.
His shoulders eased. His trembling fingers reached out and wrapped around hers.