Chapter 6 Ava #2
"Ava." His voice caught. "That's incredible." He stepped closer, hands lifting toward me before he stopped himself. "How do you feel?"
"I don't know yet." I managed a small smile.
His eyes were warm, steady. "You did that. You made that happen."
"I just told the truth."
"Yeah." His voice was quieter now. "That's exactly what you did."
We stood there in the hallway, close enough to touch, the muffled sounds of the crew filtering through the door. One step. That's all it would take. I could feel the pull of it—his chest, his arms, the certainty that he'd catch me if I let myself fall.
Instead, I took a breath. Squared my shoulders.
"We should get back in there before Shane rearranges all the furniture again."
Brian laughed, and the moment passed. But as he held the door open for me, his hand brushed the small of my back—brief, barely there—and I felt it all the way to my bones.
By sunset, the apartment finally looked like a home.
The crew had worked through lunch and into the afternoon, unpacking boxes, arranging furniture, arguing about where the TV should go.
Shane won. The couch faced the wall where a TV would eventually be.
Rodriguez hung pictures while Maria unpacked the kitchen.
Zoe's floor plan had been modified approximately seven times, but she maintained that her original vision was superior.
Captain Rodriguez was the first to start gathering his family. He gently woke Marco and Lucia, who had fallen asleep on the couch with Watson wedged between them like a gray, fluffy guardian.
"Up, mijo." Rodriguez lifted Marco when the boy reached for him, settling his son against his shoulder. "Time to go home."
Marco mumbled something unintelligible and burrowed closer. Lucia rubbed her eyes, then looked for Watson, who was stretching luxuriously on the warm spot she'd vacated.
Shane and Maya were already by the door, Maya carrying empty food containers, Shane jingling his keys. Garrett had slipped out an hour ago with a nod. Quiet and gone, the way he always was.
Maria hugged me at the door. "You call if you need anything. Anything at all."
"I will."
Rodriguez shook Brian's hand, then clapped him on the shoulder. "Take care of her."
"Cap—"
"I know, I know. She doesn't need taking care of." Rodriguez glanced at me, eyes crinkling. "Doesn't mean people can't try."
They filed out one by one, leaving their particular brand of chaos behind. Boxes still stacked in corners. Furniture was mostly in place. The kitchen was half-organized, with dishes piled on counters.
But it felt right. Lived in. Ours.
Brian shut the door behind the last of them and leaned against it, exhaling.
"Sorry about... all of that."
"Don't be."
"They're a lot. I should have warned you—"
"Brian." I turned to face him. "Stop apologizing. They're wonderful. All of them." I glanced around the apartment. Their laughter still seemed to hang in the air.
"You're lucky, you know. Having people like that."
"We've walked into burning buildings together." He shrugged. "That either breaks you or bonds you. We got lucky."
"No, I imagine not."
He looked at me. Lamplight caught the exhaustion in his face, the day's work etched into the lines around his eyes. He looked rumpled. Happy. So fundamentally good that something in me went soft and terrified at the same time.
"Pizza?" he asked.
"God, yes."
We ordered from the place down the street. The good one, with the thin crust and the perfect ratio of cheese to sauce.
Watson emerged from wherever he'd been, drawn by the smell of pepperoni. He wound between us, tail flicking hopefully.
"No people food," I told him.
He gave me his most pathetic look. It was entirely unconvincing, given his permanently threatening expression.
"He's not as cute as he thinks he is," Brian said.
"Don't listen to him." I scratched Watson's ears. "You're very cute."
"You're undermining my authority."
"You have no authority. He's my cat."
"He's our cat now." Brian reached over and rubbed under Watson's chin. "We're roommates. What's yours is mine."
Our.
The word landed somewhere it shouldn't. I let it sit there anyway.
"Thank you," I said. "For today. For all of it."
Brian looked up. "You don't have to thank me."
Brian looked up. "You don't have to thank me."
He held my gaze in the lamplight. "You're part of the crew now. Whether you like it or not.
I should argue. Should remind him that this was temporary, that I'd find my own place eventually. Instead, I said, "Maybe I like it."
His smile came slowly. The real one—the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look younger, softer, like someone who hadn't spent years running into burning buildings.
That night, I lay awake in the bedroom that was beginning to feel like mine.
Watson was sprawled across my chest, purring. His weight grounded me to the mattress. The ceiling had a different crack than Brian's. Shorter. More like a pause than a wandering river. My mind kept circling back to everything that mattered.
The crew showed up without being asked. Maria pressed food into my hands. Rodriguez was calling me family like it was already true. The way they'd all just folded me into their rhythm like I'd always been there.
And Brian. In the next room, probably not sleeping either. Both of us pretending we weren't thinking about almost-moments and closed doors.
I tried to imagine it. Belonging somewhere. Letting the walls down long enough to find out what was on the other side.
I'd spent so long keeping people at arm's length. My mother had needed my father like oxygen, and it had hollowed her out. My father had loved conditionally, strategically—a reward system dressed up as affection.
I'd learned early: don't need anyone. Don't give them that power.
Independence was the only currency that couldn't be taken away.
Needing no one meant no one could hurt you.
But lying here, Watson warm on my chest, Brian's laughter still caught somewhere in my ribs.
What if I'd had it backwards all along?
Maybe needing people wasn't weakness.
Maybe needing people wasn't the trap I'd always thought it was.
Or maybe I was just too tired to keep my guard up. It was hard to tell the difference at 2 AM.
Four years of Brian showing up. And now his whole crew, doing the same. No strings. No ledger. Just... presence.
Family.
The word sat in my chest like something borrowed. Something I wasn't sure I was allowed to keep.
But maybe I could learn.
Or maybe I'd already started.