Chapter 13
Brian
I woke up with Ava in my arms.
It still surprised me, even after all these weeks.
The weight of her against my chest, her hair tickling my chin, her breathing slow and steady in the early morning light.
Watson had claimed the foot of the bed at some point during the night—he always did—and was watching us with the vaguely disapproving look of a cat who believed he deserved more real estate.
This was my life now. Ours, somehow.
I pressed a kiss to the top of Ava's head, careful not to wake her. She'd worked a double yesterday, came home exhausted, and still insisted on quizzing me for an hour before we fell into bed together.
"Drug interaction: epinephrine and beta blockers."
"Reduced effectiveness. Higher doses needed. Watch for rebound hypertension."
"Good. Pediatric adenosine."
"0.1 mg/kg IV push, max 6 mg first dose."
“Perfect. You're going to pass this exam.”
“Only because I have the best teacher.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Torres.”
“Do I get a reward?”
She'd raised an eyebrow at that, a smile tugging at her lips. “What kind of reward did you have in mind, Torres?”
I'd shown her exactly what I had in mind. And she obliged—enthusiastically—until we were both breathless and tangled in the sheets, the flashcards scattered forgotten across the floor.
I was getting very good at pharmacology.
Ava stirred, made a soft sound, and burrowed closer. I tightened my arm around her and let myself have this moment. The quiet before the day began. The certainty of her.
We'd fallen into a rhythm, these past few weeks. Mornings tangled together, reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed. Shifts that sometimes overlapped—and those were the best days, the ones where I'd bring a patient into her ER and catch her eye across the trauma bay, mid-shift.
Professional. Appropriate. But the look she'd give me when no one was watching made the twelve-hour shift worth it.
Once, I'd cornered her in the supply closet. Just for a minute. Just long enough to kiss her breathless and remind her I was thinking about her.
"Torres, we're at work," she'd whispered, but she was smiling.
"I know. I don't care."
"Someone could walk in."
"Then you better stay quiet."
She hadn't been quiet. Not entirely. But no one had walked in, and the flush on her cheeks when she emerged had been worth every risk.
Evenings were study sessions—with her curled on the couch with my textbook, Watson supervising from the armchair, me pacing the kitchen while she drilled me on trauma protocols and cardiac rhythms. She was demanding. Exacting. Accepted nothing less than perfection.
I'd never loved anyone like this.
And every night, we fell into bed together. Sometimes desperate, sometimes slow. Always with the same overwhelming certainty that this was exactly where I was supposed to be.
I was in love with Ava Rothwell. And she loved me back. Still couldn't believe it.
The exam was in three days. The case against the Langs was finally moving. Everything I'd wanted finally felt within reach.
The call came while I was at the station, halfway through equipment checks.
Detective Diaz's name on the screen. My pulse kicked. It always did when she called.
Good news or bad news, with this case, it could go either way.
"Torres."
"I have news." Diaz's voice was different. Lighter. Almost... excited. "The DA is reopening the case."
I sat down on the bumper of the engine. My legs had apparently decided to stop working.
"You're serious."
"Dead serious. The evidence package we put together—the traffic footage, the financial records, the witness statements—was enough. The DA's office is convening a grand jury. Kevin Lang is going to be formally indicted for vehicular manslaughter."
"Holy shit."
"There's more." I could hear the smile in her voice.
"Richard Lang is being investigated separately.
Obstruction of justice, witness tampering, conspiracy.
The shell company payments, the pressure on witnesses—it's all coming out.
Captain Hendricks has been placed on administrative leave pending an internal affairs investigation. "
The words didn't land right away. They just... sat there.
We'd won. Actually won.
"Torres? You still there?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here." I ran a hand over my face, realized I was grinning so hard my face hurt. "Diaz, I don't know how to thank you. If you hadn't—"
"Don't thank me. Thank the evidence. And thank Dr. Rothwell for having the guts to come forward in the first place." A pause. "This is what justice is supposed to look like, Torres. I'm just glad I got to be part of it."
"You were more than part of it. We couldn't have done this without you."
"Just doing my job. The way it should have been done from the start."
She hung up. I sat there for another minute, phone in my hand, letting it sink in.
The Langs were going down. Kevin was going to face justice. Ava was going to be safe.
And with the DA moving forward, it was time to let Sloane publish. Put the whole story out there—the cover-up, the corruption, the six months Derek Edwards' family spent waiting for answers that almost never came.
I needed to tell Ava. Now.
She was curled up on the couch when I got home, Watson sprawled across her lap, sunlight streaming through the windows. Two mugs of coffee sat on the table—still steaming—and something about her expression made me pause in the doorway.
"I have news," I said, already grinning. "Detective Diaz called. The DA is reopening the case. Kevin's being indicted."
Ava's smile widened. "I know."
I blinked. "You know?"
"Diaz called me too." She gently displaced Watson, who meowed in protest, and crossed to me. "We did it, Brian. We really did."
I pulled her into my arms and buried my face in her hair. She smelled like the hospital—antiseptic and exhaustion—but underneath it all, she smelled like home.
"I was so scared," I admitted against her neck. "For months, I was terrified they were going to win. That they'd find a way to make it all disappear."
"Me too." Her arms tightened around me. "But we didn't let them."
We stood there for a long moment, just holding each other. The past weeks finally started to lift. The fear. The vigilance. All of it.
Finally starting to lift.
"I think it's time," I said eventually. "To ask Sloane to publish."
Ava pulled back and looked up at me. "You think so?"
"The DA moved. The grand jury is convening. The story was going to come out anyway—better it came from someone who’d tell it right, someone who'll make sure Derek Edwards' family gets the truth they deserve."
She nodded slowly. "I'll call her tomorrow."
"We're really doing this."
“Yeah. We are."
We drank our coffee. Made breakfast together—nothing fancy, just eggs and whatever was in the fridge. Talked about everything and nothing. Normal. Domestic. Ours.
Eventually, the conversation turned to the exam.
"Three days," Ava said, settling back onto the couch with her mug. "You ready?"
"As ready as I'm going to be." I sat beside her, close enough that our shoulders touched. "Thanks to a certain demanding instructor who refused to let me fail."
"I didn't refuse to let you fail. I just made failure too unpleasant to consider."
"Same thing."
She smiled—that private smile that was just for me. "You're going to do great, Brian. You know the material. You've put in the work. All that's left is showing up and proving what I already know."
"What's that?"
"That you're going to be an incredible paramedic." She leaned into me. "Rodriguez was right about you."
I kissed the top of her head. "I believe it now."
"Good." She tilted her face up, and I kissed her properly. Soft. Slow. Full of promise.
"Three more days," I murmured against her lips.
"And then we celebrate."
I was already counting the hours.
The testing center smelled like anxiety and industrial disinfectant.
I sat at my assigned computer station, one of thirty candidates scattered across the room in neat rows.
The proctor had given us the usual speech—no phones, no talking, raise your hand if you have a technical issue.
Around me, people were already clicking through their exams, faces tight with concentration.
I stared at the screen. The cursor blinked, waiting.
Months of studying had led to this moment.
Twelve hundred hours of coursework crammed between shift work and sleep deprivation.
Nights on the couch with Ava curled beside me, her voice running through drug interactions and trauma protocols while Watson supervised from the armchair like a furry, judgmental professor emeritus.
Drug interaction: beta blockers and calcium channel blockers.
Additive effect. Risk of severe bradycardia and hypotension.
I could hear her voice in my head, precise and demanding. She'd pushed me harder than any instructor, expected more from me than I'd expected from myself. Because she knew I was capable—even when I didn't.
I thought about everyone who'd believed in me.
Rodriguez, pulling me aside after that commendation ceremony months ago. You’ve got more in you, Torres. It’s time to stop selling yourself short.
Shane, who'd never doubted. Who'd told me, flat out, that the voice in my head telling me I wasn't good enough was Carmen talking, not reality.
My parents, who'd driven in from the Bronx to celebrate before I'd even taken the test, because that’s what the Torres family did. We showed up. We believed in each other.
And Ava. God, Ava.
You believed in me. That's not nothing.
A different voice surfaced, one I hadn't heard in weeks. Carmen, distant now, fading like a photograph left in the sun.
I want someone who's going somewhere.
I took a breath. Let it out slow.
I reminded myself that I was going somewhere. Running into burning buildings, pulling people from wreckage, holding their hands while they took their last breaths or their first breaths of clean air. That was going somewhere. That mattered.