Chapter 1 #2
Rodriguez's voice cut through Carmen's: You've got more in you, Torres.
It was time to prove it. I signed up for the first paramedic course.
The next morning, I was on the balcony before the sun was fully up. Two cups of coffee, waiting for her.
Ava Rothwell moved into the apartment next door four years ago. The week before Thanksgiving. I remembered because she'd been carrying a box of medical textbooks that weighed more than she did, and I'd offered to help.
She looked at me like I'd suggested she couldn't handle it herself.
She could. She did. But she'd also said thank you afterward, standing in her doorway surrounded by boxes, dark circles under her eyes, and her auburn hair escaping its ponytail. There was something about the way she smiled, like she wasn’t used to accepting help, that stuck with me.
That first night, neither of us could sleep. I'd come off a bad call, the kind that follows you home. She'd just finished a thirty-six-hour shift in the ER. We'd both ended up on our balconies at 3 AM. We were strangers. Neither of us had the energy to pretend we were okay.
She'd told me about losing a patient—a kid, hit by a car. There was nothing she could do. I'd told her about the fire we couldn't get to in time.
We'd sat in the dark and talked about the weight of holding lives in your hands, about the exhaustion that comes from caring too much, about needing someone who understood without explanation. We'd been showing up on that balcony ever since.
Now it was routine: whoever was up first made coffee. We talked, or we didn't. We shared space. No demands.
She'd been a resident then, exhausted and driven, building herself into the doctor she wanted to be. Now she was board-certified, an attending at thirty-two, and still the most interesting person I knew.
I'd been in love with her for years. Maybe since that first night on the balcony, when she'd trusted me with her grief, and I'd trusted her with mine. But I'd never said a word. Never found the courage to cross the line from neighbor to something more.
Every time I came close, Carmen's voice crept back in. The old wound. The old doubt.
Ava was a doctor. I was a firefighter.
She was brilliant, driven, the kind of doctor who made split-second decisions that meant life or death. She'd put herself through medical school on scholarships and loans, built her career from nothing, and earned every bit of respect she had.
And me? I ran into burning buildings. Made decent money. Came home smelling like smoke more often than not. Solid. Steady. The kind of man Carmen had found lacking.
Why would Ava ever choose me?
So I made her coffee. Showed up on the balcony. Kept her company on the bad nights and the good ones. Told myself that friendship was enough, that being in her life at all was more than I deserved.
Years of lying to myself. Years of wanting something I was too afraid to reach for.
"You've got that look again."
I turned. Ava was leaning in her doorway, arms crossed, watching me with those sharp green eyes that never missed anything.
"What look?"
"The one where you're thinking too loud."
She was still in scrubs, auburn hair scraped back in a messy ponytail, loose strands falling around her face.
Dark circles under her eyes. Even exhausted, she was beautiful.
Even exhausted, even pale from too many night shifts and not enough sunlight, she was beautiful in the way that made my chest hurt.
Delicate features that might be soft if she ever stopped frowning. A small scar on her left hand from residency. The lean build of someone who ran when she could find time and forgot to eat when she couldn’t.
"Bad shift?"
"They're all bad shifts."
"Fair point."
Through the glass door, I could see her cat watching us. Doctor Watson. A gray British Shorthair with yellow eyes and a light blue collar. She'd named him that because she devoured detective novels on her rare days off. He looked like he was plotting murder.
"Watson's staring at me again."
"He stares at everyone. It's how he shows interest."
"He looks like he's calculating how to hide my body."
"Don't be dramatic."
Despite the threatening expression, Watson was the friendliest cat I'd ever met. He greeted everyone at the door, demanded attention from strangers, and slept sprawled across Ava's chest every night like a furry, judgmental blanket.
"He acts tough, but he's secretly sweet." I held her gaze. "Can't imagine where he learned that."
"I'm not sweet."
"Right. My mistake."
She rolled her eyes, but I caught the ghost of a smile.
Carmen never asked about my work. She didn't want to know the details, the weight of it, the cost. She wanted me to come home and be normal. Leave the job at the station.
Ava was different. She asked questions. She understood the specific kind of tired that came from holding someone's life in your hands. She made me feel like I mattered—not despite my job, but because of it.
"You're staring, Torres."
"Just wondering how someone can look that tired and still be vertical."
"Years of practice and spite."
"Spite's underrated."
The sun was fully up now. She needed to sleep. I had a shift in a few hours.
"Same time tomorrow?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
She went inside, Watson trotting after her. I watched her go and thought: Soon. I’d tell her soon.
Later that day, I was at the station. Slow shift. Equipment checks, drills, and the comfortable rhythm of waiting for the tones.
Shane found me in the kitchen, nursing a coffee.
"Heard you signed up for the paramedic program."
"News travels fast."
"Cap's proud of you. Told everyone at breakfast."
I shrugged, already uncomfortable with the attention. "It's not a big deal."
"It is, though." Shane sat across from me. "You've been coasting for a while. Nice to see you want something."
I didn't ask what he meant. We both knew.
"So," he said, "you and Ava."
"There's no me and Ava."
"Right. You just make her coffee every morning and look at her like she's the answer to every question you've ever had. Totally normal neighbor behavior." He paused. "For four years now."
"Drop it."
"I'm just saying. Maya and I were 'just friends' once, too."
I looked at my coffee, swirling it in the mug.
"What if she doesn't see me that way?"
"What if she does?"
"She's a doctor, Shane. Brilliant. Driven. The kind of person who's actually going places—"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't do that thing where you convince yourself you're not good enough." Shane's voice was firm. "That's Carmen. Not reality."
I went still. I'd never told Shane Carmen's exact words. But Shane knew me. Saw me.
"You're a good man, Brian. You show up. You care. You run into burning buildings to save strangers. That's not nothing. That's everything."
The conversation was interrupted by Garrett, who appeared in the doorway.
"Tones are about to drop."
"How do you always know?" Shane asked.
"I pay attention."
Sure enough, ten seconds later, the alarm sounded. We moved as one. Boots, gear, the engine roaring to life. This was the job. This was who we were.
But as I climbed into the truck, I thought about what Shane had said. What Rodriguez had said. What I wanted.
Maybe it was time to stop hiding.