Chapter 4 #2
"It's complicated."
"Then uncomplicate it."
I sat down on the arm of my overturned couch. Watson had crept out from Brian's apartment and was winding between my ankles, purring uncertainly.
"Three weeks ago, a patient came into my ER. Overdose. While he was delirious, he confessed to a hit-and-run that killed a seventeen-year-old kid six months ago." I kept my voice steady, clinical. "I reported it. The patient's father is connected. Politically."
Brian was quiet for a moment, processing. "How connected?"
"City council connected."
"Jesus, Ava." He ran a hand over his face. "And you didn't tell me?"
"I didn't want to—" I stopped. What? Worry him? Involve him? Admit that I'd been scared for three weeks and too proud to say it?
"You didn't want to what?"
I didn't have an answer. Or I did, but I wasn't ready to say it out loud.
Brian crossed the room and sat on the overturned couch beside me. Close, but not touching. Giving me space even when he wanted the opposite.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay. We'll figure this out."
"Brian, this isn't your—"
"Don't." His voice was firm but gentle. "Don't tell me this isn't my problem. Someone broke into your apartment and threatened you. That makes it my problem."
I didn't know what to say to that. Brian wasn't offering help like a transaction. He was offering it like it was obvious. Like, of course, he'd be here. Like, where else would he be?
I didn't know what to do with that kind of certainty.
Watson jumped up onto the couch between us, his yellow eyes blinking slowly, his purr steadying into something more confident.
I stared at the wreckage of my apartment. The slashed cushions, the scattered pages, the angry red letters screaming from my wall. I felt the weight of the past three weeks settle into my bones.
Someone had been in here. Someone had touched my things, torn apart my belongings, and left a threat where I slept. They knew where I lived. They knew how to get in. And they wanted me to know that they could do it again whenever they wanted.
But sitting here with Brian beside me, Watson purring between us, the fear felt smaller somehow. Manageable.
I wasn't alone. And that mattered more than I wanted to admit.
Brian rubbed the back of his neck, the way he did when he was working up to something.
"So," he said. "We should probably clean some of this up. At least get the furniture back where it belongs."
"Brian, you don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." He stood, surveying the damage with the practiced eye of someone who assessed disaster scenes for a living. "But I'm not letting you deal with this by yourself. We'll get the worst of it sorted. You can stay at my place tonight."
"Brian—"
"The bed's yours. I'll take the couch."
"I can get a hotel."
"You're not getting a hotel."
"I have money. I can—"
"Ava." He stopped, turned to face me. "You're not spending tonight alone in some random hotel room, jumping at every sound in the hallway."
I looked back at the spray-painted letters on my wall. Mind your business. At the stuffing spilling from my couch cushions like entrails. At the torn pages scattered across the floor.
A hotel would be fine. Practical. Independent.
A hotel would also mean sitting alone with my thoughts, replaying the violation over and over, flinching at every footstep in the corridor.
"Okay," I said finally.
"Okay?"
"Don't make me say it again, Torres."
Back at Brian's apartment, he'd made grilled cheese sandwiches. The fancy kind, with three different cheeses and butter that left the bread perfectly golden. It was almost noon, and I hadn't eaten since sometime yesterday. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until the smell hit.
We sat on his couch, plates balanced on our knees, Watson curled in my lap like he'd always belonged there. The apartment was quiet except for the occasional car passing below and the steady rhythm of Watson's purr.
"The officer's right," Brian said between bites. "You need somewhere they don't know about."
"I know." I forced myself to think practically. The way I thought through differential diagnoses. "I'll have to find a new place." I stared at my sandwich without seeing it. "Maybe something in a different neighborhood, a building with better security—"
"You know..." Brian set down his sandwich. "I've been thinking about moving for a while now. Looking at new apartments."
My heart dropped. Of all the things I'd expected him to say, this wasn't it. He was leaving. My neighbor, my friend, the person who'd been my anchor for four years—he was moving away.
"Oh." I tried to keep my voice neutral. Failed. "Since when?"
"A while. Just couldn't get myself to do it."
"Why not?"
He didn't answer directly. Just looked at me with those warm brown eyes, and something in his expression tightened my chest.
"The point is, I've been looking. And I was thinking..." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "What if we found a place together? Roommates. That way you're not alone, and you're somewhere safe."
"Roommates."
"I mean, this building sucks anyway."
I blinked. "What?"
"The hot water is a joke."
A surprised laugh escaped me. "It really is."
"The hallway always smells like someone's cooking fish."
"The super takes six days to return a call."
"The fire escape is a death trap."
"I've reported it twice. They haven't done anything."
We were both laughing now, the tension cracking like ice in spring. Watson looked up at us with an expression that clearly said humans are ridiculous, then went back to kneading Brian's couch cushion.
"So?" Brian's smile softened into something warmer. "Roommates? You, me, and the world's most threatening-looking cat?"
I looked at him. At his steady eyes, his open expression, his complete lack of hesitation. At the man who'd been showing up for me for four years, asking for nothing, offering everything.
"Roommates,” I said.
He grinned. That easy, open grin that made me feel like everything might be okay.
That night, Brian insisted I take his bed. I protested. He didn't budge.
"You've had a worse day than me. Take the bed."
"You came off a twenty-four-hour shift fighting fires."
"And you just had your apartment destroyed. Bed. Now."
Watson had already claimed the foot of Brian's bed, looking extremely comfortable and completely unbothered by the argument. His yellow eyes blinked at me slowly, and I could swear he was smirking.
"Your cat has spoken," Brian said.
I was too tired to argue anymore. Too tired to pretend I didn't want exactly this. To be somewhere safe, with someone who gave a damn.
"Thank you, Brian."
"Get some sleep." His voice was soft. "We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."
I was wearing a T-shirt he'd given me. My own clothes smelled like violation and spray paint, so I'd left them in a pile by the door.
Watson curled at my feet. I stared at the ceiling and listened to Brian settling onto the couch in the living room.
The sounds of him were familiar. The creak of the cushions, the soft exhale as he got comfortable. The quiet meant he was still there.
I should have felt displaced.
Instead, I felt safe.
Brian was in the next room. Watson was purring at my feet. And I wasn't alone.
I closed my eyes and, for the first time since Kevin Lang's confession, slept without nightmares.