Chapter 12 #2
"I knew it," he said. "I knew they couldn't touch you."
"Webb was good. My father's firm—" I shook my head. "I still can't believe he helped."
Brian set me down but didn't let go. His hands stayed on my waist. Warm. Steady. Like he wasn't ready to let go either.
"How do you feel?"
I considered the question. Really considered it.
"Relieved," I said. "Grateful. Confused." I laughed, the sound surprising me. "I don't know how to feel about my father being in my corner. It's been fourteen years since he was anything but an obstacle."
"Maybe people can change."
"Maybe." I stepped back, reaching for my wine glass. "He offered to help me find my own apartment, actually. Said he has connections with a building on the Upper West Side. Something about a client who owes him a favor."
Brian’s hands stilled on the glass.
"Your own apartment?"
"For when this is all over." I took a sip of wine, not quite meeting his eyes. "Somewhere I can start fresh. I told him I'd think about it."
The silence stretched between us.
“That's... good," Brian said finally. His voice went cautious. Neutral. "It's good that he's helping."
"It is.” I stared at the city skyline, at the way the light caught the windows of distant buildings, and waited for him to say something else. “When this is all over, I’ll get out of your hair. Stop complicating your life."
"You're not complicating anything."
"Brian—"
"You're not a burden, Ava." He set his glass down and turned to face me fully. "You've never been a burden. So don’t.”
He was looking at me. Just looking. Like he was memorizing something he expected to lose.
"Don't what?"
"Don't take the apartment."
"What?"
"I know that's not fair." He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I know the deal was temporary. I know you have every right to leave. But Ava—"
He stopped. Started again. "I don't want you to leave. I've been in love with you for four years, Ava.”
"Four years," he said again. "Four years of morning coffee and balcony conversations and pretending I was fine being your friend when I wanted so much more. Four years of falling for you, a little more every day, and never saying a word because I was terrified of losing you."
"Brian—"
"And then we started living together." He laughed, but there was no humor in it.
"We moved in together and suddenly you were everywhere.
Your coffee mug in the sink. Your laugh in the hallway.
Watson stealing my spot on the couch because you let him get away with everything.
" He met my eyes. "I don't want to live in an empty apartment, Ava. I want you in my life. Not as a roommate. Not as a neighbor. As... everything. With me.”
I was shaking. I hadn't noticed when it started.
"Say something," he said. "Please."
I should have had words. Should have had something eloquent, something that matched the weight of what he'd just given me.
Instead, I crossed the distance between us and kissed him.
It wasn't tentative. Wasn't uncertain.
It was four years of waiting, crashing into this single moment. My hands fisted in his shirt. Pulling him closer, his arms wrapping around me like he was afraid I'd disappear. He tasted like wine and something sweeter underneath, and I kissed him like I'd been starving for this.
Because I had.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard. His eyes were dark, searching my face like he was memorizing every detail. His hands were shaking where they gripped my waist, and something about that—Brian, steady Brian, trembling because of me, it made my throat tighten.
“That's a yes, right?” he asked. “That's you staying?”
"That's a 'shut up and kiss me again, Torres.'"
He made a sound, something between a laugh and a groan, and then he was kissing me again, deeper this time, his hands sliding into my hair, tilting my head back. I went willingly. I'd have followed him anywhere.
Watson meowed from the windowsill. Loudly. With the deeply offended tone of a cat who believed he deserved undivided attention at all times.
"Ignore him," I breathed against Brian's mouth.
"Planning on it."
He pulled me into his lap, my knees bracketing his hips. His hands settled on my waist, steadying me, and something I'd held tight finally gave way. This was happening. This was actually happening.
I pulled back just enough to see his face. My heart was pounding so hard I was certain he could feel it.
God, he was beautiful. I'd always known that, in the abstract way you notice things about friends—dark eyes, strong jaw, the kind of easy smile that made people trust him instantly.
But this close, with his lips swollen from kissing me and his pupils blown wide and his chest rising and falling like he'd just run a marathon, it hit different.
The scar on his forearm caught the light—a burn from his rookie year, he'd told me once.
His shoulders were broad, his arms solid with the kind of muscle you earned hauling hose and carrying people out of burning buildings.
And his hands on my waist, warm and steady, made me feel small in a way I'd never liked before.
I liked it now.
I wanted those hands everywhere, grounding me, claiming me.
"Maybe we could..." I started, then lost my nerve. Tried again. "The bedroom. If you—I mean, we don't have to, but I want—"
I was fumbling. Ava Rothwell, who ran trauma codes without flinching, couldn't string a sentence together.
Brian's expression shifted. He cupped my face in his hands and made me look at him.
"Hey." His voice was gentle. "We don't have to do anything. We can stay right here. Watch Watson judge us from across the room."
"I want to." The words came out steadier this time. "I'm just... I've never..."
"I remember." He kissed my forehead, soft and unhurried. "I'll be gentle, Ava. I swear."
I'd told him once, that there had never been time, never been anyone I trusted enough. He'd remembered. Of course, he'd remembered.
He kissed me again—slower this time, deliberate, like he was savoring every second.
His hands slid down my back, gripped my thighs, and then he was lifting me from the couch in one fluid motion.
I gasped against his mouth, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, but he didn't break the kiss.
Just held me tighter, carried me like I weighed nothing.
The hallway passed in a blur of warmth and want and his lips on mine. I was laughing into the kiss because this was ridiculous and perfect and something I'd been too afraid to want.
Brian kicked the bedroom door shut behind us. Watson's indignant meow was cut off mid-protest.
Then he was lowering me onto the bed, so gently it made my heart ache. He hovered over me, weight braced on his forearms, and pulled back just enough to look at me.
"You're shaking," he whispered.
"Nervous," I admitted.
"Me too." He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek.
"We go slow," he said against my skin. "As slow as you need. And if you want to stop—at any point, for any reason—we stop. No questions. No pressure. Ever.” He pulled back to meet my eyes.
"I've waited four years, Ava. I can wait longer.
I can wait forever if that's what you need. "
Something cracked open. This man. This impossibly patient, impossibly good man.
"I don't want to wait," I whispered. "I want this. I want you." I reached up, traced the line of his jaw. "I'm just... nervous."
"I know." He turned his head and pressed a kiss to my palm. “But I've got you. I promise.”
I believed him completely.
He kissed me again—slower this time, savoring. His hands traced paths along my arms, my shoulders, giving me time to adjust to each new sensation.
Every touch felt like a question. Every sigh, an answer.
My shirt was gone, then his followed. And then his mouth was on my collarbone, and I was discovering that the hollow beneath my throat was sensitive in ways I'd never known.
That the scrape of his stubble against my skin sent shivers down my spine.
That the weight of him above me felt like safety, not confinement.
So this is what it feels like, I thought dizzily. This is what my body had been waiting for.
"Still okay?" he murmured against my shoulder.
"More than okay."
His hands found the clasp of my bra, and he paused, waiting. I nodded. The fabric fell away, and cool air hit my skin, and then his mouth was—
Oh.
I gasped, my fingers threading through his hair, and he made a sound against my breast that I felt everywhere. No one had ever touched me like this. No one had ever made me feel like this—wanted, treasured, known.
"Brian." His name came out broken. Desperate. "Please."
"I've got you," he murmured. "I've got you."
The rest of our clothes disappeared—I wasn't sure when or how, just that suddenly there was nothing between us but heat and skin and four years of longing finally finding its release. His hand slid between my thighs, and I tensed, then melted, then discovered sensations I'd only ever given myself.
But this was different. This was him—watching my face, learning what made me gasp, what made me arch into his touch, what made my breath catch and my fingers dig into his shoulders.
"That's it," he breathed. "Let go. I've got you."
I did. I came apart with his name on my lips, and he held me through it
When I came back to myself, he was watching me with something like awe.
"You're beautiful," he said. "Do you know that? You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
I pulled him down and kissed him, tasting wine and want and four years of waiting.
"I want all of it," I said. "I want you. All of you."
"You're sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
He reached for the nightstand. Protection, I realized dimly, grateful that one of us was thinking clearly. Then he was settling between my thighs, and I felt him there, waiting.
"Look at me," he said.
I did. His dark eyes held mine, steady and sure.