Chapter 14
Ava
I woke up happy.
The thought felt foreign. Happiness as default, not the exception. But there it was, settling deep as I blinked awake to morning light and the weight of Brian’s arm across my waist.
He was still asleep. I traced the line of his jaw with my fingertip, careful not to wake him. The stubble was rough against my skin, familiar now in a way that made something in me ache. Six weeks ago, I’d never touched this face. Back then, we were still pretending friendship was enough.
What a waste of time that had been.
His certification card sat on the nightstand. The official proof of what I'd known all along. Brian Torres was going somewhere. And I got to be here for it. I got to watch him become the man he’d always been capable of being. I got to love him through it.
Love.
The word didn't scare me anymore. Somewhere between the first kiss and now, between the terror and the tenderness, I’d stopped running from it. Brian loved me. I loved him. And instead of walls closing in, I felt space. Room to breathe.
Watson was curled at the foot of the bed, one yellow eye cracked open, watching me with his usual air of judgment.
Brian stirred. His arm tightened around me, pulling me closer before his eyes even opened.
When they did—warm brown, soft with sleep—he smiled.
"Morning."
"Morning yourself."
"How long have you been awake?"
"A while." I traced a finger along his jaw. "I was watching you sleep."
He laughed, that low rumble I felt more than heard, and pulled me closer. "I could get used to this."
"The creepy watching?"
"Waking up with you." He pressed a kiss to my forehead. Lingered there. "Every day. For the rest of my life."
I knew what he was saying. What he was promising.
"That's a long time," I managed.
"Not long enough."
We made dinner together that night—Brian's chili, which had become a staple in our apartment. He claimed it was his grandmother's recipe, passed down through generations of Torres women, and I wasn't allowed to question the proportions.
"You're adding too much cumin," I said, peering over his shoulder.
"You're a doctor, not a chef." He hip-checked me away from the stove. "Stay in your lane, Rothwell."
"I'm just saying, there's a reason recipes have measurements."
"And there's a reason my abuela never wrote anything down. Some things you feel." He lifted the wooden spoon, tasted, and added more cumin just to spite me. "See? Perfect."
I rolled my eyes but couldn't stop the smile tugging at my lips. "You're impossible."
"You love me anyway."
I did. God help me.
This was what I'd walled out. All those years. The easy intimacy of shared space. The comfort of someone who knew how I took my coffee, who noticed when I was tired before I did, who made me laugh when I forgot I knew how.
We ate at the small table by the window, Watson stationed beneath our chairs in case anything fell. The city hummed outside, distant sirens and traffic noise that had become the soundtrack of my life.
"I ran my first call as lead paramedic today," Brian said, twirling chili around his spoon.
I looked up. "You did? How did it go?"
"Sixty-three-year-old male, chest pain, diaphoretic, classic presentation." He was trying to sound casual, but I could see the pride underneath. "I ran the whole thing—twelve-lead ECG, IV access, aspirin, nitro. Transmitted to the hospital, gave report, the whole nine yards."
"And?"
"STEMI. They took him straight to the cath lab." Brian's smile broke through. "He's going to be fine. Because we got there fast and I knew what I was looking at."
Warmth spread through me. "Brian, that's amazing."
"Couldn't have done it without a certain demanding instructor." He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "I kept hearing your voice in my head the whole time. What are the contraindications for nitro, Torres? What's your differential?"
"I don't sound like that."
"You absolutely sound like that." He grinned. "It's hot."
I threw my napkin at him. He caught it, laughing.
"Seriously, though." His expression softened. "Thank you. For believing I could do this. For pushing me when I wanted to quit."
"You never wanted to quit."
"I thought about it. Once or twice." He shrugged. "But then I'd think about you. About how you never gave up on anything in your life. And I figured if you could survive medical school and residency and everything else, I could pass one exam."
I didn’t have words for that. So I just held his hand and let the warmth of the moment settle over us.
After dinner, we cleared the dishes together. Brian washed, I dried—a rhythm we'd fallen into without discussing it. Domestic. Easy. The kind of routine I'd never let myself want.
He handed me a plate, and when I reached for it, he didn't let go. Instead, he tugged me closer, soap suds still on his hands, and kissed me.
"Brian." I pulled back, laughing. "You're getting water everywhere."
"Worth it."
He kissed me again. Slower this time. Deeper. His wet, soapy hands settled on my waist, probably ruining my shirt, and I didn’t care. I leaned into him, let myself get lost in the warmth of his mouth, the solid strength of his body against mine.
Then his phone rang.
We both froze.
Brian pulled back with a groan, reaching for where he'd left it on the counter. He glanced at the screen.
"Shane."
He answered, still holding me loosely with one arm. "Hey, what's—"
He stopped. His whole body went rigid.
I watched his face change. The easy warmth drained away, replaced by something hard. Something scared.
"When?" His voice was clipped. "Are they okay? Did you call the police?"
The kitchen tilted. I stepped back, giving him space, watching as he paced the small room with the phone pressed to his ear.
"No, I understand. Yeah. Yeah, I'll... we'll figure it out. Just—keep Zoe close, okay? Don't let her go anywhere alone."
He hung up. Stood there for a moment, staring at the phone in his hand like it might bite him.
"Brian." I kept my voice steady. "What happened?"
He looked at me. And I saw something I rarely saw in him.
Fear.
"Shane got a call tonight. Unknown number, blocked caller ID." Brian's jaw tightened. "Someone warning him to back off the Lang investigation."
"Warning him how?"
"They knew Zoe's name." His voice went rough. "They know what school she goes to."
The kitchen suddenly felt too small. Not enough air.
"Zoe," I whispered. "They threatened his daughter."
Brian ran a hand through his hair. He took a breath. When he looked at me again, some of the fear had hardened into something else.
"We'll figure it out," he said. "We're not backing down. Shane's not backing down. We just need to be more careful."
I nodded. But the fear had settled in, cold and heavy.
The Langs were pushing back. And they were going after everyone.
The next two days were a blur of threats.
Garrett's tires were slashed in the firehouse parking lot.
Someone had carved STAY OUT OF IT into the driver's side door.
He'd found it after a twenty-four-hour shift, standing in the parking lot in the gray dawn light, staring at the words—like they might rearrange themselves into something less threatening.
Then it was Maya.
A man had approached her in the school parking lot. Waited by her car. Knew her name, Shane’s name, even about their foster application. Told her to remind her husband to back off if they wanted their application to go through.
"She recorded the conversation," Brian said. "We’ve already sent it to Sloane. Evidence of witness intimidation."
"They went after her at her school." My voice came out thin. Too thin. "Where she works. Where there are children."
"I know."
"Brian, this is—" I pressed my hands against my eyes. "Shane. Zoe. Garrett. Maya. They're going after everyone because of me."
"Hey." He crossed the kitchen, pulled my hands down, and held them in his. "This isn't your fault. The Langs are the ones making threats. You reported a crime. That's it."
"But if I hadn't—"
"Then Derek Edwards stays dead and forgotten, and his family never gets answers." His grip tightened. "The crew doesn't want you to back down, Ava. Shane doesn't. Maya doesn't. Garrett doesn't."
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe all of them.
But the fear had settled in, cold and heavy.
Three incidents in three days. A clear pattern.
And I couldn't shake the feeling that worse was coming.
I called my father while I was alone at home. Brian was on shift.
He answered on the second ring. "Ava. I was about to call you."
"You heard."
"Lawrence keeps me informed." His voice was calm. Controlled. The voice of a man who'd spent thirty years navigating corporate warfare. "The Langs are getting desperate."
"It doesn't feel like a good sign. It feels like people I care about are being threatened because of me."
"People you care about are being threatened because the Langs are criminals who believe money makes them untouchable." Charles's tone sharpened. "This isn't your fault, Ava. You reported a crime. Everything that's happened since is on them."
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe everyone who kept telling me this wasn't my fault.
But it was hard to believe that when Maya's daughter's name was being used as a weapon.
"I'm going to make some calls," Charles continued.
"Increase pressure on the DA's office. The faster this moves to trial, the less time the Langs have to intimidate witnesses.
" A pause. "I'm also tightening security around you. The detail I arranged will be more visible. I want the Langs to know you’re protected.”
"Dad—"
"This isn't negotiable." His voice softened, just slightly. "You're my daughter. I failed to protect you for fourteen years because I was too proud to admit I was wrong. I'm not failing again."
I didn't know what to say to that. The old anger was still there, buried deep, but it was harder to access now. Harder to hold onto when he was showing up in ways he never had before.