Chapter 18
Ava
I woke to the sound of machines.
Beeping. Steady and rhythmic. Sixty-two beats per minute, my brain supplied automatically. The soft hiss of oxygen through a nasal cannula. The distant murmur of voices in the hallway, the particular mechanical hum of a hospital at night.
Sounds I knew intimately. Sounds I'd worked alongside for years. But I was hearing them from the wrong side now. From the bed instead of standing at the chart.
My throat burned. Each breath felt like swallowing broken glass. An IV in my arm, tape pulling at my skin. My lungs ached with that deep, wet heaviness that spoke of inflammation.
And there was a weight on my left hand. Warm. Familiar.
Brian.
I turned my head—slowly, because everything hurt—and found him slumped in the chair beside my bed. His head was bowed, chin resting on his chest, his fingers wrapped around mine like he'd been holding on for hours.
Maybe he had.
He looked terrible. Soot still streaked his hair and darkened the lines around his eyes, making him look older, hollowed out. Dark circles carved deep hollows beneath his eyes, and even in sleep, there was tension in his shoulders, like he was bracing for another blow.
He should be getting rest. Should be letting his body recover from the physical toll of what he'd put himself through.
But he was here. In an uncomfortable hospital chair. Holding my hand like it was keeping him anchored.
I squeezed his fingers.
His head snapped up instantly, eyes wild before they found my face. The relief that washed over his features was so raw, so unguarded, my throat tightened.
"Hey," I managed. My voice came out like sandpaper.
"Hey." He leaned forward, brushing hair from my forehead with a care that made my eyes sting. "How do you feel?"
"Like I inhaled a bonfire."
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "You did."
I tried to laugh. It turned into a cough—deep and wracking. Brian was immediately there with water, guiding the straw to my lips with bandaged hands.
"Small sips. Easy."
I drank. Lukewarm, tasting of plastic. The best thing I'd ever had.
When I caught my breath, I reached up and touched the gauze on his hand.
"You're hurt."
"Minor."
"Brian." I gave him the look I reserved for patients who minimized symptoms. "I'm a doctor."
"Okay, maybe not minor." He caught my hand and pressed a kiss to my knuckles. "But I'll heal. And right now, none of that matters." His eyes held mine. "You scared the hell out of me, Ava."
"You ran into a burning building for me."
"You walked into a trap set by a psychopath." His jaw tightened. "I think we're even."
We weren't. But I didn't have the strength to argue.
"I shouldn't have left."
The words had been building since I woke up. Maybe longer. Maybe since I left. Now, in the quiet of the hospital room, they finally found their way out.
Brian's thumb traced slow circles on the back of my hand.
"No," he said. "You shouldn't have."
"I thought I could protect you—"
"I know." His hand tightened on mine. "I understand why. But Ava—that's not how this works. That's not how we work."
"I know."
"We protect each other. That's the deal. You don't get to make sacrifices for me without me having a say." His voice cracked slightly. "You don't get to take yourself away from me to keep me safe."
"I know." My voice cracked, too. "I was scared.
I saw you in that hospital bed, beaten because of me, and I couldn't—I couldn't bear the thought of it happening again.
Of something worse happening. What if next time I couldn't save you?
What if next time—" My throat closed around the words.
"I'm a doctor, Brian. I know exactly how badly a body can break.
I know what it looks like when someone doesn't come back.
And I couldn't be the reason that happened to you. "
Brian was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rough. "It doesn't matter."
"What?"
"Whether I got hurt. Whether I didn’t come back." He said it like it was simple. "None of that matters, Ava. Because when you left—when I woke up and you were gone—something in me died anyway."
I stared at him.
"I might as well have been dead," he continued.
"Walking around, going through the motions, but there was nothing left.
Just this empty space where you used to be.
" He shook his head. "So if you left to keep me safe, to keep me alive—it didn't work.
You took everything that mattered when you walked out that door. "
I searched for words.
"Brian." I took a shaky breath. "I left because I love you. Because I couldn't stand the thought of you getting hurt again because of me."
"And I'm telling you that a life where I'm safe but you're gone isn't a life worth living." He shifted closer. "So if you're going to make decisions about my safety, you need to factor that in. Keeping me away from danger doesn't keep me alive. Not if it means losing you."
"That's incredibly selfish."
"It is."
"And dramatic."
"Not really."
"And the corniest thing anyone has ever said to me."
He smiled. "Is it working?"
I stared at him. At this man who'd run into a burning building for me, who'd held my hand through the worst night of my life, who was looking at me now like I was everything worth having.
"Yeah," I said, my voice thick with tears. "It is."
He kissed me then—gentle, careful, mindful of my oxygen and all the ways I was broken. But there was nothing gentle about what I felt. It was everything. Every fight, every fear, every mile I'd put between us—undone in a single moment.
"I love you," I said against his lips. "You, impossible, reckless, ridiculous man."
"I love you too." He pressed his forehead to mine. "Please don't ever leave me again."
"I won't. I swear."
I drifted after that. Not quite sleep—more like floating, my body too exhausted to stay fully present. Brian's fingers stayed laced with mine, an anchor keeping me from slipping too far under.
When I surfaced again, the memory followed. Sudden and cutting, slicing through the fog.
Gunshots. I'd heard gunshots before the darkness took me.
"What about Larsen?" I asked, my voice rough. "Is he…?"
"He's fine. Well, not fine—he got shot twice, shoulder and leg. But he's stable. Out of surgery." A hint of a smile."He’ll be off duty for a while, though.”
I laughed—a real laugh, even though it hurt. "I think I’m done with security details."
The door opened, and Dr. Park stepped in, tablet in hand, scanning my chart before he looked up.
His shoulders dropped. The tension I hadn't noticed he was carrying finally let go. "You scared the hell out of us, Rothwell."
"I'm starting to get that."
"Smoke inhalation, minor burns, and bruising from the fall. But no serious lung damage or carbon monoxide poisoning." He shook his head. "Another few minutes in that building and we’d be facing a very different outcome. If Brian hadn't found you when he did..."
I looked at Brian as Park said this. He was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read—relief and residual terror and something that looked a lot like what I felt.
We shared a glance, an entire conversation in a single look.
Thank you.
Always.
Park cleared his throat. "The waiting room is filling up. Your crew's been here for hours. Can I let them in?"
I looked at Brian. He nodded.
"Send them in."
Shane came through the door first, Garrett right behind him. Captain Rodriguez brought up the rear, still in uniform.
"There she is," Shane said, voice deliberately light. "The woman who almost gave us all heart attacks."
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't." Shane held up a hand. "You did what you thought you had to do."
"He's right," Rodriguez said. "The Langs put everyone in danger. You tried to stop them." A ghost of a smile. "Badly. But the intention was good."
I laughed despite myself.
Shane shook his head. "Thank this idiot who ran into a fully involved fire without waiting for backup or a charged line." But there was no real heat in his voice. Just relief, and something that looked a lot like pride.
Garrett stood by the wall, watching with those sharp, quiet eyes. When I caught his gaze, he nodded once. I wondered, briefly, if anyone had told Sloane he was here. If she even knew he existed outside of a byline credit.
"Thank you," I said. "All of you. For believing me. For not giving up."
Rodriguez stepped forward. "Family doesn't need thanks. That's the whole point."
The crew had been gone for twenty minutes when my parents arrived.
I heard them before I saw them—my mother's heels on linoleum, my father's voice asking a nurse for directions. Then the door opened.
My mother looked like she'd been crying. Makeup smudged, hair disheveled. My father's face was tight with controlled emotion.
They stopped just inside the doorway, taking in the scene. Me, in a hospital bed. Brian, beside me, covered in soot, his hand still holding mine.
"Ava." My mother's voice broke on my name. She crossed the room and pulled me into a careful hug. "We came as soon as Captain Rodriguez called."
"I'm okay, Mom. I'm going to be fine."
My father hung back, watching. His eyes moved from me to Brian and back.
"Mom, Dad." I waited until they were both looking at me. "This is Brian. My boyfriend."
Brian stood and extended his hand.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Rothwell.”
My father looked at his hand. Soot and ash ground into the skin. Bandages wrapped around his palms. Evidence of everything he'd done to save me.
For a moment, I saw him recalculate. Saw him set aside whatever he'd imagined Brian Torres to be.
Brian noticed. Started to pull back. "Sorry, I'm still—"
My father caught his hand before he could withdraw.
"Brian." His voice was rougher than I'd ever heard it. "It's nice to finally meet you. I've heard a lot of good things about you."
Something passed between them. An acknowledgment.
"Captain Rodriguez told us what you did," my mother said. "How you went into that building. How you—" Her voice cracked. "Thank you for bringing her back to us."
Brian's throat worked. "I'd do it again. Every time."
"You'll have to come to dinner. When you're both recovered."
"I'd like that, sir."
I watched them—my father's hand still gripping Brian's, my mother dabbing at her eyes, Brian standing steady despite his exhaustion—and felt something loosen.
A knot I hadn't even realized I'd been carrying.
For years, I'd kept these worlds separate.
My family. My life. The person I'd become versus the person they'd wanted me to be.
But here was Brian, covered in soot and ash, and my father was looking at him like he was enough. More than enough.
Maybe I'd been wrong about what was possible.
Three days later, I was home.
Brian had driven me to my parents' townhouse that morning to collect my things. Watson yowled from his carrier in the backseat the entire drive to Queens, voicing his displeasure at being relocated twice in the span of a few weeks. Brian just laughed and turned up the radio.
Our apartment looked exactly the same, like no time had passed at all.
Kevin Lang had been arrested. Arson. Attempted murder. Assault with a deadly weapon. His lawyer tried for a plea deal, but the DA wasn't interested.
Richard Lang's trial date was set. Sloane Harper's articles had gone national. The corrupt councilman and his murderous son were everywhere.
I didn't feel brave. I felt tired, sore, and grateful to be alive.
But I also felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.
Peace.
Brian came out of the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. He handed me a mug and settled onto the couch beside me. We sat in easy silence, watching afternoon light shift across the room.
"I've been thinking," Brian said.
"Dangerous."
He smiled. "About us. About what comes next."
"What comes next?"
He set his coffee down. "I don't want to go back to the way things were. I don't want to waste any more time being afraid."
"Neither do I."
"Good." He took my hand. "Because I have plans for us, Ava Rothwell. Plans. Real Ones."
"Is that so?"
"That's so." He kissed my knuckles. "But first—dinner. My grandmother's chili."
"You're going to add too much cumin again."
"It's not too much. It's the perfect amount."
"Your abuela would tell you to follow the recipe."
"My abuela never followed a recipe in her life." He pulled me to my feet. "Come supervise. Make sure I don't burn the apartment down."
"Too soon."
"Way too soon." But he was grinning, and so was I.
The late afternoon sun streamed through the windows. Brian started pulling ingredients from cabinets, humming under his breath. I leaned against the counter and watched him.
This was what I'd almost lost. What I'd almost thrown away because I was scared.
Not again. Never.
"Hey," I said.
Brian looked up. "Yeah?"
"I love you."
His whole face softened. "I love you too."
"Just wanted to make sure you knew."
"I know." He crossed to me, kissed me softly and slowly. "But feel free to remind me. As often as you want. For as long as you want."
Outside, a siren wailed past. Brian's hand paused on the spice jar, tracking the sound out of habit. When it faded, he went back to cooking.
"Forever sounds good."
"Forever sounds perfect."
Watson meowed from the doorway.
We laughed, got to work making dinner, and let the rest of the world wait.
Tonight, we had everything.