Chapter 19
Brian
I woke up before the alarm.
Ava was curled against my side, her head on my shoulder, her breath warm and steady against my skin. Her hair was a mess—tangled from sleep, spread across the pillow like something from a painting. One hand rested against me, fingers spread like she was checking I was still there.
Two weeks ago, I thought I'd lost her.
I'd carried her unconscious body out of a burning building and breathed for her on the pavement while the restaurant collapsed behind us.
I'd sat in a hospital hallway and prayed to a God I wasn't sure I believed in, bargaining with the universe for one more chance.
And now she was here. Breathing. Warm. Alive.
She was mine.
I pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She stirred, made a soft sound of protest, and burrowed deeper into my side.
"Too early," she mumbled.
"I know."
"Then why are you awake?"
"Couldn't sleep."
She tilted her head up, eyes still half-closed, hair falling across her face. "Nightmares?"
"No." I brushed the hair back and tucked it behind her ear. "Just... grateful."
"Grateful?"
"That you're here. That I get to wake up next to you." I brushed my lips over her forehead.
She was quiet for a moment. Then she shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to look at me properly. Her green eyes were soft in the morning light.
"I love you."
"I love you, too." She leaned down and kissed me. "Now go back to sleep. It's—" She squinted at the clock. "Six in the morning. On a Saturday."
"Can't. I'm too happy."
She groaned and dropped her head back onto my shoulder. "You're ridiculous."
"You love me anyway."
"Unfortunately."
Watson chose that moment to leap onto the bed, landing directly on my stomach with all fourteen pounds of feline indignation. He meowed loudly, demanding breakfast, and the moment shattered into laughter.
This. This was everything I'd ever wanted.
"You're bringing her to meet your parents?"
Shane's voice carried across the apparatus floor, loud enough that half the crew turned to look. I shot him a glare that he ignored completely.
"Keep your voice down."
"Why? It's not a secret, is it?" He grinned, falling into step beside me as I headed for the bay. "Brian Torres, finally bringing a girl home to meet Mama and Papa. "This is unprecedented.”
"I brought Carmen once."
"Carmen doesn't count. Carmen was a mistake you made before you knew better." Shane clapped me on the shoulder. "Ava's the real deal. Your parents are going to love her."
I hoped he was right.
My parents had heard about Ava, of course.
My mother had been calling every day since the fire, demanding updates, asking when she could meet the woman her son had run into a burning building for.
My father was quieter about it, but I'd caught him googling "Dr. Ava Rothwell Queens General" on his phone when he thought no one was looking.
They knew she mattered. They just didn't know how much.
"Sunday dinner," I said. "I'm driving her up to the Bronx myself."
"The full Torres family experience." Shane whistled. "You sure she's ready for that?"
"She survived a psychopath trying to burn her alive. She can handle my mother's cooking."
"Your mother's cooking is delicious."
"My mother's cooking comes with interrogation."
Shane laughed. "True. But if Ava can handle trauma codes and emergency surgery, she can handle Elena Torres asking about grandchildren."
I groaned. "Don't remind me."
Sunday came faster than I expected.
Ava was nervous. I could tell by the way she kept smoothing her dress, checking her hair in the visor, asking me, again, if she should have brought wine instead of flowers.
"They're going to love you," I said, reaching over to take her hand.
"You don't know that."
"I do. My mother has been asking about you for months. My father pretends to be stoic, but he's been looking you up online." I squeezed her fingers. "They already love you. They just haven't met you yet."
The house looked the same as it always had—small, tidy, the front yard carefully maintained despite my father's bad knee. My mother's roses were blooming along the fence, pink and red and yellow, roses she'd been tending since I was a kid.
Home, exactly as it always had been.
I'd barely parked the truck before the front door flew open and my mother appeared on the porch, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Mijo!" She was down the steps and pulling me into a hug before I could say a word. "Too thin. You're not eating enough."
"Mamá, I'm fine—"
"And this must be Ava." My mother released me and turned her full attention to the woman beside me. For a moment, she only looked, taking in Ava's nervous smile, her careful posture, the flowers clutched in her hands.
Then she pulled Ava into a hug as fierce as the one she'd given me.
"Thank you," my mother said, her voice thick. "For making my son so happy. I haven't seen him like this in years."
"I—" Ava looked at me over my mother's shoulder, slightly overwhelmed. "He makes me happy, too."
"Good. That's how it should be." My mother pulled back, held Ava at arm's length to study her face. "You're beautiful. And a doctor! My son told me. Saving people every day."
"I try."
"She's modest too." My mother beamed. "Come inside, come inside. Dinner is almost ready. Roberto! They're here!"
My father appeared in the doorway, moving slower than he used to, his hair grayer than I remembered. But his eyes were sharp as ever, taking in everything—the way I stood close to Ava, the way her hand found mine without looking.
"Papá, this is Ava. Ava, my father, Roberto."
My father extended his hand. Ava shook it.
"Dr. Rothwell," he said. "It's good to finally meet you."
"Please, call me Ava."
"Ava." He nodded slowly. "Brian tells me you work in the emergency room. Difficult work."
"It can be. But rewarding."
"And you grew up in Manhattan? Upper East Side?"
I tensed. My father wasn't the type to be impressed by money or status—if anything, he was suspicious of it. Years of working construction had taught him that the people with the most often gave the least.
But Ava just smiled. "I did. But I left when I was eighteen. Put myself through medical school."
Something changed in my father's expression. Respect, maybe. Recognition.
"Good," he said. "A person should earn their own way." He stepped back, gestured toward the house. "Come in. Elena's been cooking all day. If we don't eat soon, she'll start force-feeding us."
Dinner was everything I'd expected—loud, chaotic, full of my mother pressing second and third helpings onto everyone's plates. My father asked Ava about her work, her training, and her plans. My mother asked about how we met, how long we'd been together, and whether we'd thought about children.
"Ma," I groaned.
"What? I'm just asking. I'm not getting any younger, mijo. I want grandchildren before I'm too old to chase them."
Ava laughed—actually laughed, the tension finally draining from her shoulders. "We haven't discussed it yet. But... someday. Maybe."
Her face transformed into pure joy.
After dinner, Ava helped my mother with the dishes while my father and I sat on the back porch, watching the sun set over the neighborhood.
"She's good for you," my father said.
"I know."
"Different from the other one. The one who left."
"Very different."
He was quiet for a moment. "You're going to marry her."
It wasn't framed as a question.
"Yes," I said. "I am."
My father nodded slowly. "Good. Don't wait too long. Life is short." He glanced at me. "You almost lost her once. Don't make the mistake of thinking you have forever."
"I won't."
He clapped me on the shoulder—the same gesture he'd used my whole life, solid and grounding. "Your mother approves. I approve. The rest is up to you."
After Ava left for her shift, I pulled the velvet box from my sock drawer.
The ring inside was modest—a simple diamond on a white gold band. I'd saved for months to buy it. Back when I thought Carmen was the one. When I thought loving someone meant giving them everything and hoping it was enough.
It hadn't been enough. Not for her.
But she wasn't Carmen. She had never asked me to be anyone other than who I was. She had never looked at my life and found it lacking.
She deserved more than a ring meant for someone else.
The next morning, I drove to the jeweler in Astoria where I'd bought the original ring. The same woman was behind the counter—older now, her hair more gray than brown, but with the same sharp eyes.
"I remember you," she said. "The firefighter. You bought an engagement ring, what, three years ago?"
"Almost six years now."
She shook her head. "And you never came back for a wedding band. I wondered what happened."
"She left."
"Ah." The woman's expression softened. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It wasn't meant to be." I set the velvet box on the counter. "I want to trade this in. For something different. Something better."
"Better how?"
I thought about Ava. About her sharp mind and soft heart. About the way she looked in the morning, hair messy, eyes still soft with sleep. About the strength it took to let someone in after years of keeping everyone out.
"Something that says forever," I said. "Something that says I see you for who you are."
The jeweler studied me for a moment. Then she smiled.
"I've been doing this for forty years. Most men come in knowing exactly what they want. Carat. Cut. Price point." She leaned forward. "You're the first one who's told me what he wants it to mean."
"Is that good?"
"It's the only thing that matters."
An hour later, I walked out with a new ring. A different one. An emerald-cut diamond on a platinum band, simple and elegant, with small stones along the sides that caught the light like stars.
It cost more than I'd planned. More than I should have spent.
It was worth every penny.
There was one last thing I needed to do.