Epilogue
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Three months married, and sometimes I still didn't believe it was real.
Nothing much had changed, really. That was the strange part. We still had coffee every morning. We still talked about our shifts, the small disasters and quiet wins that made up our days. Watson still demanded breakfast at unreasonable hours judged us from his usual perch on the armchair.
But now there was a document filed somewhere in the city clerk's office that said forever. Her ring caught the light when she reached for her coffee cup. Now I could look at her across the couch and think my wife, and feel the truth of it settle into my bones.
Ava stirred beside me, her hair a mess against the pillow, one hand curled beneath her chin. The early morning light caught the auburn in her hair, the curve of her cheek, the faint furrow between her brows that appeared even in sleep.
I brushed the hair from her face. She made a soft sound, curling deeper into the pillow.
"Too early," she mumbled.
"I know."
One eye cracked open, suspicious. "You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you watch me sleep like I'm going to disappear."
I didn't deny it. Three months, and some part of me still expected to wake up alone. To find out this was all some fever dream conjured by smoke and exhaustion.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said softly now. Her hand found mine on the pillow. "You know that, right?"
"I know." I lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, right below the ring. "Still getting used to it."
"We have time." She tugged me closer. "Plenty of time."
From the doorway, Watson announced himself with a yowl that echoed down the hallway.
Ava groaned into the pillow. "He has the worst timing."
"He has consistent timing. Six-fifteen every morning. You could set a watch by him."
"I hate that you're right." She released my hand, making a shooing motion. "Go. Feed the beast. I need ten more minutes."
"Ten minutes. Then coffee."
"You're a good husband, Brian Torres."
The words hit me somewhere soft. Three months, hearing her say husband still got to me.
I dropped a kiss on her hair and went to negotiate with the cat, smiling.
The routine had shifted, but the structure was the same.
Coffee on the couch instead of the balcony. Watson weaved between our legs. The morning news murmured in the background.
I still drove Ava to work every morning—before my shift, after it, even on my days off. She'd protested at first, said she could take the subway. I kept showing up anyway.
My mother had taken Ava under her wing with the force of a woman who'd been waiting years for a daughter-in-law to feed. The cooking lessons had become a regular thing—Ava learning the recipes I'd grown up with, my mother beaming with pride every time something turned out edible.
Ava's cooking was still a work in progress. But she was getting better. And the fact that she tried, that she showed up in my mother's kitchen and let herself be taught—that meant more than any well-seasoned pernil ever could.
"Your father emailed me," I said.
"About what?"
"Investment portfolios. Diversification strategies. Something about index funds and risk."
"Do you understand any of that?"
"Not a word." I grinned. "But I read the whole thing anyway."
Charles Rothwell and I had found our own rhythm. He talked about money and markets; I nodded and asked questions that probably revealed my complete ignorance. But he seemed to appreciate that I listened. That I tried. Over time, the stiff formality had softened.
Every two weeks, we made the rounds. The Bronx one weekend, Manhattan the next. Two families that were nothing alike, slowly learning to become one.
The firehouse had claimed Ava as well.
She showed up when our schedules aligned—station dinners, birthday celebrations, random Tuesday nights when someone decided to fire up the grill. She'd sit with Maria and Maya while the kids ran circles around the apparatus floor, trading stories about impossible patients and impossible calls.
The crew had adopted her the way they adopted everyone who mattered to one of their own. She was family now. No questions asked.
She caught my eye across the room and smiled—that private smile, the one that said this is ours now, all of it, with something that filled me completely.
Shane appeared at my shoulder, two beers in hand. He passed me one, then stood beside me, both of us watching the controlled chaos of a firehouse family dinner.
"You know," Shane said, taking a long pull from his bottle, "I still remember the night of that school fire. When we dropped off that arson victim at Queens General."
"That was a long time ago."
"I know." He was smiling now, that knowing grin he got when he was about to be insufferable.
"You couldn't stop staring at her. Even when she was freezing you out, telling you to leave, looking at you like you were an inconvenience she didn't have time for—you just stood there with this look on your face. "
"What look?"
"Like a man trying very hard not to think about something." Shane clapped me on the shoulder. "I asked if you were going to ask her out. You said it wasn't like that. Said you were just neighbors. Just friends."
"I remember."
"Four years of balcony conversations. Four years of pretending you weren't completely lost to her." He shook his head, still grinning. "And now look at you. Married. Disgustingly happy. And proving me right."
Shane's grin softened into something more genuine. "But mostly I love seeing you like this. You deserve it, Brian. Both of you."
Across the room, Ava looked up. Our eyes met. She raised an eyebrow—everything okay?—and I nodded. Everything's perfect.
She went back to her conversation. I went back to mine.
But I carried that moment with me. The ease of it. The certainty. Four years of standing still, of waiting, of showing up without knowing if it would ever be enough.
It was enough. It was everything.
Shane was watching me with that knowing look again.
"What?" I said.
"Nothing." He took another drink. "Just thinking about how some things are worth waiting for."
"Getting philosophical in your old age?"
"Getting wise." He clinked his bottle against mine. "To the ones who waited."
"To the ones who stayed."
We drank. Around us, the firehouse hummed with life—laughter and arguments and the comfortable noise of people who'd chosen each other.
I looked at Ava one more time. My wife. My partner. My home.
Four years of balcony conversations. A lifetime ahead.
I couldn't wait to see what came next.
Engine 295 had always been my second home.
The common room was loud tonight—Shane's birthday, cake demolished, the crew sprawled around the long table with plates and forks and the easy rhythm of people who'd spent years learning to trust each other with their lives.
Garrett sat in his usual spot, coffee in hand, listening more than talking.
I was next to Shane, close enough to steal frosting off his plate when he wasn't looking.
I watched Shane scrape the last of the buttercream off his plate and felt the familiar swell of gratitude that came with knowing him.
We’d worked together for years—running into burning buildings side by side, surviving bad coffee and worse jokes, showing up for each other when it mattered.
He’d been my best man. Talked me off the ledge when I thought Ava was gone forever. Showed up at the hospital at my worst moment.
Shane Briggs was the brother I'd chosen. I couldn't imagine this life without him.
Things had changed for him, too, these past months.
After everything with the Langs, after the articles and the trial, and the dust finally settling, Shane and Maya's foster application had gone through. Lily had arrived three months ago—fifteen years old, quiet in the way kids became when they’d learned not to expect anything.
But she was settling in. Zoe had taken to having a sister with the fierce protectiveness of someone who remembered what it felt like to need a safe place.
“I have news to share with everyone,” Shane said. Then pushed back from the table and stood.
The table went quiet. Garrett looked up from his coffee.
Shane's grin widened—that particular grin he got when he was bursting with something good and couldn't hold it in anymore.
"Maya and I are expecting."
For a moment, there was silence. Then the table erupted.
Guys were on their feet, crowding around Shane, voices overlapping—congratulations, man and about time and you ready for midnight feedings on top of 24-hour shifts?
I stayed in my seat, grinning up at him, letting the chaos wash over me. The joy on his face was the kind you couldn't fake. The look of a man who'd found everything he wanted and couldn't quite believe his luck.
"We didn't plan on it," Shane was saying, accepting another round of congratulations. "But Maya's really excited. Zoe too."
"Another member of the firehouse family," one of the guys called out. "Kid's gonna be running drills before it can walk."
"Maya's already got a Pinterest board for the nursery," Shane laughed. "I'm not allowed to have opinions about paint colors."
"Smart man," someone else said. "That's how you survive marriage."
The banter continued—predictions about whether it would be a boy or girl, jokes about Shane's sleep schedule being destroyed, threats to put the baby on the roster as soon as it could hold a hose.
I caught Garrett's expression across the table.
He was smiling. Genuinely happy—I could see it. But underneath, something else flickered. Pain. Longing. The particular grief of someone watching others receive something they'd lost, or never had, or couldn't let themselves want.
The expression was gone almost as quickly as it appeared, smoothed away behind Garrett's usual calm. But I'd seen it.
I didn't ask. This was Shane's moment. And I trusted Garrett to open up when he was ready—if he ever was. Some wounds weren't meant to be poked at.
"You're going to be a great dad." I clapped Shane on the shoulder.
"Yeah?" Something vulnerable flickered in his eyes.
"Yeah. You showed up for me when I didn't know how to ask. You'll show up for them, too." I grinned. "Plus Maya will keep you in line."
He laughed and shoved my shoulder. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
Before I could respond, the common room door opened.
Captain Rodriguez walked in, and behind him—
Sloane Harper.
The shift in the room was immediate. Garrett went still, his coffee cup stalled halfway to his mouth.
Sloane looked the same as she did during the Lang investigation—sharp features, dark hair pulled back, those keen green eyes that missed nothing. Her gaze landed on Garrett for a fraction of a second. Something passed between them—pain, history, something unfinished—before she looked away.
"Boys," Rodriguez said. “You all know Sloane Harper. The New York Times.”
"Sloane." Shane nodded, his celebratory mood shifting to something more professional. "Good to see you."
"Shane." Her voice was warm. "Congratulations. I heard on the way in."
I listened to the exchange, but my attention kept drifting to Garrett. He hadn't moved. Hadn't spoken. He was looking at Sloane like she was a ghost.
"Ms. Harper is here about another serial arson case," Rodriguez continued. "She needs a liaison from our station."
Rodriguez turned to Garrett. "Stone, you're assigned to assist Ms. Harper with access and background."
Silence.
Garrett's fingers tightened around his mug. Sloane's composure cracked—Loss? Fear? Regret? It was impossible to name before she buried it.
"I'll do it."
Everyone turned. Garrett's voice was flat, controlled.
Sloane stared at him. Whatever history existed between them, it was heavy enough to fill the room.
She cleared her throat and pulled her professional mask back into place. "I'll email you the case files."
"I have your email."
Another pause. Charged.
Rodriguez clapped his hands. "Good. That's settled. Harper, let me walk you out—Stone, I'll brief you in the morning."
Sloane turned to leave, paused at the door. Didn't look back. "I'll be in touch, Stone."
She was gone before anyone could respond.
Garrett sat motionless, staring at the door she'd disappeared through. The mask had slipped. Underneath, there was something raw. Something wounded.
Shane caught my eye. You seeing this?
I gave the smallest nod.
We didn't push. Garrett had never talked about his past, and we'd learned not to ask. But the way he'd looked at Sloane—like she was both salvation and destruction—told me enough.
There was a story there. A painful one.
And something told me we were all about to find out.
To be continued in Forever