She'd said yes.
"I love you," I said, setting her down.
"I love you too." She looked at the ring, then at me, then at the sign still held up behind us. "This is not a drill?"
"Zoe's idea."
"Remind me to thank her."
Dr. Park appeared beside us, clapping me on the shoulder. "Alright, show's over. Rothwell, you've got patients. Torres, get your engine out of my ambulance bay." But he was smiling as he said it. "Congratulations. Both of you."
"Thanks, Park," Ava said. "For everything."
"Just remember this when I need a favor." He walked away, already barking orders at the staff to get back inside.
The crew descended on us then—hugs and congratulations and Shane making jokes about finally getting me off the market. Rodriguez had tears in his eyes, though he'd never admit it. Garrett even smiled, which was basically the equivalent of a standing ovation from anyone else.
"You should call Sloane," Garrett said quietly. "She'll want to cover this."
I looked at him. Garrett Stone, voluntarily mentioning the journalist he'd been avoiding for months.
"I'll text her," Ava said, saving me from having to respond.
Through it all, Ava's hand stayed in mine.
CHAPTER 20
Ava
Independence wasn't a preference.It was a vow.
I'd made that promise to myself at eighteen, watching my mother wait by the window for a father who prioritized everything over her. I'd reinforced it through medical school, through residency—through every grueling shift that proved I could save lives without saving any room for someone else. I'd built walls so high I couldn't see past them, and I'd called it strength.
Then Brian Torres dropped to one knee in the ambulance bay at Queens General, still in his turnout gear, holding a ring that caught the light like scattered stars, and I said yes before my brain caught up with my mouth.
So much for that vow.
Turns out, some promises are meant to be broken.
I hadn't expected him to propose so soon.
We'd only been officially together for a few months—but it never felt new. Before that four years of circling each other—morning coffees on the balcony, stolen glances across the ambulance bay, countless small moments that added up to something neither of us had been brave enough to name.
But standing there, watching Brian drop to one knee in his turnout gear with Zoe's hand-painted sign behind him—THIS IS NOT A DRILL—I'd realized thatsoonwas relative. We'd been building toward this for years. The proposal wasn't rushed. It was overdue.
After I'd said yes, after Brian had slid the ring onto my finger and kissed me in front of everyone, Dr. Park had shooed us apart and reminded me I still had patients. The nurses descended the moment Brian's crew pulled away, demanding to see the ring, cooing over the diamond, asking for every detail.
I'd shown them. Let them ooh and ahh over the emerald cut, the platinum band, the small stones catching the light like constellations. Then they'd drifted back to work, and I'd slipped into the locker room alone.
The ring came off carefully. I'd placed it back in its velvet box, locked it safely in my locker, where it wouldn't get caught on gloves or harbor bacteria or get in the way of the work that still needed doing.
But I'd thought about it for the rest of my shift. Every spare moment, my mind drifted back to Brian on one knee. To the weight of the ring on my finger. To the future stretching out in front of us, terrifying and wonderful andours.
Now, freshly showered and changed into civilian clothes, I opened my locker one more time.
The velvet box sat exactly where I'd left it. I lifted the lid.
Brian had described it as "something that says I see you." Looking at it now—the clean lines, the subtle sparkle, nothing excessive or performative—I understood what he meant.
