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 saidthis 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 thislookon 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.
