"Stay here."
"Brian—"
"Ava." His voice was different. Calm but firm, the voice of someone trained to walk into dangerous situations. "Stay in the hallway."
He set down his gear bag and approached my door carefully, pushing it open with his foot. I watched him disappear inside, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
I heard him moving through my apartment. Checking rooms. Opening closets.
Then silence.
"Ava." His voice carried from inside, carefully controlled. "You can come in. But... prepare yourself."
I stepped through the doorway and saw?—
My apartment. Destroyed.
The couch was overturned, cushions slashed open, stuffing spilling across the floor like snow. Every drawer in the kitchen had been pulled out and dumped. My books, my detective novels, my medical texts, the worn Sherlock Holmes collection I'd read a dozen times, were scattered and torn, pages ripped out.
And on the wall, in red spray paint, letters two feet high:
Mind Your Business
My knees went weak. I grabbed the doorframe.
"Watson—"
"I found him."
Brian emerged from the bedroom, Watson cradled against his chest. The cat's yellow eyes were huge, his body trembling, but he was alive. He was okay.
"He was hiding in the closet," Brian said quietly. "Behind your sweaters. Scared, but not hurt."
I crossed the room in three steps and reached for Watson. Brian transferred him gently into my arms, and the cat pressed against my chest, purring despite his fear. That steady, rhythmic sound that meantI'm here, I'm here, I'm here.
"Let's get you both out of here," Brian said. “You’re staying with me.”
I didn't argue. I couldn't. I just held Watson and let Brian guide me into his apartment, away from the wreckage of everything I'd built.
Brian's apartment was the mirror image of mine in layout. That's where the similarities ended. His space was simple and warm. A navy couch with a blanket thrown over the back. A bookshelf stuffed past capacity. A framed photo of his parents on the side table, his mother's smile the same as his.
Watson had claimed the corner of Brian's couch. He was still shaken, his yellow eyes tracking every movement in the room. I sat beside him, one hand absently stroking his fur while Brian moved around the kitchen, making tea neither of us would drink.
"We need to call building security," he said. "The landlord. And the NYPD."
"I can make the calls myself." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "You just got off a twelve-hour shift. You should be resting."
"I'm fine."
"Brian—"
"Ava." He set down the kettle and turned to face me, his eyes steady. "Let me help. Please."
I wanted to argue. Every instinct I had screamed to handle this myself, to prove I didn't need anyone. But I looked at my hands and realized they were shaking.
"Okay."
We made the calls together. Building security was apologetic and useless. The cameras in the stairwell had been “malfunctioning.” The landlord promised to change my locks, as if that would help.
