Independence was the only currency that couldn't be taken away.
Needing no one meant no one could hurt you.
But lying here, Watson warm on my chest, Brian's laughter still caught somewhere in my ribs.
What if I'd had it backwards all along?
Maybe needing people wasn't weakness.
Maybe needing people wasn't the trap I'd always thought it was.
Or maybe I was just too tired to keep my guard up. It was hard to tell the difference at 2 AM.
Four years of Brian showing up. And now his whole crew, doing the same. No strings. No ledger. Just... presence.
Family.
The word sat in my chest like something borrowed. Something I wasn't sure I was allowed to keep.
But maybe I could learn.
Or maybe I'd already started.
CHAPTER 7
Brian
Livingwith Ava Rothwell was slowly killing me.
Not in any way that mattered. Not in any way I could complain about. Just the slow torture of proximity. Of having everything I wanted close enough to touch and knowing I couldn't reach for it.
Her coffee cup sat next to mine in the cabinet. Second shelf, left side, handles facing out, the way she liked them in the morning when she was still half-asleep. I'd rearranged them the first week without thinking. Now I couldn't look at those two cups sitting side by side without my throat going tight.
Her shampoo lived in the shower. Something floral. Lavender, maybe, or chamomile. I didn't know flowers well. I just knew that every time I caught the scent, my brain short-circuited to Ava, and I had to stand under cold water for an extra minute. Recover.
Her humming drifted from the kitchen while she attempted to cook. She was a disaster in there—brilliant enough to run trauma codes and save lives, but somehow defeated by a box of pasta and a jar of sauce. Last Tuesday, she'd burned soup.Soup.I still didn't understand how that was possible.
But she tried. Every few days, she tried again, humming while Watson supervised from his spot on the counter, yellow eyes tracking her movements with what I could only describe as concern.
Watson's toys were scattered across the apartment like fuzzy landmines. I'd stepped on a catnip mouse at 3 AM last week and nearly had a heart attack. Watson had watched from the armchair, looking smug.
Coffee cups. Shampoo. Terrible food. A cat who judged my every move.
I was supposed to be her friend. Her roommate. Her protector until the Lang threat passed.
I was failing at keeping those boundaries.
It started small. Making sure there was coffee ready when she stumbled home from night shift. I knew the exact moment exhaustion hit her—somewhere between the subway and our door—and she needed caffeine to stay vertical long enough to shower.
Then the fridge. I'd noticed she kept forgetting to eat, so I started stocking her favorite snacks. Greek yogurt with honey. Those expensive crackers she pretended she didn't love. The specific brand of orange juice she'd mentioned once, three years ago.
I'd remembered that. Filed it away. Which apparently meant I was pathetic.
I learned her rhythms without meaning to. Which shifts ran long, which nights she'd need dinner waiting, which mornings she'd be too tired to do anything but collapse into bed. I adjusted my own schedule to match hers, the way you learn to move around a fire—reading the situation, anticipating what it needs, staying just close enough to be useful without getting burned.
She noticed. I saw her notice. The flicker of something in her eyes when she came home to find dinner waiting. The way her lips parted like she wanted to say something, and then didn't.
Neither of us said anything.
