Ava
I woke up happy.
The thought felt foreign. Happiness as default, not the exception. But there it was, settling deep as I blinked awake to morning light and the weight of Brian’s arm across my waist.
He was still asleep. I traced the line of his jaw with my fingertip, careful not to wake him. The stubble was rough against my skin, familiar now in a way that made something in me ache. Six weeks ago, I’d never touched this face. Back then, we were still pretending friendship was enough.
What a waste of time that had been.
His certification card sat on the nightstand. The official proof of what I'd known all along. Brian Torres was going somewhere. And I got to be here for it. I got to watch him become the man he’d always been capable of being. I got to love him through it.
Love.
The word didn't scare me anymore. Somewhere between the first kiss and now, between the terror and the tenderness, I’d stopped running from it. Brian loved me. I loved him. And instead of walls closing in, I felt space. Room to breathe.
Watson was curled at the foot of the bed, one yellow eye cracked open, watching me with his usual air of judgment.
Brian stirred. His arm tightened around me, pulling me closer before his eyes even opened.
When they did—warm brown, soft with sleep—he smiled.
"Morning."
"Morning yourself."
"How long have you been awake?"
"A while." I traced a finger along his jaw. "I was watching you sleep."
He laughed, that low rumble I felt more than heard, and pulled me closer. "I could get used to this."
"The creepy watching?"
"Waking up with you." He pressed a kiss to my forehead. Lingered there. "Every day. For the rest of my life."
I knew what he was saying. What he was promising.
"That's a long time," I managed.
"Not long enough."
We made dinner together that night—Brian's chili, which had become a staple in our apartment. He claimed it was his grandmother's recipe, passed down through generations of Torres women, and I wasn't allowed to question the proportions.
"You're adding too much cumin," I said, peering over his shoulder.
"You're a doctor, not a chef." He hip-checked me away from the stove. "Stay in your lane, Rothwell."
"I'm just saying, there's a reason recipes have measurements."
"And there's a reason my abuela never wrote anything down. Some things you feel." He lifted the wooden spoon, tasted, and added more cumin just to spite me. "See? Perfect."
I rolled my eyes but couldn't stop the smile tugging at my lips. "You're impossible."
"You love me anyway."
I did. God help me.
This was what I'd walled out. All those years. The easy intimacy of shared space. The comfort of someone who knew how I took my coffee, who noticed when I was tired before I did, who made me laugh when I forgot I knew how.
