We ate at the small table by the window, Watson stationed beneath our chairs in case anything fell. The city hummed outside, distant sirens and traffic noise that had become the soundtrack of my life.
"I ran my first call as lead paramedic today," Brian said, twirling chili around his spoon.
I looked up. "You did? How did it go?"
"Sixty-three-year-old male, chest pain, diaphoretic, classic presentation." He was trying to sound casual, but I could see the pride underneath. "I ran the whole thing—twelve-lead ECG, IV access, aspirin, nitro. Transmitted to the hospital, gave report, the whole nine yards."
"And?"
"STEMI. They took him straight to the cath lab." Brian's smile broke through. "He's going to be fine. Because we got there fast and I knew what I was looking at."
Warmth spread through me. "Brian, that's amazing."
"Couldn't have done it without a certain demanding instructor." He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "I kept hearing your voice in my head the whole time.What are the contraindications for nitro, Torres? What's your differential?"
"I don't sound like that."
"You absolutely sound like that." He grinned. "It's hot."
I threw my napkin at him. He caught it, laughing.
"Seriously, though." His expression softened. "Thank you. For believing I could do this. For pushing me when I wanted to quit."
"You never wanted to quit."
"I thought about it. Once or twice." He shrugged. "But then I'd think about you. About how you never gave up on anything in your life. And I figured if you could survive medical school and residency and everything else, I could pass one exam."
I didn’t have words for that. So I just held his hand and let the warmth of the moment settle over us.
After dinner, we cleared the dishes together. Brian washed, I dried—a rhythm we'd fallen into without discussing it. Domestic. Easy. The kind of routine I'd never let myself want.
He handed me a plate, and when I reached for it, he didn't let go. Instead, he tugged me closer, soap suds still on his hands, and kissed me.
"Brian." I pulled back, laughing. "You're getting water everywhere."
"Worth it."
He kissed me again. Slower this time. Deeper. His wet, soapy hands settled on my waist, probably ruining my shirt, and I didn’t care. I leaned into him, let myself get lost in the warmth of his mouth, the solid strength of his body against mine.
Then his phone rang.
We both froze.
Brian pulled back with a groan, reaching for where he'd left it on the counter. He glanced at the screen.
"Shane."
He answered, still holding me loosely with one arm. "Hey, what's?—"
He stopped. His whole body went rigid.
I watched his face change. The easy warmth drained away, replaced by something hard. Something scared.
"When?" His voice was clipped. "Are they okay? Did you call the police?"
The kitchen tilted. I stepped back, giving him space, watching as he paced the small room with the phone pressed to his ear.
"No, I understand. Yeah. Yeah, I'll... we'll figure it out. Just—keep Zoe close, okay? Don't let her go anywhere alone."
