That slow smile took over his face. "Because that's going to be your name too."
"At work, I'll still be Dr. Rothwell," I said, tracing the line of his jaw. "I've been Dr. Ava Rothwell for a long time. That's my name in the medical world. My patients know it, my colleagues know it. I'm not changing that."
"I would never ask you to."
"But everywhere else? I want to be Ava Torres."
His expression shifted—vulnerability, wonder, a joy so bright it almost hurt to look at.
"Ava Torres," he said slowly, testing the sound of it. "I really like that."
"Do you?"
"I really do."
He pulled me down and kissed me—deep and thorough, full of promise.
When we finally broke apart, I settled back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
"I met with your father," Brian said after a while. "Before the proposal."
I lifted my head. "You what?"
"I didn't ask permission—I knew you'd kill me for that. But I wanted him to know. To hear it from me first."
My throat tightened. "What did he say?"
"That he would have chosen someone else for you. Someone easier. Someone who fit the life he'd imagined." Brian's hand resumed its slow path along my shoulder. "And then he said he's not the one who gets to choose. You are. And you chose me."
"I did choose you."
"He welcomed me to the family." A hint of a smile. "Told me God help me."
I laughed despite the tears prickling at my eyes. "That sounds like my father."
"He's not so bad. Under all the polish." Brian pressed a kiss to my hair.
The exhaustion finally caught up with both of us. We fell asleep tangled together, the ring on my finger catching the morning light.
My parents insisted on paying for the wedding.
I'd resisted at first. Years of guarding my independence—of proving I didn't need anything from Charles and Eleanor Rothwell—made me wary of accepting their money. Every gift had always come with strings. Every gesture of support had been laced with expectation.
But my father had called the week after the proposal, his voice quiet in a way I rarely heard.
"Let us do this, Ava. Please." He stopped, and I heard him swallow. "I almost lost you. Your mother almost lost you. Let us celebrate that we didn't."
So I said yes.
Brian didn't care about any of it. When I'd asked about venues, flowers, caterers, and timelines, he'd pulled me close and said, "I don't care where we get married. I don't care what we eat or what color the napkins are. I'm marryingyou. That's the only thing that matters."
The details fell to me. And to Zoe, Maya, and Maria, who took over our apartment with binders and color swatches and opinions loud enough to wake Watson from his afternoon nap.
"You need a dress," Zoe announced, claiming the armchair like a general commanding her troops. "Something elegant but not fussy. You'd look ridiculous in anything poufy."
"Poufy was never on my list."
"Good." She flipped through her binder—the same organizational fervor she'd brought to the proposal sign. "I've flagged some options. My mom can drive us to the bridal shops Saturday."
