Chapter 152: “At the Threshold of Morning”
The room held its breath.
Benjamin’s gaze lingered on the curve of Azazel’s arm around his daughter, on the quiet stillness of his posture. His jaw remained tight, but the sharp edge in his eyes had dulled.
Theresa’s hand, still pressed against her chest, trembled as she blinked back the swell of tears threatening to spill.
Neither spoke.
The silence stretched, heavy but not suffocating. It was not the silence of accusation, but of something unspoken settling between them.
Azazel didn’t move, didn’t defend himself. He simply remained where he was, holding Ava with a reverence that asked for nothing but trust.
Theresa’s eyes softened. Her lips parted as though she might say something, but then she pressed them together again.
Instead, she reached out, her hand brushing lightly against Benjamin’s arm.
A silent signal.
Benjamin exhaled slowly through his nose. He gave one last glance at the bed—the way Ava’s head rested so peacefully on Azazel’s shoulder, the way Azazel’s hand tightened protectively whenever she stirred in her sleep.
Then, with a quiet nod, he stepped back.
Theresa followed, her eyes lingering a heartbeat longer on the sight of her daughter safe in someone else’s arms.
Her throat tightened, her fingers brushing the edge of the doorframe before she turned.
Together, they slipped out of the room.
The door closed softly behind them, not with a slam but with deliberate gentleness, leaving Azazel and Ava cocooned in the tender silence of morning.
And in that choice—in the act of walking away without judgment—Benjamin and Theresa gave them something far louder than words could carry: space.
Space to love.
Space to be.
Space to prove.
The door closed behind them with the softest click, but the silence it left behind felt deafening.
Benjamin and Theresa walked down the hallway in quiet steps, their expressions still marked by the sight they’d just witnessed.
They reached the living room, where the morning light filtered in through half-drawn curtains.
Dust motes floated lazily in the beams, the house still wrapped in that fragile hush before the full day began.
The smell of brewed tea from last night lingered faintly, mingling with the faint coolness of dawn air seeping through the windows.
Theresa sank into the sofa first, her fingers weaving together in her lap.
She exhaled slowly, her shoulders still stiff, eyes blinking rapidly as though to keep tears at bay.
Benjamin followed, pacing a step before lowering himself heavily into the armchair opposite her.
He rubbed a hand across his jaw, his face stern, but the slight twitch of his mouth betrayed an unsettled storm within him.
For a moment, neither spoke. The ticking of the old clock on the wall filled the room, steady and loud.
Finally, Theresa broke the silence. Her voice was quiet, almost reverent.
"Did you see her face, Benjamin?"
Benjamin’s head snapped toward her, his brows furrowed. "Of course I saw. That boy had her resting on his shoulder like—like she belongs there."
His tone bristled, the protective edge of a father whose instincts refused to soften easily.
Theresa’s lips curved faintly, not in mockery but in tender reflection.
She tilted her head, her eyes shining with something softer than her husband’s.
"She looked at peace. Don’t you see? Our Ava... she’s been restless for so long. But with him—" she paused, her hands tightening together, "—she was calm. Safe. As if she finally put her battles to rest."
Benjamin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his fingers knotting together. His jaw clenched, his voice lower now, tinged with frustration.
"Safe? He had his arm around her. Tight. Like he owned her." His eyes flashed, the jealousy of a father hidden behind the shield of protectiveness.
"She’s still my daughter, Theresa. The little girl I carried when she scraped her knees. And now—" his throat caught, "—now she clings to him like he’s the one who built her world."
Theresa’s eyes softened even more. She reached across the space, her hand brushing over his clenched fists.
"Benjamin." Her voice was steady, firm yet tender. "That’s not ownership. That’s protection. Did you not see the way his body shifted when we entered? He was ready to shield her even in his sleep. That’s not a boy trying to take. That’s a man willing to guard."
Benjamin’s gaze dropped to her hand on his, his chest rising and falling heavily. His pride bristled, but the truth in her words struck deep.
He leaned back slowly, exhaling through his nose. His voice softened, though his tone still carried reluctance.
"I don’t like it. Not one bit. To see another man’s arm where mine used to be." His lips pressed tight, his eyes shadowed with a father’s ache.
"But..." He paused, the word hanging heavy in the air. His eyes lifted toward the ceiling as though searching for clarity. "But I suppose... that’s the way of life, isn’t it?"
Theresa’s lips curved into a gentle smile. She squeezed his hand, her thumb brushing over his knuckles.
"She’s grown, Benjamin. She’s found someone she trusts with the parts of herself she once hid even from us. Isn’t that what we prayed for? That she would find love that didn’t wound her?"
Benjamin’s eyes softened despite himself. His gaze drifted toward the window where sunlight painted the curtains.
His chest tightened, the jealousy slowly giving way to something heavier—acceptance.
"She loves him," he admitted finally, the words rough, reluctant. "I saw it in the way she breathed, in the way she leaned on him like the world couldn’t shake her anymore. "
" And he—" his voice broke for a second, "—he held her like she was glass. Careful. Too careful for me to keep calling him reckless."
Theresa’s eyes glistened. She leaned closer, resting her head lightly on his shoulder, her voice a whisper.
"Then let’s give them space. Even if our hearts ache, even if our pride resists. They need room to grow into each other."
Benjamin let out a long, slow breath. His hand rose, resting gently over hers.
His jaw was still tight, but his eyes softened, and when he finally spoke again, his words carried a quiet finality.
"I’ll never stop being jealous, Theresa. I’ll never stop wishing she was still my little girl." His lips pressed into a thin line, then curved just slightly, betraying a softer truth.
"But if she’s to belong to another man’s arms... I’d rather it be his."
Theresa closed her eyes briefly, a tear slipping free. She squeezed his hand tighter, her chest lifting with a mixture of relief and ache.
And in that small, fragile moment between them, approval was given—without ceremony, without the young couple present, but in the stillness of two parents choosing to let go, if only a little.
The clock ticked on, steady as ever. The house breathed around them.
And upstairs, in the cocoon of morning light, their daughter slept on—safe, guarded, and loved.
---
The door opened softly, and the morning greeted them.
Ava rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, her hair slightly tousled from sleep, her steps unhurried as she moved beside Azazel.
He walked close to her, their shoulders brushing every now and then, though his face carried that calm, collected mask as if nothing unusual had transpired the night before.
But Ava could still feel the warmth of where his arm had been around her, and the memory made her cheeks tingle.
From down the hallway, a delicious aroma floated toward them—rich, savory, layered with the sweetness of onions and something earthy.
Ava’s stomach gave a quiet growl, and Azazel’s lips twitched almost imperceptibly.
They reached the kitchen doorway.
Inside, Theresa stood by the stove, her apron tied neatly, stirring a pot while the fragrant steam curled upward.
Benjamin sat at the counter, sleeves rolled up, a small pile of carrots before him, his knife making steady, rhythmic thuds as he chopped.
The sight of him in such a domestic act—serious expression, careful slices—was almost amusing, though no one dared say so aloud.
Azazel paused, then dipped his head slightly, his dark hair falling forward as he spoke in a quiet, respectful tone.
"Good morning."
His voice carried no weight of defense, no trace of the tension from the night before—only the kind of gentleness that could disarm.
As though he wasn’t the same young man they had caught cradling their daughter.
Benjamin’s eyes flicked up, narrowing for a beat before softening just enough to pass as acknowledgment.
His knife slowed, but he kept chopping. Theresa, on the other hand, looked up from her stirring, her lips curving into a small smile.
"Good morning," she returned, her tone warm but measured. She set the spoon down and gestured lightly with her flour-dusted hand.
"Go on, both of you—take your seats at the dining table. Breakfast is almost ready."
Ava’s heart fluttered at the ease in her mother’s voice.
It was as though the night had folded itself away, tucked into silence, leaving only this quiet morning with the smell of food and the simple sound of her father’s knife.
Azazel inclined his head again, polite as ever, his expression unreadable.
For a fleeting second, when his eyes met Benjamin’s, there was a silent exchange—one that held weight but no challenge.
Ava slipped her hand through his, squeezing softly, then tugged him toward the dining room.
His fingers tightened just enough to let her know he wasn’t resisting.
Behind them, Theresa watched, her gaze lingering on the space their joined hands filled.
Something tender flickered in her chest, though she said nothing.
Instead, she turned back to her pot, stirring with slow, thoughtful motions.
Benjamin, after a beat, huffed quietly under his breath. His knife resumed its rhythm.