Chapter 145: Yearning each other
The room fell quiet again, save for the rustle of the curtains stirring with the breeze.
The golden light of sunset spilled across the floorboards, painting Ava’s face with a warm glow.
She rubbed the back of her hand across her cheeks, drying what tears she could.
Her chest felt lighter now, though the ache lingered.
She had finally let her pain out, spoken it into the open air where it could no longer poison her alone.
Yet even as she breathed easier, the heaviness of what she had done remained.
Her mother squeezed her hand once more, then rose slowly from the bed, her joints creaking softly.
She smoothed her skirt with both palms and looked down at her daughter with a gentle but steady gaze. "Ava, listen to me.
If you truly pity him, if you truly regret, then don’t sit here by the window another night whispering to yourself.
Find him. Speak to him. Even if he turns away, you will know you tried.
And if he does not..." She smiled faintly, tilting her head. "Then perhaps you will find that love forgives more easily than we fear."
Ava swallowed hard, her fingers knotting in the fabric of her dress.
Her heart pounded with both dread and hope.
Could she really face him again? Could she look into those eyes she had hurt and say the words she should have said that day?
She lowered her gaze, whispering as if confessing to the evening air itself, "I miss him, Mom."
Her mother’s smile deepened, soft and knowing. She leaned down, pressing a kiss to Ava’s forehead. "Then go to him, my love. The only cure for missing is meeting."
And with that, her mother left the room quietly, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Ava sat still for a long moment, her hands trembling in her lap. The garden outside had grown dim, the sky bleeding into twilight.
The crickets had begun their nightly chorus, and the first star pricked faintly against the indigo sky.
She inhaled slowly, her chest rising and falling as she let her mother’s words sink deeper.
For the first time in two weeks, she allowed herself to imagine not just regret, but possibility—what it might feel like to stand before Azazel again, to take his hand, to tell him the truth.
Her lips formed the words silently, rehearsing what her heart had been screaming for nights: I’m sorry. Please don’t walk away again.
And though fear still clutched her stomach, Ava realized something quietly profound: her mother was right.
Strength was not never making mistakes. Strength was admitting them—and daring to heal what she had broken.
She rose slowly from the bed, her body heavy but her spirit flickering with new resolve.
She moved toward the window, pressing her palm flat against the cool glass as she stared into the darkening garden.
The roses swayed a8gain, their petals catching the last of the light.
For the first time since Azazel walked out, Ava whispered his name—not in guilt, but in longing.
"Azazel."
The word left her lips like a prayer, soft and trembling, but carrying all the hope she thought she had lost.
The night had stretched its velvet cloak over the Jenkins home, wrapping the house in a hush that only deepened with the rhythmic ticking of the clock in the elder couple’s room.
The soft amber glow of the bedside lamp painted the walls in warm hues, though it did little to soften the lines of worry etched into her face.
She sat at the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap, her body tilted slightly forward as though her burdens pressed her down.
Her husband, propped up against the headboard with a pillow behind his back, turned his head slowly toward her.
His silver hair caught the lamplight, his sharp eyes glinting with both concern and curiosity.
He studied her expression with the patience of a man who had shared a lifetime with this woman and could read her sighs like books.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice gravelly but tender.
She drew in a long breath, her shoulders rising with the effort before she released it in a slow exhale.
Her lips pressed into a thin line before she finally spoke, her tone heavy with a sadness that refused to leave her chest. "Ava has suffered a lot... from those boys who broke her heart."
Her husband’s brows knit together, his expression tightening at the mention of his daughter’s pain.
He had watched her smile dim over the years, watched her retreat into herself after each disappointment, and though she always pretended she was fine, a father could see what words tried to hide.
His wife shook her head slightly, her voice softening, carrying a note of something different now—something almost hopeful.
"But this time... this time, she is yearning. And regretting her act toward someone." As she spoke, a faint smile flickered on her lips, like dawn breaking timidly after a long night.
He tilted his head, studying her with careful curiosity. "Oh... it’s that young man she yelled at the other time, right?"
His eyes narrowed as though trying to recall the exact incident, the way Azazel had left the house in silence, his tall frame stiff with dignity.
He nodded slowly, the motion delicate yet sure. "Yes. Him. It seems..." She paused, her eyes softening as she gazed at the floor, "it seems she loves the boy so much. But she was too late to accept it inside her heart."
She gave a little shake of her head, a sigh slipping past her lips as her fingers tightened together.
The father leaned back against the headboard, lips pursed.
His silence stretched for a beat before he said with sudden, unexpected decisiveness, "Maybe it’s time we have a wedding."she asked, shaking her head, the corners of her eyes crinkling with laughter.
The grief that had clouded her face moments earlier melted away, replaced with a glow that had been missing for weeks.
He turned his head toward her, a mischievous glint lighting his eyes, his lips curving upward in a sly smile.
"Well," he admitted, voice lighter, "I was joking. I only wanted to clear that look on your face first."
She exhaled, still smiling, her shoulders relaxing as though his playful jab had lifted a weight from her.
She shook her head again, this time more softly, her eyes darting away to the side of the room, her expression settling into a gentle smile that lingered like a promise.
The silence that followed was not heavy but tender—two parents sharing their quiet worry for their daughter, and, for once, hope that perhaps her heart might finally find its rest.
---
Meanwhile, miles away, the Thompson mansion stood bathed in moonlight, its vast windows glimmering like mirrors under the night sky.
Inside, the house was hushed, corridors empty save for the faint echo of footsteps from distant staff.
In the top room, Azazel lay sprawled on his bed, his dark hair mussed against the pillow, one arm draped across his forehead as he stared blankly at the ceiling.
The room was cloaked in shadows, broken only by the pale light spilling from the half-drawn curtains.
His phone rested on the nightstand beside him, its black screen reflecting the dim light, silent and accusing.
He had spent the last two weeks replaying that day in his head—the sting of Ava’s words, the coldness in her voice, and the way she had looked at him as though he didn’t belong.
His jaw tightened at the memory, his chest burning with a mix of anger and hurt, though beneath it all was something far more dangerous: longing.
He wanted to forget her, yet every corner of his mind was filled with her face—the softness of her eyes when she wasn’t angry, the way her laugh could unravel him in seconds.
Then—
Ring. Ring.
The sudden vibration jolted him. His eyes snapped to the nightstand, the glow of the screen cutting through the darkness.
His pulse leapt in his throat as he reached for it, fingers hesitating mid-air when he saw the caller ID.
His brows furrowed, his lips parting slightly as his breath caught. Her name.
Ava.
For a moment, his chest tightened so sharply he thought his heart might split in two.
He sat up slowly, the mattress dipping under his weight, his hand finally snatching the phone.
His thumb hovered over the green icon for a long, trembling second before he pressed it.
"Hello?" His voice came low, rough, guarded.
Silence answered him. A silence so deep it filled the room, stretching until his frustration began to crack through the thin veneer of calm.
His fingers curled around the phone tighter, his shoulders stiff.
He drew in a sharp breath, about to lash out in irritation, when—
"Azazel..."
Her voice.
Soft. Fragile. Almost breaking.
It poured through the receiver like a thread of light piercing the dark, and in an instant, every ounce of frustration in him collapsed into something raw and unsteady.
His lips parted, but no words came, only the sound of his breath catching in his throat.
His eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his face, quickly followed by a storm of emotions—anger, longing, sorrow, relief.
He closed his eyes, pressing the heel of his hand against his brow as though steadying himself.
His jaw clenched, his lips quivering faintly as the sound of her voice reverberated in his chest, undoing two weeks of walls he had tried to build.
"Ava..." he whispered back, his voice breaking around her name.