CHAPTER 94: THE DRIVE

Dinner had softened into a lull of silver clinks and murmured conversation, but Ava still hadn’t finished her plate.

The tension that had crackled earlier in the garden was now folded away, hidden under warm lights and the hum of crickets drifting through the open windows.

Rose and Elizabeth moved quietly around the table, clearing dishes with the practiced rhythm of those who knew the silence between people sometimes said more than the words.

The clink of ceramic and silver was softened by the hush of cloth napkins and the occasional polite "excuse me."

The air felt dense—not heavy, but layered, like something unsaid was threading through the stillness.

Julie remained seated beside Roman, her posture relaxed, her hand resting near his on the table.

As Rose leaned in to take her plate, Julie shifted slightly, her fingers brushing Roman’s shoulder.

He murmured something low under his breath that made her laugh softly—the kind of laugh Ava used to envy. Light, rooted. Easy.

Azazel reached for his glass but didn’t drink. His gaze flicked to Ava again. Not intensely, not the way he had before.

Just quietly. Steadily. Like he was trying to read a page she kept hiding.

Ava tried not to squirm under it.

"I’ll help with those," she said to Rose, half-rising from her chair.

Rose gave a gentle shake of her head. "No need, miss. We’ve got it."

Elizabeth added with a small smile, "Just enjoy your evening."

Ava hesitated, then slowly sat back down, her spine a little too straight. Her fingers reached for her fork again, but she didn’t lift it.

Julie turned to Roman, lifting an eyebrow. "You know, I think Roman just volunteered to help me with dessert instead."

"Did I?" Roman muttered, his smirk barely contained.

"Mmhmm," Julie replied, her eyes gleaming. "You’re charming when you pretend to complain."

Ava gave a faint smile and tucked a stray curl behind her ear, the motion more to distract her fingers than tidy her hair.

Across from her, Azazel set his glass down with care. "I’ll take you home."

Ava blinked, thrown by the offer. "What?"

"It’s late," he said simply. "I’ll drive you back."

She shook her head, polite but firm. "No, thank you. I already called a ride earlier."

"It’s no trouble."

"It’s really okay," she repeated.

He didn’t push further, but something in his face shifted—just a subtle crease between his brows.

A flicker of emotion too quiet to name. She recognized it though: a blend of frustration and restraint.

Ava lowered her gaze, her fingertips absently nudging a lone pea across her plate, tracing small invisible circles in the porcelain.

Around them, the last of the dishes were cleared.

Julie rose from her seat with a smile, brushing her hand lightly along the back of Roman’s chair. "Thanks again, Rose."

Roman muttered something about finally escaping KP duty, earning a soft roll of Julie’s eyes.

Ava watched the moment unfold like it was behind glass. Warm, domestic. Familiar. But distant.

Then Azazel’s voice, low and even, pulled her attention back.

"You don’t trust me."

Not accusing. Just matter-of-fact.

Ava’s eyes flicked up. "I didn’t say that."

"You didn’t have to."

The corner of his mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. "I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, Ava. I’m just... here."

His words settled between them like a weight. A gentle one, but still heavy.

"You make it hard sometimes," she said quietly, not looking at him.

"What, by caring?"

"No." Her voice dropped, barely a whisper. "By waiting. Like you’re expecting me to catch up to something you’ve already decided."

He leaned back in his chair, unreadable again. "I haven’t decided anything," he said after a beat. "I’m just not walking away. There’s a difference."

From the kitchen, laughter floated back into the room—Julie’s soft and warm, Roman’s low and rumbling.

The light overhead gleamed off the silverware and cast long shadows across the tiled floor.

Ava stood abruptly. "I need air."

She didn’t wait for a response, didn’t look back.

Her steps were quick but measured as she passed through the archway and slipped out onto the side veranda.

The night met her like an old friend—gentle, expectant, and quiet.

Warm air brushed against her cheeks. The scent of jasmine from Lisa’s garden lingered in the breeze, tangling with the sharp, clean smell of the evening dew.

Cicadas sang somewhere distant, a slow, steady pulse of sound that filled the silence without crowding it.

Ava leaned against the wooden railing, pressing her palms flat against it. Her breath came easier out here.

But the faint creak of the veranda door behind her broke that fragile stillness.

She didn’t turn around.

"You don’t have to follow me," she said softly.

"I didn’t," came Azazel’s voice. "I just found myself here."

Her lips twitched, almost a smile. "You always say things like that. Like poetry wearing a disguise."

A pause. Then his quiet chuckle behind her.

"Not poetry. Just truth."

She shook her head, not sure if she was annoyed or disarmed. Maybe both. "You say that like I’m supposed to understand."

"I say that because I mean it."

She turned halfway, arms crossed loosely. "Why do you keep doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Showing up. Watching. Offering. You could pick someone else—someone easier to figure out."

Azazel tilted his head slightly, eyes steady. "You think that’s what I want? Easy?"

"I think you deserve it," she said, barely audible.

His gaze didn’t waver. "I never asked for what I deserve."

She didn’t have an answer for that. The silence stretched between them, taut and humming.

"You make it sound simple," she said, her voice thinner now. "But it’s not. I don’t know how to let people in without wondering when they’ll leave."

"I’m not leaving," he said.

"That’s what they all say—right before they do."

He stepped closer, not enough to crowd her, but enough to be felt.

"Then let me prove it differently," he said. "No big gestures. No pushing. Just... staying."

The wind picked up, brushing a strand of hair across her cheek. She turned back to the railing, the silence falling again—but this time, not as sharp. Not as lonely.

When she finally spoke, her voice was softer. "You’ll wait forever, Azazel. And I might still not know how to say what you want to hear."

"I’m not waiting for perfect words," he replied. "Just honesty."

She nodded once, as if that counted for something.

A moment passed. Then another.

"Will you let me drive you?" he asked again.

Ava didn’t answer immediately. She watched the breeze stir the garden trees, felt the heat of the railing under her palms.

Then—"Okay."

The word came out small. Barely there.

Azazel nodded and didn’t say anything more. He simply stepped back and waited.

No music, no idle chatter. Just the steady hum of the engine and the soft thrum of tires rolling beneath them.

Streetlights passed overhead in slow intervals, casting fleeting gold ribbons across the dashboard and Ava’s face.

She sat with her hands knotted in her lap, her gaze fixed on the window. Her reflection flickered back at her in faint shadows—still, distant, unreadable.

Ava who was sitting beside him in an absolute silence was out of the car and in her own world thinking.

She’d ridden in cars like this before—quiet rides, kind words—but they always ended in silence that never came back. And she smile at the thought.

It was a bitter smile.

"Turn left at the junction," she said after a while, her voice soft but sure.

Azazel gave a short nod and did as she said.

"Then second right. You’ll see a brown gate with a dented mailbox."

Again, no hesitation. Just quiet obedience. "Alright."

He didn’t ask why she hadn’t just let her ride come. He didn’t say anything at all.

And maybe that’s what Ava was starting to notice—the absence of pressure.

She stole a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. His profile was calm. Focused. Hands loose on the wheel. Shoulders steady.

There was something in that steadiness that made her chest ache a little.

When the car slowed in front of the familiar gate, she felt a strange twist in her gut. Not fear. Not anxiety.

Hope—the kind that felt too dangerous to name.

Azazel parked neatly, the engine idling for a few seconds before he turned the key and cut it off.

The silence afterward felt heavier, like it was waiting for someone to fill it.

She reached for the handle but paused.

"Thanks," she said, not quite meeting his eyes. "For the ride."

His response was easy. "Of course."

She nodded again, fingers still curled on the door handle.

There was more she wanted to say—things that pressed behind her teeth and caught in her throat.

But instead, she asked nothing.

And said even less.

She pushed the door open, stepped out, and let the night air fold around her.

The scent of old concrete, a neighbor’s garden, and her childhood memories greeted her like faded photos.

Azazel didn’t drive off.

She hesitated at the gate, one hand resting on it, and glanced back.

He was still there. Watching. Not intrusively. Not possessively.

Just... there.

And that—that quiet, consistent presence—lingered in her thoughts more than it should have.