Fools... are probably just like this.
Sylvan Cheney smiled, curving his lips, with a hint of bitterness in his smile.
He clenched his fists, standing motionless by the bed.
At this moment, his heartbeat was steady, and his chest was calm. Over an hour of anxiety and impatience felt like a walk through the Gate of Ghosts.
He didn't know why he felt this way. This feeling was strange and mysterious.
The effects of alcohol hadn't completely faded. Now that he was quiet, the alcohol kept stimulating his brain, urging him to bend down and look at her.
He genuinely crouched down, gazing at Jasmine Yale's countenance on the hospital bed.
His gaze traced the outlines of her face, and her image filled his dark pupils.
As if controlled by forces beyond his control, he reached out, his slender fingers touched her face, carefully, a little awkwardly, and a bit anxiously.
