Loving DAD 1188

Sharon asked, “Me?” 

Thomas looked at her. “Since you’re giving me the bed, where are you planning to sleep tonight?” 

Sleeping on the floor wasn’t an option. Nights in Yulcuador were cold, and Sharon couldn’t afford to get sick 

now. 

“I’ll take the chair for one night,” she said. “Thomas, your condition matters more.” 

Thomas glanced at the wide bed, hesitated, then said, “It’s big enough. Do you… want to sleep here too?” 

If any other man had said that, Sharon would’ve taken it the wrong way. 

But coming from Thomas, she knew it was nothing more than a simple, sincere offer. 

“No,” she replied, lowering her gaze to the notebook in her lap, flipping through the bedtime stories she’d prepared earlier. 

Thomas understood her temperament–reserved, cautious–and didn’t insist, afraid to cross a line that might cause misunderstanding. 

Once Sharon was ready, she dimmed the lights and lit a calming aromatherapy candle. Then, in a low, even voice, she began telling stories. 

She told five. 

Thomas didn’t seem remotely sleepy. 

In the past, by the third story, Theo would already have been asleep. 

But she knew better than to compare Thomas to him. Thomas’s insomnia ran deep; his body and mind refused to rest easily. 

Patient as ever, Sharon kept going. 

She had prepared around thirty bedtime stories that night. If none of them worked, she would simply try another approach tomorrow. 

But the truth was–she hadn’t slept much the night before, keeping vigil over him. Now, lulled by her own soft cadence and the drowsy pull of her words, she began to nod off mid–sentence. 

Thomas noticed–the faint crease between her brows, the dark circles shadowing her eyes. His lips pressed together in silence. 

By the seventh story, his eyes had closed. 

Sharon blinked sleepily, trying to stay awake long enough to continue–only to realize, with a flicker of surprise, that Thomas had already fallen asleep. 

She whispered his name softly, once, twice. When he didn’t stir, she exhaled in relief. 

 

Pulling on her coat, she leaned back in the chair. The moment her eyes shut, she slipped into sleep herself. 

Sometime later, Thomas’s eyes opened again. 

He rose slowly and walked toward her. For a while, he just stood there, watching her. Then he bent down, slipped his arms around her, and carried her to the bed. Gently, he laid her down and pulled the blanket over her. 

Her face was serene, her breathing soft and steady. 

Something in him wavered. As if drawn by a quiet, unnameable pull, he lowered his head–until his lips hovered just above her forehead. 

Then he stopped. 

Whatever he’d been about to do, he thought better of it. His eyes flickered shut for a moment, and when he opened them again, the moment had passed. 

He didn’t return to bed. Instead, he sat down in the chair. 

He knew too well how desire worked–once the floodgates opened, it was impossible to hold back the tide. He had already been given more than he ever dared hope for. He couldn’t allow himself to want more. 

And yet, emotions that wild didn’t obey reason. He knew how fragile his control was, how close to the edge. 

If he ever did something unforgivable to Sharon, he would regret it for the rest of his life. 

So he sat there quietly, staring out at the silver wash of moonlight spilling through the window. 

He expected another sleepless night. But against all odds, he drifted off–deeply, peacefully, like that night in the cave. 

He didn’t stir until morning, when Sharon’s voice broke through the haze. 

“Thomas. Thomas, why are you sleeping here?” 

He opened his eyes to find her face close to his. 

A small smile tugged at his lips. “Morning, Sharon.” 

After a good night’s sleep, then opening his eyes to see her, it was impossible to feel anything but lighthearted. 

Sharon asked again, “Thomas, why were you sleeping in the chair?” 

He answered with an easy calm, “I woke up in the middle of the night and saw you asleep on the chair, so I carried you to bed.”