I lay still in my new bedroom, listening to the rain falling on the porch roof, my heart filled with confusion.
James limped in, holding a glass of water.
“Here,” he said softly. “Drink this, you must be tired.”
His voice was low, gentle like the breath of the night wind.
He pulled up the blanket, turned off the light and sat down on the edge of the bed.
The silence was suffocating.
I closed my eyes, my heart pounding, waiting for something between fear and curiosity.
A moment later, he spoke softly, his voice trembling:
“You can sleep, Sarah. I won’t touch you. Not until you’re ready.”
I opened my eyes slightly.
In the darkness, I saw him lying on his side, his back turned, keeping a great distance – as if he was afraid of hurting me just by touching me.
My heart suddenly softened.
I didn’t expect that the man I only considered “my last choice” would treat me with such respect.
The next morning, I woke up, sunlight streaming through the curtains.
On the table was a breakfast tray: a glass of warm milk, an egg sandwich, and a handwritten note:
“I went to the shop to fix a customer’s TV. Don’t go out if it’s still raining. I’ll be back for lunch.” – James.