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My gaze returned to hers and suddenly, I wasn't a thirty-four-year-old man but a little boy. I wanted to crawl into that bed and curl up beside my father, the way I used to when I thought thunder was the only thing to be scared of.
He offered a compassionate smile but I wished it was a hug. I wished he'd open up his big, Viking arms and tuck me inside. To comfort me and make me feel better. To protect me from the storm relentlessly beating against my heart. But what kind of man would I be to ask for that? And what kind of man would give it?
