He never sleep
525 Words
The silence in the Whitmore estate was suffocating.
I had never been in a place so vast, yet so empty. It wasn't just the absence of noise—it was the absence of life.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
The mattress beneath me was luxurious, the sheets softer than anything I had ever owned, but comfort didn't translate to peace.
Everything about this place felt too perfect, too carefully arranged, as if it had been designed to impress rather than to be lived in.
I turned onto my side, glancing at the alarm clock. 2:43 AM.
With a sigh, I sat up, pulling the covers off.
There was no point in pretending I could sleep.
Sliding out of bed, I wrapped a robe around myself and padded toward the door.
The hallway outside was dimly lit, the kind of soft glow meant to guide someone without truly breaking the darkness.
That was when I noticed it.
Light.
A faint glow spilling out from underneath a door at the far end of the hall.
Nathaniel's study.
I hesitated, then moved closer, my bare feet silent against the hardwood floor.
As I approached, I could hear the soft hum of a laptop, the occasional rustle of paper.
He was still awake.
I shouldn't have been surprised.
Nathaniel Whitmore always exuded control, as if he had planned and accounted for every possible detail of his life.
But for a man who ruled his world with such precision, he clearly didn't rest.
The thought unsettled me more than it should have.
I lingered by the door for a moment, debating whether to walk away, but curiosity got the better of me. Slowly, I pushed the door open an inch.
He was there, exactly as I expected.
Seated behind a sleek, black desk, his tie loosened, the top button of his shirt undone. His suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair, and in front of him, papers were scattered across the desk.
He leaned back slightly, one hand at his temple, fingers pressing lightly against his brow, the other holding a pen motionless above an open document. His usually sharp blue eyes were clouded with something unreadable, exhaustion, maybe. Or something deeper.
I had never seen him look unsteady before.
For a moment, I almost believed he was human.
Then, as if sensing my presence, his gaze flicked toward me.
I froze.
Neither of us spoke. The room was still, charged with something unspoken.
"Couldn't sleep?" His voice was quiet, smooth, yet laced with something heavier.
I swallowed. "Neither could you."
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "I don't sleep much."
I hesitated before stepping further inside. "At all?"
Nathaniel exhaled, tapping the pen once against the desk before setting it down. "Rarely. It's a habit."
I frowned. "That's not a habit, that's a medical condition."
He let out a low chuckle, but it held no real amusement. "It's just how I work."
"That's not healthy," I muttered.
For the first time since I met him, he looked away first.
I didn't know what to make of that.
- Writer
