I'm up with another nasty chest infection, so I thought instead of moping around feeling grumpy and sleepy, I'd rather write a happy little story about going to bed.

WHILE WE CAN

(The Thornton Tales)

The fire in John Thornton's study had dimmed to a peaceful, orange smoulder, draping shadows that flickered lazily across the room's rich wooden panels. Outside, the world was still, enveloped in the quiet of the night, but within, John felt the familiar pull of exhaustion from the long day. He stifled a wide yawn, running his hand through his thick, black hair, now lightly streaked with grey at the temples—a subtle reminder of the years spent in the relentless grind of industry, labour, and life. Though he was only thirty-four, there were moments when the strain of his responsibilities made him feel as though he had borne the burdens of ten lifetimes. The mill, with all its demands, pressed heavily upon him, yet tonight, more than ever, he yearned for the solace of his bed and the comfort of his beloved Margaret's presence beside him.

He was certain she had gone to bed, their son already fast asleep in his nursery, but as he passed the doorway of his study, his gaze caught the soft outline of a figure. Peering in, he saw the outline of a person curled up, their head peeking around above a shawl, making them look like a chestnut-coloured cat. There, illuminated by the warm embers, lay Margaret. The sight of her—so serene, so quietly beautiful—stilled his steps. Her brunette hair, thick and coiled, fell in soft curls around her pale face, catching the light in a way that made it glow like burnished copper. Her lashes quivered, and her full lips, slightly parted, moved with the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest.

A book lay in her lap, The History of Cotton Manufacturing, a subject she had grown passionate about, though it had slipped from her fingers, the pages perilously close to falling. John approached with a swelling tenderness in his heart, the deep, unwavering love he had felt for her since their fraught early acquaintance still burning strong. How far they had come—how much they had endured together. Even now, with their second child growing inside her, Margaret carried herself with an unrivalled strength that never ceased to amaze him, though he could sense her weariness. Their lively son, full of boundless energy, had claimed much of her attention.

He moved stealthily, taking the book from her hands before it could fall, and setting it on the table. His eyes lingered on her form, so delicate yet strong, the gentle curve of her abdomen a constant reminder of the new life they were soon to welcome. With a tenderness that came as second nature, he reached for the blanket arranged over the armchair. The wool was soft and warm, and as he covered her with it, his fingers brushed against her skin—cool to the touch but comforted by the heat of the fire.

As he bent closer, his gaze fell on the faint scar at her temple, partially hidden beneath a stray lock of hair. He carefully smoothed it back, his thumb grazing the old mark. How long ago it seemed now, that terrible day when she had been hurt, right there outside his window. The memory had faded, but the scar remained—a reminder of their trials, their triumphs, and how, even then, fate had bound them together.

Margaret stirred beneath his touch, her lips parting in a soft murmur, though she did not wake. John knelt beside her, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead, and then, unable to resist, to her lips— trembling with ardour but filled with the love that words could not fully express. To his delight, she responded instinctively, her hand rising to cup his face, as he had done to her at the train station in all his pent-up passion, drawing him closer, though her eyes remained closed.

He chuckled softly, his breath warm against her skin. 'Time for bed?' he advised, his voice hushed and intimate as if the night itself might listen.

She nodded, still half-dreaming, her eyelids fluttering but not opening fully.

With the ease of a man accustomed to holding her close, John scooped her into his arms. She nestled against him willingly, her head resting in the familiar hollow of his shoulder. Despite her pregnancy, she fit perfectly against him, as she always had. He rose effortlessly, carrying her up the stairs with long, measured strides, the warmth of her body seeping into his own as they moved through the sleeping house.

As they ascended, he smiled to himself, his lips brushing her ear. 'You know, I won't be able to do this forever,' he said, though there was a teasing note in his tone that made them both giggle.

Margaret, her cheek pressed against his neck, let out a drowsy laugh of her own. 'I know,' she accepted. 'That is why I will enjoy it while I can.'

Forty-five years had passed in what felt like the brief flicker of a candle. But what bright and beautiful years they had been.

The study remained much the same, its heavy bookshelves lined with volumes collected over decades, the fire still crackling with the familiar warmth of home. Yet, the air had changed. Time had slowed the pace of the household, replacing the vigour of youth with the quiet reflection of age. John, his once-black hair now entirely silver, stood in the doorway of the study, his tall frame slightly bent with the weight of years. His face, deeply lined with the experience of a life fully lived, still held the same strength and resolve, though his step was no longer as sure as it had been.

Something called him to the room before bed, as if old habits were too powerful to ignore. And there, on the same couch, he found Margaret, much as he had all those years ago. Her silver hair fanned out across the pillow, a soft halo framing her face. The beauty that had once captivated him remained, though it was now tempered by the passage of time. Her skin, though lined, still held a softness he adored, and her lips—pale, yet still curved in that familiar way—murmured softly in sleep.

Her breathing was punctuated by uneven wheezes, a lingering sign of the persistent cough that had troubled her for months. Her once-strong legs, now weakened by time, had grown unsteady, and she had stumbled more than once of late, each fall leaving her with painful injuries to her knee and hip.

John stood over her for a moment, his heart heavy but full of love. How many times had he gazed at her in wonder, in awe of the woman who had shared his life for so many years? And even now, in her frailty, she was still the centre of his world.

He bent down, pressing a tender kiss to her lips, as he had done so many times before. Though asleep, Margaret responded with a familiar smile, her hand finding his cheek in a way that made his heart swell with an emotion he could never quite put into words.

'Time for bed?' he asked again, his voice tender, touched by the wisdom of time.

She opened her eyes, just for a moment, and nodded, though when she tried to rise, her strength failed her. With a sigh, she sank back into the couch, her frailty more apparent than ever.

Without hesitation, John gathered her into his arms. She was so light now, so fragile, and though he was still strong, the years had begun to take their toll. His back strained with the effort, his limbs ached, but he did not mind. She was in his arms, where she belonged, and that was all that mattered.

'No,' she protested weakly. 'I am too heavy. You are too old.'

'Less of that,' he mocked puckishly. But she was right, and yet he did not mind. 'I'll admit, it's harder now to carry you, but I will gladly do it for as long as I can. It has been my life's pleasure and privilege, ever since I first held you in my arms on that fateful day.'

Margaret smiled, the wrinkles on her face creasing. 'I know, my love. You have carried me with such strength and faithfulness, I do not know how I can ever thank you.'

He held back a tear. 'As you have carried me in turn, my love.'

Holding her close, he ascended the stairs with deliberate care, feeling the familiar ache in his spine. A soft sigh escaped his lips. "You know, I won't be able to do this forever," he murmured, the words laced with a quiet understanding. They both knew—while their love felt timeless, their bodies were not.

Margaret wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers threading through his silver hair. She pressed her face into the curve of his shoulder, her breath soft against his skin. 'I know,' she whispered. 'That is why we will cherish it, while we can.'