The New Yorker website has a short story in their fiction section by Irish author Roddy Doyle: Sleep.
It was the thing he’d always loved about her. The way she could sleep. When they’d just started going with each other, before they really knew each other, he’d lie awake, hoping she’d wake up, praying for it, dying. But even then he’d loved to look at her while she slept. There was something about it that made him feel lucky, or privileged. Or trusted. She could do that beside him, turn everything off, all the defenses, and let him watch her.
Good read — I love the opening (above).
