Sometimes I wake and the room seems brighter, warmer than it ought. There's a mental sheen of perspiration on my inner brow - the one I don't cock in snarky commentary - a lustful dissonance to my breathing.

A dream.

It urges in intimate whispers. Stay, it prods me to say. Lock the door. You're all I need, all I want.

But fear whispers, too. In more familiar tones, colder phrases. Your choice where you want to be... No locks... You're the only one you need...

Some days I wake and the room seems more shadowed, colder than it ought.