In the midst of my sleep, I still subconsciously pull you closer. Like it’s second nature, muscle memory. Even when I’m completely knocked out, in the deepest sleep ever—and, trust me, I am a deep sleeper—I still keep my tight grip around you all night. You say that my sleep self is clingy, and I’d have to agree.

But, the clinginess has its faults. Where I can sleep through earthquakes and probably the third world war, you are the lightest sleeper known to man. If I’m so much as breathing wrong, it’ll wake you up. That means that you tend to flop around a lot during the night. Twisting and turning to get comfortable again after getting woken up every 5 minutes from the air conditioning.

With all of that in mind, I have to infer that you shot up pretty fast if it even woke me up.

My eyes open slowly, bleary and not even half conscious yet. In the haze, though, I can tell that you’re wide awake. I try to pull you closer, get you to lie back down, but the tension in your body refuses. I groan quietly and force my brain to yank myself to a at least a shred of consciousness.

“Sweetheart, go back to sleep…” I mumble, face still pressed into my pillow.

“Did you hear that…?” You respond, voice small and frail, shaking slightly. Your question is rhetorical to me because you know that I was fast asleep and probably wouldn’t even wake up if you blew an air horn in my ear.

“It was probably just the air conditioning turning on, honey, just lie back down.” I tug on your waist again, but you’re relentless.

“It wasn’t the air, Harry… It sounded like the front door.”

Well, that sure helps to wake me up. “The front door? What do you mean?”

“It sounded like the front door was opened.”

Now that would be a hard claim to make without some concrete evidence. You see, our house is an older model, and we kept everything from the original build. Meaning the stairs creak, the floorboards quiver, and the front door lets out a distinctive shrill every time the hinges are engaged.

It’s an unmistakable sound. Nothing like the air conditioning of the regular sounds of an older house. If you heard the front door, I have to believe you.

I sit up on my elbow, scrubbing a hand down my face to clear the sleepiness off of me. “Are you sure, sweetheart?” In the darkness of the room, I spot your small nod. Your eyes are trained to our closed bedroom door, fear evident in the posture you hold. I sigh as I sit up straighter, letting the reality of the situation sink in. I’m not necessarily freaked out, but your fear makes me feel overly protective, even if I don’t fully believe it.

“Do you want me to go check it?”