I ease the knob of the front door clockwise. I move slow enough to produce nothing louder than a handcuff click as the bolt slides free. The door glides inwards, lighting the hallway in a brilliant shaft of moonlight. I take a quick step over the threshold, keeping a firm grip on the knob as I simultaneously slide the door shut. The deadbolt barely whispers as I turn it back into place.

I slip my shoes off in two swift motions and pick them up off the hardwood floor. I find the shoe-rack against the wall by touch, but struggle to find my opening amidst the variety of polished black shoes. I finally slip them into the slot at the very end of the row, a faint whiff of leather coming off the tall boots they sit to one side of. That reminds me of you.

I can't see it in the complete darkness, but I know your door is at the end of the hall on the left hand side. I place one hand on the wall as a guide and walk gingerly. My throat is dry, knowing that there's two hurdles left to secure my silent entry. The first one is on me quickly, the knob to the bedroom door always a little loose and therefore liable to a metallic jostling. I take hold of it with deliberate downward pressure, turning as smoothly as I can while still moving forward, ever forward towards safety.

The doors scrapes along the carpet, little flakes of chipped wood I have to sand down crackling like embers on a fireplace. I freeze, holding myself hostage in a paranoid silence. I can barely make out your recumbent form, a peaceful hump in the bed-covers. Two heartbeats pass, then four, then eight. I wait for you to stir, to speak aloud in the disappointed way you do when I err our of deliberate mischief or lack of diligence. But I hear nothing. I close the door.

I risk the next move, dropping to all fours on the carpet. I crawl, half out of fear, around the king-size bed. You let out a little snort. I can't help but sigh. Your peace is my peace this night, and all others. The entrance to my cage hangs ajar, and I round the corner and crawl towards it with the enthusiasm of a racer on their last lap. The lock is open for me to close when I get comfortable, and I look forward to its security, and to your greeting as you turn its key the next morning. I back myself into my spot, lying flat on my stomach, and close my eyes, fumbling with the door as I nearly pass out right then and there.

You snort again. I don't notice, fixated on getting myself situated for bed. But the snorting gets louder. And then a quiet giggle. Almost imperceptible as I drift off into oblivion. Still, some part of me must've heard it, because I dream of punishment, and I wake the next morning in fear.