I don’t even bother trying to take my jeans off. I just plop on the bed, on top of the covers and everything, and I’m out seconds later. A brush of skin across my cheek wakes me. I groan, my world still spinning as I open my crusted eyes and see my shadow standing by my bed, brushing the hair from my face. “Oh, great,” I grumble. “You’re here.” “Little mouse, are you drunk?” “Way to ask the obvious,” I mumble, slurping up some drool that’s leaking out of my mouth. I’m still too drunk to be embarrassed. Shakily, I sit up and stare around the room. The lights are still on—I guess I forgot to turn them off—and it feels wrong to see my stalker in anything but the darkness. It makes him more real, and I don’t like it. “Turn the light off,” I demand, refusing to meet his eyes. I much prefer when I can only see shadows of his face. He turns and does what I say. I’m so surprised that he listened that I almost snap out another demand when the light clicks off, just to see what he’ II do. He’s once again hidden in the shadows. When he walks through the room, it’s like the darkness clings to him. He is darkness. I can’t figure out what scares me more—him in the dark, or him in the light. “T need to take my jeans off. I suppose you’re going to watch me, aren’t you?”