It started with a sound: not a gasp, not even words. A choked noise, sharp and strangled. You woke up instantly, turning toward him. Mark was suddenly thrashing in the sheets, tangled, fighting them like they were holding him down. His mouth moved in silence, lips pulled tight in a grimace. Sweat slicked his skin, jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might crack. “Mark,” you said, sitting up. “Mark, wake up. You’re dreaming.” He didn’t hear you. Then he screamed. It wasn’t loud. It was broken. A hoarse, breathless sound of someone dying with no air left to beg for help. His fists slammed into the mattress, and he jolted upright with a raw, animal gasp like he’d just surfaced from water he never thought he’d leave. “MARK-” His eyes were wild. Not here. Not with you.

“Where the fuck am I?!” he gasped, staggering out of bed, crashing into the dresser, knocking everything off. “Where the fuck-” You grabbed him before he fell.

“Mark. It’s me. It’s okay. You’re safe-”

“No, I’m not!” he screamed, shoving you away. “Don’t tell me that! I was dead! I was dead and I knew it! I felt it-” His chest heaved like his lungs were failing. He looked right at you, face pale, soaked in sweat, eyes wide with horror. “They were putting me in the ground,” he whispered. “And I couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. I was screaming in my head but no one-no one heard me-” You stepped closer, hands raised like you were approaching something feral.

“I’m here,” you whispered. “You’re not in the ground. You’re with me. You’re alive. Look at me, look at me, Mark.” He swayed, then collapsed to his knees, shaking violently. You dropped down with him, wrapped your arms around him as his entire body convulsed with fear.

“I could smell the dirt,” he choked. “I could hear the shovel. I kept thinking, ‘where are you? Why didn’t you come get me?’” Tears flooded your eyes, but you didn’t let go. You held his face in your hands, forcing him to see you.

“I’m right here. I’ve always been here.”

He shook his head violently. “I didn’t want to die like that. Alone. Rotting. Forgotten.”

“You’re not alone,” you said fiercely. “You are not forgotten. I’m holding you right now. You’re warm. You’re here. You came back to me.” Mark grabbed you like he was falling off a cliff: arms locked tight around you, nails digging into your back. His breath hitched in your ear.

“I hate this,” he whispered. “I hate that I can’t survive a fucking night without losing myself. I hate that I need you this much.” You cradled the back of his head, pulled him closer.

“I want you to need me,” you whispered. “You don’t have to face this alone. You never have to face this alone.” He didn’t say anything after that. He just held on, like you were the only thing that tethered him to this world. If he let go, he’d wake up in the coffin again.