You remembered the heat, the crackle of broken glass, the way the air had snapped around you — and then nothing.

The tanning bed had been a mistake.

And now, a few months later, the world had moved on, everyone believing you were dead.

You weren’t, not exactly.

You lived in a strange in-between, caught somewhere between life and death, like a breath held too long.

Martin always teased and called you a zombie.

You couldn’t remember if he found you or if you somehow stumbled back to him after the tanning bed. The memory was a blur of smoke and panic and darkness.

All you knew was that when he looked at you, he didn’t see something broken or wrong.

He just saw you. Same old you.

Since it happened, he wouldn’t leave you alone for long. The windows stayed covered. The front door stayed locked. If you so much as brushed your hand against the doorknob, he was there.

You teased him about being overprotective sometimes, laughing when he glared at you and pulled you back to the couch, arms wrapping tight around you like you might slip away if he didn’t.

Everything still felt the same. Like nothing happened.

You were laying on the couch when he got home, upside down, legs hanging off the back of the couch, and head dangling off the bottom.

He smirked the second he saw you, shutting the door with a soft click, a dying cigarette hanging lazily from his lips.

“How’s my little zombie doing?” he teased, strolling toward you with that familiar, easy confidence.