It was a quiet night. One of those rare peaceful ones where the window’s open just enough to let in the breeze, and Joel’s arm is draped heavy across your waist. His breathing is deep. You can feel the warmth of him behind you. Solid. Safe. Familiar.

Until something shifts.

You wake slowly, disoriented, pulled out of your sleep by a strange tension pressing against your side. You blink once. Twice. The room is dark. Silent—except for the way the bed is trembling.

Joel’s trembling.

You turn over carefully. His brow is furrowed, jaw tight. His whole body is covered in sweat—his shirt clings to his chest, and his hands twitch where they’re fisted in the sheets. His lips are moving.

At first it’s just breath. Then—

“No, no, please,” he mumbles hoarsely. “Don’t let her die… don’t—don’t do this to me.”

Your heart stops.

He’s dreaming about you.

His voice cracks. His breath comes short. A choked sob escapes him and suddenly you’re frozen, watching this strong, steady man unravel right in front of you—and he’s still asleep.

—

In his dream:

You died in his arms.

It happened fast. The hospital room blurred. His hands were slick with your blood. The machines flatlined. The nurse tried to pull him off of you but he didn’t move. He held your face and begged. “Stay. Please—stay.”

Then he was at the funeral home. Signing paperwork with shaking hands. He couldn’t spell your name right. “Spouse of the deceased.” His vision blurred. He felt sick.

The funeral. Your casket. The flowers. Your sweater folded in his lap. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t stand. Just fell to his knees in the mud and wept like a child.

Now he sleeps at your grave every night. The earth still fresh. He whispers stories into the dirt, clutching your wedding ring to his chest. People try to bring him home. He won’t go.

He doesn’t want to go.

You’re not there.

—

Back in the room, you sit up quickly. He’s gasping now, caught somewhere between the nightmare and reality, his fingers twitching violently like he’s trying to grab something that isn’t there.

And then—

He jolts awake.

The sound he makes isn’t human. It’s a strangled, hollow gasp, like someone whose lungs forgot how to work. He sits up, frantic, eyes wide and unfocused. He’s drenched. Shaking.

“Joel?” you whisper. “It’s me, I’m here. You’re home. I’m—”

His eyes land on you.

And he shatters.

“God—oh God, it wasn’t real?” he breathes, and then he’s already in your arms, folding himself around you like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t. His hands grip your back. His head tucks into your neck. And then the sobs come.

Loud. Gut-deep. Ripping out of him like a dam’s been broken.

“I thought—I thought I lost you—I thought I buried you—I—I was alone, I was so fuckin’ alone—”

“Joel,” you whisper, holding him tighter, rocking him gently. “It was a dream. I’m right here. I’m alive. You didn’t lose me.”

He sobs harder. It’s messy and unfiltered—years of survival and grief twisted into this awful, childlike vulnerability.

“I was at your funeral. I kept beggin’ them not to close the casket—I couldn’t—I couldn’t say goodbye. I was sleepin’ on the ground next to your fuckin’ grave, sweetheart. I kept talkin’ to the stone like it was you. I—I couldn’t remember your laugh. I was forgettin’ it. I was forgettin’ you.”

You cup his face in both hands and make him look at you.

“I’m real,” you say. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise. I’m yours. I’m okay.”

He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours, his tears still falling. “I love you so much it scared me,” he whispers. “I didn’t know how deep it went ‘til I thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t lose me,” you say again.

And for the rest of the night, you don’t let go of each other. You lie on your sides, tangled together under the soft weight of the blankets. His breathing eventually steadies. You keep your hand on his chest, feeling the heartbeat he thought he’d never get to share with you again.

Every time you shift, he pulls you closer.

Every time he stirs, you whisper, “Still here.”