He was dead. He was there, right there in your arms and he was dead. He wasn’t breathing, he wasn’t moving, he wasn’t saying those dumb jokes in that dumb voice of his. You weep, you cry, you shout.

You wake up.

You realise you’re in your room, sweat dripping down your forehead, chest heaving up and down. None of it was real. But you needed to make sure, so you called him even if it was 2am until he answered.

“What?” Baby grumbles drowsily from the other side of the phone.