Yet another night where I can't sleep.

Well, I had been sleeping. In my bed, under the covers, sleep mask on. I wasn't having the most comforting dream, but as of late I haven't had many of those anyway.

I'm woken up out of this unsettling dream by screams coming through my wall. And not 'throes of ecstasy' screams, either. These are fully-grown male screams - wild, uncontrollable and absolutely terrified.

I sit up in bed, spine rigid, and stare wide-eyed into the dark for a couple beats before I realize who it is. Of course, it's Jackson. I know it's him because I've been woken up by this same sound for the past few weeks, consistently. Ever since the shooting, none of us have been the same. But the boys are hellbent on hiding it.

I try and relax, forcing all my muscles to slacken as I lay back down. The screaming has stopped, just like always. It only lasts for a second or two. I close my eyes, about to drift back off until I hear it again - this time, louder and more fearful. And it doesn't stop, not like it usually does. It keeps going for long periods, so long that his voice will surely break if he doesn't stop.

My stomach toils with nerves and emotion as I throw the covers off. I hurry out of my room and down the hall in my bare feet, then swing open the door to his bedroom that neighbors mine.

He's sitting up in bed just like I was, but his eyes are closed. He's shirtless and covered in a fine layer of sweat, all of his muscles tense, fists bunched. He's still screaming at the top of his lungs, throwing his head back and forth as if he's fighting something awful.

"Jackson," I say urgently, taking a few tentative steps forward. "Jackson, it's okay. It's me, it's April. I'm right here. You're just having a bad dream."

I hover near him, but he doesn't stop. I don't know how to make him stop. He's going to wake up the whole house if he doesn't quiet down, and I know he won't want all that attention. I have to do something.

"Jackson," I urge, eyebrows tilting up in a desperate expression. "Please, you're okay. You're not there. I'm… you're right here… it's just a… you're having a nightmare!"

I reach out and grab his shoulders tight in my hands, and when I touch him, the screaming stops entirely. His eyes shoot open and make contact with mine, and I stare back with just as much feeling.

"April?" he mutters, eyes cloudy.

"Hey," I say, without letting go.

He blinks hard and smacks his lips together; I can hear how dry his mouth is. I let go of one of his shoulders only to grab the half-full glass of water at his bedside and give it to him with a shaking hand.

"Drink," I say, and watch as he does. He guzzles the whole thing and gives me back the empty glass, and I replace it on the nightstand where I'd grabbed it.

"Thanks."

I take my other hand off his shoulder, left standing stiff and awkward. "Are you okay?" I ask, and follow up with, "What were you dreaming about?" I realize how tactless the question is only after it passes my lips. "I- oh- I'm sorry. We don't have to talk… talk about it. You don't have to. I can just go. I just wanted to… to wake you up. You were screaming."

"I was?"

I nod and tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear. "Yeah."

"Loud?"

"Yeah."

"Woke you up?"

I nod again. "Yeah. For the past… while."

"Shit," he says, staring at the sheets tangled at the foot of the bed. He pinches his eyes shut tight and shakes his head a bit, gritting his teeth at the same time. "Fuck."

"Do you wanna talk…?" I ask, feeling self-conscious now. Maybe I shouldn't have come in here. Maybe it was a mistake, and now I'm infringing on his privacy.

"He put the gun in my face," he says, eyebrows knitted together. "Only for a second. Then… then, he shot everyone dead. Every single last person you can think of." He looks up. "Except you. You were last, he saved you for last. Right on front of me. He was gonna blow… blow your…" He covers his face with his hands and hunches his shoulders - and when I see them moving in a strange, disjointed manner, I realize he's crying.

"I'm right here, though," I say, very gently. My littlest sister, Alice, used to have bad night terrors and we shared a room as kids. Comforting people is something I'm good at. "I'm here. He didn't get me."

"But he almost did," Jackson insists, voice wobbly. "That gun was in your fucking face! And I had the gun pointed at my f-fu-fucking…"

"Hey," I say, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Hey…"

He falls forward and collapses against my chest, arms wrapped around my waist as he sobs harder than I've ever heard a man sob. At first, I'm awkward and my movements are jerky because I'm thinking too hard - this is Jackson, the Adonis of our class, the one all the girls fawn over, the one who flaunts his ego everywhere.

But when I lower one hand to stroke his bare back and he softens against me, I realize… this is Jackson. My best friend, the one I've grown closest to, the one who comes closest to understanding me. The one who eats dry cereal with his hands and gives me that full-mouthed smirk in the morning, the one who lets me shower first so I can have the hot water, and the one who always folds my fitted sheet for me.

It's only second nature to comfort him. He's my best friend.

"I got you," I whisper, dragging my fingernails across his smooth skin. I wrap both arms around him and scoot closer, adjusting our position to something a bit more comfortable. I end up sitting against the headboard with his head on my lap, one of his arms wrapped around both my legs.

He doesn't stop crying for hours, not until it knocks him out. And I don't stop soothing him, either. Once he falls asleep, his body is much too heavy for me to even think about moving - and the last thing I want is to wake him. So, I lean back against the headboard, close my eyes, and try to fall asleep myself.

…

In the morning, I wake up sweaty. That's unusual, since I tend to keep my room very cool, so I'm confused over anything. I furrow my eyebrows and kick the tangled-up sheets off my feet to get some air on them, but in the process, I accidentally kick a very sturdy leg.

My eyes flick open and I gasp as I realize where I am, where I've stayed all night. Jackson's head rests right next to mine on the pillow, and he's still asleep. The leg kick didn't bother him.

My stomach jumps as I realize how barely clothed he is, and I'm not wearing a bra. I never wear one to bed, but now something about it feels lecherous. I feel like I've crossed a line that neither of us were aware of last night, and everything is going to be weird now that it's daylight.

But maybe I can fix some of that weirdness if I slip out like this never happened.

I roll onto my back and then to my opposite side, swinging my legs to stand up. I pause after doing so, body frozen, then look over my shoulder to see if he woke up. He didn't.

I creep out of the room, closing the door as much as it'd been closed before, and practically run face-first into Alex's chest on my way out.

"Damn," he says. "Watch where you're going, Kepner." He rubs his eyes, then notices what bedroom I came out of. "Wait a second. Are you and Avery doin' it? Did he finally take your precious little V-card?"

"No, stop it," I say, frowning.

"Did he try? Jesus, did you blue ball the man?"

"Shut up," I say. "It wasn't like that."

"Aw, then did you two cuddle and talk about your dreams into the wee hours of the morning?"

"I'm going away now," I say. "Leave me alone." I turn away, take a few steps, then turn violently back with a finger pointed at him. "And leave him alone, too, when he wakes up."

"So very defensive of your boyfriend," Alex jeers.

All I can do is roll my eyes and disappear into the bathroom. I take a quick, cool shower - letting myself stand under the jet for only a few minutes as my thoughts simmer and steam. It was sad, seeing Jackson in such a state last night, but I didn't mind comforting him. It almost made me feel good, like I had a purpose. And I think I liked sleeping with him, too. Next to him, I mean. It was nice to feel someone beside me and know they're there. I wonder if he liked it, too. Or if he'll even remember.

I get out of the shower, dry my hair, and put my makeup on in preparation to head to work. When I come into the kitchen downstairs, I see Jackson standing there with one hand inside the cereal box, munching away, tracking me with his eyes.

"Uh, hey," I say, twining my fingers together.

"Hey," he says.

I clear my throat and pour a small glass of orange juice for something to do. I would leave the kitchen if it didn't look so obvious, but I'm past that point now. I came in here for a reason, and he knows it. Leaving would look like a blatant escape.

"Sorry if I hogged the bed last night," he says.

I choke a bit on my juice and spit it back into the clear glass, having not expected him to bring up last night so openly. I thought it would be something we skirted around and didn't talk about, not something that would turn into breakfast conversation.

"No, uh, no. It was fine," I say, very cordially.

"'Cause I've been told that I do."

"No. No, you didn't," I say.

He laughs softly. "Well, you did."

I widen my eyes and set the glass down. "Me… I - what? No, I didn't."

"Yeah, you did," he says, leaning against the counter all casual, still shirtless and in pajama pants. His shift must start a little later than mine. "We ended up on the same damn pillow after a while. I didn't mind. I mean, I was cool with it. But still, you should know that you're a bed hog."

"Whatever," I say, throwing one hand in the air as I turn around to walk out of the kitchen.

"Deny it all you want!" Jackson laughs, and I roll my eyes lightly as my cheeks heat up.

"Is the happy couple having a marital dispute?" Alex calls from the stairs.

We both ignore him as I leave Jackson behind to put on my shoes. I try to shove it out, but I'm fully aware that what he said - and the casual way he said it - will stick in my mind all day.

…

Jackson isn't home when I get there, and I'm so exhausted from the long day and weird night of sleep last night that I go straight to bed. I put my hair up in a loose bun, put on an old camisole and a pair of cotton shorts, and slip under the covers in hopes of drifting off for a full eight hours or more.

I'm not sure how long I've been out when I hear it, but it must be a long time. The house is completely silent save for the pitchy screams, and I can't even begin to ignore them. Now that I know how bad his nightmares are - from the distress I saw on his face last night - there's no way I can leave him alone with them.

So, with my arms crossed over my chest and a mission in mind, I hurry across the hall and push open his door. This time, instead of sitting straight up, he's curled into a ball on his side screaming into the pillow.

I don't waste time before getting on the bed. I perch on my hands and knees behind him, using two hands to brace myself on the side of his ribcage, and jostle his body lightly.

"Jackson, wake up," I say, as gently as I can while still remaining urgent. "You're having another nightmare. Come on, wake up. It's not real, I promise."

The screaming stops, but he still whimpers like a kicked puppy with his face pressed into the damp cotton. I rub his side rhythmically, trying to bring him back to the surface with comfort, and in a moment he flips onto his back and looks at me with glistening eyes.

"April," he says, and his voice sounds weaker than last night. Weaker than I've ever heard it, actually.

"I'm here," I say, balancing on my knees.

He reaches out and I take his hand by instinct. He closes his eyes and clenches my fingers tight, and I stroke his arm with my free hand. It must have been worse than last night if his demeanor is so wounded. I almost don't want to ask what happened - for his sake, and also mine.

"You're okay," I whisper, after a while.

He opens his eyes and meets mine again, then he stretches out his arms wide. "I just…" he says, seemingly not sure how to ask. "I just want them to go away."

I fall into his arms like it's something we do every night, and he tightens them around my back. Our chests press against one another as I unfold my legs, and I wind one arm around his waist to let him know I don't plan on going anywhere. As long as he wants me, I'm right here.

"You're not alone," I say, cheek squished against his sternum.

He gives me a big squeeze, then inhales like he's going to say something. No words come out though, at least not at first. A pocket of silence passes before he speaks.

"I was, though, in the dream," he says. "This time. This time, he… he got you. And he made me watch."

"Oh, Jackson."

He turns his head and buries it in my hair as he takes another big inhale. "I felt like I was dying. Like he was actually killing me when he made me watch him kill…"

"I'm so sorry," I say, then stroke his stomach. I've never touched him here before, but it comes as second nature. His belly is softer than I thought, with a trail of hair leading from his bellybutton… lower.

"I can still see his eyes in my head. They were so fucking evil."

"Don't think about it," I say, lifting myself on an elbow. I look right into his face with earnest, leaving my hand where it is. "I'm here, right next to you. He didn't get me. I'm here."

Jackson's eyes soften as he watches me, and if I'm not mistaken, they dart to my lips and I don't blame him. I'm thinking it, too. Who else cuddles in bed like this but couples? Who knows him better than I do, and vice versa?

"Don't think about his eyes," I say, blinking slow. "Just don't."

He breathes deeply, which makes his chest rise. "I'm gonna look at yours and think about them instead."

"O-okay," I say, licking my lips. Gumption rises in my chest, and I'm about to do something so out of character that if I pause and doubt myself, it won't happen. But I want it to happen so badly that I don't let myself spend time stewing. "Jackson…" I say, but cut myself off. No words will do it justice. I just have to take action.

I lean forward and, in a quick, rash motion, I press my lips to his. I linger for only a second or two without adjusting, without opening my mouth, then pull away. My body feels like it's been lit on fire, but I don't know if it's from a spark or from pure embarrassment.

All I can read from his expression is shock. It was a mistake. I shouldn't have done it. I took advantage of him when he was vulnerable, and that's such a gross thing to do.

"I'm sorry," I say, shaking my head and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

I make a move to get up out of bed, but he stops me with an arm wound around my waist. "Don't go," he says. "I'm pretty sure I can only sleep when you're here."

"Oh," I say, stiffening. "Yeah. I… uh, I'll stay."

"Cool."

I lay on my own pillow this time, faced away from him. He situates to face the back of my head, then throws an arm around my waist and completely catches me off-guard. I widen my eyes and try to relax, but it doesn't work. What does this mean? What does he think about that stupid, awkward, teenage-feeling kiss? Does this mean that he approves of it, or does he just want to forget about it like I do?

He falls asleep fast and hard, but I don't. I can't. I lie there, rigid, staring into the darkness while feeling the need to burst from my own body. There's no way I can stay here all night, so after I'm sure he's all the way gone, I slink out from under his arm and tiptoe my way back to my own room, my own bed.

I close the door all the way and collapse onto my mattress, right in the middle. I let my arms and knees fall to either side of my body as I stare at the ceiling, and feel completely hopeless. I shouldn't have done that. I ruined everything.

I close my eyes, but sleep won't come. So, apparently, I can't sleep with Jackson and I can't sleep without him. How stupid is that?

I must lie there for upwards of an hour before I hear footsteps in the hallway. I listen closely to discern where the person is going - probably the bathroom - until they get closer and end up right outside my door.

He doesn't bother knocking, which is all the same because I know who it is. He does try and stay quiet, though, as he assumes I'm asleep, while walking gently to my bed to sit on the edge.

The mattress depresses and I roll over with open eyes, one hand tucked under my chin. "Hey," I say.

"You left," he replies, a little startled that I'm awake. "I woke up, and you were gone. You said you'd stay."

I press my lips together and scoot over. He takes the hint and joins me, his masculine form looking very out of place among my sheets printed with tiny flowers and leaves.

"I made it weird," I say, avoiding eye contact. "I couldn't stay."

"How'd you make it weird?" he asks.

I shoot him a deadpan look. "You're seriously gonna make me say it."

"What, you mean the kiss?" he says. I nod. "You think that was weird?" I nod again. "Why?"

"'Cause you looked at me so crazy after," I say. "That didn't exactly feel great."

He snorts. "Honestly, I was wondering if I dreamed it."

I squint through the darkness to see if he's kidding, and find that he's not. I'm not sure what to say, though, and we're left in silence even after I open my mouth to try and fill it. Nothing comes. I'm not sure what words will fit.

But then, Jackson fills the space with something more than words. After moving one hand to rest on the side of my face, he leans close and presses his lips to mine - soft as a feather. Just one smooth, gentle kiss where I forget to close my eyes and he remembers. He lingers, too, and I relish the soft way his lips move against mine before he pulls away.

"Oh," I say, almost involuntarily.

"It wasn't weird," he says, stroking my cheekbone. "Nothing about you is weird." He pauses and thinks that over. "Well, you are weird. But it's the kind of weird that's really cool. The kind that I really like."

I smirk, lips pinching as I try and fight it.

"And you happen to be really cute, too," he says, one hand still on my face. "And beautiful. And… I don't know. You understand me. We have the same heart."

There's gravity to what he's saying - and a lot of truth, too. There are so many things about us that differ; from the way we were raised to our belief systems, but he's right. At our core, we are the same. The same values matter to us. We respect each other. We see each other for who we are, and we love that person.

I love him. Does all this means he loves me, too?

"If it's cool with you, I'd really like to do that again," he whispers, nudging my nose with his.

"Yeah," I say, voice barely above a whisper. "It's cool with me."

This time, when he kisses me, I close my eyes. And I let myself get lost in the way I know my best friend loves me.