6. the space between dream and reality

When Billy opens his eyes, his lips tingle. Half-blind with exhaustion that – he glances left – seven hours of sleep have barely dented, he stares at the ceiling and lets himself drift.

He'd been dreaming. Nothing exactly coherent, but images of sun and green and trees and grass. Somewhere familiar because he remembers feeling safe and relaxed, wherever he was.

He wasn't alone. He remembers that too. There was a girl he'd chased through the trees and grass. He's got no recollection of her face or what she looked like except for he impression of green eyes and warm skin. And the feeling of fingers in his hair and the soft, slick slide of lips on his own.

It was a good kiss. Sensual and slow in the way he'd only ever experienced once or twice when Jillian had been in a sleepy mood.

Gods, he hadn't thought of Jillian in months. Not since graduation when she'd waved at him across the graduating class, smiling and lovely in her gray robes.

And because he doesn't want to think about how Jillian – and his parents and family and friends – probably died screaming, he goes back to his dream. Because if there's something he's learned in the last months, it's that sometimes a lie is kinder than reality.