No Spike again, this morning, and again, she couldn’t help but feel relief. Maybe it was idiotic to believe that Dawn hadn’t heard the creaking bedsprings, the groaning as she straddled him over her desk chair, the curses when he banged his elbow against her nightstand during a poorly executed flip. But if he wasn’t present and accounted for, she didn’t have to account. And that was better than the alternative.

The folded note startled her at first – she hadn’t had a note on her pillow since those scary Angel-grams. Something told her Spike was way too impatient to make with the sketchbook. So what had he scribbled?


She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes


“Poetry,” she murmured. “And the weird just keeps on coming.”


***

She’d bagged about three hundred bruncheritos and filled at least as many cups of coffee by 9:30, when the morning rush subsided. Spike’s note was tucked into the elastic of her bright red polyester pants, and Buffy took advantage of the lull to unfold it again. The words were both vaguely familiar, or at least the first line sounded like something she’d read in a textbook. But it fit, it fit for Spike to write these words in his strange flowing penmanship. At his worst, he was psychotic, but at his best, that intensity came out as, well, as this passionate note.

Could it only be one week since … Not exactly an anniversary, no … but still, one week had passed since the house fell down around their ears. Well, since they brought the house down around their … all of themselves. And she felt better, lighter, freer, even with this lousy job and the menace of the week on her mind.

She’d barely slept, between Tara and Spike and having to open at the DMP. She could lean here, on the drive-thru stool, waiting for another hungry driver or two. In fact, if she leaned just so, maybe she could drift …

“Buffy? Luis is going to take over drive thru for a while. Can you wipe down tables?”

“No rest for the weary,” she mumbled.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You’ve worked about 14 hours in the last 24. Want me to see if I can cut you early?”

“Uh, no … that’s okay, Lorraine. But thanks.”

“Okay. If you change your mind, let me know.”

“Thanks.”

***

Her back was to the door and her Slayer senses were switched off when Anya came by the DMP later that morning.

“Listen, I need you to clean up and go see someone.”

“Huh?”

“It’s about a job, Buffy. A better job,” Anya whispered. “I met a guy. A serious hottie. He needs someone just like you – super fit and toned and all.”

“I don’t think I want that kind of job, but thanks for thinking of me. And hi, good morning, Anya, nice to see you.”

Anya huffed. “Yes, good morning. Now this is important. He’s opening the Sunnydale Fitness Factory.”

“That chain of gyms?”

“Yup. His name is Jay. He’s from Finland.”

“Is that the island?”

“No – it’s near, well never mind. Just go see him before five, okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“Buffy, if you’re done with the tables, can you clean the grease traps?”

“Sure thing, Lorraine.”

Anya gave her a look.

“Alright, alright. Where do I find him?”


***

She’d made it through lunch rush, gone home, showered and danced in front of her closet, trying to figure out what she’d wear to interview for this kind of a job. After her recent week of the many careers, interviewing again seemed like a bad idea. But grease traps … Buffy shuddered and decided on a pair of capri length trousers and short sleeved top that showed her muscle without making her look like a female wrestler.

She hoped.

The Fitness Factory was still a work site, with a construction crew installing flooring and a front desk without a countertop. A man with a tape measure paused when she walked in.

“Hi, umm … I’m Buffy Summers. My friend Anya said I should stop by and ask for Jay.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.” Buffy fidgeted as the man keep looking at her from behind his plastic safety glasses. He was skyscraper tall, taller maybe even than Riley, and just as muscular.

“You’re looking for a job.”

“Yeah. Anya – my friend - said he was going to be hiring a self defense instructor.”

The man pushed his pale blonde hair back and took off the glasses. Buffy felt a jolt – his eyes were blue, not intense Spike blue, but mirror blue, pale sky blue.

“I’m Jay. You’re the friend of Anya Jenkins?”

“Yes.”

“And you can teach self defense?”

“Yes.”

He blinked, and Buffy realized he was waiting for more.

“I didn’t bring a resume, or anything. But I’m really, really good at self defense. I … um … I haven’t exactly taught before, not formally, but I know I could.”

He nodded, cocked his head to the side and headed towards the back of the building.

“Should I wait here?”

“Follow me.”

She did, and as they made their way through the worksite, it was hard for her to not think of Anya’s description of Jay. Funny, she hadn’t mentioned the monosyllabic thing. Then again, Anya might not have noticed.

Jay led her into a large aerobics studio, complete with skylights. “The mirrors won’t be hung until right before we open, but otherwise, we’re ready for business.” He unlaced his work boots, stripping down to bare feet.

“Now then, shall I attack you?”

It was Buffy’s turn to be wordless. Jay charged her from behind and she expertly flipped him over her back, using a mere fraction of her strength.

He stood and looked at her, with an expression that bordered on … well, it bordered on an expression.

Then he threw a punch. Buffy blocked it. Another. She blocked again, grabbed his arm and twisted. He’d been counting on it, she sensed too late, as he wrapped one arm around her waist and the other around her neck. If she’d been up against a vamp, she’d have responded with pure Slayer brutality, but with her potential employer, she settled for a kick to the shin and an elbow to the abs.

Buffy pulled free and turned to face him.

He blinked once more, silent.

“Was that too much?”

“You’re hired.”

***

Buffy bopped home.

For the first time in recent memory, she could window shop Sugar and April Fool. Fitness Factory wages wouldn’t be nearly enough to justify that Betsy Johnson frock, but at least they wouldn’t make the existence of such things purely frustrating.

She even bought a skim latte at the Espresso Pump, an indulgence long denied. After weeks of DMP coffee, holding the fancy cup with the cardboard sleeve and feeling froth on her tongue felt decadent.

So … career, looking waaay up. Love life kind of a wreck, only not a wreck. New Big Bad in town, but not the scariest thing she’d faced by a mile. Maybe the universe was running out of really horrid things to send at her, like in a video game when you clear enough levels and win. As she turned the corner to Revello Drive, she could see Willow’s car parked in the driveway. Right – that was the low of the moment. And somehow, Buffy thought as she downed the dregs of her latte, this seemed harder to solve than any of her other problems.

***

It wasn’t quite dusk, but Spike had a plan. He’d come up through the sewers and broke into a dentist’s office. Sure enough, the doc had opted for long distance service. But that was as far as his luck stretched. He dialed the digits he’d jotted down at Buffy’s that morning, but instead of reaching Rupert, he found himself raving into an answering machine.

“Listen, Rupert … it’s Spike. I know I’m not tops on your list of well-wishers from the States, but thing is, there’s trouble in Sunny-D. There’s a vamp in town, and I think she’s … I think she’s Britta Kessler. She’s here and I can’t guess why, but she’s already confronted the Slayer. So I need to know, what does Buffy know? I’ll wait here for a few hours … oh, damn!” The machine cut him off. He dialed again, and before he could finish leaving the phone number, Giles answered.

“Spike, the story of Britta Kessler is apocryphal.”

“Right. I’ve seen the bint with my very own eyeballs, but if your books and your club of know-it-alls say it ain’t so, then I must be feeding on junkies again.”

“Spike …”

“Easy for you to say there’s no such thing as Britta Kessler from all the way in Merry Ole, but Rupert, she’s here. And Buffy is … well, she’s vulnerable. Not ready to go up against the latest hellfiend. ‘Specially not if … well … y’know.”

“Know what? No, I don’t know.”

“It’s her nightmare, Rupert! Her darkest fear, the one she keeps tucked away in the smallest ventricle! A Slayer, turned Vampire. Imagine it.”

“Well, yes, you’re right of course,” Giles paused. “Lucky Nineteen.”

“Lucky what?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Always is. Listen, Giles, Britta Kessler is real. And she’s in Sunnydale. And she’s already causing mayhem, and I need to know what Buffy knows before it gets worse.”

A sigh traveled across the ocean, across the continent. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“That the Council of Wankers kept this hush-hush?”

“We’ve been taught that a Slayer cannot be turned. Killed, of course, but not turned. That Erich Sahr sired another and she adopted the persona of Britta Kessler to strike dread in the hearts of future Slayers and vampires alike.”

“So the Slayer’s in the dark about this?”

“I don’t suppose she knows a thing. But Spike, you must understand … she’s never been terribly curious about history. To her, this may well be just another vampire to slay.”

“Don’t think so, old man.”

“You don’t know her like I do.”

“Is that right?”

“Whatever you think you have, this mad obsession of yours, it isn’t a connection. It isn’t knowledge. And I’m not convinced myself that this creature is anything but an opportunistic poseur. Which brings me back to my point about your obsession with the Slayer … ”

“What’s that? Sorry, Rupert, line’s gone all fuzzy. Damned transatlantic calls.” And with a slam of the telephone – a slam so hard the receiver broke in two – he was off.

***

“Hi,” Willow offered, quietly.

“Hi.”

“Buffy, I …”

“Let’s go inside.”

“Are you sure? Cause if you don’t want me here, I could stay with Amy some more.”

“Or you could come inside.”

“Okay.”

Pop music streamed from the second floor and Dawn yelled down a greeting and something about homework.

“Kids today.” Buffy shrugged.

Willow smiled as they made their way to the familiar kitchen stools.

“So … I … um … you and Spike, huh?”

“Kind of.”

Awkward silence filled the room.

“You seem … happy … er. Happier.”

“Oh, well, it isn’t … I mean, I got a job. Still with the uniform, but sweat instead of grease.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Anya tipped me off to the new Sunnydale Fitness Factory. It opens next month. So I’ll be Jill-of-all-Trades. Hand you a towel, mix you a smoothie, teach you how to flip an attacker over your back.”

“Oh, that’s great.”

“And the uniform? Way better.”

“Ummm … good.”

“Listen, Wil … I know Spike isn’t the greatest idea. And I’m not … it’s not serious. It’s a thing. A fling. A fling thing!”

“Good Golly Gee, Buffy! That almost makes it worse!”

“Huh? How?”

“Just because you’re not dreaming of a tomb with a view, doesn’t mean he isn’t! Don’t you remember him post-Drusilla? After she left him for some slimy demon with antlers? He was - ”

“Miserable?”

“Homicidal!”

“Willow, I …”

“I don’t want to judge. I mean, what you’re going through … and my fault, a lot of it, I know, I get that. Now. But Buffy, this is not a good choice.”

“I don’t think you get to decide for me!”

“I …”

“Kinda want to hear myself talking right now.”

“Ooh … kay.”

“This is Sunnydale, Wil. This is the Hellmouth. Who am I supposed to date? Who are any of us supposed to date? The last time one of us had a non-magical, non-demony, non-top secret agenty honey was when Xander hooked up with Cordelia!”

Willow shivered.

“Exactly!” She slumped back into her barstool. “I mean, if a normal guy came along and I thought he could handle this – handle the truth about me and the Slayer gig and the world and the vampires and the werewolves and witches and Watchers, would I take it? Yeah. Maybe. But that’s not happening. And so for now? For now, I just don’t want to stop this.”

“I’m worried about you, Buffy.”

“Yeah. I know. And I worry about you, too, Wil. But I’m not trying to tell you how to live.”

“Yeah. So … I really could go stay with Amy.”

“No. You belong here. I mean, if you want to be.”

“I’d rather be.” She gave Buffy one of her small, sheepish Willow smiles.

“Good. I should get going. Patrol, you know, what with Miss Fang on the loose.”

“Want some company?”

“I’ll have some.”

***

And how! Buffy thought, as she dusted vamp number six in record time. The stroll towards the boneyard was quiet – no barking dogs, no car engines backfiring into the night. But the undead? They were having a Mardi Gras among the headstones of Pleasant Hills, at the very edge of the town limits.

“Nicely done, Slayer.”

“Not really looking for a perfect 10, Spike.”

“Course you are.”

Buffy went speechless for a minute, then shook her head and turned towards the far end of the cemetery. “I’ve already dusted a six pack. Want to bet there are more?”

“Here’s hoping.” Spike fell into step with her.

“So, I have news.”

“Yeah?”

“I found a new job. It’s a step up.”

“What wouldn’t be?”

“Seriously. I’m going to work at the Fitness Factory, the new gym downtown. So it’ll be like training and hey, if I can teach the locals a few tricks to get away from the bloodthirsty, maybe it’ll make the Slayer routine a little easier, too.”

“Optimism looks good on you.”

Buffy blushed. “And, um, Willow’s back, too. So that’s good.”

Spike nodded. “Whatever happened to the little boys?”

“Oh, I figure they’re still around. Gearing up for the next installment in the Star Wars trilogy, maybe? Or if I’m really lucky, thinking up new ways to keep me entertained. Cause, y’know, bored here.”

Just then, a vamp jumped from a tree branch and grabbed Spike.

“See what I mean?” she quipped as the dust swirled in the night breeze.

Three more attackers rushed them, seasoned fighters this time, and it took the two of them long minutes before their attackers were dispatched.

A mausoleum stood just a few feet away, a circular drive and discrete landscaping between them and the front door.

“Think they’re protecting something?”

“Or someone.”

The Slayer turned towards the door, but Spike grabbed her arm and twirled her to face him. “Slayer, before we charge in there, there’s something you might want to know.”

***

“Hi.” Dawn peeked into Willow’s room. “So … um … are you back?”

“Yeah. I’m back.”

“Oh. Good.”

Willow put aside her physics book and highlighter. “And you’re still here?”

“Yeah, well, not exactly livin’ la vida loca.”

“Dunno. I think we’ve got black cats and voodoo dolls around here.” Willow smiled and Dawn rolled her eyes. “Seriously, though, thanks for taking care of Miss Kitty and making sure she gets her Fancy Feast and all.”

“No problem. So about the fight – the reason you left – is it why I think it was? Cause of – well, y’know?”

“I’m not sure we should talk about it, Dawnie.”

“Okay, but it’s weird.”

“I think she’ll get over it …”

“No! That’s just it. I don’t want her to get over it! He was here, for me, all summer. When you all were … well, we were all upset. But you were off working on the big time spellcasting and so it was Spike who was here most nights. And now it’s like a dirty little secret. Except that it isn’t. And it could be really cool.”

“Dawnie, you’ll understand … when you’re older … that it just isn’t …”

“That’s not fair, Wil. I’m old enough now. Old enough to know that he cares about Buffy. And, yeah, not exactly who I’d pictured, maybe. But at least he stays. And he’s decent. To her. And to me. And we don’t have to tiptoe around with our secrets.”

Willow stared at her hands. “It isn’t our choice.”

“Right. I just … promise me you won’t do anything.”

“Do anything?”

“Like another spell. A spell to make Buffy and Spike … I dunno. Not like each other or something.”

“I promise,” Willow said. But actually … not a bad idea. Really a rather elegant solution. “So, you wanna watch a movie? I think we got Bring It On from Netflix.”

“Okay.”

***

Anya had learned calligraphy. Ordered a kit from the internet and spent hours carefully hand addressing the wedding invitations. It wasn’t hard, really. She had funny handwriting to begin with, long and spiky. What did you expect when your first alphabet consisted of ancient runes? If she’d done all those damned invitations, she told herself, a few dozen place cards could not be this difficult.

The door slammed and her pen skidded, turning her second attempt at a perfect “D” for “Miss Dawn Summers, Table Two” into a long streak of apple red ink.

“Xander!”

“Hey, babe.” He kicked off his work boots in the entry and bounded across the room to kiss her.

“Xander, you wrecked my D!”

“More calligraphy, Ahn? Can’t we just laser jet those puppies? I’m sure Wil could hook us up with a script-a-licious font.” He reached for a beer. “And with that adjective, I have officially surrendered my manhood to the frenzy that is wedding planning.”

“I don’t want to talk about Willow.”

“Come on, Ahn. She’s in the wedding party! And, hey, best friend from childhood.”

“Which is why I don’t want to talk about her right now. No good will come.”

“Ahn …”

“Don’t ‘Ahn’ me, Xander. She’s using too much magic. Tara left her because she’s using too much magic. And, oh, by the way, I know what I’m talking about. I used too much magic. 1200 years ago. If I hadn’t, I would not be wearing this stupid red ink right now!”

“Are you crying, babe? Come on, it’s not that bad, is it?”

“You don’t understand! There are all these expectations. And all these people to deal with. And I found the perfect bridesmaids dresses at Thread L.A., but Buffy said there was just no way she could spend $300 on a dress for her, plus a dress for Dawn, plus shoes, so I found these other ones at David’s in the Sunnydale Shopping Plaza, and they’re okay, but now I’m worried about the color scheme and afraid the flowers won’t match and …”

“Ahn?”

“Yes?” she snorted.

“Ahn, I love you. And I’m gonna love you no matter what. No matter if the bridesmaids carry branches of stinkweed and wear burlap sacks. If we write all the place cards in purple crayon. If we serve nothing but chili from a can and Wonder Bread. Won’t matter. What will matter is that we’ll be married at the end of the day. Which is March 9th, by the way. Not exactly tomorrow.”

“No, but … in our lives, who knows? Some new master vampire could rise and we’d have to spend all this time battling evil and then who would ever get around to making sure that we had the right napkin rings?”

Xander shrugged. “Okay, you’re probably right. I’m just a … new master vampire. Anya, do you know something?”

***

“Huh?”

“The vamp? The one from the alley.”

“Was a Slayer?”

“Right in one.”

“And became a vampire.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, so?”

“So, she’s likely a bit more difficult to kill than usual.”

“Heard that one before.”

“And look how well that ended.” Spike found himself grinning. So far, so good. No Buffy freak out, not even a hint that the news that Slayers could be turned was news. Something to be said for her lack of book learning - she’d been wrestling with the fear for so long that it was tough to amp up the anxiety level.

“She was young, then?”

“16, unless I miss my guess.”

“Young to die.”

They were peering in the windows. Signs of life were present – discarded clothing, a stack of books, even an old-fashioned steamer trunk and pair of suitcases. But nothing was stirring.

“Think this is her nest?” Buffy whispered.

“Nests are for birds, pretty Slayer,” a voice hissed, and Buffy turned to find herself face to face with her worst nightmare.

***

They’d watched the movie all the way through – all the way even through the entire cast lip-synching to Mickey as the credits rolled.

“Hey, Dawnie,” Willow nudged her with a toe. “Daaaaawnie … wake up, Dawn.”

“Yeah, I’m awake.”

“How ‘bout some ice cream?”

“I have school tomorrow.”

“So do I. It won’t take long.”

“I dunno …”

“Dawn Summers turning down ice cream? Quick, call Buffy. It must be an apocalypse.”

Dawn grimaced. “She isn’t home yet, is she?”

“Nah. Not yet.”

“Figures.”

“Come on. Some Butterscotch Swirl will put all this out of your mind.”

***

“Do you see her?”

Buffy and Spike had dusted at least a dozen vamps, but Britta had leapt over them, on to the roof of the mausoleum, and hadn’t been seen since.

“Why isn’t she fighting us? That’s the second time.”

“Third, counting her visit to my crypt.”

“Excuse me?”

“Jealous?”

Buffy snorted and turned to walk away, forcing Spike to jog after her.

“Come on, Buffy! She just did the cryptic and split. I guess I should’ve mentioned it. Just … didn’t seem like a big deal.”

“How do you know so much about her?”

“She was turned in the 1920s, Buffy. I was already a Slayer …”

“… groupie?”

Spike ignored the barb, reaching her side and matching her furious pace. “And her sire, Erich Sahr? He was a piece of work.”

“You were there.” She stopped, and Spike almost stumbled as he stopped to meet her eyes.

“Berlin? Yeah. It was … decadent. Anyway, I don’t know where Sahr came from, but he was big in Berlin. A chunk of the who’s who were into the dark arts, then. Nothing serious, just séances and ouija boards and that rot. But Sahr surfed the wave, got enough of the ready together to start a film studio. Went on the road, traveling all these tiny towns, telling girls he was looking for the next Marlene Dietrich.”

“But not so much?”

“Nope. It was cover for his ever-growing retinue to feast on the innocent. Anyway, Sahr rolled into Munich a few days after Britta was called, the biggest stunt yet in the works. Instead of luring just a few silly girls, he rented a mansion, invited lots of locals to stand in as extras, locked the doors and then set his minions loose. With the cameras rolling, of course.”

“Oh.”

“They got Britta. Turned her. When they figured out what they’d managed, well …”

“Well what?”

“The people they didn’t slaughter in the first go-round were locked up for later. Her Watcher was with them. They set up the cameras in the basements – locked the Watcher in a wine cellar or something – and waited until she awoke. Made him her first kill.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Buffy paused. They were at the gates to Pleasant Hills now, but it was still a hike back home. “We’ve got a long walk back …”

“We could go to my crypt.”

“Either way.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes before Buffy’s curiosity got the better of her. “So her Watcher …”

“Yeah. The film shows it, from what I’ve heard. Sahr released it, or tried to, but it was too violent by the standards of the day. Still, rumor is that the film still exists. And the Watcher’s letter, of course.”

“His letter?”

“Yup. Message in a bottle, apparently. Found, oh, I don’t know how, years and years later. Or so they say.”

“And now she’s here? Without him?”

“Haven’t heard news of him for just about ever. Word was that he’d fallen in with the Nazis, fled to South America after the war, met a bad end eventually. With these types, well … you never can tell.”

“So he was powerful? More powerful than the Master?”

“Only ran into him once, maybe twice, and never mixed it up. Don’t rightly know. You’d think from the name that he wasn’t all that old, but then again, some said the Master was an old Roman solider, some said he wasn’t that much older than Darla. There’s history, Buffy, but you can’t trust it. I’d say Sahr was a sick, twisted bastard.”

“So a run-of-the-mill vampire?”

“Maybe a little more creative than most.”

“Doesn’t explain anything about her. About why she’s not fighting us. She’s not even threatening us. Just kind of showing her face and taking off.”

“Maybe she’s taking your measure.”

Buffy shrugged. “It’s getting late. Whatever she’s up to, we’ve got some time.” They were a block or so from the gates of Restfield.

“Is this good night, then?”

“It could be one,” she said with a smile as she turned and sashayed towards his crypt.

Spike broke into a grin and followed her.

***

“Willow, this isn’t the way to the Ice Cream Bar. We should’ve headed down Hamilton.”

“Just a little shortcut, Dawnie.”

“Down an alley? Down an alley in Sunnydale? In the very late, very dark night?”

“I’m gonna make a quick stop, kay?”

“Where?”

Willow yanked her arm, hard, and Dawn felt herself falling through thickened air. She bit back her nausea as a room settled into focus.

“What is this place?”

But Willow didn’t answer – she just charged through a door, calling over her shoulder, “Just five minutes, Dawnie, promise!”

Dawn perched on a brown vinyl chair, trying not to make eye contact with any of the leering freaks in the tiny room. Her long brown hair fell forward, curtaining her face as the tears started to flow.

Five minutes passed, then another five. The two guys over on the burnt orange loveseat were whispering about her, turning up the fear factor to 11. Was Willow ever coming out, or would she leave her out here to be gang-raped by Sunnydale’s finest?

The creepier of the two guys lit a cigarette and turned in her direction with a menacing smile.

Without a thought for the unknown dangers on the other side of the door, Dawn bolted back into the alley, eating up the blocks back to Revello Drive at a furious pace. She’d avoided anything out looking for a snack, true, but as she locked the door to 1630, she realized she wasn’t safe yet, not really.

For all her bravado, she now faced a night home alone. And Dawn was terrified.

***

He must’ve dozed off after the third go-round. Finding Buffy kneeling between his legs, coaxing him to another erection, woke him up in record time.

With a groan, he pulled her away. “I’m going to come in your mouth, love, if you keep that up.”

She pouted and bent back over him, blowing on his straining cock. “So?”

“You’re torturing me.”

“Oh, you’re a quick study.” She swirled her tongue around his shaft.

“Come on, baby. Back up here.”

She obliged and he guided her down to the pillows, laying on her stomach so he could kiss from her shoulder blades down her spine.

“Love your back, Buffy.”

He kissed farther down, slowly, many kisses per vertebrae. “Love this freckle. And this scar, too. Love every bit of you. That’s what we are, y’know. We’re lovers.”

She shifted and started to speak, but he pressed her back into the mattress. “Doesn’t matter what you say, pet. Might not be a fairytale romance, but I feel you. This isn’t just sex.”

Buffy murmured, the beginnings of a protest, but Spike kissed it away.

“Hush. I’ve done that. Figure you haven’t, so I’m telling you how it is. How it feels. Or doesn’t feel, more to the point. You’re in this with more than your body. Wouldn’t torment you so if that weren’t the case.”

She sighed as he reached the base of her spine.

“Tell me lies, if you like. If it makes it easier.” He eased her onto her back, slipping into her effortlessly, slowly. “I love you, Buffy.”

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t pull away. And her arms reached up, circling his shoulders, and bringing his mouth to hers.

She didn’t answer, and still she did.