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Not long after she delivered the good news, and sent Jack off with strict instructions to watch out for falling beams and hammers, Buffy had nothing left to do but pack up her things and head home... reluctantly. Very reluctantly.

Roger came in to say goodbye. He mentioned they might be seeing each other again soon, due to Robin's unresolved schedule. Buffy remained polite and friendly while they talked, but when Roger looked at his watch before making an offhand comment about catching an early dinner, and casually left an invitation open for her, she had to bite the inside of her lips to keep from outright declining.

She had dinner plans herself, Buffy told him- which she so didn't -and wished Roger a good night while meticulously reading over files, and needlessly rifling through them.

He left pleasantly enough, and Buffy sighed before tucking her neat stack back inside its drawer. The guy was nice and all, but a little too... clean cut; she had already given men like that their chances.

Besides, at quarter after two, Buffy exhausted every distraction she could to stall actually leaving. She had gone to the bathroom, made herself tea in the teacher's lounge, drank said tea, ran into Dr. Gregory- the biology teacher -and maintained a nice conversation with him for several minutes before he went home. None of this had anything to do with clean cut.

Buffy drew out each moment like it was a curling apple peel, but at nearly three o'clock, she finally admitted she would have to leave without seeing William. Otherwise she risked looking like a total creep. Waiting for him just wasn't something any normal person would do in this situation.

Just as Buffy was about to grudgingly lock up her office, Felicity- theater girl -came running in with a hand drawn flyer. It was a publicity idea, to get the word out that impromptu auditions for the school play would be held on Monday! The girl was giddy with pride and desperation, not to mention running late to make her babysitting job, and so happy with the flyer she asked Buffy to make copies for her. Right away.

If they were hung up tomorrow morning, that left one school day and the weekend for people to grow interested. The theater department needed to acquire a decent list of candidates who could play the role of Dorothy, as soon as possible; the flyers needed to be printed tonight.

Except Felicity had no time, and no way of copying them at home. The local FedEx in town closed at seven and she didn't get off work until ten! Would Buffy mind terribly using the copy machine in the library? Felicity swore she would owe her one!

Not only couldn't Buffy find it within herself to say no, but divinely, this provided an excuse to stay after hours.

She took the inky drawing from Felicity's hands and happily assured the girl it would be done. Buffy was thanked profusely.

***

Half an hour later, every single teacher was gone, every student either halfway home or partaking in extracurricular activities, and Buffy had located the copying machine. That was the fortunate part. Unfortunately, she was currently fighting with the temperamental control panel and trying to guess what God she should pray to for mercy.

Whatever it took to get this thing working, Buffy wasn't having any luck figuring it out. "Stupid technology." Angrily hitting the Restart button, she decided that no way was she about to let down one of her students because of this.

Another five minutes of adjusting settings and plugging in numbers, arguing with the antiquated robot, Buffy lost all patience. "Why won't you work?" she demanded, lashing out with a frustrated slam to the gray lid. Abruptly, a distinct clicking noise sputtered out, and Felicity's flyer was sucked through the document feeder.

Buffy blinked. "Well, okay then." She watched as the machine slowly started to produce fifty identical images on bright yellow paper.

A smile of relief crossed her lips, and Buffy turned around when she got her satisfied fill of watching the copier doing its thing after brute force persuasion. She took a moment to examine her surroundings, soon distracted by quiet grandeur.

She knew this library, although not quite as well as other parts of the school, and some things had definitely changed since Buffy had last visited. For one, it was certainly bigger than she remembered. Heavy book shelves lined every wall, which was nothing new, but there were many more rows standing tall and proud throughout the middle. The ceilings were the highest in the building, wood paneled and housing a round, yellow chandelier. It was solid glass, hanging from an ornate dome of copper metal, and appearing almost like the home of a thousand fireflies when the bulbs flickered.

On the farthest wall, past the stacks, there were sliding ladders connected and propped against short balconies of towering shelves. Students were never allowed to use them without strict supervision, the heights too risky for most people's peace of mind.

Beneath her feet were old wooden floors, dotted with stains and black gouges, but polished to shine like brown honey. Small tables with no more than four chairs each hid behind bookshelves and card catalogs. The computers were all stuffed into a separate room, near the same area where Buffy stood, beside the copier.

As the sounds of arduous printing continued, she let curiosity take hold. The floorboards creaked underneath her boots, echoing quietly as if she moved through a cavern.

Buffy walked around the librarian's perch, a circular wooden desk, its surface laden with magazines, books, and knickknacks. There was a small round table off to her right, topped by a beige globe.

She traveled the rows, and pulled out dusty books that appeared not to have been touched in years. After reading some of the titles, she understood why, but empathized with their loneliness all the same. Buffy then came upon another set of tables and chairs, before she found herself in the section quaintly labeled "Our Town's History."

She brushed her fingers over the smooth spines and edges, taking note of author's names, admiring the old pictures on the wall. They were photos of places she knew like the back of her hand, but appeared as different locations altogether when framed in black and white. Buffy read the titles, gold engravings beneath every one; the old Drive-In on Spruce Street, taken in the fifties when it was a little more retro; Jasper's auto body shop the day it first opened, 1962; the Austin Bakery before it was renovated and turned into a pizza joint.

There were several more, and Buffy scooted down the aisle. She paused in front of one, darker and more shadowy than the rest, a huge three story house, made out of brick. It looked like there might be a driveway off to the left. The picture ended too soon, however, for her to be sure. A big oak tree with wide, leafless black branches grabbing at the sky hid the building's right corner and a section of overgrown gardens.

It was familiar, but she immediately wondered why. A contemplative frown fell upon Buffy's face when she read the engraving on the frame.

Historic Everett House; Photographed 1992, Last Owned by sisters Beth Everett and Anne Pratt.

She blinked. The last name stuck out, and Buffy suddenly remembered.

*Will Pratt.*

She lifted a hand to the glass, words echoing in her mind. William... She had been told he lived in a big house. While this was not one she often noticed, and never had she seen the whole thing up close, she had seen it.

It was a property that couldn't very well be earned on a janitor's salary alone. Judging by the miniscule description, Buffy figured an inheritance situation had kept the building in the family for generations. Was Anne William's mother? If so, Buffy wondered whether she was still alive. And how did one keep up with an old house like that minus a heavy income? Surely maintenance was constant. Maybe William did a lot of it himself, or maybe he'd inherited a large sum of money to take care of it when his relatives passed.

If that were the case, why was he still a janitor? Why didn't he retire and live in luxury? She supposed there could be a clause in a will... Something like all money must be used to keep up the condition of the property? Call Buffy naive, but from what she knew of William- even if it was very little -she couldn't see him being selfish with any sum, or selling the home his mother had lived in.

Then again, hadn't he said he moved to America when he was twelve? Maybe William harbored no real attachment to the house. Maybe he did. There was certainly the chance that he only kept his low-key jobs in order to have something to do, or because he believed he should earn money in some way.

Struck by a lightning bolt of curiosity, Buffy started ransacking the bookshelves until she found the odd, but also very helpful, index of historical town locations. It was a thin volume, very wide, filled with brief summaries and pictures of every house or building that was old and supposedly important.

She brought it to the nearest table, sat down, and quickly scanned an alphabetized directory. The name Everett popped out from the crisp white pages like a firework.

***

Spike tore into the school's parking lot. He immediately searched for Buffy's car, eyes wide and hopes dangerously high. He was gripped by pessimistic disappointment until he spotted the cherry red jeep near the entrance.

A long sigh of relief slackened his spine.

It did not last. Nerves kicked up again and began firing adrenaline through his body, causing anxious flips in his stomach. Biting down, Spike grabbed his hated uniform from the backseat, jumped out of his car and slammed the door behind him, all the while grinding his teeth.

When he strode through the halls, he felt his anxiety fly into overdrive. The place was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and while certain groups wouldn't leave until four, the building was practically empty now.

Spike slipped into the nearest bathroom and quickly pulled his uniform over his clothes, black jeans and a T-shirt hidden behind thick material so gray that not even the dullest of autumn skies could compare.

He groaned when he looked in the mirror. His eyes were reddened from lack of sleep, lined by smudgy coal, and he'd neglected to run a comb through his hair after the great search for his keys. Pulling and pulling at the strands in anxious anger until his curls were freed from their pomade prison, and now he was forced to try and finger-pick it smooth like a monkey.

Spike dropped his hands. It was useless. *Doesn't rightly matter. Not like she really cares about my bleeding hair. Surprised she cares enough to want to see me again.*

Blowing out a short breath, Spike muttered practiced greetings aloud. A shaky syllable in each word and noteworthy subjects memorized with repetition. Trying to make sense out of questions that might never be asked, answers he may never give.

Leaving the bathroom, he clamped his lips shut and rubbed at the curls topping his nape. Spike soon made a beeline for Buffy's office, but when he found himself on the other side of the door, he couldn't knock. He couldn't even fathom what he'd been thinking, but seeking her out intentionally was not the right idea.

Spike hastily stepped back. He swerved and strode for the nearest janitor's closet, prepared to search inconspicuously behind the shield of a bright yellow cart and dusting rags.

He would clean the bathrooms last today, if only to be sure he didn't miss her.

Rolling down the empty halls, Spike's jaw locked and his heart sped, beating like a drum in his chest. His neck was shiny with sweat, but he ignored the laboring of nerves, and instead dealt with the agonizing whispers in his head. Self doubt tried to wrangle for control, persuade him into hiding, forgetting this silly plan, but Spike resisted.

Buffy said she hoped to see him again. It was more than he could turn away from.

Not paying attention, very busy looking over his shoulder, the blonde nerve bundle almost ran right over his coworker. Clement Leighton, also known as Clem, a tall brunette with blue eyes and an easy smile, exclaimed in surprise before offering a hello. "Hey! Spike, you're late, man."

Swallowing a few choice curses, he nodded. "I know. Couldn't find my keys."

Clem bobbed his head and waved a placating hand. "Ah, I gotchya. It's okay, buddy. I started cleaning the bathrooms already since you were taking so long. You know how Righteous Roger likes to boss people around, and he asked me to get to 'em before I started anything else."

Spike rose a scathing brow in response to that new knowledge, but merely said, "So I get the library then?"

"That's right." Clem walked past in his matching uniform, mop bucket at the hip. "I'll see ya later, man. Don't get lost in the books."

Spike rolled his eyes, but internally he was pleased. The library just entailed a lot of vacuuming instead of bleach and toilet brushes. Frankly, Spike preferred the company of shelves and paper to porcelain echoes.

Pushing forward, he kept looking around, his skin prickling. Buffy could walk out of a room twenty paces ahead and Spike would be just as startled if she fell from a ceiling vent.

He tried not to think too much about the clothes he wore. It was embarrassing, being a walking billboard for the very thing he'd tried to hide from her.

He was grateful for her kindness, but the fact still remained; Buffy deserved someone who wasn't content to simply do what he did. Someone who needed more out of life than that which Spike accepted with open hands.

Except now he couldn't stop. She'd lifted a gate to let him into heaven, and while he never expected to pass the threshold, denying her was not an option. Solitude went only so far in keeping Spike tethered, when love played a part.

His black boots were stepping on white marble floors, and they were sure to stain, but every time he looked at Buffy's beautiful face, her eyes contained only welcome. Not indifference. Not mockery. Not disgust.

Feeling guilt wriggle into his stomach like a snake, the man walked faster, his strides large and forced. He met with the library doors, and plucked up the vacuum before using the cart to prop the entrance open. Despite his thoughts, his feelings refused to be quelled. If she saw the open door and the yellow cart, then she would know he was inside.

Men worthy of Buffy's regard did not spend time hiding in the dark, watching her house and following her like a shadow. But Spike was selfish, and sometimes, what you deserved was not what you were given.

Sometimes, you were offered more.

***

Buffy focused on the words before her, little lines of black columned on crisp white paper. She read voraciously, until the two and a half pages of information ended, starting anew on a different history for a different building. She reread them.

Everett was a family name. For over a century, each member was born and raised in the same house. They were a wealthy lot, and through the years the residence became a customary item to be passed down. It grew in size, and went from the first owner, to his son, to the next, finally to a daughter, to her children, to theirs, and so on and so on...

Eventually it was left to two sisters; Beth and Anne Everett. They were distant from their grandfather's bachelor brother, living just an ocean away, until the day he died, and the residence fell into their hands.

Beth, age twenty-nine, decided to pack up and head to America, see just what this foundation of family history had to offer. Not long after she left England Beth met a man and married him, thereby choosing to remain in Wisconsin, U.S.A., while Anne kept up life across the pond. Many years later she would move, as well, to finally share the house with her sister.

Buffy thought she could guess the rest of it.

William told her he came here with his mother when he was twelve. If that was true, then Anne and Beth had likely been his closest relatives. Buffy knew from the book that Beth- his aunt, then? -passed away some time ago, followed by Anne only three years prior to now.

Considering the facts, Buffy assumed William was left alone, the house undoubtedly all that remained of his family. If his father was around, the guy wasn't mentioned. If he had siblings, she didn't know. All Buffy did know- which was decidedly more information than she had less than an hour ago -was William's mother and aunt were gone, and he was most likely living in that big forgotten house on the edge of town.

It was a grand old building, made of bricks the color of white sunflowers, half covered by grasping ivy and windows on every floor. In the book, it looked daunting.

Buffy traced the edges of the photo until her finger slid closer to the middle, outlining the front door and chimney stacks. She tilted her head, wondering the size of the hallways in this place. Wondering how far the ceilings stretched and how deeply the fireplaces nestled into the walls. She tried to imagine an expansive living room feeling cozy or warm. She tried picturing a bed that wouldn't prove too small; thought enviously of the closet space, then sorrowfully of the bare corners and empty nooks. The quiet that must echo through, no cramping or clutter, fewer walls to muffle the creaking sounds and hang pictures from.

It was a beautiful house, that was for sure, but Buffy wondered how one might feel if they were cursed to living in it alone.

Silently, she closed the book. A cold silence rang, its fingers wrapping around her throat before she realized why the temperature suddenly changed; her skin had acquired goose bumps everywhere.

Buffy turned around. William was standing there, solid and still, less than a foot away. Her arms clenched around the book, eyes widening to the size of the moon. Undecided words lodged in her throat before they could gain breath. Hell, she couldn't breathe.

Air came rushing forward like bullets, all at once, as if reminding her it was there to be used, and Buffy inhaled. Shaky, thrusting her stammering heart to the back of her mind, she managed a weak, "Hi," and that was it.

***

Evidently, he was the one tasked with speaking. She seemed to have clammed up. Her shoulders, those pretty pink lips, were stiff, compressed like a card in an envelope. Every inch of her lovely form taught and nervous.

For a switch, Spike felt indescribably calm.

It was like the beach versus the ocean. When the waves thrash and fight, and the sand is swallowed, washed away by the current but never hurt or angry. Spike was so often caught in unsettled waters, gasping for breath; calm wasn't a word he understood.

However, the book, and the realization of what Buffy had likely been looking for, was as shocking as it was viewpoint shifting. The opposite of humbling; rather, she was stoking a flame that had barely made itself into a spark.

Now, Spike learned something. Today, in this library, he realized she had read about the history of his house, and the family which owned it. His family. He'd seen the pages she was poring over. Spike hardly gave a toss for the building's historical foundations himself, he merely lived in it, acknowledged it as his mother's last home, but Buffy had wondered. She had wanted to know.

She had wanted to know something about him.

A vibration ran through Spike's limbs, until it settled in his fingertips, warming from the inside out. "Hi." It was the first word, the very first thing he had said to her today. She smiled, crooked and uneasy, blushing the color of maraschino cherries. He wanted to touch her. "Found yourself in the library, eh pet?"

Buffy glanced up, caught off guard. His voice had never been so sure. It wasn't an entirely unpleasant sound, but it didn't help her any right now. She felt rather like a cat trying to hide the fact there was a dead canary in the closet. "Yeah. I, uh, I was-" Buffy blanked. Why had she come in here again?

*Felicity! The copier!* her brain screamed, and she jumped to say, "The copier."

She offered nothing more. No extra syllables or verbs. Nothing. "The copier?" he echoed simply.

Buffy shot a look behind him, presumably, at the machine in question. "I- I was making copies- For a student. She asked me... You see, she babysits. And she was running late, so I said that I would print them for her because they have to- have to go up tomorrow morning."

Spike decided his girl was very endearing when flustered. Of course, she was always bloody adorable to him. "That was very nice of you."

Wow. Not a single stutter, direct eye contact and everything, even a little amusement shining in there. She wondered briefly if she was dreaming.

Spike tipped his head. Buffy tensed further when he nodded at the book, holding her breath.

"Some light readin' while the copier does its work?" he asked.

She gulped, then forced a laugh even a nun would have to admit sounded awkward. "Yeah. Exactly. I was just poking around. Thought I'd find something to read while I waited..." Her voice trailed off as William reached cautiously forward, and ran his thumb across the cover of the book. She knew it wasn't possible, but every slow smoothing motion poked through pages and leather until her middle was alight with tingles.

Buffy inhaled quietly, letting her ribs expand. The book pushed against the pad of his thumb. She tried to smile when his hand fell away but her lips felt slack and cold.

William glanced up, then away again. Not from fear, unless anxiety could hide in a sexy smolder as his attention focused on her mouth. "Find out anythin' interesting?" he murmured.

Okay. So he totally, definitely, no-way-in-hell-didn't know what she'd been reading about, and actively searching for. *Crap. He's gonna think I'm a total stalker.* Was she supposed to come clean, or lie? The coward's way out seemed smarter. "Nothing particularly riveting," she said, amazingly controlled, too.

He did the strangest thing then. William reached out again, his eyes flickering like gems in the sun, and grasped the book. He asked, "May I?" so she let go. Buffy watched him flip pages, the white paper moving as quickly as hummingbird wings. William eventually paused near the beginning, but that was all she could tell.

Buffy had the unrelenting urge to bite her nails; she settled for twisting her hands together instead. Maybe a half-truth would slide?

William stared at the book, his attention fixed, and one would think it might relieve some of the tension in her chest, but it didn't. Somehow she knew he was equally aware of every move she made. "Everett, love?" His voice made her shiver. It was different, wholly new compared to all the other times she had heard him speak. "History tickle your fancy?"

She was silent for a tense moment. "Well, I sometimes like to read-... Uh, I mean, yeah." His eyes suddenly clashed with hers, and Buffy could do nothing but spill. "I was curious. I saw the picture of the house over there." She raised her hand to point at the frame on the wall, sighing loudly in defeat. "It says it was owned by two sisters..."

A hint of recognition, and he murmured, "My mum and aunt."

"I knew your name was Pratt!" she said excitedly, then quickly felt subdued by the mocking eyebrow lift William offered. Buffy swallowed and chewed on her lower lip. "Sorry... I guess I was- I wanted to know more about the house. I'd only seen it a couple times..."

Her voice grew quieter with each word, until all that was left was shy eyes and flaming cheeks. Spike snapped the book closed and for some sick reason delighted in her miniscule jump. It felt bloody good to be the one in control for once, to feel confident standing in front of the single person whose opinion meant the most to him.

"You've come across it then," he said. "On the West edge of town." He knew she'd seen it. It was how he'd seen her. There was a gas station right across the road, and while forest blocked a majority of the house's face, Buffy had likely glanced the viewable portion and remembered it.

She nodded. "Yeah. I almost didn't recognize it from the photo, though..." She gestured to the frame on the wall again; Spike's focus didn't shift.

How to tell her he had no trouble recognizing her after that first glimpse. Two years ago, when she had stopped for gas across the street, and he found her. Spike vividly recalled the way she moved, the flow of her hair in the gentle wind. Buffy had worn jeans and a cream V-neck top, and the second she drove away, he'd wanted to go out and catch her.

Things progressed steadily after that. He would check the gas station lot, stop by to pick up snacks and cigarettes, searching for a bright red Jeep. It wasn't right away that she came back, but eventually, Buffy did stop there again. He fell into hoping, into following her, always yearning to see her face.

Spike resisted, at first, but he was loathe to give the woman up. Love grew out of watching her, wanting her, dreaming about her since he couldn't otherwise be at her side. Buffy somehow became Spike's world in a length of time that now, he couldn't determine.

He was fairly convinced it didn't matter. He remembered being so certain she would never waste a second look on him. So sure that Buffy wouldn't want a single thing to do with a stranger who worked as a janitor and lived as far outside society as he could. Spike had never believed his dreams might come true, that the moment he was in right now would ever be real.

He sucked in a deep breath, and Buffy's gentle frown of concern made his heart ache. All those bloody nerves that screamed while walking in, the panic and fear kept constantly at his side when it came to her, seemed like ghosts and nightmares now. Untouchable, unseen.

All his bouts of pacing, every single bottle drained, the worries accompanied by dreams, they were all intangible, floating away and dispersing like smoke.

He had made it this far... who was to say he couldn't go farther?

Spike set the book on the table, brushing against Buffy's arm as he did so. In the distance, solitude and stuffy air combined into a backdrop so quiet he could almost hear her heart beating. Buffy went still, and while her murmur sent goose bumps to rise on his back and throat, it was not out of apprehension, but something richer. Something more zealous.

"Are you okay?" she asked quietly.

Somewhere, in a distant part of his brain, Spike realized he was playing with fire. He was considering something that would definitely be pushing boundaries, something that could threaten what he had. He always feared losing Buffy so greatly, feared a mistake or clumsy words might tear her away from him. That he could stupidly push for too much, push for what logic argued this woman would never give. After all, how in the hell could he deserve it?

A few seconds had passed since Spike last said anything, due to the winding road his thoughts traveled, and evidently, she took that to mean he was upset. "I'm sorry if I- I mean, I didn't mean to like, pry or anything. I admit I was curious. A friend of mine said he thought your name was Pratt and- Not that I was talking about you or anything. I just mentioned the car thing, remember how your car broke down in front of my house? And he said- Well, he remembered your name and, I don't know, I wanted to know more about you I guess..." Her cheeks glowed like a warm fire.

William's head tilted in the middle of her tirade, and now he was staring; this kind of luminescent gleam sat in his eyes above a still mouth. He was dead silent.

Buffy gulped. Why had she spoken? Why had she said a single word?! What happened to the half-truth idea? Now he was going to think she was nutty- *I'm starting to think I'm nutty.* -and probably never speak to her again. It didn't help that all the blood had traveled to her face, and Buffy just knew she was the color of a Bubblicious gum wrapper.

God, if he would only say something, then maybe she could salvage this. Maybe she could convince him she wasn't a crazy girl obsessed with some guy she barely knew. *Aren't I? No! I'm not. I just... have a crush. Definitely sure of that now.*

If William would break this glacier thick ice and speak to her, then she could go on from there. Buffy was loathe to open her mouth again before she had something to respond with.

An unspeakably tense moment passed; her shoulders were high and her heart was racing, Spike was holding himself back with an invisible leash about to snap.

Then suddenly, he couldn't take it. He just couldn't stand there, with Buffy's fear and anxiety clear in her eyes and her whole body prepped for his lashing out, and do nothing. Spike gathered all the courage in his heart, pushed the demons down, muffled the warning screams, and leaned close enough to feel her breathe.

Inch by inch, centimeters falling away, and watching Buffy's eyes widen as her chin tilted up. He noticed her reach back and grip the edge of the table, and he didn't kiss her like he knew she thought he would. Spike stopped and swallowed a knot the size of a baseball, then murmured, "I'm an open book for you, love. You have a question, you can always ask."

It was a partial lie, Spike knew, and it was incredible he'd been able to utter it. He had not been willing to tell her about his job before, and he would never tell her how he watched her, would never admit to the obsession he harbored or the love he felt before she even knew he existed. So no, he was not a completely open book, but Spike realized if Buffy was curious enough to ask questions or do research on his home, then he would try. He would try so damn hard to cater to her pondering.

Evidently, his nearness and chilling tone of voice only exacerbated the nerves. Buffy was beginning to stutter more than him. "I didn't want you to- to think that I... Um, that I was being nosy."

"Be as nosy as you wish, sweetheart," he said, before she could continue. The endearment made her raise her head and when Spike found the darkest depths of her green eyes, his heart started pounding.

Buffy bit her lower lip, something like indecision splicing the bemusement on her face. She looked at his mouth when she murmured, "Do you want me to- to be nosy?"

He almost chuckled, and the fact he could feel the urge to do so when he was this close to her was a pinnacle moment in itself. "I'd love it," he swore. Tension invaded his muscles, until Spike found his hands pressing into the surface of the table. He was blocking her in.

Buffy's voice fell, deeper, quieter than before. She shrugged lazily, bringing her shoulders closer to his chest. "Know what I'd love?"

He could feel the heat coming off her. Soft skin brushed his, pink lips moving, his head fogging. Spike held still, but the sensation of her knees connecting with his briefly, was enough to pull him nearer. Buffy's hands found his wrists. She was so bloody close, he could barely breathe, but felt every little exhale leaving her mouth.

"What's that?" he muttered.

"This." She moved so slowly, leaving ample time for him to back out, that the moment was warm and honey-like before it began. Her lips brushed his, as softly as a feather, and reality faded.

Spike's restraint unwound.





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