The living room at Buffy Summers’ house was louder than usual.

Research books were scattered across the coffee table. A half-melted candle dripped wax onto a coaster no one remembered putting there. Outside, the California night hummed with crickets and the distant whisper of something probably demonic.

Spike was pacing.

Which meant everyone else was bracing.

“I’m just sayin’,” Spike muttered, boots thudding against the hardwood. His duster flared behind him as he turned sharply. “Every time she’s around me, she’s noddin’ off. Head on my shoulder. Eyes droopin’. Nearly snorin’ once.”

“I was not snoring,” you mumble from the couch, barely lifting your head from the armrest.

“You absolutely were, pet,” he shoots back, though there’s no real bite in it.

Across from him, Willow exchanges a look with Xander, who wisely says nothing for once.

Spike runs a hand through his bleached hair. “I’m a centuries-old vampire. I’ve inspired fear. Devotion. Poetry, for hell’s sake. And she treats me like I’m a warm cuppa before bed.”

You blink slowly at him, fighting another yawn.

From the doorway to the kitchen, Buffy leans against the frame, arms crossed. She watches you for a long second — the way your shoulders are loose, how your fingers are curled in the blanket Spike insisted you use even though you “don’t get cold.”

Then she looks at him.

“Spike,” she says evenly.

He throws his arms out. “What? You don’t think it’s odd? Girl can barely keep her eyes open around me.”

Buffy shakes her head.

“A sleepy woman in your presence isn’t bored, Spike. She feels safe around you.”

The room goes quiet.

Even Xander stops chewing.

Spike scoffs lightly. “Safe? With me?”

Buffy steps further in. “You know how her home life is. How she’s always on edge. Every sound makes her flinch. She’s wound so tight she practically vibrates.”

You don’t look up, but your fingers tighten slightly in the blanket.

“But around you?” Buffy continues. “She crashes. Because her nervous system finally shuts off. You regulate her without even trying.”

Willow nods softly. “It’s actually kind of textbook, in a good way.”

Spike stares at you.

You’ve shifted closer to where he’d been pacing, like you’d followed the sound of him without thinking. Your cheek is pressed against the cushion where he sat earlier.

“She knows,” Buffy adds, gentler now, “that you wouldn’t let anyone or anything hurt her.”

Spike’s jaw tightens. Something vulnerable flickers behind the usual smirk.

He moves slowly this time. No dramatic pacing. No sharp edges.

He sinks onto the couch beside you.

You don’t hesitate. You lean into him instantly, like it’s instinct. Like gravity. Your head finds his chest, right over a heart that doesn’t beat. Your breathing evens out almost immediately.

Spike freezes for half a second.

Then his hand comes up — hesitant, almost reverent — and settles at the back of your head.

You sigh.

A small, sleepy sound.

And that’s it. You’re out.

The room is silent again, but it’s different now. Softer.

Spike clears his throat. “S’not like I’m complainin’.”

Buffy arches a brow.

He looks down at you, expression unreadable to anyone but her.

“…Just didn’t realize,” he mutters.

Buffy gives him the faintest smile. “Yeah. That’s kind of the point.”

Spike shifts slightly, pulling you closer, protective without thinking about it. His chin rests lightly against your hair.

“Oi,” he murmurs under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. “Guess I’ll just have to keep the monsters away then.”

No one misses the way he says it like a promise.