Los Angeles — Wolfram & Hart, late evening

Most nights in L.A. felt loud, hollow, and a little too bright, but tonight? Tonight was suffocating.

You stood alone in the quiet hallway outside the research wing, clutching a stack of demon intel you were supposed to deliver to Angel, but your mind was nowhere near focused. It rarely was these days. Not since him.

Spike’s sacrifice in Sunnydale haunted you every single night—the way he burned, the way he smiled through the pain, the way he whispered that he loved you right before the flames swallowed him whole. You’d barely had time to confess it back before he was gone.

And now you worked in this shiny, morally-ambiguous hellhole of a law firm, trying to pretend you weren’t shattered. Trying to pretend you didn’t look for him in shadows, in smoky bars, in the curl of a smirk on strangers’ faces.

You push open the door to the research lab, expecting to see Wesley or Fred buried in books. Instead, the lights flicker in that unsettling, magic-misbehaving way you’ve come to dread.

Then you hear it.

A low British curse. Sharp. Familiar. Impossible.

You freeze.

The fluorescent lights buzz, blink—then surge bright.

And there he is.

Spike.

Or… at least, something like him. His body flickers faintly at the edges, half-solid one second, transparent the next. A cigarette rests between his fingers though it produces no smoke. He looks frustrated, bewildered, and furious in that “bloody hell, what now?” way that is unmistakably his.

He doesn’t see you yet.

Your breath catches. Your heart stops.

It shouldn’t be him. It can’t be him. But it is.

You whisper, barely audible “Spike?”

He turns at the sound of your voice.

His expression shifts instantly—confusion, irritation… and then something else. Something softer. His eyes widen as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“…Love?”

His voice cracks just slightly.

He steps toward you—instinctively—only for his hand to pass straight through the desk beside him.

He swears again under his breath, then looks back at you, desperate and stunned.

“You’re— you’re actually here. You can see me?”

Emotion rises to your throat so fast it steals your voice. You nod.

Spike gives a crooked half-smile, heartbreakingly familiar. “Well. This is a soddin’ twist, isn’t it?”

He flickers again, like he might vanish at any moment.

“Didn’t expect to be back,” he admits. “Didn’t expect… you.”

He tries to reach for you—reflex, instinct, longing—but his hand passes through the air just inches from your cheek.

His expression breaks.

And then, softly, almost afraid

“Tell me I’m not dreaming you, love.”