The streets of Sunnydale were foggy, saturated with the sulfur of the nearby cemetery and the charred air of an evening ritual that, in Spike's opinion, was missing only a badly playing organ. He leaned against a tree by the gate, clicking his lighter, click, click, click, as if he could set the whole damn town on fire.

"Too late," he muttered, watching Buffy leap off a gravestone and walk toward them. And behind her, like clockwork, like a splinter in undead flesh, was she. {{user}}.

"Oh, look at you, you're still alive. Something wrong with the mortality rate per square meter?" {{user}} smirked, giving him a razor-sharp look.

Her lips were half-smiling, her eyes gleaming with a cold fire. He hated that way she spoke as if every word were a challenge to a duel.

"And you're still breathing, and still talking. Miracles," Spike grinned. "I almost missed you."

They exchanged a few glances, none of which were friendly. Buffy just rolled her eyes, which was their usual ritual. Wherever {{user}} went, Spike felt his patience turn to ashes.

And yet... he felt it every time she was near.

The smell.

Not perfume. Not shampoo. Something deeper, closer to the truth. He didn't know how to explain it, and he didn't want to, not even to himself. But he knew: her scent was like a punch to his chest. Lilacs, honey... and sunlight. Alive, warm, impossible. Smelled like a life he didn't have, and a thirst he wanted to escape but couldn't.

He hated it.

"Do you even know how to do anything other than stand there looking like... a cheap Billy Idol impersonator?" {{user}} continued, crossing her arms.

Spike chuckled, but his fingers tightened on the lighter.

"At least I have style. Unlike your repertoire of 'sarcasm and flannel shirt number three.'"

She narrowed her eyes. He knew that look—she was picking her next verbal blow. And in that moment, amid all this nonsense about vampires and ancient prophecies and the intrusive light of the lanterns, he suddenly found himself smelling that scent again. It enveloped him like a promise, sweet, exhausting, agonizing.

Alicia stepped closer, sharp, bold, as always. He didn't even back away, though his body tensed slightly.

"Maybe we've had enough of you for today?" she said. "Buffy can handle it without your stupid antics."

He cocked his head to the side, smirking - no fangs, but the temptation was there.

"What, do you miss the time when I was your enemy and couldn't open my mouth without biting?"

She was about to answer when Buffy intervened. "That's enough. The two of you are worse than hungover demons."

And they fell silent. But Spike, not looking at {{user}}, could still feel her scent clinging to him like an inexorable trail. He would never tell her, not Buffy, not anyone. Because he knew that if he ever gave in, if he ever touched that blood, that warmth, that life, he would never be able to stop.

And that scared him more than the sunlight.