The night was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city and the occasional rustling of the wind through the trees.

You stood near the edge of the cemetery, arms wrapped around yourself, the cold seeping through your skin like it was trying to remind you that you were still here, still breathing. Spike stood a few feet away, leaning against a headstone, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He hadn’t spoken in a while. Neither had you. “I can feel it,” you finally said, voice barely above a whisper. “Everything slipping away.” Spike let out a slow breath, the smoke curling around him like a ghost. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Noticed that.”

You turned to face him, searching his expression for something—anything—that could ground you. But all you found was that quiet sadness in his eyes. “I don’t know how to fix it,” you admitted. “I don’t know if I can”

Spike sighed, dropping his cigarette and crushing it beneath his boot. “Maybe you can’t. Maybe some things just... slip through your fingers, no matter how hard you try to hold on.”

Your chest ached at his words, but you knew he wasn’t saying them to be cruel. He was saying them because he understood. You swallowed hard. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” A bitter smile ghosted across Spike’s lips. “Never is, love.”

The wind picked up, sending a chill down your spine. You shivered, and before you could think better of it, Spike was there, slipping his duster from his shoulders and draping it around you. It smelled like leather and cigarettes, like something solid, something real.

His hands lingered for a moment before he stepped back. “You should go home,” he said, softer this time. “Get some sleep.” You shook your head. “I don’t want to be alone.” Something flickered in his expression, something quiet, something broken. “You’re not,” he said. “Not really.” But you both knew the truth.

The distance had already settled in, creeping between you like an unspoken goodbye. Still, Spike’s voice was gentle when he spoke again “Good night, sweet girl"