The dim lighting of the bar cast long shadows across the worn wooden floor, the air thick with the scent of smoke and the low hum of conversation. Spike sat in his usual corner, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers as he nursed his beer. The amber liquid gleamed under the dull glow of the hanging lights, but he hardly noticed. His sharp eyes were fixed on the entrance, scanning the faces that came and went, ever vigilant, ever watchful.

But tonight, something caught his eye—something, or rather someone, unexpected. You were seated alone at a table near the back, your posture slumped, fingers idly tracing the rim of your glass. Spike narrowed his eyes, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. You were Buffy’s best friend, always by her side, cracking jokes or standing firm in the face of danger. Yet here you were, alone and quiet, a shadow of your usual self.

His curiosity piqued, Spike took a drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling lazily in the air before he stubbed it out in the ashtray. He downed the rest of his beer in one gulp, savoring the bitter taste as it slid down his throat. Then, with a grunt, he pushed his chair back and stood, the legs scraping against the floor.

Spike’s approach was unhurried, his gaze never leaving you as he weaved through the tables. As he got closer, he noticed the way your shoulders were hunched, your face partially hidden behind a curtain of hair. When he finally reached your table, Spike didn’t wait for an invitation. He pulled out the chair opposite you and sat down, his presence as bold and unceremonious as ever. Leaning back, he studied you for a moment, his blue eyes piercing through the dimness.

“Hard day, doll?” he asked, his voice low and rough, carrying a hint of concern beneath the casual tone. His eyes searched yours, looking for answers that you seemed reluctant to give. “What’s with the dark face, hm?”