The Sunnydale Decade Fair had always been one of those things that made Spike question humanity.

Not the violence, not the occasional demon wandering through the cotton candy stands—no. It was the enthusiasm. Humans loved pretending to be something else for a day. They dressed up, pranced around, laughed like the world wasn’t sitting on top of a Hellmouth.

This year’s theme?

The 1800s.

Which meant parasols, waistcoats, top hats… and a whole lot of bad attempts at Victorian fashion.

Spike leaned lazily against a wooden post near the edge of the street, cigarette dangling from his fingers as the parade music drifted through the warm afternoon air. The place was packed. Stalls selling candied apples, fake pocket watches, lace gloves. Horses pulling wooden carts.

He rolled his eyes at a bloke stumbling past in a crooked top hat.

“Bloody amateurs,” Spike muttered under his breath.

Victorian fashion wasn’t a costume to him.

It was home.

He’d lived it. Breathed it. Fought in it.

Loved in it.

And lost in it.

Which was exactly why he hadn’t expected tonight to hit him the way it did.

The crowd shifted as people made room along the sidewalk, chatter filling the air as more townsfolk in lace and velvet wandered past.

That’s when he saw them.

Buffy.

Dawn.

And you.

Spike froze.

Buffy and Dawn were already in costume—Buffy wearing a simple cream dress that tried a bit too hard to be authentic, Dawn practically bouncing with excitement in her bonnet.

But you…

You looked like you had stepped straight out of his century.

The deep Victorian dress hugged your waist before spilling into layered skirts, rich fabric catching the golden sunlight. Lace framed the neckline, delicate gloves covering your hands, and your hair was pinned up in soft curls that would’ve made any gentleman of the 19th century weak in the knees.

Spike felt something in his chest go completely still.

For a moment, the fair vanished.

The music.

The people.

The noise.

All of it faded until there was only you walking down the street like you belonged in another time.

“Bloody hell…” he whispered.

Drusilla had been beautiful once. Ethereal in that strange, haunting way she had.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

You looked warm. Alive. Bright in a way that made the undead ache.

Spike realized he’d been staring when Buffy nudged your arm and said something he couldn’t hear.

You turned.

Your eyes landed on him instantly.

And the soft smile that spread across your face made his undead heart stutter.

You slowed your steps, the skirts of your dress swaying gently as you approached. Buffy and Dawn kept walking ahead a few paces, clearly noticing the moment but choosing not to interrupt.

Spike straightened slightly, suddenly very aware of the fact he was still in his usual black coat while everyone else looked like they belonged in a history book.

Then you stopped a few feet in front of him.

Your smile softened.

Without a word, you gathered the edges of your skirts with both hands, dipping gracefully into a perfect Victorian curtsy—the kind practiced by women of his time.

Proper.

Elegant.

Respectful.

For a second, Spike genuinely forgot how to speak.

Because the sight of you doing that—looking like you’d stepped out of 1880 London just for him—hit him somewhere deep and dangerous.

His head tilted slightly, blue eyes roaming over every detail of you like he was trying to memorize it.

“Pet…” he finally breathed, voice rough with awe.

A slow, crooked grin spread across his face.

“Careful dressin’ like that.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice just for you.

“Gonna make a man think he’s gone and time-traveled.”

His gaze softened in a way Spike rarely allowed anyone to see.

“Most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a hundred years.”

A beat passed.

Then he added quietly—

“Even back then.”