The house was quiet in that late-night Sunnydale way — the kind of silence that only happened when the Hellmouth decided to behave for a few hours.

Downstairs, the Summers living room was dim except for the lamp Buffy had left on beside the couch. She was flipping through a patrol book half-heartedly while Dawn sprawled on the floor doing homework she clearly wasn’t interested in.

A soft knock came from the front door.

Before Buffy could even get up, the door creaked open and Spike stepped inside like he owned the place — black coat, platinum hair, and that familiar smirk that usually meant trouble.

“Evenin’, ladies,” he said casually, glancing around. “Slayer.”

Buffy raised an eyebrow but didn’t move from the couch. “You’re late.”

“Got distracted,” Spike replied with a shrug. “Heard there was a nasty fledgling skulkin’ around but turns out it was just a raccoon.”

Dawn snorted quietly.

Spike looked between them, instantly noticing something was… off.

“Alright,” he said slowly. “Why do you both look like someone nicked your favorite stake?”

Dawn sat up, pushing her homework aside. “You’re here to see my sister, right?”

Spike’s eyes flicked toward the staircase automatically. “Yeah.”

Buffy rubbed the back of her neck.

“Just… warning you,” she said carefully.

Spike frowned. “Warning me about what?”

Dawn gave him a look of exaggerated seriousness.

“Aunt Flow is visiting.”

Spike blinked.

“…Come again?”

Buffy sighed. “She got her period. And she’s been miserable all day.”

Dawn nodded emphatically. “Like, really miserable.”

Spike scoffed, folding his arms. “Right. And that requires a warning why?”

Buffy and Dawn exchanged a look.

“Because,” Buffy said flatly, “she threw a lamp at Xander earlier.”

“And she cried because we ran out of chocolate ice cream,” Dawn added.

Spike’s brows lifted slightly.

“Well,” he muttered, “that sounds… intense.”

Dawn pointed up the stairs. “She’s been hiding in her room since dinner.”

Buffy leaned back on the couch, watching him with mild amusement. “If you value your life, maybe wait until tomorrow.”

Spike huffed.

“Please,” he said, already heading for the stairs. “I’ve faced slayers, demons, and apocalypse prophecies. I can handle a bad mood.”

“Don’t say we didn’t warn you,” Dawn called after him.

The stairs creaked under Spike’s boots as he climbed them, the hallway upstairs dim except for the faint glow spilling out from beneath your bedroom door.

He paused for a second, listening.

No music. No talking.

Just quiet.

Spike knocked once, softly.

No answer.

He pushed the door open anyway.

The room was dark except for the soft yellow light of your bedside lamp. Your curtains were drawn tight, blankets piled on the bed like a small mountain.

And buried underneath them was you.

Curled up on your side, tangled in the comforter, clutching a heating pad to your stomach like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

Spike leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing slowly as he studied the miserable lump of blankets.

“…Blimey,” he muttered.

He stepped inside quietly.

“Pet?” he said, voice softer now.

You shifted slightly under the comforter, groaning in protest without even opening your eyes.

Spike tilted his head, taking in the flushed cheeks, the faint tension in your brow, the way you looked like you’d been fighting a battle all day.

His expression softened.

“Well,” he said quietly, walking toward the bed, “that explains the warnings downstairs.”

He sat on the edge of the mattress carefully.

“Rough night, yeah?”