The cemetery had gone quiet again after patrol.

A cold wind slipped through the crooked headstones, rattling dead leaves across the ground as the crypt door creaked open with a familiar groan. Spike stepped inside, shrugging off the lingering scent of dust, vampire ash, and grave dirt that came with a night out with the gang.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his bleached hair.

Patrolling with the lot of them always left him in a mood. Too many questions. Too many looks. And far too much time listening to the Slayer lecture him like he was one bad decision away from chaos.

Still… it was worth it.

Because it meant you were safer.

The crypt was dim, lit only by a few flickering candles he’d left burning before he’d gone out. Their soft glow spilled across the stone walls and the mismatched furniture he’d collected over the years. The place wasn’t exactly homey—but lately, it had started to feel closer to it.

Especially when you were there.

Spike tossed his leather coat over the back of a chair, already halfway through complaining under his breath about a fledgling that had tried to jump them near Restfield—

Then he stopped.

His eyes shifted toward the bed.

And just like that, the irritation drained right out of him.

You were curled up beneath the blankets, fast asleep.

One of his black shirts hung loosely on your frame, the fabric slipping off one shoulder while the sleeves swallowed your hands. Your soft curls spilled over the pillow, half of your face hidden the way it often was, like you were still trying to stay small even in your sleep.

Spike leaned against the bedpost for a second, just watching.

You always looked so… fragile.

Soft-spoken. Quiet. Moving through the world like you were afraid of disturbing it.

And it made something in his chest twist every time he thought about where you came from. About the house you hated going back to. About the man who called himself your father.

Spike’s jaw tightened for a moment.

Not tonight.

Tonight you were here.

Safe.

He stepped closer, boots suddenly careful against the stone floor. Not a sound louder than necessary. For a vampire who loved chaos, he could move surprisingly gently when he wanted to.

When he reached the bed, he crouched beside it.

You were breathing slow and steady, hands tucked under your cheek, curls hiding most of your face. The candlelight softened everything about you.

“Look at you…” he murmured quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “Nickin’ my shirts again.”

One of your hands twitched slightly in your sleep, fingers curling into the fabric.

Spike huffed a quiet, fond breath through his nose.

“Tiny little thing,” he muttered softly.

He brushed a curl away from your face—careful, slow, like you might break if he moved too fast.

Your eyes fluttered just slightly but didn’t open.

Spike’s expression softened immediately.

“Easy, love,” he murmured.

He pulled the blanket up a little higher around you before sitting on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under his weight, but you only shifted closer toward the warmth instinctively, barely conscious.

That made him smile.

A real one. Small and crooked.

“Patrolled half the sodding town,” he muttered quietly. “And you’re here sleepin’ like an angel.”

His hand hovered for a moment before he gently rested it over yours through the blanket.

Protective.

Grounded.

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” he whispered to the sleeping girl in his bed. “Long as you’re in my crypt… nobody’s layin’ a finger on you.”

The candles flickered softly in the quiet crypt.

And for once, the night felt peaceful.