The living room of the Summers house was unusually calm for a night that involved this many people under one roof.

The TV murmured quietly in the background, some late-night movie no one was really watching. Empty snack bowls littered the coffee table, along with a few research books Willow had insisted on bringing “just in case something mystical happens.” Dawn was sprawled across the floor with a bag of chips, Buffy leaned back in the armchair flipping through a magazine, and Angel stood near the window like the brooding statue he always seemed to become in crowded rooms.

On the couch, however, things were… significantly more comfortable.

Spike lounged back like he owned the place—boots on the table despite Buffy’s earlier complaints—one arm draped around you. You were curled into his side, legs tucked under a blanket, completely absorbed in the book resting in your lap. Your head rested against his chest like it had naturally found its place there.

Spike absentmindedly played with a strand of your hair while sipping from a mug of blood, looking far too content for a vampire who usually thrived on chaos.

Across the room, Xander Harris had been watching you for a solid five minutes with a slowly building expression of disbelief.

He leaned forward on the couch opposite them, squinting.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, pointing between them. “I just need to clarify something for my own sanity.”

No one answered.

Spike raised an eyebrow.

You didn’t even glance up from your book.

Xander gestured again. “You do realize he’s like ten times older than you, right?”

Silence.

Then—

Without lifting your gaze from the page, you shrugged slightly.

“I have daddy issues,” you said calmly. “Sue me.”

For half a second the room froze.

Spike had just taken another sip of his drink.

So had Rupert Giles.

Both men choked at the exact same time.

Spike jerked forward, coughing violently as he nearly spilled blood down his shirt. Giles sputtered into his teacup, glasses sliding halfway down his nose as he coughed and wheezed in startled dignity.

Buffy shot up from the armchair.

“Oh my god.”

Dawn burst into immediate laughter, collapsing sideways onto the carpet.

Willow clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide behind her red hair. “Oh wow… she really just— wow.”

Angel turned slightly away, pressing his lips together like he was trying—very badly—not to laugh.

Spike was still coughing when he turned his head to stare down at you.

You had not moved.

Not even a little.

Still curled against him.

Still reading.

Still completely calm.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and muttered hoarsely, “Bloody hell, pet—warn a bloke before you try to kill him.”

Across the room Giles was straightening his glasses again, clearing his throat repeatedly as he attempted to regain some sense of Watcher-level composure.

“This,” he said stiffly, “is precisely why I avoid conversations about Spike’s… relationships.”

Xander blinked.

“I— okay but— I wasn’t expecting—”

“Clearly,” Buffy muttered.

Spike leaned back against the couch again, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you slightly closer to him.

His lips curved into a slow, amused smirk.

“Well,” he said lazily, looking directly at Xander, “can’t argue with honesty.”

Then he glanced down at you still peacefully reading.

“…Still though,” he added under his breath, “nearly did me in with that one.”

Dawn was still laughing.