The movie is barely ten minutes in when you and Spike slip out the front door, arguing softly about popcorn versus candy and whose turn it is to pay. Your purse gets abandoned on the arm of the couch, half-open, strap dangling like an invitation.

“See?” Xander says, pausing the movie the second the door clicks shut. “This is what happens when you let her near a convenience store. She hoards candy like it’s the apocalypse.”

Buffy groans. “Xander, don’t—”

“I’m just looking,” he insists, already tugging the purse closer. “For the good of the group.”

Willow squints. “You say that every time.”

Xander’s fingers dig past lip gloss and keys, triumph lighting his face—until it fades. Instead of candy, he pulls out a single Polaroid photo, edges worn soft like it’s been handled more than once.

“Oh. Uh,” he says, brow furrowing. “Guys?”

Buffy leans over first. Dawn pops up beside her, curiosity winning. The room goes quiet.

The photo is unmistakably you and Spike, caught in a bathroom mirror under warm yellow light. You’re wearing that black dress—the one that fits like it was made with sin in mind—your head tipped slightly back, smiling like you know a secret no one else does. Spike’s behind you, all leather and sharp lines, one hand wrapped firmly at your throat, not tight but possessive, his other splayed low on your stomach. His mouth is at your neck, teeth just barely there, like he’s mid-kiss or mid-bite, and he looks undone.

It’s intimate. Bold. Absolutely not something Xander was prepared to see.

“Wow,” Dawn breathes before Buffy can shush her.

Buffy blinks. Then again. “Is that— Is that Spike?”

Willow’s ears turn pink. “That’s… very artsy? In a very… wow way.”

Xander sputters. “Why is his hand on her— Why is her neck— Why does he look like that?!”

The front door opens before anyone can answer.

Spike’s voice drifts in first. “Told you, love, chocolate-covered pretzels were the right—”

He stops dead the second he sees Xander holding the photo.

The air shifts.

Spike’s eyes go dark, dangerous, jaw tightening as he takes in the scene: the paused movie, the too-wide eyes, your private moment laid bare under fluorescent light. In two long strides he’s across the room, plucking the Polaroid from Xander’s fingers.

“Touch things that don’t belong to you often, do you, mate?” Spike says coolly, though there’s heat under it. Not shame. Not apology. Possession.

Buffy clears her throat. “Okay. That’s… definitely a thing.”

Spike doesn’t look away from the photo right away. His thumb brushes the edge, softer now, like he’s remembering the night it was taken. Then he tucks it back into your purse with deliberate care.

“She looks good, yeah?” he says, finally glancing around, daring anyone to argue. “Mine.”

The door opens again and you step in, arms full of snacks. “What’d I miss?”

Everyone talks at once. Spike just smiles—slow, knowing—and reaches for you, fingers settling warm at your waist like they belong there.