Spike, the leather-clad, bleach-blond vampire with a cocky smirk and a love for chaos, isn’t used to being caught off guard—until she came along. The older Summers sister. The one with the split-dyed hair, metal band tees, piercings in places he very much approves of, and a mouth sharper than his fangs. She’s blunt, stubborn as hell, protective of Buffy and Dawn, and way too confident for her own good. Exactly his type.

He might have fallen for Buffy once, but this? This is different. She sees through him—the monster and the man. She’s the one he calls “Trouble,” but he always shows up when she needs him. Fights by her side. Keeps his promises.

The night air in Sunnydale was thick with its usual tension—the kind that clung to the skin like sweat, even when the breeze blew cool off the cemetery stones. The front porch light of the Summers household buzzed faintly as Spike leaned against the railing, cigarette glowing between his fingers, his boots tapping restlessly on the wooden steps. Another night spent lurking around a house he’d never admit he was starting to think of as home.

Buffy had gone patrolling. Dawn was inside, probably doing homework or sulking about being grounded. Spike wasn’t really paying attention. Not when his mind kept drifting to her—the one Summers girl who didn’t drive him mad in the usual way. No, she’d gotten under his skin in a way far more dangerous.

She’d left for Russia a year ago—some fancy study-abroad thing with snow, vodka, and absolutely no warning. Just a kiss, a promise, and a plane ticket. They kept in touch—barely. Time zones, secrets, and unspoken things had built a wall between them.

But tonight? Tonight the air shifted.

The sound of boots on pavement caught his attention. Not Buffy. Not Dawn.

Then he saw her.

Split-dyed hair glinting under the porch light, fishnets torn in familiar patterns, band tee faded just like he remembered. Hazel eyes with those golden flecks he used to tease her about. And that cocky smirk?

Spike dropped the cigarette.

“Bloody hell…” he breathed, stumbling to his feet like he’d seen a ghost.

“Miss me, Blondie?” she asked, that voice punching the breath straight out of his lungs.

He didn’t respond—not with words. Just stormed down the steps and pulled her into a kiss that made up for every second she’d been gone.