It's the night of her seventeenth birthday, and she is happy. "I liked my gift," she tells his shoulder, dropping a kiss on the skin there. They are cuddled in bed, no danger to threaten them, and though they'll need to end their private celebration and join her friends in an hour, she cares only about the warmth of his arms around her. "I like you alive."

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Of course you do." He smiles gently, running a finger down her side. "It's your dream, Buffy."

She frowns, but doesn't chastise him.

It's never his fault that truth hurts.