Buffy held the long stemmed glass precariously. She took a long sip, then set the glass down. "They have the best champagne," she told her producer, meeting his gaze with a brazenness he'd missed so much. "My husband—Angel and I came here to celebrate our anniversary the first time, and, well, we were still broke then." Her eyes sparkled at the memory. "We ordered one bottle of champagne, and I got so drunk," by this time her laughter was ringing loudly across the restaurant. "After that, we couldn't even afford dinner, and we blew our whole month's budget, so we walked home in the freezing cold like two miles. I was wearing high heels, and he had to carry me the last mile."

"Sounds amazing," Spike answered truthfully. "Love, if you don't mind, what made you leave last night?"

"Spike," she answered, picking the champagne glass back up, but not taking any. She was mindful of the life inside her, tearing her marriage apart. "You know, when you get married you make promises, and sometimes...you just can't keep them."

"I know," he admitted, picking up his own champagne glass. He raised his glass, and they tipped them until the lips met, and kissed, the champagne on the edge of her glass pooling. When they pulled them apart, the droplet splashed onto the table. "To broken promises," he said.

"To broken promises," Buffy said. She took another sip of her champagne. "Spike, is it true you dated Sienna Miller?" The corner of his lips turned, and he laughed.

"Pet, if I had the chance at the likes of Sienna Miller, I don't think I'd ever come to New York."

"Then you'd never meet me," she said. "Not, uh—not that there's anything."

"Right," he said. "You ready to head back?"

Angel was in Fresno on business. She'd called his secretary, Harmony something-or-other, and told him she'd be in the apartment while he was gone. She made a few phone calls, and she watched as a balding man unceremoniously pulled the lock off, and replaced it. "This it, Miss?" She nodded.

"How much should I write the check for?"

"Twenty-seven for the lock. Ten for the labor. What's a pretty lady like you doin', livin' in this neighborhood alone?"

"Here's your check," she said in response, ripping it off the stack. "Have a good day." Successfully pushing the man into the stairwell, she leaned against the door and looked around. The apartment was empty. She had a moving man pull all of the furniture Angel bought out. She threw his razor and toothbrush into a Ziploc bag, and set it on Harmony's desk, with a handwritten note, "In case you feel the need, babydoll." She folded all of his clothes into boxes, and put them in storage. All that was left was a stool, a sink full of broken glasses, the phone set up on the counter, and a bathroom full of cosmetics. "What now?" she asked the empty apartment.

A knock at the door jarred her from her sleep. She was curled on the floor, a Raschel throw covering her, a rolled up sweater under her head. "Just a sec," she called, laboring to her feet. She struggled with the lock for a second, then pulled the door open a crack. "Spike?"

"Hey." He peered into her apartment. "Uh, are you just getting settled?" She looked curiously at him, then thought of her furniture. Or lack of furniture. She smiled.

"Oh, no. I just, uhm, ordered more. Furniture. To match the wood floor. Brown. From a catalog."

"Right. Catalog. Can I come in?"

"Actually," she stammered, "it's a mess. A huge mess. There's stuff everywhere."

"Buffy, you don't have any furniture."

"Not for the lack of mess," she offered, then pulled the door open. "Come in. I'll give you the grand tour." He stepped into the living room, then glanced curiously at her place on the floor. He shook his head, then let his worries roll off his shoulders. "This is the living room," she said, then pointed at the kitchen. "That's the kitchen slash dining room, and down the hall is the bathroom and across from that is the bedroom. It's tiny," she said. "But I love it."

"You don't have a bed," he said, staring at her. "Order that, too?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "I did."

"The loo is tiny," he said, looking at himself in the mirror. The fluorescent light above him made him extra pale. He looked down at the sink. One tube of toothpaste, one toothbrush. "Curiouser and curiouser," he murmered.

"Yeah. It's only the two of us," she said, smiling unsurely. "Is there a reason you came by? Not that I mind."

"Buffy, is something wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, tugging on her pony tail. "Why?"

"Your empty apartment," he said plainly. "Your one toothbrush. Your little bed here on the floor. Buffy, the headline of The National Enquirer." He held the paper up. It read, "Buffy Summers files for divorce after 4 years of marriage." The woman befor e him merely blinked.

"I don't think it's any of your business," she said. "I'm fine."

"I didn't ask if you were okay."

"Well, I am."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Buffy--" he started to reach toward her, but she pushed him away, the palm of her hand landing squarely on his shoulder.

"Sometimes, you can't keep promises," she said, wiping her tears away. "I fucked up." She folded her arms, and lowered herself to the ground. "They say if you really love someone you should let them go, and if they come back it's meant to be. But sometimes love isn't enough. It's a romantic notion to think that 'true love conquers all,' but the definition of 'true love' changes so often and so much that it's hard to say that it could win all battles. Everyone has their own definition of what love is, sometimes it's broad and moving, sometimes it is narrow and hard to capture. That's why it's so hard to find it: your true love may very well be before your eyes, you just have yet to write it into that definition." She looked up at him, pained. "I think I just typecasted him into everything I needed then. And I let myself believe that I still thought it was love, because I needed it so bad."

Spike sat on the floor next to her. This woman, who had just defined love in less than a thousand words, so perfectly, it seemed as if she had explained the meaning of life. He wiped her tears away with his thumb, then pulled her close, her head against his chest. Her hair smelled like springtime and sorrow. "Buffy, sometimes it feels like the world is falling apart, and you're standing in the middle trying to make sense of it all, I know. And I can't tell you how to make it better, because it's different for everyone. But pet—you must see that everyone makes it when they're strong. Look at Erica Kane."

"She made it because I wrote it," Buffy sobbed, looking up at Spike. "Why are you here?"

"Because, I wanted to do this," he whispered, leaning in to let his lips graze against hers. She pressed on into the kiss, her hands on his neck, his on her waist. Needily grabbing at one another, he lowered her to the floor, her blonde hair fanned around her face like the sun. "When I kiss you," he said, "the whole world stops falling apart. It's just you and I, standing still." He sat up. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm taking advantage." She watched him from her spot on the floor.

"Thank you for coming," she said. "But I'm really tired, and I have a briefing at six am, tomorrow. I think you do, too."

"You can't just sleep here on the floor," he protested.

"I'll be fine," she answered. "I'm a big girl."

"Come stay with me," he insisted, holding a hand out to help her up.

"I really couldn't."

"Why, your mum wouldn't approve? You're a big girl, Buffy."

"What if the paparazzi snap us?"

"What if they don't?"

"What if I kiss you?"

"I may just snap."