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Oz's heart was beating fast as he let himself into Willow's house. It felt strange, just walking in. They didn't spent a lot of time here—Willow didn't spend a lot of time here—because she didn't feel comfortable around her parents. She hid most of her real life, her real self from them. Oz felt fortunate that he got to see that real life and real self; how could he have given that up? The Willow she didn't let anyone else see was … amazing.

"Willow?" he called, shutting the door behind him. "I got videos," he added, holding them up as he came around the corner into her living room. And then he stopped. Everything stopped. Because the Willow in front of him was one no one else had ever seen, or really imagined.

But the Willow who spoke was his girl. "Hi," she said, her voice making it clear that she knew how unusual she looked.

Beautiful. Gorgeous. Sexy, even. But unusual, there on the couch in her red dress, leaning as though … in invitation.

She patted the couch. "Why don't you come s-sit down?" Her voice quavered a little, and his heart melted. His Willow, trying to … make amends, to be what she thought he wanted, all the while it was making her nervous and probably sick to her stomach.

Oz managed to make his feet move, crossing the room to sit down gingerly on the couch next to her, laying the videos on the table. What were they? He couldn't remember.

As he sat, the melodious voice of Barry White began from somewhere, soft music underscoring the candles and the red dress and the nervous but expectant posture of the woman next to him. He turned to look at her, and she smiled, and Oz really wasn't sure whether to kiss her or run from the room or call her a doctor.

"You ever have that dream," he asked, "where you're in a play, and it's the middle of the play and you really don't know your lines, and you kinda don't know the plot?" He knew the plot, or he thought he did, but … he wasn't ready for this much plot, and he would have laid a pretty hefty bet that neither was she.

"Well … we're alone, and … and … we're together … I just wanted it to be special."

"How special are we talking?"

She couldn't even say it. He could see her trying to figure out how to get the point across without saying it, and he knew this wasn't right. Not the right time, or the right way. "Well …" she said again, "you know … we're alone, and … we're both mature, younger people, and—and so, we could … I'm ready to—with you …" She was breathing heavily, not from desire or anything close to it, but from fear. Oz wanted to hold her, but she would take it the wrong way if he tried that now. "We could do that thing," she whispered at last, as though someone could hear her.

Oz looked at her, not sure what to say, and she looked back at him, that expectant smile still plastered on her face. He stood up.

Alarmed, Willow said, "Where are you going?"

"No, not going," he assured her. "Just a … dramatic gesture. That's … that's pretty special," he added softly, looking down at her.

Willow got to her feet, too. "Oz … I want to be with you … first," she said. There was a confidence in her voice now that was heart-warming. This was his Willow, the one who knew herself and what she wanted, and she was much sexier than the scared temptress she had been a moment ago.

"I think we should sit down again." They did so, slowly, while Oz considered how to say what needed to be said. He looked at her, and she put on that smile again.

"Oz? I-I'm ready."

He wondered if she really thought she was. Even if the moment had felt right, he couldn't have done that to her. If he was going to be first—and what an intoxicating prospect that was—he wanted to show her everything it could be, which meant that she needed to … well, she needed to need it. Yes. That was it. He smiled at her, just a little. "Okay. Well … don't take this the wrong way, but … I'm not."

She looked confused, that little wrinkle coming in her forehead that happened when someone did or said something she hadn't planned on and knocked her out of her comfort zone. "Are you scared? 'Cause I thought you had—"

"No, I have," he said. "But this is different. I mean, you look great, and you got the Barry workin' for you, and it's all … good. But—when it happens, I want it to be because we both need it to, for the same reason." Oz looked her in the eye now, wanting her to hear him and understand him. "You don't have to prove anything to me."

Something in her relaxed, and he could see some disappointment and some relief mingled in her eyes. "I just wanted you to know."

"I know," he whispered. "I get the message."

She leaned toward him, and he reached for her, for her kiss, tasting the lipstick on her mouth and underneath it, the familiar sweetness that was Willow. He cupped her head, her hair sliding beneath his fingers, and kissed her more firmly, finding her tongue with his, the shy hesitance of her response, and then the growing confidence. They had been this far before—a little farther, even. And the response in him, the depth of his desire for her, almost tempted him to move past this. But this was Willow, and she needed to go slow, to have time to be sure of herself, and of him, and of herself in his eyes.

Oz pulled back, his hand still in her hair, breathing hard.

"You sure?" Willow whispered.

He smiled. "Yeah. I'm sure."

And then she smiled, too, and it was just like it should be. "Then I'm going to go get out of this dress. How do most girls sit in these short skirts?"

Oz relaxed on the couch, watching her as she left the room, his last doubts as to whether being with her again was going to work put to rest.