There's a creak in her neck and her shoulder aches. She'd managed to jam it against the door in her haste to get out of work as quickly as possible. Despite being distracted all afternoon, she considered herself lucky that her classes were fairly self-sufficient and she knew the material so she managed to field any questions without any problems.

Then her day got worse. Commuting in New York in a downpour is Jenny's pet peeve. Emerging from the subway, the short walk to her cosy apartment had been treacherous. Her umbrella was useless and every cab seemed determined to send wave after wave of puddle water in her direction; she'd been drenched within minutes.

Seriously, she was glad when entering her apartment and emptied her bag that she'd had the forethought to rewrap the book and letter in the packaging and stick that inside her waterproof, zip-lock folder. Thankfully, it was in the same perfect, unmarred condition Rupert sent it to her in.

This is all Rupert's fault.

After salvaging the rest of her bags' soggy contents, Jenny had taken the book and the letter into the living room, leaving them on her coffee table while she showered and changed into flannel pyjama bottoms and a shirt.

Sitting cross-legged on the couch, she sipped her coffee and scowled at the gift. The initial shock was wearing off, being replaced by her growing anger. Did he really have to do this? Now?

There may not be anyone in her life, no one since she left Sunnydale and Rupert, but he can't make some gesture – romantic or otherwise – after not speaking to her for years.

Damn him!

She bites her lip and cuddles her cup close, torn between trying to absorb its warmth or letting it scold her because it'll give her an excuse to cry. After all, she refuses to cry about Rupert. She's cried over him enough. But she has never been able to keep her emotions in check when Rupert is involved.

He still has her heart and she's resigned herself to never getting it back.

She wants to move on, she wants to be as free as he made her feel.

It's been four years and she misses who she was in Sunnydale. Where she was Jenny. The person she always wanted to be. A Computer science teacher, who loved her work, who spent her free time in chat rooms and went to festivals she couldn't tell her students about but had no qualms about telling the librarian she had a crush on. Not Janna, not the girl raised on blind loyalty and vengeance, not the woman striving for her family's approval by following the vaguest of orders with minimal information.

She's secure in her vocation and she doesn't attribute everything that happened to Rupert's presence. Her experience in Sunnydale wasn't defined by him. Her relationship with Rupert was interwoven with the only time she felt free to be herself. A completely unexpected and utterly liberating short amount of time when she thrived; she loved her job, she had friends, and was in love. For the first time in her life, she wasn't constantly living in the shadow of a girl who'd died ninety-odd years before she was born.

It was easy to lose herself in that.

Leaving that behind was the hardest thing she's ever done.

Rupert had been right, though. It wasn't safe and Angelus wasn't about to let her resurrect Angel, he would have hounded her. Hell, that last night she spent with Rupert in her apartment, was fraught between their argument and Angelus throwing pebbles at her windows, reminding her he was as proficient at all kinds of torment.

She doesn't blame Rupert for the life she leads now. She's closed herself off; she made that decision. Reeling from the rejection from her family, she detached herself from the world. They knew how to hold a grudge and they blamed her for screwing everything up. She is hiding from them as much as she is protecting herself from being hurt again.

She's lonely. It would be easy to head out to a bar and find company for an evening or two. It wouldn't work though; afterward, she would be left feeling hollower than she does now. Hell, giving her colleagues the tiniest bit of insight into her personal life would be more grounding than a one-night stand. Laura practically lit up this afternoon and got caught up in the identity of the mystery sender.

Damn him!

For loving her, for showing her she could love.

She should just rip up the letter.

She sighs.

No, that isn't an option she is giving herself. She'll take this punishment like she took Buffy's silence. Despite everything, she hopes he knew that she'd never tear up anything from him even if she can't bring herself to read his words or reply. But she wants to, and she hates him a little for that.

Leaning forward, she sets down her cooling coffee and picks up the envelope. Her eyes follow the pen strokes of her name, looping the letters together.

Jenny.

She hears his voice whispering her name in her head, calling to her. How many times did he say it? How many different emotions did he convey by changing the inflection of his voice?

It feels like a siren. Her eyes slide shut, unshed tears catching in her lashes.

Damn him.

Opening her eyes, Jenny contemplates the envelope for a moment longer before sliding her finger under the flap to carefully prize it apart to preserve the note inside. She pauses with folded paper in her hand, bringing it to her nose. It smells like the book; she wonders how long he carried it around before sending it. She takes a deep breath, steadying herself, bracing herself for his words.

Dear Jenny,

First of all, I'd like to admit that you were right. Willow insists I start by telling you that.

Emails are much quicker.

I was sorely tempted to write an email once we found you, but couldn't bring myself to send it to your work email. I doubted you would believe I sent you an email. I'm not sure if writing a letter is much better but I suppose you know it would be my preferred method of communication.

I started this letter a dozen times, unsure what to write before realising there was nothing that would adequately excuse how things ended between us.

I'm sorry.

We seem to have developed a habit of apologising to each other.

I don't want you to feel pressured to respond. Honestly, I don't expect a reply.

I'm in England now. Willow is visiting for the foreseeable future, she lost someone recently, someone she loved…she's healing. Our conversations have provoked a lot of contemplation on my part.

Willow found you. Not entirely sure how, not sure I want to know how but I know it involved tracking you down on her laptop. I took your contact information because I don't want her to channel her pain by using you or me as a distraction from mending her heart.

I'm not reaching out because of Willow. I've thought of you often, wondering what you would say or how you would react. I could ruminate on the effect you had on my life, but I fear that would mean pages upon pages, and I'm meant to be being breezy – I'm not entirely sure what that means, I'm not sure I can be if I tried. Simply put, I miss you.

I don't expect anything, Jenny. I understand we can never start over; however, I would like to get to know you as we are now, however that may be.

The decision is yours. I'll never contact you again if that's what you want.

Keep the book. It's yours. I never found an opportunity to give it back after you returned it.

Yours,

Rupert

P.S. I have included my email address if you'd prefer.

AN: Got a couple of minutes? Anyone interested in more? let me know