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By Morning's Light

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She reaches across the expanse of the bed, body screaming at her. It’s starting to feel the effects of the job now. She pats the empty space, the firm mattress instead of the dent from a body that has been resting there for years. In the last bits of sleep, of a waking dream, she’s forgotten he hasn’t slept next to her, held her, for years. Not since Sunnydale. Not since he burned.

Her hand stops halfway to the phone. It always does. She never dials the number Andrew had given her, never asks the question.

“Spike? Are you there?”