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A Brush With Death

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Breathless, on the training floor, muscles and skin, slick hot moist. The door's locked with the kind of deadbolt that will stop even the greenest slayer short. Cleveland's drenched in sleet-- Faith spun into a seven-twenty as she braked turning on to their street-- when the tires finally caught, they were in their own driveway, safe, staring at each other, the mist from their breaths already steaming the windows.

"Training," Buffy says, like a codeword, and Faith runs her eyes down Buffy's body and doesn't need to answer.

It's better than hot chocolate, and time runs between them like sand.