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.