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The sun had just set over Los Angeles, but inside Angel’s office at Wolfram & Hart, the only light came from the pale glow of his laptop screen. He sat back in his chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, the weight of the day still pressing into his shoulders. The building was quiet this time of night—most of his team had gone home, save for a few poor souls in legal and research burning through red tape and demonic case files.
His inbox pinged.
He already knew who it was from. She had a habit of writing right as the night began for him and the day began for her.
Subject: Hot in Sydney. You’d hate it. Here’s what I’m not wearing.
Angel stared at the subject line for a moment, a reluctant smile twitching at his lips. He glanced toward the office door, made sure it was locked. It was a ritual by now. She always waited until she knew he’d be alone.
He opened the email.
It was several paragraphs long, describing in vivid, teasing detail exactly what Buffy wasn’t wearing, how hot it was, how unbearable it was to sleep in anything more than a pair of lace panties—if she was even wearing those. She painted herself in sun-kissed tones and shimmering heat, lounging in front of her laptop, “thinking of you, big guy,” and wondering if he missed her as much as she missed him.
Angel let out a long breath. Missed her? That didn’t even begin to cover it.
Six months. That’s how long it had been since Buffy packed up her life in Los Angeles and traded it for beaches, sun, and the chance to find herself. He hadn’t tried to stop her. Couldn’t. She needed it. He respected that. But damn if it didn’t ache every night.
They hadn’t made promises—Buffy had been clear about that. She needed time. But their emails, their video calls, even the late-night memories they traded when words weren’t enough—it all felt like something. Not quite love rekindled. Not quite friendship. Something messy, undefinable, and very, very real.
He closed his eyes and leaned back, letting the weight of her words settle into him. Then, sighing, he clicked Reply.
Subject: Re: Hot in Sydney. You’d hate it. Here’s what I’m not wearing.
I wouldn’t hate it, I would want to be there, touching you. I think about it a lot. Too much. I read this in my office again. Door locked, as usual. Fred almost walked in last time. Close call. I think you do this on purpose.
Things here are… the same. Still working cases, trying to make things better.
I miss you.
Not just the… well, that too. But you.
—A
He hit send and sat back, rubbing a hand over his face. He hadn’t meant to be so honest. Then again, Buffy had a way of disarming him—even from thousands of miles away.
A knock sounded on the office door.
“Yeah?” he called, straightening.
Fred peeked her head in. “Sorry to interrupt. Just wanted to give you an update on the algorithm we’re running to track Senior Partner activity. It's… well, it's doing something. Definitely weird, and definitely dark-magic adjacent.”
Angel nodded, already pulling himself back into the real world. “Thanks. I’ll be down in a few.”
As Fred left, Angel stole one last glance at the email thread still glowing on the screen. He didn’t know when—or even if—Buffy was coming back. But they hadn’t said goodbye. And whatever this was between them, it wasn’t over. Not yet.
One month later
The lobby of the Hyperion smelled like dust and healing wounds. Patches of the floor were still scorched from spellfire, one chandelier hung at a drunken angle, and someone—probably Gunn—had written We Lived, Suck It across the reception desk in Sharpie.
Angel leaned on the edge of the front desk , bandages wrapped tightly around his ribs, a split in his bottom lip still healing slow. He wasn’t sure if it was from a demon’s claw or Wesley’s elbow. Either way, he deserved it.
The doors to the hotel blew open, sunlight blazing into the lobby like divine wrath, which Angel could barely avoid — and there she was.
Buffy.
Tan. Windblown. Still in jeans and a tank top that clung to her like a second skin, a carry-on bag slung over her shoulder, rage in her eyes and what looked dangerously close to tears fighting for space behind it.
Fred, who’d been halfway down the stairs with a tray of coffee, froze and turned back around. Smart woman.
Buffy’s boots echoed on the tile as she crossed the room in sharp, decisive strides. Angel stood — stupid, considering the searing pain that shot through his side — but instinct told him to.
“Buffy—”
“No,” she snapped, stopping just shy of him. “You do not get to speak first.”
He closed his mouth.
She dropped her bag to the floor. “I’m in Australia. Sending you emails. Flirty, fun, sometimes downright pornographic emails, by the way—and you go off and fight a war? Without telling me?
Angel said nothing.
She threw her hands up. “Do you have any idea what it felt like to not hear from you for a week? No emails. No replies. No one picking up their phones. I thought—” Her voice broke, and she turned away like the lobby walls might somehow absorb her emotion.
“I thought you were dead,” she said finally, softer. “Or worse. Or that maybe you weren’t dead but you’d moved on. Decided I didn’t matter.”
Angel took a tentative step closer. “You always mattered.”
“You didn’t even tell me,” she whispered, turning back to face him. Her eyes were glossy now. “You didn’t ask for help.”
“You’d just started building a life,” he said, voice quiet. “You said you needed time. I didn’t want to drag you back into another war.”
She blinked at him. “You idiot.”
Angel gave a weak, lopsided smile. “That’s fair.”
“You think I wouldn’t come for you? That I wouldn’t want to fight beside you?” Her voice cracked again. “You think I’d rather sit on a beach pretending I don’t care about you, while you’re here, bleeding and breaking and probably trying to save the world with a concussion?”
“I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’m not fragile,” she bit out.
“I know,” Angel said, quietly. “But you’re precious.”
There was a long, heavy silence. Even the ghosts of the hotel seemed to still.
Buffy stepped forward. “I was scared,” she said softly. “Not just that you were gone. That… I let it happen. That I left and maybe I’d come back too late.”
Angel met her eyes. “You didn’t.”
Another beat. Her gaze dropped to the bruises at his collarbone, the bandage peeking out from under his shirt. Her fingers twitched.
“I hate that you didn’t tell me,” she said. “But I’m here now.”
Angel nodded. “You’re here.”
And then she was in his arms.
It hurt—his ribs screamed—but he didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around her and held on, like it might all fall away again if he didn’t. Buffy pressed her face into his neck, breath shuddering, arms wound around him tight.
“I thought I lost you,” she murmured.
“Not going anywhere,” Angel whispered back. “Not if I can help it.”
Angel leaned heavier on Buffy than he meant to, but she didn’t seem to mind. Her arm was looped firmly around his waist as they slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor of the Hyperion. Every few steps, he winced. Every few steps, she tightened her grip.
“You know,” she said, breathless more from nerves than exertion, “I remember when you could leap a building in a single bound.”
“That was Superman.”
“You do wear less spandex.”
“I might have healed faster if you hadn’t knocked me over with your dramatic entrance.”
Buffy gave a little snort, nudging open the door to his room with her hip. “I was going for heartfelt. Didn’t realize I’d have to carry you upstairs like a bride on her wedding night.”
“I can walk just fine.”
“You limped the whole way.”
“I’m being dramatic.”
Buffy laughed, guiding him gently toward the bed. “Here. Sit. Stop being stubborn.”
He grumbled but obeyed, sinking down onto the mattress with a sigh. The room was sparsely decorated, just like she remembered him—practical and a little brooding. There were books stacked on the desk, some of them familiar. One of her emails was printed and folded between the pages of Beowulf, a corner sticking out like a bookmark.
Buffy stood in front of him, brushing her palms down the front of her jeans, and suddenly the air shifted. The quiet of the room wrapped around them. His eyes found hers—dark, soft, waiting.
“I should’ve said this downstairs,” she said, voice a little hoarse. “But I wanted to say it here. Just us.”
Angel looked up at her, his expression unreadable but open, so open.
“I love you,” Buffy said. “Still. Always. And I think I’m ready now. If you still want me.”
His brow furrowed, like she’d just spoken in ancient Etruscan.
“If I—” He blinked. “Buffy. Are you stupid?”
She stared at him, surprised. “Excuse me?”
“Of course I want you,” he said, smiling like he couldn’t help it. “Of course I love you.”
Her face lit up like sunrise.
“Bonza,” she whispered.
Angel paused. “Bonza?” Buffy giggled. “Australian. It means great. Excellent. Not at all stupid, thank you very much.”
He reached for her hand. She took it without hesitation, fingers slipping into his like they’d never stopped.
“I missed you,” he said.
“I missed you more,” she whispered.
She leaned in, straddling his lap, the kiss slow, warm, familiar and new all at once. Her hands found his shoulders, then slid into his hair. Angel groaned, half in pleasure, half in pain.
Buffy pulled back just enough to look at him, smug. “Want me to stop?”
“I love the enthusiasm,” he said with a crooked smile. “But maybe give me… a couple more days. My arms still don’t work.”
Buffy raised a brow. “They were working fine downstairs.”
“That was adrenaline. And pride. And maybe a little fear.”
She smirked. “Lucky for you, I’ve been doing Pilates.”
“Buffy—”
“I’ll be on top,” she whispered, pressing him gently back onto the bed, her hands braced on either side of his shoulders. “You just lie there and think about all the fantastic Australian coffee you missed while bleeding dramatically in alleys.”
Angel groaned again. “You’re evil.”
She kissed him. “I’m in love.”
And for the first time in a long time, they both knew they meant exactly the same thing.