Breathless, on the training floor, muscles and skin, slick hot moist. The door's locked with the kind of deadbolt that'll make even the greenest slayer stop 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.

Feedback
Back to drabbles
Back to The Written Realm
February 10, 2005