Buffy sat on the counter, legs swinging as she ate a rapidly melting popsicle. The thick, icy cylinder slipped between her lips and grated against her teeth. Her eyes closed as the cool syrup slid down her throat, making her shiver.
“What’re you thinking about, Buffy?” Xander asked as she smiled dreamily.
“Work,” Giles said, as Buffy dexterously caught the last pale fragment on her tongue and twirled the wooden stick between sticky fingers.
“Popsicles. Duh,” said Dawn scornfully as Buffy reached for another.
“Me,” thought Spike. “And if she bites like that tonight, I’ll last about that long, too.”
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