I put my hand to the window, just across from his. He can't see me but seems to know I'm here all the same. Separated by less than an inch of glass, we may as well be worlds apart.

"All right, Mr. Broody Pants," Cordy had shouted after me as I fled into the night.

"Cordelia," I heard Wesley say. "Just because he's a tad, well, grumpy, is no reason to call Angel names."

"Oh yes it is. Something's got to break him out of that funk he's gotten himself into."

I ran so I wouldn't have to hear what they didn't say: that it's better when I'm like this; that the world is safer when I'm not happy.

I knew they thought I was obsessing over a certain blonde back in Sunnydale and that was true enough although not the whole truth. Wrong blonde.

I never knew I loved him until I heard that Dru had left him. I wanted to rush back, take him into my arms, and comfort him. Not that he would have let me.

If he knew how I felt, I'd never hear the end of it. Every few centuries, just to show he remembered my humiliation, he'd pop by with a Valentine's Day gift. Mocking me. So nobody every knew and everyone, to this day, thinks I'm brooding over Buffy.

"Come on, Slayer. You know you want me."

I think she resisted so long, not because she wasn't interested, but because she knew, deep down, that it wasn't her I loved. She was the closest I could get to Angel. He'd plowed that field himself so getting in there after was sort of like shagging him. Only not. Her shoulder's weren't wide enough. Her hair not dark. Her hands too dainty and small. Her cheek never rough with stubble. But she could take it like he could, giving as rough as she got, and it was the closest I'd ever get to him.

Oh, I could have told him, I suppose. Have made the trek to LA and dropped the bomb but he would have looked... Not disappointed. I mean, declaring you love someone is a big deal, even if it is unrequited. He'd have looked away. Things would have been awkward between us, afterwards. Easier to pretend I just wanted to hit him when what I really wanted was to lay his head on my lap and pet him while he rambled on about all his little, daily trials and tribulations.

Well, that and shag. I mean, I was always up for a good shat.

So, instead I shagged Buffy, I tried to rape Buffy, and I got myself blown to bloody ashes, all because I couldn't touch him. All because I couldn't tell him.

I came back, obviously, although I don't know how or why. And that brings me here.

I'm in what looks like the interrogation room of a cop show. Even has that mirrored glass that humans can't see through except I can't see through it either, which means whoever has me knows something about vampires.

I stalk up to the glass and slap my hand across it again and again. "Angel, you wanker. I know you're in there." And it's true. Don't know how I know, but I do. Just like I know it when he lays his hand across mine.

I smile. I know why I've come back.

"Come on, Peaches." I stop. He hates that name. I'm running my hand through my hair like an embarrassed schoolgirl when I think about what I must look like.

Looking up, I let him see how scared I am. "Angel, please." I can feel it when he leaves the room. As I wait for him to come to me, all I can think is, God, I'd better be right.