"Three." Her head tilted far far back; it wasn't often in her life that she could so readily trust her neck to anyone. So, in this past year, she'd revelled in it. Buffy's arms bent and her hands slid up amongst his dreads, creeping up across the space between his wings and his scalp.

"N-no. Four. There's always home. Home plate. First. Second. Third. Home. You'd steal every one."