He thought he loved her.
She washed her face again, partly to cleanse the dirt she knew she couldn't get rid of, partly to avoid her own reflection. Her hair, her skin... All things he wanted, all things she'd seen proof that he desired when she'd accidentally found his sick little shrine.
She turned the knob of the faucet convulsively, and heard something grind as it went too far. Damn Slayer strength.
Was that what attracted him? That she could stand up to him, hurt him, throw him across a room?
Did he... get off on that?
She soaped up again, scrubbing her face for the fourth time, then even harder as the voice at the back of her head asked her do YOU get off on that?
She remembered too late that the faucet handle wasn't moving, and had already tugged it with such force that there was another grind and the water poured out like a river.
Damn him, how could he make her feel so dirty?! How could someone so sick, so perverse, even think himself capable of love? Why did he have to come to HER?!
She looked up, caught her reflection in the mirror, hated it. Threw open the medicine cabinet.
The mirror hit the wall, shattered. The frame shuddered, and slowly swung back into its place. When her reflection came back into view, fragmented and multiplied, she just stared.
Buffy. Enraged. Mirror.