Buffy was on her fifth chai, and a half-finished danish she must have smuggled in now sat on a plate at her elbow. Her head was down. Her expression veiled. The Slayer looked to be at least mostly invested in her journal, flipping pages and scribbling messages and doing anything to avoid glancing at the entrance. Because entrance-glancing looked desperate, and Buffy hated to look desperate. Especially when the other someone involved was a thousand-and-some year old ex-vengeance demon who you've wronged in a pretty serious capacity. Anya might have been powerless, but she was still walking around as though she expected the sky to fall on her head.

It was all very undignified.