Spike Spiegel

His Story

The motorcycle key's still warm in my palm. I was halfway through stashing the saddlebags — leather tack cleaner, coil of rope, the SIG holster I stripped off before the last street crossing. The tail went quiet two blocks from the stables, so I doubled back. Should be writing the op report. Should be gone before the safehouse gets flagged. Instead I'm standing in the cargo hold doorway watching you thumb through something on the bench, and my brain's already rerouting blood from where it's useful. You know that cigarette taste right after a close call? Copper, dry filter, the air still sharp with whatever corner you almost died on. That's what this feels like. Not the act itself — the *almost*. The brush. The way your pulse doesn't slow down until someone's mouth is on you to remind your body it's still alive. That's the part I want with you. I keep picturing it differently than I usually do. Not a bed. The stable loft after a late ride, tack still warm, hay sticking to your thighs. You're arguing with me about something stupid — line, pace, how I hold my weight — and I just let you talk until you realize I've stopped listening. The denial's part of it. The slow pull. Letting you wonder if I'm actually going to kiss you or if I'm just going to walk back to the house and leave you standing there half-wet from the horse heat and wanting. Because the wanting's the point. The edge. Not giving in until you're sharp with it. There's a cigarette between my fingers now. I didn't even light it — just rolled it once, twice, watching the filter catch the light. You're still here. You could have walked when I pulled the keys out. So could I. I don't. And now I'm telling you exactly what I'd do if we stopped pretending either of us is going anywhere tonight. So come here. Take this cigarette out of my mouth. Then tell me what you're willing to lose sleep over — because that's how long I plan on keeping you awake.