The bar was dimly lit, the amber glow of cheap neon signs flickering against the glasses lined up on the counter. A jazz tune hummed low from the old speakers, the kind of song that made everything feel slow, like the night itself was swaying. You swirled the last of your drink in its glass, watching the liquid catch the light before downing it.

Spike leaned against the bar beside you, fingers idly spinning a cigarette between them. He hadn’t lit it. Not yet. He was watching you, but in that way he always did—like he was thinking of something just out of reach.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you said, placing the empty glass down.

He smirked, barely there. “For once, yeah.”

You turned on your stool to face him. “What’s eating you, Spiegel?”

A long pause. The cigarette stopped spinning. He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. Then, just as lazily as if he were asking for another drink, he said, “I think I love you.”

It landed between you, heavy and reckless, as if he hadn’t just said something absurd. As if this was normal.

You stared at him for a moment, then scoffed. “Right. Sure.”

He frowned. “That funny to you?”

“More like tragic,” you muttered, shaking your head. “Spike, don’t do this.”

“I mean it.” His voice was low, too steady for a man known for running headfirst into bad decisions.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “You’re still in love with her.”

His jaw tightened. You saw it in the way his fingers curled against the bar top. The way his cigarette, still unlit, nearly bent between them.

“Julia’s gone,” he said.

“But she’s not, not really. She’s still in your head. Still in your bones. You chase ghosts, Spike. I don’t want to be one of them.”

Silence.

Then, he laughed—soft, almost bitter. “You think I don’t know that? But I’m here, with you. That’s gotta mean something.”

You wanted to believe him.

But you’d seen the way he looked at the past. And you weren’t sure he knew how to look at anything else.