The sunlight filtered through the blinds, catching on the swirl of smoke trailing from the half-burnt cigarette in Spike Spiegel’s fingers. He was leaning against the bedframe, shirtless, with a faint bruise blooming along his ribcage—another trophy from last night’s escapade. His messy hair stuck out at odd angles, and his eyes, half-lidded, betrayed nothing but boredom.

The other side of the bed wasn’t empty.

You stirred, tangled in sheets that didn’t belong to you, the glint of the space ball’s stolen champagne glasses catching in your memory. The bounty might’ve been high, but so were the stakes—and, apparently, the alcohol. Spike didn’t look over as you woke, but you could tell by the faint pause in his movement that he was well aware you were awake.

“Great,” his voice broke the quiet, flat and devoid of humor. “You’re up.”

Memories from the night before surfaced in more fragments—the two of you shoved into formalwear, exchanging insults under your breath while pretending to be perfectly civilized guests at the space ball. The job had gone sideways, like they always did, and somewhere between dodging security and a hail of bullets, you’d both wound up holed up in the same safe room.

Spike stretched, wincing slightly. “By the way, you snore. Loudly.”

His teasing tone suggested he wasn’t in a rush to let you live this one down.