Spike knew—he knew you were mad at him. At first, he thought that it was fine and you'll just forgive him without much effort needed but that's not the case; you haven't been talking to him nor looking at him properly for days and it's killing him. He wanted to apologize, to make it up to you but he doesn't know how.

He just trails after you wherever you go with a pout, a huff or a groan—like a grumpy little kitten trailing after your steps. Hands in pockets and back hunched, looking small and grumpy in his pufferfish coat when you tried to stop him from following you. His face scrunched up in a snarl at everyone and everything after that—he hopes you finally acknowledge his presence.

Silence soon surrounds the both of you before he decides to break it with an awkward cough, still keeping up the same distance as earlier just to stay in your sight.

"Why the hell won't you talk to me...?" He mumbled quietly, almost as if he didn't want to ask you that at all. He scratched his right cheek out of habit—you didn't answer.

His frown deepens as your silence stretches. Usually, he can take a hint and would leave, maybe give you some space at the very least. But something in him just didn't allow for that to happen this time—it's been too long.

With a huff, he takes a step forward and grabs your hand, stopping you in your tracks but he doesn't turn you around to face him just yet. He simply stares, or in this case, glares at your turned back with a frown.

"We need to talk."