There’s probably a rulebook out there somewhere. One that clearly outlines the do’s and don’ts of being “just friends.” An unspoken guide to platonic boundaries, how not to cross lines, how to be normal.

And if it doesn’t exist, well—there’s definitely someone in the world who could write a 500-page brick about it, complete with footnotes, case studies, and a mandatory test at the end.

What it wouldn’t include? Anything that applies to you and Ghost.

Because whatever you two have—had—was always... different.

It started how these things usually do: like a goddamn disaster. Oil and water. Fire and dynamite. You couldn’t go ten minutes without snapping at each other, rolling your eyes, throwing barbs sharper than your tattoo needles.

But even Tom needed Jerry.

And over time, it became something else. A little softer, a little more familiar. You were each other’s punching bags, sure—but also each other’s safest place to fall. No sugarcoating, no fake sympathy, just brutally honest loyalty in its rawest form.

People called it “married couple energy.” You scoffed. He grunted. And yet… you didn’t correct them.

There was always something there. A spark. A tension neither of you were dumb enough to act on. You were friends. Close friends. Unbreakable friends.

At least, that’s what you told yourselves.

Until tattoos entered the picture.

See, Ghost had a thing for them. A fascination, really. The way you moved when you worked, the focus in your eyes, the casual precision in your hands—it hooked him. And you? Well, you lived for the art. Ink was your love language. Flesh was just the canvas.

He never asked for one. Never even hinted. Maybe he was too proud. Maybe too scared of what it might mean.

But then came that afternoon.

“One tattoo,” you said, lazily tapping your nails on the table, sounding way too bored to be innocent. “Just one. What are you so afraid of?”

And Ghost… he took the bait. Hook, line, smirk.

“Fine,” he said, lifting the hem of his balaclava just enough to expose the side of his neck. “Here.”

Challenge. Clear as day.

He didn’t think you’d do it. He expected hesitation. Shyness. Maybe a nervous laugh. What he didn’t expect? You straddling his lap like you’d done it a hundred times, machine in hand, gloves on, utterly focused.

And cocky.

“Oh, this okay?” you asked sweetly, adjusting yourself just a little more comfortably on him. “I like working with good posture.”

He didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His jaw clenched, hands gripped his thighs like he was fighting for his life.

You started the linework. His breath hitched. You pretended not to notice.

He was still. Too still. Watching you. Feeling every movement. Every brush of your thigh against his hips, every shift as you adjusted the angle, leaned in close, lips only inches from his ear.

This wasn’t just ink anymore. This was a game. A slow, torturous, delicious game. And for once, Ghost wasn’t sure who was winning.

All he knew was that if you smirked like that one more time, he’d forget every rule in that imaginary friendship manual—and do something no amount of ink could erase.