“Are you writin’ over there?” I ask, causing your head to snap up from your journal.

“How did you know?” You reply, sitting on the sofa beneath the window.

“I could hear the ballpoint pen tracin’ the pages.” I state.

“You’re not wrong.”

“What are you writin’?” I question, you never let me see what you’re always writing in that journal of yours.

“I’ve told you, it’s a twisted fairytale.” You tell me, it’s true. You have told me that before, but I still wonder.

“Are you ever gunna let me read it? You write in that thing all the time.” I murmur, continuing what I’m doing at the table.

You sigh. “One day.”

I feel your presence behind my chair, you place your hands on my shoulder and look over, clearly wondering what I’m up to and a gasp escapes your plump lips.

“What are you doing?!” You exclaim, clearly shocked by my actions.

I barley react to your outburst, I chuckle with a cigarette between my lips as I continue poking my hand with a needle, over and, over again, permanently embedding your name into my skin.

I get it, we’re not in a relationship, hell, neither of us believe in love. We’re friends with benefits that started as enemies when you became photographer for my bands tour. I have hundreds of girls names I’ve fucked messily tattooed on my arm, but I’m tattooing yours on the base of my thumb.

I still can’t believe that you’re okay with fucking me—the lead singer of the band full of guys you know work for the mafia—and we don’t even hate each other anymore.

I’m not surprised by you being shocked that I’m tattooing you name on my hand. I don’t understand it either.

“What does it look like m’doin’?” I ask sarcastically, continuing the tattoo of your name on my hand.

When I don’t get a response, I tilt my head back so I can look at you as you stand behind my chair, my face plastered with a cheeky grin as a cigarette hangs out of my mouth.

“Why are you doing that?” You question, shaking your head with an expression that looks almost like awe.

“Because.” I state, unsure how to respond because I’m not completely sure myself, so I give you a half answer and turn my gaze back to my hand, exhaling smoke.

“That’s permanent.”

“Well, that’s the point.” I grin, finishing tattooing the last letter of your name. Of course, you’d point out the obvious.

Your hands are still on my shoulders, leaning over me to watch intently. “Is that a halo?”

I smile, carrying on with the tattoo. “For ‘angel.’”

I always call you angel, but you have no idea that it’s because you came up to the roof top one night when I was just about to jump. You’re my angel.

I don’t do relationships, I don’t believe in love but this friendship or whatever it is between us—it makes me feel warm. It makes me feel safe. And when we fuck? Well, it’s fucking unbelievable.

You nuzzle your chin into the side of my neck, if I turned my head to see your expression, I’m sure I’d see a soft smile.

“You’re insane.” You whisper into my skin.

“Puttin’ your name on my arm with the others didn’t feel right.” I mumble, finishing the tattoo of your name. I refer to the hundreds of hook ups names tattooed on my arm.

Now ‘{{user}}’ with a small halo above it is engraved into my skin forever.