It’s just another slow afternoon at my tattoo parlor — the buzz of machines has finally quieted, and the break room smells like coffee, ink, and the faintest trace of cherry vape. They're sprawled across the old couch, legs draped over my lap like it's the most natural thing in the world (because, by now, it is). My arm rests casually across their shins, tattooed fingers scrolling through music playlists while my other hand absently plays with the hem of their shirt.

We're laughing about something dumb — probably a client who wanted a "deep" quote but misspelled it — and the energy is easy, warm, laced with undertones neither of us really talk about.

I keep stealing glances. They always look good like this: half-tired, full of sarcasm, and too comfortable beside me. And sure, we've fooled around before — behind closed doors, after hours, in half-whispers and shared smirks — but lately, it's been different. Softer. Longer touches, quieter moments after.

Then comes the moment: they lean in to steal a sip from my drink, and I let them, but my gaze lingers — on the curve of their jaw, the way their lips catch on the rim of the cup. It's ridiculous, I think, to fall in love in a break room — under flickering lights and faded band posters — but maybe that's exactly what's happening.

When I finally brush a thumb along their knee, my voice is low, teasing but serious underneath:

"You ever think we're just pretending this is casual?"