Just Friends

[ 2 ].

Ever since the day you stole a cigarette from Ghost, you've unwittingly picked up a bad habit. The notion of smoking had never been appealing to you before. Still, there was something about the atmosphere of that one particular night that seemed to have permanently etched itself into your memory...

The morning after your outing with the team, you ran into Ghost again. He was casually propped against the hard surface of the gym wall, his robust form still radiating warmth from the exertion of his recently finished workout. A lit cigarette hung nonchalantly from his smirking lips, the tendrils of smoke gracefully dancing around his face. When he teasingly asked if you wanted one, you found yourself unable to decline.

Part of you was curious - you wanted to give it another try, to see if perhaps, now that you were sober, you might find a different kind of enjoyment in smoking. But the larger part of you, the one you were trying not to acknowledge, found itself mesmerized by Ghost. You couldn't tear your eyes away from him. He was clad in a tight shirt that accentuated his chiseled physique and left very little to the imagination. Any excuse to linger in his presence, even if only for a few fleeting moments, was one you were willing to take. Regardless of the fact that your conversation amounted to no more than a handful of words exchanged between puffs of smoke.

Ghost, for his part, seemed to savour these quiet interludes as well. He was the one who kept offering the cigarettes, after all. In an inexplicably compelling way, he seemed to relish the idea that you were permitting him to lead you astray, to corrupt you in some small way—your innocence was being chipped away with each puff.

Often he made a show of it, too, holding onto the cigarette a little too tightly, forcing you to grasp his wrist in order to pry it from his fingers. His attention would then shift to your lips, watching as they closed around the small, white cylinder. His imagination would run wild, conjuring up images of how you might look on your knees, those soft, plump lips of yours wrapped around him, his fingers tangled in your hair. He would observe you inhaling. His gaze never wavering, never making any attempt to disguise his interest as his eyes would trail down to your chest, watching as it rose and fell rhythmically with each exhalation.

Captivated by the labyrinth of his own thoughts and entranced in his own fantasies, it took him a long time to see that you were utterly perplexed and inexperienced in the art of smoking.

"Are you even inhaling the smoke? 'Cos from where I am, I'm pretty sure you're just holding it in your mouth," Ghost said, arching his brows up.

Your cheeks flushed a rosy hue, the cigarette still delicately positioned between your fingers. The two of you found yourselves comfortably seated on the stone-cold steps, at a distance from the bustle of others. He shifted closer to you, his hand reaching out and extricating the burning cigarette from your grasp.

"Hey, it's still my turn," you protested lightly, playfully bumping him with your shoulder.

"If you want to smoke, at least let me show you the proper way to do it," Ghost replied, rolling his eyes. His index fingers hooked under your chin, and he titled your head, making you look at him. Then he placed the cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply, holding the smoke within the confines of his lungs for a moment before turning his head to the side and exhaling.

He passed the cigarette back to you, but didn't scoot back. You tried to replicate his actions, only to be met with a harsh cough and a burning sensation in your lungs, as if you'd swallowed a piece of hot coal. After calming yourself, you attempted it once more, managing slightly better, but the cough surfaced again, forcing you to slump down and instinctively grab Ghost's thigh.

His gaze darted to his leg and then to your hand, observing your fingers as they clung onto his thigh, holding onto the fabric of his pants. A fleeting desire, swift and sharp as a shooting star, pierced through him, urging him to guide your hand just a tad higher. However, before his thoughts could spiral any further, the sound of your voice brought him back from the precipice of his fantasies.

"Okay, fine. You were right. I wasn't inhaling it into my lungs," you admitted, a hint of defeat in your tone.

Upon realizing where your hand had instinctively landed, you moved it away. You made a conscious effort not to look down at it as you slowly retracted your palm back to your lap, trying to feign nonchalance, as if your fingers hadn't been digging into his flesh just moments ago.

"Seems I've been casting my cigarettes into the wind for nearly a week," he teased. "If you wanted to hang out with me, you could have just told me so instead of wasting my smokes." His tone was playful, yet it held an undercurrent of curiosity.

Suddenly, your conversation halted, as if the universe itself held its breath. An ocean of silence drowned both of you, and your eyes locked onto each other. You blinked. The intensity of his gaze was like the sun, forcing you to look away. Your attention was drawn to his lips. You had grown so accustomed to seeing him masked that every time he unveiled even a small portion of his face; you found yourself unable to look away.

With a heart pounding like a drummer's rhythm, you could hear the rush of blood in your ears as you realized you wanted to kiss him.

Reluctantly, you lifted your gaze, as if breaking the surface of a deep, tranquil pond. Your eyes met Ghost's penetrating stare, his eyes as unfathomable and enticing as a midnight abyss. You found yourself drawn into their depths, searching for something within them - a subtle signal, perhaps - that what you were experiencing wasn't merely a one-sided infatuation. That he, too, wanted to taste your lips as much as you wished to devour his.

The tension between you was escalating rapidly, like a flame licking the edge of a dry parchment. The silence that hung in the air was turning unbearable, yet neither of you dared to break it. Ghost, in his characteristic obstinacy, chose to overlook the way your eyes lingered on him. He stubbornly dismissed the evident signs of your affection, letting the silent showdown between you two stretch on for an uncomfortably long duration, much like an unending, eerie echo in a hollow cavern.

Summoning all your courage, you took a deep breath. If Ghost wasn't going to seize the opportunity and make the first move, then you resolved to take the initiative. As you started leaning in, carefully and slowly, wanting to savour this electrifying moment for as long as possible in case he decided to push you away, an all too familiar voice echoed in the vicinity. Ghost immediately recoiled, his gaze darting around as he tried to locate the source of the interruption.

Soap.

It was almost impossible not to feel a surge of irritation. Soap, as endearing as he generally was, had unknowingly sabotaged your first, and quite possibly the only, opportunity to kiss Ghost. A moment that could have been the catalyst to finally surrender to the emotions you both had been concealing.

Instantly, your mind began to spiral into overthinking.

What if this moment was the only window of opportunity that would ever present itself?

The thought was tormenting, and it echoed in your head, amplifying your anxiety. It grew, like a shadow stretching with the setting sun, into a formidable specter that haunted your sleep that night. And the bitter irony was that despite the emotional turmoil, the status quo remained. You and Ghost were still in that frustratingly ambiguous territory of being... nothing more, nothing less. Just friends.