Meant To Be : Luke Hemmings
I need you.
Please (Y/N), let me see you.
I can't go on like this...I need to come over. I have to see your face. I have to!
The first three texts come fifteen minutes apart, your phone vibrating against your stomach each time. You read them, your eyes taking in the words as your mind plays them out in Luke's voice, but you don't reply. You know if you do it'll just result in bad things happening; hell, just seeing his name flash up on your phone again after three quiet months is enough to make your mouth dry with anticipation and your stomach twist with dread. He was home, back from tour for the foreseeable future, you know that from your best friend, whose brother is Luke's band mate. Mali was the entire reason you were in this mess, at least that was what you told yourself in your head, just so that you could feel marginally less guilty.
You rest your head back against the arm of the lounge and focus your eyes on the TV. American Horror Story is your program of choice, filling your life with even more perverted mindfucks. It's a Saturday night and you're alone in the house, your parents are at one of their many weekend piss-ups with their friends which means that they won't stumble back until around three and they'll be so drunk that they'll wake you up while they're yelling at each other to keep quiet. Gripping the neck of a bottle of beer, you raise it to your lips and swallow a few gulps just to see if it would calm you slightly.
Your phone goes off again just as Madison perfects her role as queen bitch. The vibrating doesn't stop and a quick look down proves that he's calling you now, his name even larger as it glows green on your screen. Thank fuck you never took a picture of him to add to his contact, his face is the last thing you need to see right now. When you don't answer, more texts follow, this time one after the other, the alerts constant until you pick your phone up and watch them as they roll in.
(Y/N) come on.
Please stop ignoring me.
For FUCKS sake, stop this, it's so fucking stupid
I'm sorry, I didn't mean to swear, please let me see you.
(Y/N) please...
Thoughts of him flicker through your mind. The way he smiled and laughed, the way he bit his lip every time you caught him staring at you when he thought you wouldn't notice. You remember the way his eyes followed you everywhere, how they roamed your body as if you were some treasure that he never thought he'd get to see. You suppose that was what lowered your defences in the first place; the fact that he looked at you as if you were the only girl in the world. The only one that mattered.
You'd met at a party that Mali had taken you too, one to celebrate the boys coming home for two weeks for a mid-tour rest before they started their second half. You allowed him to make puppy-dog eyes at you all night before he caught you in the backyard around midnight. You were half cut, but he didn't seem to mind, maybe because it made you chattier but probably because it was the only reason you swapped numbers. The next two weeks were a blur of confusion and lust and guilt. A barrage of conflicting feelings that filled your lungs until you were on the verge of drowning, desperate for air.
Three heavy handed knocks on the front door jolted you from thoughts and you shook your head at yourself, wondering why the hell you kept putting yourself through this. Luke was just a boy, still only seventeen, and you were coming up to twenty-one; that alone made you feel dirty. Swinging your legs off of the couch, you push yourself up and pad barefoot to the door, swigging your beer as you go. The fingers of your free hand curl around the door knob and you yank it open, silently screaming at yourself for not realising just who you were going to find on the other side.
