instafamous ✩ lrh [DISCONTINUED]

09. sweet dreams.

Instafamous
09. sweet dreams.

✖️

"Will you quit positing videos of yourself at the gym?" I ask Luke, frowning as I balance the phone between my ear and my shoulder. "It's actually quite rude."

"Is that so?" his deep laugh resonates over the line as I try to keep myself occupied, this week's overdue homework spread across the table in front of me. "Says who?"

"Says about, two thirds of the fangirl population who follow you," I tell him, in a factual tone. "The other one third hate you for keeping that excuse of a man bun on your head."

"Aw, really?" Luke asks, sounding like a little kid being told that Santa's not real for the first time, "I thought it made me look cool,"

"It makes you look like Jesus."

"A cool Jesus?"

"Jesus is already cool. You just downplayed it."

"Ouch. Someone's rude today," he tells me, and it's slightly alarming how perfectly I can imagine his smirk. "What happened, doll? You woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?"

"Worse. I woke up to a text from you," I mumble, and he laughs again.

"You act like you hate me,"

"Act?"

"Oh, shut up."

"I'm joking. Shouldn't you be at the studio?"

"Day off," Luke replies simply. Then I hear a groan, a shift, and the sound of something metal hitting against the floor. "...and... seventy one."

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Lifting."

"Yeah, right. What are you actually doing?"

"For a little girl, you sure are curious." Luke says absentmindedly, and I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks. As someone who used to know him only through interviews and the occasional magazine fanpage, I never would have thought Luke the type of person to use so many nicknames. "Do you normally like to be updated on what people do?"

"First of all, I'm seventeen. I'm hardly a little girl," I note. "Second of all, yes. It makes my life a little less boring. What are you lifting?"

"Some weights," he says, sounding quite proud of himself.

"Weights? You mean, they weigh?" I ask. He pauses. "Like loaves of bread weigh. Bags of sugar weigh. Did you go shopping?"

"God, you're impossible," Luke says, and I can't help but laugh.

"Thank you. It's a gift," I tell him, to which he chuckles. "Are you doing much today?"

"Why? You wanna hang out?"

"Jeez, you say it like it's that simple," I tell him, and I hear a slight exhale of breath on the other side of the line; he's either laughing again or attempting to pick up the weight, but I can't tell. "I was just wondering."

"We could hang out," Luke notes, "I'd just have to walk around with a paper bag over my head the whole day."

"But then you'd attract more attention,"

"Nobody will care."

"It's you, Luke. Of course they'll care,"

"They won't know it's me," he says, and I actually start to imagine walking down the street with Luke Hemmings; talking, laughing, smiling. Getting to see the wide grin on his face in person instead of having to rely through social media. But then I think about the terror that accompanies that bliss, and I end up shaking my head even though he can't see me. "What do you say?"