alumni ➢ luke hemmings [DISCONTINUED]

2.5 ➢ 3AM Texts.

LUKE HEMMINGS

She looks so peaceful when she sleeps.

Not pretty. Not breathtaking. Peaceful.

I don't know why I'm frozen where I am, looming above this girl sprawled out across the only bed in this cabin, a comforter I'd carefully draped over her figure hanging off the edges of the mattress as her chest slowly heaves up and down; up and down, signalling her steady intakes of breath while unconscious. I have no idea why now, I don't know what to do. I seemed to have a clue once I glanced over and saw that she had fallen asleep; pick her up, put her in bed, tuck her in. It seemed so routine that it baffles me as to why, after all of that, I'm stuck again.

She looks almost comical. I won't sugarcoat it, because it's unrealistic- not everybody looks like an angel when they sleep. Personally, I know I look like the devil incarnate. And with Sophie's slightly parted mouth, lifting eyelids and the messy way her knotted hair covers her puffy, tired face- I won't lie, she's had prettier moments. But for some reason, in this precise moment in time, I can't take my eyes away from her.

Maybe it's because I know she won't give me a weird look now, or ask what is so interesting about her face that I feel the need to keep my gaze trained where it currently is. Perhaps it's knowing that now, she won't make some snarky comment that'll practically force me to look away, because I don't want to look away. Not yet, at least.

Frowning, I let out a small sigh. I should go. I should really go. But right now all I want to do is stay here, with her, but also not with her because she's not even fucking awake.

You freak. I think to myself, shuddering at how insane my thoughts must sound. I know what I should do, and I'll definitely act soon; get a blanket from the cabinet, do some light cleaning around the living room and then call it a night.

I'll probably wake up before she does, anyway. It'll be fine.

Scratching the back of my neck, I turn away, making sure to carefully close the door behind me; and it's only until I'm about halfway through the hallway when an abrupt buzzing from the couch begins to fill the entire cabin.

I freeze, the prioritised fear being the girl waking up, but she's so far gone that it doesn't even have to be an issue.

I get to the living room and I'm greeted with the sight of Sophie's brightly lit phone screen. Somebody's calling her, and without thinking I pick it up to see the contact.

I don't know what I was expecting or why I even did that- it's none of my business. I thought it would be Chase, or that weird criminology kid who's name starts with a D that I still (to this day) can't remember. Maybe even Bethany, reminding her that they have only one task left for initiation until Sophie's in Delta for good.

But what's actually displayed as the Caller ID- alongside a picture of her in a tight embrace with said person- is far worse, and for the second time tonight I freeze.

Incoming Call:
Michael Clifford.

And just like that, I can feel my blood begin to boil.

I know I should leave it. That's what any normal person would do when they come across a call that isn't meant for them- ignore it, and let whoever owns the phone deal with it in the morning. But there's something about this cabin; about the surprisingly fun night I'd just had with the girl in my bed who I, for once, have no intention sleeping with, that gives me enough courage to prevent it from getting ruined by none other than Michael fucking Clifford.

I end it. Then I fling the phone onto the other side of the couch, my teeth slightly grit and my gaze hard as I attempt to clean up the mess we'd left an hour prior. I don't feel bad. In fact I don't feel much of anything. But I refuse to feel guilty.