Duplicity (Luke Hemmings AU)

Twenty Three

Both fortunately and unfortunately, my routine had fallen back into its spectacularly mundane place after the balcony escapades, as I liked to refer to it. I had to admit, of all the tortures I had endured in my lifetime (stubbing my pinky toe on the bedside table, nicking myself with my razor, a duplicitous best friend, the usual), nothing took a toll on me quite like losing Luke. Seeing him everyday without talking to the boy I had previously called my friend, or in Ashton's terms, my make out buddy, was like ripping off a bandaid over and over. I was glad to have been back on solid terms with none other than Hemmings himself, not as someone to kiss behind closed doors, but as his girlfriend. Surprisingly, having this newfound label had thus far had such a minute impact on my life, it was like the girlfriend boyfriend game had been there all along.

Luke had yet to touch me since the night he asked me to be his. I often reminisced in that moment, waiting until someone finally worked up the nerve to make the first move. For comparison, the level of intimacy Luke and I had shared was about the same as the level of intimacy Amy and Sheldon shared on The Big Bang Theory. In other words, Ashton and I had been a lot more romantic in the weeks prior, and literally nothing happened between us.

Still, the night I spent with Luke just outside my window had to have qualified as one of the best moments of my adolescence, and believe you me, my adolescence was filled with great moments, like the time I got to keep a limited, mint edition copy of Huckleberry Finn, which wasn't limited or mint, but was exciting nonetheless.

"I missed you, Raelynn. I'm such an idiot. I'm such an idiot." Luke mumbled, pressing his head against the glass of my window.

"I missed you too, and I thought we had already established that you were an idiot. Actually, scratch that, you still are. Don't lean your hair against my clean window, I don't want your scalp grease." I teased, flicking my hair behind my shoulder.

"I do not have 'scalp grease', I just use styling product to get my hair to this level of perfection." He snorted, running his fingers through his luscious blond hair. It was slightly flattened tonight, and I wanted so badly to run my fingers through it.

"Styling product?" I raised a brow. "And all this time I thought your quiff was 100% all natural."

"It's 99% Luke and 1% gel. A similar combination to your eyebrows." He smirked.

"Believe it or not, my eyebrows are all me. These babies don't need anything extravagant to look this good." I batted my lashes. I was actually telling the truth: I was one of the lucky girls who barely had to pluck any hairs, much less I never had to paint my brows on.

"Then I guess you're just perfect." He rolled his eyes, sliding down along the brick wall of my house until he reached the balcony floor. I sat next to him.

"Nobody's perfect." Except you.

"Here we go, quoting Hannah Montana again. How did you know she was my favorite singer?" He snorted, catching a fly away strand of my own brown hair.

"Lucky guess?" I bit my lip, stifling my giggle.

"Hannah Montana was wrong." He thought aloud. "You're perfect." He decided, turning to face me. Six inches, five inches, four inches away from my face.

"I don't know how to respond to that." I murmured shyly. Oh but I did, just not out loud. I wanted so badly to say the words, 'You're perfect, Luke Hemmings. Like the way your eyes reflect everything you feel, and how your nose crinkles when you laugh exceptionally hard.' I held my tongue.

"You don't have to respond to it, just believe me." He whispered. Four inches, three inches, two inches away. I could feel his breath fanning across my cheeks. He smelled of spearmint, and I wasn't sure if that was from gum or toothpaste, but whatever it was, it was divine.