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Every photo except for one.
If I was embarrassed about my obsession with her, I’d be hesitant to say I know how often she posts, but I’m not embarrassed. Fia hasn’t shared one moment of her time on tour. I’d know; I check often. The carousel of photos in front of me is brand new, and they mean everything, because I know the reasoning behind her smile.
Standing posed in the bathroom mirror, clad in the green set I bought her, Fia’s hair is wild like she just raked her hands through it, or just finished a long rehearsal, but only I know.
Skin kissed by the sun, a light dusting of pink peppers her chest and cheeks. Similar to how she may look after intense exertion, but only I know.
Trailing up her body, I stop at her eyes. The magnificent irises highlight every feature of her face, shining with a glimmer so deep, so real, so mine, but only I know what she did to achieve this absolutely breathtaking look.
Unable to peel my gaze from my screen, I tap onto her comments and puff my chest at the reactions she’s getting from all of her followers.
Damn girl, you look hot.
Watch out, girl on fire!
Who is this girl, and what has she done with Fia Chandler?
Smiling to myself, I exit the app and pull up the contacts on my phone. At her name, I hesitate, but dial anyways. If she’s asleep, I’ll just go to my room, but my heart is beating too hard not to attempt.
Several rings and a deflated ego later, she finally picks up on the final ring.
“What?” she whisper-shouts. “It’s almost two in the morning.”
“Then why are you awake?” My thick voice hardly reaches the other end of the speaker.
“I’m a shitty sleeper.”
Bullshit.
“What’s your room number?”
“Taylor’s asleep. You’re not coming to my room.” Her whisper is low and hushed, but furious, and fuck, does it make my cock hard.
“I won’t repeat myself, Sofia.”
If I could see her, I imagine her perky tits would be moving so rapidly in response to the breaths she’s desperately trying to control.
Finally, she answers, “827.”
“I’ll knock twice. You better answer.”
Moments later, I’ve made do with the lack of Tupperware in my hotel room and plated a serving size of orzo on a plate for her with some foil overtop. Steadying my breath at her door, I softly tap my knuckles on the thick wood.
Like she was waiting, my beautiful girl opens the large barrier before I can even complete my second knock.
“Waiting for me?” I smirk as her eyes beam at my exposed chest.
“Why don’t you have a shirt on?” she chirps, looking at the open grey hoodie I put over my shoulders in the rush out the door.
“I do?”
“You could’ve zipped it.” Her tone comes out demanding, and I hate how much I like when a little jealously slips through her façade.
“Don’t like everyone seeing what’s yours, Sofia baby?”
Her shoulders rise to her earlobes. Worry, like I’ve read her mind, tightens her body.
“What do you want?” she finally asks.
