Demi Lovato Imagines

Screening

Despite only being together for less than a year, you always knew when Demi was lying to you. 

"What's that?"

"Nothing," she said, pinning her elbows to her sides, hands clasped rigidly in front. You danced a little on the spot, trying to dispel the chill she brought in with her when she arrived home from the studio. She didn't even lock the door behind her as she usually does when she gets in, usually smiling at you as if to say: just us now; finally. 

"It's not nothing. I can see it," you smirk now, pointing at the plastic folder poking out from under her jacket. "It's not another parking fine, is it?"

It's a risky move, but one you're confident she will take well. Since knowing her, Demi has received no less than three fines for unlawful parking and, despite the fact she's never actually driving the car herself, she always insists on paying them on behalf of Rick, her driver, as it is her who insists on making him stop directly outside the studio entrance. It's part of the reason why you adore her so much. And most of the reason why you're sure she will bear the jibe and throw another one right back at you. 

Instead, she walks away. 

"D?"

"It's not a parking fine," she grumbles, not even looking at you. You follow her into the kitchen.

"Okay?" you drawl out. "What is it then?"

She drops her bag on the table, keeping her back to you. You let another few seconds pass before you approach her from behind, reaching out to pinch her tricep which - usually - emits a squeal of surprise.

"Stop, Y/n," she growls, wrenching away from you. Immediately, you back off, hands in the air. She's never used that tone with you before and you can't help but start catastrophising every single vision of the future you've imagined for the two of you. You watch as her face flicks between frustration and regret before she eventually just shakes her head, moving past you out the kitchen again. 

"D, what's going on?" you call after her, trying to keep the neediness out of your voice. "I'm sorry if I've done something to upset you...but if you could just tell me what it is...?"

You snap your mouth shut to stop yourself from rambling. Which is closely followed by the slam of the bedroom door upstairs. You look up to the ceiling of the kitchen, counting the number of downlights over and over until your eyes burn and you can no longer remember which one you started on. 

Pulling yourself together, you pad slowly towards the stairs. Your hand grazes the bannister, the cuff of your jumper gliding over the polished wood, as you climb the steps one by one. You ignore the fist gripping your insides at the memory of when Demi asked you to move in. When the excitement of things moving forward, heating up, was simultaneously marred by the burning shame of bringing next to nothing to the relationship. Demi told you you were being ridiculous, on more than one occasion. You don't need to compete with the insane world of showbusiness and she doesn't want you to. She likes you being...normal. Average, in the best sense of the word. And you're already giving her so much already, more than she could ever hope for. 

Right, you nodded. Yeah. And so you don't need to feel guilty when this whole thing falls apart and you move out and the paps frame you as some sort of freeloader who she finally saw through. It's not like there isn't a track record. One which she's implored you not to worry about. 

You reach the bedroom door, not used to seeing it shut. There was never a need. You knock twice. 

"Dem? Demi?"

Twisting the handle, you open the door a couple of inches, edging one foot inside. 

"Can I come in? I just want to talk."