band imagines

show YOU you're not broken-kellin quinn

*TRIGGER WARNING*
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The door slammed open with a bang, making me jump. The hair on the back of my neck rose up. I took a few deep breaths and smoothed down my hair as the door roughly crashed shut and his heavy footsteps wandered into the kitchen.

I hesitantly looked at him with the smallest of smiles on my face, but made no move to get closer to him. He came over and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I almost sighed in relief.

"Dinner ready? I'm starving." He plopped down into his chair at the kitchen table and angled it so he could see the TV in the next room. "Bring me a beer, will ya?"

I started toward the fridge, which I had already stocked with four beers, as the sounds of ESPN filled our tiny apartment and I heard the chair creak as he relaxed into it. I popped the top on the beer and set it in front of him. "Yes, dinner is ready. Can I get you a plate?"

"Thank you dear."

As I piled his plate high with steak, potatoes, green beans, and bread, I watched him out of the corner of my eye. His eyes were trained on the TV, the beer clutched in his large hand. The corners of his lips were turned down in a permanent scowl, his eyes colder and darker than they had been when we first met years ago. He had changed so much over the last year or so, I often wondered if I had lost him completely. But then he would manage a smile at something on TV and the corners of his eyes crinkled like they used to. Or he'd have a good day at work and bring me home flowers and run his fingers through my hair.

"Thought you said dinner was ready."

I snapped out of it and brought his plate to the table, setting it down in front of him along with a knife and fork and napkin. I remained standing. He dug into his food and looked up at me after a moment or two.

"What? Aren't you going to eat?" He asked through a mouthful of potatoes. He chased it down with another swig of beer.

"Kellin invited me to dinner tonight. I asked you last week if I could go."

His eyes darkened, but he chewed through another mouthful before he answered. "You see that guy a lot, don't you. There something you want to tell me?"

"W-what do you mean?"

"You sneaking around with him behind my back?"

"No, sir. He is just my friend. We're just friends."

He returned his attention to ESPN. I didn't dare bring it up again. Instead, I took the empty beer bottle from the table and replaced it with a new one. He glanced at me, nodded, and took a swig. "When?"

I checked my watch. "In about twenty minutes."

"Be home by nine."

I hesitated. "But we were-"

"Nine. Not a second later. Now go get ready, I'm watching the game."

I left the room to change and do my hair; nothing too special. When I returned, his empty plate was still there, but he was gone. In the recliner in the living room, I guessed. I began washing the dishes in the sink as he let out a grunt of disapproval at something on TV.

It seemed to happen in slow motion. One second I was holding the soapy plate in my hand, the next it was drifting dreamily to the ground, and the next it crashed into a hundred pieces, scattered across the kitchen floor.

"Shit," I breathed, my voice barely audible. I sank down to my knees and hurriedly began picking up pieces. A shadow passed over me and I looked up. I watched his angry eyes survey the damage, and then the toe of his boot collided with my ribs.

I let out a strangled cry, somewhere between a yelp and a groan, as the wind was knocked out of me. I gasped for air and he grabbed my ponytail in his hands. I squealed as he pulled, and I struggled to my feet. As soon as I was up, his palm slapped my cheek hard, leaving a stinging burn. I bit my lip and avoided his eyes, pressing my hand to my cheek and cowering beneath him on shaky legs.