Demi Lovato Imagines

Neighbour

"Who's that?" you ask as your mom pulls the car up in front of the house, cheeks still rosy from excitement at you finally being home for the summer. She pulls on the handbrake.

"Not sure, actually. We've never met her. Jan down the road mentioned something about someone moving in though so I assume this is her."

You can't see this 'her' your mom is talking about as you scan your eyes over trails of men, unloading from the moving van squeezed into the narrow road. But you've never known Jan to be wrong, not even in her eighty-nine years of age. If anyone knows what's going on in the street, it's her.

"Hopefully she's nice," your mom hums as she dips out of the car, heading round to the back to take out your suitcase. You're not looking forward to the lecture you're going to get when she opens it up and pulls out the mound of laundry you accumulated in the last few days of the semester, too lazy to go and do it yourself. You envisage a middle-aged woman, divorced, two kids. Maybe the dad got custody because she's a high-profile businesswoman who is always away for work. Or maybe she only has one kid who she had at, like, sixteen and is now away at college as well.

"Coming? Your dad's looking forward to seeing you," your mom sticks her head through the car window, breaking you from your thoughts. You smile and nod, getting out and following her inside.

***

"They're cookies. Of course she'll like them," your sister Meg groans from the kitchen table as you swither again on taking the tub of homemade treats out again. The two of you baked them yesterday evening after dinner, finally spending some quality time together after months apart.

"Okay-yy!" you bite back sarcastically, dropping them back in the wicker basket. "It's dad's punch I'm more concerned about."

The two of you share a wry smile as the tall bottle peeks out from underneath everything else, the colourful liquid sloshing around as you lift the weight into your arms. Just on cue, your dad walks in and Meg snorts into her hands.

"What're you two up to?" he asks, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he has been doing every time he passes you.

"Nothing."

"You going round with that now, are you?"

You nod, biting your bottom lip and rocking on your heels. He rubs his hand in your hair.

"That's nice. Remember to tell her about tonight, squirt."

"Yes, dad, I know," you roll your eyes, turning and heading for the door. It's a precarious trip down your drive, across the way, and up her one. Long enough for you to worry about her being as mean as the old neighbours. The screeching of the wife still echoes in your ears when you think of them, intolerant if children under the age of ten. Thank God they moved out, you think as you manage to rap against the door with your foot.

"Hello?" she asks when she answers. She's not middle-aged at all, and definitely wouldn't have a kid at college. Which is easy enough to infer when you realise that Demi Lovato has just moved in next door.

"U-u-uhh...hi..." you stutter. You feel the colour draining from your face and collecting in your shoes. She almost grimaces, her hand inching the door closed a little at your reaction.

"Can I help you?"

Her voice is tiny and you can tell she's nervous. Most probably in case you're some crazy fangirl who has stalked her here.

"I'm - uh - My name's Y/n, I'm from next door..." you start, "...and - uh - I noticed you moving in yesterday when I got home so I thought you could do with some things to help you get settled?"