Demi Lovato Imagines

Day Off

The bedsheet has cut a hot crease across your cheek, a telling sign of your night of deep, unmoving sleep. Your eyes still feel sticky so you don't muster the effort in opening them yet. Swaddled inside the darkness, you think about whether you need to pop to the corner store to get more flour. You know the eggs are in plentiful supply, enough for a batch of brownies at least, but...well...you'll need to check the recipe. You can send Demi along while you're mixing everything else if needs be. No big deal. She could pick up a bottle of fresh orange while she's there, now you're thinking about it. And more granola. On second thoughts, maybe you should both just go. Spend more time together. Isn't that what this whole day is supposed to be about?

The sound of the drawer sliding closed makes you roll over, finally ungluing your eyes. Demi's standing in front of the mirror buttoning up a shirt you gave her for your second year anniversary. You love how she still wears it, what with all the income she has at her disposal. The light blue, almost purple material beautifully brings out her tanned skin tone, even more so since coming back from Rome a week ago. There's still the band of pale skin around her wrist from where she wore her watch. 

"Hmmorning," you hum, stretching out on the mattress, hands fisted. The white duvet crumples between your legs. 

"Morning, babe," she says back, turning up the cuffs so that they come halfway up her forearm. Sucking in through your nose, your foggy head clears. 

"What are you doing up so early?" you ask. 

She opens the wardrobe, picking out a pair of shoes from the bottom and sliding her feet into them. She bends down to sort the heel. 

"Dem?"

She purses her lips, looking at you fleetingly in the mirror before quickly diverting her gaze back to herself. She combs a strand of hair back from her face. 

"I got a call from the studio."

Usually, at this moment, many people would report feelings of frustrated deflation, a thrum of disappointment that's reminiscent of a bass note sucking the air of the room down to the floor. Or of a pounding headache as they force themselves to keep all emotion inside, pressure rising inside the cranium in an attempt to maintain an outward appearance of composure. You feel neither. Watching as she busies herself about the room, you only chastise yourself with a tired elbow for ever getting your hopes up that this day might happen. 

"Oh."

She picks up her bag, checking her phone is inside. 

"I thought you said you didn't have the studio today?"

It's not so much a question, more of a flat statement seeking to remind her of her promise. Which, of course, you knew wasn't actually a promise because someone like Demi, someone with such a name and such a career, can't be expected to make such things to their partner, I know, I know. And so it's just selfish of you to be so unreasonable here when she's only doing her job and only making sure she is keeping everyone else happy and off her back because you know what they're like when they don't get their own way, right? You saw how pissed Jan was that last time I cancelled?

You knew. 

And we can do this anytime. Here, I'll make a new reservation myself when I get back, just leave their number out. It's no big deal, Y/n, it's not like we can't reschedule our plans, you know, with your job and stuff. You're off Thursday evenings, right?

You weren't. And those dinner plans were never rescheduled, not that you were holding your breath that they ever would be. 

"I thought I didn't either. Someone must've cancelled."