Demi Lovato Imagines

Brittle

You blow into the keyboard and try again, bashing your finger on 'M' repeatedly. Nothing. The cursor blinks back at you, goading. Running your nail around the plastic tile, you imagine prising the whole thing off, chucking it into the bin across the room. The satisfaction lasts for half a second before the reality sets in once again, the hard wood of the chair pressing into your back as you sit in the kitchen, still stuck on this project transcript you've been staring at for the past week. 

"Everything okay?"

Demi's face appears around the door frame. The freckles, that appeared only the other day after the two of you went hiking up the trail behind the house, have only darkened in colour, a spray of coffee over her make-up free skin. 

"Yeah," you exhale, glancing back at your laptop. "Just...you know...work."

She steps further into the kitchen, flapping her hands. 

"Anything I can help with?"

You shake your head. "Sorry. Didn't realise you were busy."

She laughs. "I'm not busy," she grins, "I'm painting my nails. Come on, what's up?"

She comes behind you, bending down and resting her chin on your shoulder. You change screen so that she can't see the embarrassing lack of work you've got done. 

"Nothing. Just my 'M' key's no longer working. I think something's stuck underneath."

"Oh. Right."

"Told you."

"I could buy you a new one?"

"A new 'M' key?"

"A new laptop."

This time, it's you who laughs. "Is that always your solution to technical issues? Buying a new one?"

She hums, and you feel the vibration of her throat on your skin.

"Anything else I can help with, then? That I can actually do?

"Distract me?" you say, turning your head to the side. Your lip curls upwards. 

"It's half-past four," she replies, squeezing your shoulders, simultaneously placating and warning. 

"Okay? What did you think I was meaning?"

"Y/n..."

"What?"

"Fine. Nothing. I didn't think you meant anything," she says, walking towards the fridge and taking out a carton of coconut water. Her eyes flit to yours as she unscrews the cap and tips a sip into her mouth. You press your finger back on your defective key, wiggling it around in an attempt to get any sort of response. 

"What about a beach trip?" you ask, not looking up.

"A beach trip?"

"Yeah."

From the corner of your eye, you see her twist the cap on again, returning the carton to the fridge. 

"Yeah. Okay."

"Really?"

"Isn't that what you just suggested?"

"I didn't think you were going to say yes!"

"I'm not your mother, Y/n," she laughs. You shrug before closing the lid of your laptop and rubbing your hands together. 

"Great! Let me get my bikini!" You shoot up from the chair, rushing out the kitchen and up the stairs, taking them two by two. When you first moved in here, Demi would always shout at you to be careful and you would slow down, walk for three steps before bounding up the rest. But you liked her being concerned. You liked her taking care of you or, at the very least, you liked someone showing an interest in you. It was something you had never been used to and every time she said your name, or touched your arm, or kissed you on that spot on your temple, it felt like a cloud of glitter exploding inside your chest.