Drew Starkey Imagines

Every Move You Make

The air in Figure Eight always felt heavy, like the humidity carried secrets between its particles. You used to love the way the ocean breeze swept through your hair, how the sound of the waves crashing against the shore brought you peace. But now, the same town that once felt like home had become a prison.

Because Rafe Cameron was always watching.

At first, it was subtle. A passing glance at a party, a familiar truck parked outside your favorite coffee shop, the unmistakable feeling of someone's gaze trailing your every move. You told yourself it was paranoia. That Rafe had moved on, just like you had.

But deep down, you knew better.

You and Rafe had been something once. Something intoxicating, consuming—dangerous. It was the kind of love that burned so bright it was bound to leave scars. And it did.

The fights were explosive, fueled by Rafe's possessive nature and your growing desire for independence. When you finally walked away, you expected him to hate you. You expected silence, distance.

You did not expect this.

⸻

It started small. A text message in the middle of the night: I miss you. Then another: Do you ever think about us?

You never responded.

The next time, it was a voicemail. His voice was slow, measured, almost too calm.

"You can ignore me all you want, but you can't erase me, Y/N. You know that, right?"

You deleted it without listening to the rest.

Then, you started noticing him more. He was always there—at The Wreck when you went out with friends, at the beach when you needed to clear your mind, on the roads you drove home at night.

Watching. Waiting.

When you confronted him, he only smirked.

"Relax, Y/N. It's a small town."

Maybe that excuse would've worked once. Maybe if he hadn't shown up at your job, leaning against the counter like he belonged there, you could've kept pretending he was just coincidentally everywhere.

But when he did, something inside you snapped.

"What the hell are you doing here, Rafe?" you demanded, crossing your arms over your chest as you stood behind the register.

"Just grabbing a coffee," he said smoothly. "Didn't realize that was a crime."

Your jaw clenched. "Cut the crap. You don't even drink coffee."

He chuckled, running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. "Maybe I do now." His blue eyes flickered over you, slow and deliberate. "Maybe people change."

You swallowed the lump in your throat. "Or maybe some people don't know how to let go."

Rafe's smirk faltered for half a second—so quick you almost missed it. Then, he leaned in slightly, voice dropping lower. "Tell me, Y/N... do you really want me to?"

Your breath hitched. Because the truth was, you didn't know.

You hated what he was doing to you. Hated the way your heart still betrayed you at the sight of him. Hated that, despite everything, a small, reckless part of you missed him too.

But missing him meant getting pulled back in. And you knew if you let him, he'd consume you all over again.

So you did the only thing you could. You turned your back and walked away.

⸻

The problem with Rafe Cameron was that he didn't take "no" for an answer.

The texts kept coming. The late-night calls, the lingering stares from across the room. Then, it escalated.

One night, you came home to find a single white rose on your doorstep. No note. No explanation. But you knew exactly who it was from.

The next night, another.

On the third night, you caught a glimpse of his truck at the end of your street. He was watching.

That was the night you finally sent him a message.

Stay the hell away from me, Rafe.

The response came almost instantly.

I can't.

⸻

You started locking your windows. Double-checking your doors. Changing your routes home, always looking over your shoulder.

Your friends told you to go to the police. But you knew better. This was Rafe Cameron. Ward Cameron's golden boy. No one would believe you—not against him.

So you tried to act like it didn't affect you. Tried to convince yourself that, eventually, he'd get bored and move on.

Then, one night, you heard it.

A soft click outside your bedroom window.

Your blood ran cold.

Slowly, you turned your head, heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear anything else. But when you reached the window, no one was there.

Still, the next morning, there was a white rose on your windowsill.

⸻

Enough was enough.

You drove straight to Tannyhill, your hands gripping the wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white. The second you pulled up, you slammed your car door shut and stormed up the steps.

Rafe was already outside, like he'd been waiting for you.

"What the hell is your problem?!" you shouted, shoving him hard in the chest. He barely moved. "You think this is a game, Rafe? Following me, leaving shit at my house—what, do you get off on scaring me?"

His jaw tightened. "I just wanted to remind you—"

"Remind me of what? That you're crazy?" Your voice cracked, and you hated yourself for it. "That no matter how hard I try, you won't let me be free?"

His eyes darkened. "You were never free from me, Y/N."

The words sent a shiver down your spine. But what terrified you most wasn't the way he said it.

It was the way you knew it was true.

Rafe stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You can tell yourself you've moved on. You can pretend you don't think about me—about us—but we both know that's a lie."

You shook your head, backing away. "No. No, Rafe, this isn't love. This is obsession."

His lips parted slightly, like the word had physically hurt him. Then, his expression hardened.

"Call it whatever you want," he murmured. "But you're mine, Y/N. You always will be."

Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to stand your ground. "Not anymore."

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes. A hint of vulnerability, of something broken. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by the same cold determination.

You didn't wait for him to speak. You turned around and walked away.

You could still feel his eyes on you the whole way home.

⸻

The next morning, there was no rose.

No texts. No calls.

Nothing.

You should've felt relieved.

But somehow, it felt like the calm before the storm.

Because with Rafe Cameron, it was never really over.

Not until he said so.

And you weren't sure if he ever would.