Drew Starkey Imagines

Private Plane, Private Confessions

You were used to being around celebrities. Your job as a publicist had trained you to keep secrets, manage crises, spin stories, and most importantly—keep your heart in check. That last part used to be easy.

Then came Drew Starkey.

He wasn't like the rest. Sure, he had the looks—tall, disarmingly handsome, that lazy grin that got him out of trouble more times than you could count. But it was the way he talked about books he read between takes, how he cared more about the craft than the fame, and how he remembered little details about you—your coffee order, your favorite director, how you hated flying.

That's where you were now—30,000 feet in the air, on a private jet bound for a film festival in Italy. Just you, Drew, the pilot, and silence... at least for now.

He was across from you in a black hoodie, legs stretched out, reading something on his iPad. Occasionally he glanced at you. Maybe because you were fidgeting.

"You okay?" he asked finally, voice low over the hum of the engines.

You nodded. "Just... not a fan of planes."

He set the iPad aside. "Why didn't you say something before we took off?"

"Because you're Drew Starkey and this is your press trip. I'm just your PR girl."

He tilted his head. "You're more than that."

You looked away. That line was dangerous.

⸻

The jet had been in the air for a few hours when the turbulence started. It wasn't just a little bump—it was a hard drop, followed by a sharp rattle that made your heart leap into your throat. You gripped the armrest, your knuckles white.

"Hey, hey..." Drew was up and across the cabin in a second, crouching beside you. "Look at me, not the window. It's just air pockets."

His hand covered yours, grounding. Strong, warm, steady. You let out a shaky breath, your eyes meeting his.

"I hate this," you whispered.

"I know." His voice was softer than you'd ever heard it. "I've got you."

⸻

When the plane finally landed, it wasn't in Italy. Weather had diverted you to a remote airstrip in Switzerland for the night. You weren't going anywhere until morning.

"Guess we're grounded," Drew said as the pilot broke the news.

You both exchanged a look. Then came the awkward realization: there was only one private suite in the hangar facility. Luxurious, yes—but intimate. A king bed. One bathroom. No WiFi.

It was quiet as you both walked into the room. You dropped your bag and sat on the edge of the bed while Drew grabbed two waters from the fridge.

"So," you said, "just the two of us."

He handed you a bottle, then sat beside you. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

You smirked. "You've got a movie premiere in 12 hours, and instead you're stuck here with your anxious, overworked publicist."

Drew turned toward you, suddenly serious. "You think I mind that?"

You didn't answer.

"Why do you always act like you're just here for the job?" he asked quietly.

You blinked. "Because I am."

He shook his head slowly. "That's not all it is. Not for me."

The silence stretched. The air between you grew heavier.

"I notice the way you look at me," he said. "The way you take care of me—not because you have to. Because you want to."

Your throat tightened. "Drew..."

"I'm not stupid," he added, voice low. "You think I haven't wanted to say something for months? You think I haven't wanted to kiss you since the press tour in Toronto? But I didn't. Because I thought maybe you didn't feel it back."

You looked at him then. Really looked. There was no performance in his eyes. No character, no media mask. Just Drew.

"I do," you admitted. "I've felt it since day one."

He reached out slowly, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he moved too fast. His hand brushed your cheek.

"Then why are we pretending?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

You leaned in, heartbeat thundering, until your lips brushed his—hesitant at first, then deeper, warmer. Like something both of you had been holding back for too long. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you into his lap as the kiss grew needier, more honest.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads resting together, you both breathed like you'd run miles.

"I don't care what anyone says," Drew murmured. "I want this. You. Not just in some hotel room or between events. All of it."

You smiled. "Even if I suck at flying?"

"Especially then," he whispered, kissing your temple. "Because I'll always be the one sitting next to you when it gets rough."

⸻

That night, you curled up next to him in the big hotel bed, the storm still raging outside. But for the first time in a long time, you felt calm—safe in the arms of the man who saw every part of you, and wanted you anyway.