Drew Starkey Imagines

Can't Help Falling in Love

You met Drew on a Tuesday.

The sky was soft and pale, the café smelled like espresso and cinnamon, and you were halfway through your shift when he walked in — hoodie up, sunglasses on, that same unmistakable jawline peeking out beneath the brim of his hat.

You recognized him immediately. Because of course you did.

Drew Starkey.

Actor. Southern boy. The guy whose face had been all over your TikTok For You Page during the Outer Banks craze. The guy with a voice like molasses and eyes that seemed to always hold back more than they gave away.

And now, apparently, he was standing in front of your register, quietly ordering an Americano.

"Name for the cup?" you asked, trying to sound casual, like your heart wasn't already skipping.

He hesitated. Then, "Andrew."

You blinked. That made you smile.

A lot of people wouldn't know it — but you did. His full name was Joseph Andrew Starkey. The middle name wasn't a lie. Just the version of himself he held a little closer to the chest.

You wrote it down, then glanced up at him.

"I like Drew better," you said.

Something flickered in his expression — surprise first, then something softer.

"You a fan?" he asked.

You shrugged. "I liked the show. But you're here for coffee, not a photoshoot. So I figure I'll just treat you like a person."

His mouth quirked into a slow smile. "Appreciate that."

And something about the way he said it — quiet, grounded, honest — made the moment linger.

⸻

He started coming back.

Always lowkey. Always sitting in the same spot by the window, book in hand, hoodie pulled over his head. You noticed how he relaxed more each time. How he'd offer a nod when you passed, a tiny thank-you when you brought his drink without asking for the name again.

He liked it — being known without being chased.

And one day, you found a note tucked into the tip jar, scrawled in neat block letters:

"You seem like someone who knows how to be quiet without being cold. Want to get dinner sometime?"

You smiled the whole rest of the shift.

⸻

Dinner turned into long walks down sleepy streets. Then into late-night phone calls and lazy Sunday mornings, curled up on your couch with old records spinning and the world hushed around you.

He told you more, slowly.

How Andrew felt more private than Drew. How "Joseph" never quite fit. How being in front of the camera never came as naturally as people assumed — but storytelling always felt like home.

"It's weird," he said one night, lying beside you, "being seen everywhere but still feeling like no one actually knows you."

You looked over, brushing your thumb over his wrist. "I know you."

His throat bobbed. "You do."

⸻

Falling in love with Drew was nothing like the whirlwind you expected.

It was soft.

Simple.

The kind of love that didn't ask for attention — it just quietly filled in the empty spaces. It showed up in the way he'd memorize your coffee order, or how he'd play with your fingers when he was thinking. In the way he sang under his breath while cooking, always barefoot, always humming something old and full of soul.

He was gentle with you in ways the world rarely let him be.

And he loved you in quiet, steady ways that built trust without trying.

He'd send you voice notes reading poems. Let you steal his hoodies until your closet looked more like his than yours. He'd look at you when you weren't watching like he couldn't believe you were real.

And when the world got loud — when filming picked up, or the pressure tightened — he'd still text:

On my way to home.

And you knew he meant you.

⸻

The first time he said "I love you," it wasn't some grand moment.

You were brushing your teeth in his bathroom, half-asleep in one of his oversized tees, talking about how you ran out of toothpaste again. You turned, eyes squinting, and he just said it — like it had been sitting on his tongue for weeks.

"I love you."

You blinked. Toothbrush in hand. Heart thudding.

He froze. "Shit. Sorry, I didn't mean to just—"

"Wait," you said, smiling. "Do you mean it?"

He nodded slowly. "I've been trying not to. But yeah. I mean it."

You crossed the room and kissed him, toothpaste and all.

"I love you too," you said against his lips. "Even when you steal the covers. Especially then."

⸻

It wasn't perfect. Love never is.

There were nights he'd come home heavy, carrying stress and silence. There were weeks where he was gone filming, his absence curling around you like fog.

But he never left emotionally. Never made you doubt.

And you never made him feel like he had to perform.

You let him be.

Be tired. Be silly. Be unsure. Be real.

And that kind of love? The quiet, consistent, tender kind?

That's what changed everything.

⸻

Years from now, you'll tell your friends that you fell in love with a boy the whole world knew — but you got to know the version they didn't.

The version who read dog-eared books and got excited over thunderstorms. The one who picked wildflowers from the median and whispered "come here" when you had a bad day. The one who rested his entire future in the curve of your shoulder and called it peace.

And he'll still look at you the same — like he can't believe you said yes. Like falling in love with you wasn't something he chose but something he had to do.

Because with you?

He couldn't help it.