Drew Starkey Imagines

When The Storm Hits

A/N: In this imagine Ward was a great father-not the psycho murderer he was in the show.

The sun was too bright for a day like this.

It was the kind of golden warmth that should've been spent barefoot on the dock or tangled in sheets with sleepy laughter. But it felt wrong now. Like the world hadn't gotten the message that everything had changed.

You turned into the driveway slowly, gravel crunching under your tires. The house looked still, too still—quiet in the way that made your chest feel tight. You'd been gone for less than an hour, picking up food he wouldn't touch, calling his sister who didn't pick up, just trying to do something in the face of everything that was unfixable.

And then you saw him.

Rafe was on the porch.

Slouched forward on the top step, arms resting loosely on his knees, head down. The sun poured over him, but he looked cold. Hollowed out. Like the light couldn't touch whatever darkness had wrapped around his heart.

You froze.

There was no performance. No stoic mask. No posture.

Just Rafe.

Still. Quiet.

And crying.

You walked slowly toward him, the bag of takeout forgotten in the passenger seat. Each step felt like walking into a glass room, careful not to shatter whatever fragile thing was happening in front of you.

You climbed the steps and knelt down beside him.

He didn't look up, but his shoulders shook. He hadn't even heard you coming. He was somewhere else entirely—somewhere deep in his own mind, lost in a memory or a moment he couldn't get back.

You reached out and placed a hand on his back.

His breath hitched instantly. He looked over, like he wasn't sure if he was dreaming. And then, as soon as he saw your face, something in him gave out.

He folded forward, into you.

You caught him, wrapping your arms around him, pressing his body against yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He sobbed into your chest. Not quiet tears—real, gutting, broken sobs. His fingers clutched at the back of your shirt. His body trembled like he hadn't let himself cry until now, and now that he had, he didn't know how to stop.

"I can't believe he's gone," he choked out.

Your heart cracked.

Ward Cameron had passed two days ago. Unexpected. Peaceful, they said. But that didn't matter. It never made it easier. Especially not for Rafe—who'd loved his father more than he'd ever been able to put into words.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as you held him. "I'm so sorry, Rafe."

"I didn't say goodbye," he whispered. "I wasn't there. I should've been there."

You shook your head gently, grounding him. "You couldn't have known. No one knew."

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were red, lashes wet, cheeks flushed from crying in the heat. His mouth trembled like he couldn't get the next words out without breaking again.

"He always believed in me," he said, barely a whisper. "Even when I messed up. Even when I didn't deserve it."

You cupped his face. "Because he knew you. He saw who you really were, Rafe. He was proud of you."

He shook his head, tears slipping again. "I wasted so much time. Fighting him. Trying to prove something. And now he's gone and I just—" His voice cracked, "I want him back."

You pulled him into you again, your cheek against his hair as he clung to you. "I know, baby. I know."

The sun moved higher. The breeze picked up across the porch. Somewhere, a bird chirped too loudly in the trees. The world kept going, and it was cruel.

"I keep expecting him to come out here," Rafe murmured after a long silence. "To open the door and ask why I'm sitting outside like an idiot."

You gave a soft, watery laugh, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand. "He probably would've."

Rafe nodded, trying to smile but failing. "He used to sit out here in the mornings. Coffee in one hand, that stupid crossword in the other. I didn't even like crosswords, but I'd sit with him. Just to be near him."

You leaned your head against his. "That's how you know it mattered. Those little moments? They're the ones that stay."

He took a shaky breath, eyes trained on nothing in particular. "I don't know how to do this. Be... here. Without him."

"You don't have to figure it out today."

His voice cracked again. "I hate that the world just keeps going."

You nodded, eyes stinging. "Me too."

He looked at you then, really looked. His face was streaked with sunlight and tears. His eyes weren't sharp or cocky or guarded. They were soft. Raw. Like the boy he must've been before the world told him to be something else.

"I don't let people see me like this," he said. "Ever."

You brushed his hair back from his face. "I know."

"I don't know how to be this version of myself," he admitted, voice small. "The one who feels all of this."

You kissed his forehead. "You don't have to be anything today, Rafe. Just... let it out. I'll hold it with you."

He nodded slowly, chest tight with something too big for words. And then he rested his head on your shoulder, his hand gripping yours like it grounded him to earth.

So you sat there.

On the sun-drenched porch. Two souls wrapped in grief and love. No sound but the wind through the trees and the faint call of gulls in the distance. You let the world turn without you for a while.

Because Rafe needed time. He needed space to mourn, to fall apart, and most of all—to be held without condition.

And you gave him that.

As long as it took.

⸻

Later That Day...

You brought him water. Sat with him through the silence. He cried again, softer this time. He told you a story about when Ward taught him to drive. About how they used to race boats until Sarah screamed at them from the dock. About the time Ward snuck Rafe his first beer and told him not to tell Rose.

You laughed. He smiled. And that, too, was part of healing.

When the sun finally began to dip, Rafe squeezed your hand and whispered, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not making me hide."

You kissed the back of his hand. "You never have to."

And he believed you.

Because in a world where Rafe Cameron was expected to be all armor and edge, you were the one place he didn't have to pretend.