Drew Starkey Imagines

Fighting for Forever

A/N: You and Drew are married.

The storm didn't start with shouting.

Like most storms, it began with something small — a look, a tone, a misunderstanding that wasn't cleared up when it should've been. You were both tired. Worn down. Little things had been piling up for weeks: schedules not syncing, unspoken resentment, moments where one of you reached for the other only to be met with distraction, or worse — distance.

And tonight, it broke.

All at once.

You stood in the kitchen, drying dishes a little too fast, a little too hard. Drew was standing behind you, rubbing his temple like he was trying to keep something inside.

"You're quiet again," you finally said, not looking at him.

"I'm just tired," he replied.

"That's all you ever are lately."

He looked up, sharp. "Excuse me?"

You turned, towel still in hand. "You barely talk to me anymore, Drew. You come home, you go straight to sleep or your journal or you say you're praying, but you don't see me. I feel like I'm just... here."

His jaw clenched. "That's not fair."

"No?" Your voice cracked. "Because it feels fair. It feels true."

He exhaled, voice raised just slightly. "Do you have any idea the pressure I'm under right now? I'm carrying so much, and I can't even process it before you're on me about what I'm not doing."

You scoffed. "I'm not on you, Drew. I'm trying to reach you. But you won't let me in. And I'm not going to keep begging to be your wife when I already am one."

That hit something in him.

He stepped closer, voice louder. "Oh, come on. Don't make this some big 'you don't love me' speech. I'm still here, aren't I? I haven't walked out that door—"

"Maybe you should if you're that miserable!"

Silence.

The kind that makes the air feel thick.

He blinked. "You really wanna say that right now?"

Tears stung your eyes. You didn't even know what you meant anymore. It wasn't about just tonight. It was about all the times you felt invisible, all the times he pulled away and didn't explain why, all the times you needed him to fight with you, and instead it felt like he fought around you.

"I don't know what I want," you said, voice shaking. "I just know this — us — it's breaking. And if we don't do something, I'm scared it's going to fall apart."

He turned away, pacing. "You think I don't feel that? You think I'm just out here thriving while our marriage is crumbling? I feel it too, every second. I just don't know what to do with it anymore."

You wiped your tears angrily. "Maybe we made a mistake. Maybe this isn't working."

He froze. "Don't say that."

You backed up, breath shallow. "Well, maybe it's true. Because right now, I feel more alone with you than I did before I ever met you."

He slammed his palm on the counter, not violently — just enough to make his voice echo when he shouted, "Then what the hell do you want from me?!"

You flinched.

Both of you were quiet now. Shaken. Hurt.

He didn't mean to scare you. And you didn't mean to say half the things you did.

You looked at him, eyes full of heartbreak. "I don't know."

And then you left the room.

⸻

He stayed in the kitchen.

You curled into the guest room with a blanket you didn't want.

Neither of you knew how you ended up here — two people who prayed together, kissed softly in the glow of Sunday mornings, held each other in the quiet. And now, you were breathing on opposite sides of the house, wondering if your marriage was slipping away.

It wasn't just exhaustion.

It wasn't just miscommunication.

It was the weight of unspoken needs, pressing louder than peace.

Something dark had crept into your home — resentment, fear, ego — and it whispered lies into your ears that sounded like truth. Lies that said: He doesn't love you anymore. She doesn't see you. You'd be better off without each other.

But deeper than the noise, something holy stirred.

You both felt it.

In separate rooms, you began to pray.

Not long, not poetic.

Just a simple, broken plea:

"Jesus, please... help us."

⸻

It was Drew who knocked on the guest room door.

You were curled under the blanket, eyes swollen from crying. He stepped in slowly, his voice low and full of something unbreakable.

"I don't want a life without you."

You sat up, throat tight.

"I don't want a single night in this house without your hand in mine," he said softly. "I spoke out of anger, not love. I forgot to be slow to speak and quick to listen — and that's on me. I never want to love you like that again."

You broke.

Tears spilled again, but softer this time. Cleansing. He crossed the room, knelt by the bed, and took your hands.

"I'm not leaving. You're not hard to love. And we did not make a mistake. God put us here. And I will fight for you with everything I've got."

"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I just got so scared. I didn't mean all of it. I just... wanted you to come close again."

He pressed his forehead to yours. "I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere."

You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding onto him like oxygen. He climbed onto the bed and pulled you into his lap, arms wrapped around your waist.

You stayed like that for a long time — no rush, no more words.

Just the quiet return to each other.

Eventually, he whispered, "Let's pray. Together."

You nodded, hands clutching his shirt.

He closed his eyes, voice cracking:

"Lord, forgive us for letting pride and fear speak louder than love tonight. Forgive us for forgetting You in the middle of our storm. Thank You for bringing us back. For not letting go. Help me love her like You love me — even when it's hard. Especially then. And protect what You've built here. Let no weapon formed against this marriage prosper. Ever. In Jesus' name."

You added, through tears, "Amen."

And you felt it — peace. Not perfection. But peace.

You ended the night tangled in each other, his hand on your back, your cheek on his chest. He kissed your head again and again like it was the only way to say I'm still yours.

And even after the worst fight... you were.

Because love rooted in God is resilient.

And what God has joined together — no storm, no voice, no fear — will tear apart.