Drew Starkey Imagines

Restore

It had rained that morning. One of those gentle, gray Carolina rains that left the roads wet and the air clean — like God was washing something away.

You and Rafe had just gotten back from church, shoes damp, clothes clinging softly to your skin. He had looked ridiculously good in his dark button-up, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the faint edge of the tattoo on his forearm — the one that read redeemed in small cursive.

He hadn't always believed that word.
But now, he lived in it.

He'd started attending church with you months ago — at first just to sit beside you, hands brushing in the pew. But over time, the sermons started hitting deeper. The music made him close his eyes. The altar became a place of surrender, not shame.

He was learning that grace didn't come with strings. It just was.

And now, in your shared little rental tucked off a backroad, the two of you had changed out of your church clothes. You wore one of his oversized sweatshirts. He was barefoot in joggers and a white tee, hair still damp from the rain.

You lit a candle in the living room. Soft worship music played from the kitchen speaker. Rafe sat down on the couch, flipping through his well-worn Bible — the one you bought him when he first told you he wanted to know God "for real this time."

"Psalm 23," he said, tapping the page. "Can I read it to you?"

You smiled, curling up beside him. "Please."

His voice was quiet but clear.

"'The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters... He restores my soul.'"

He paused, thumb tracing over the word restores.

"I used to think I was too far gone," he whispered. "Like... God would forgive me, but I'd never really be new. I'd always just be damaged. Just... tolerated."

You looked at him, your heart aching for the boy who still sometimes flinched at kindness.

"But then you told me about restoration," he went on. "Not just forgiveness — but renewal. And every day I sit in this house with you, every time we pray, every time we don't cross the lines we could've... I feel that. I feel restored."

You didn't speak — just kissed his shoulder and let him finish.

He shut the Bible gently, then pulled you into his arms. His hands were warm against your back, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your sweatshirt in a way that was tender, not rushed.

"I'm not gonna lie," he murmured, lips brushing your hair. "You in this hoodie? You sittin' here beside me? I'm feelin' some temptation."

You laughed softly, hiding your face in his neck.

"But I want to do this right," he said, pulling you closer. "Not because of shame. Not even just because we're waitin'. But because I love you too much to treat this like something temporary."

You looked up, his face close, eyes burning with something reverent.

"Then kiss me," you said.

So he did.

Slow. Sweet. Steady.

Like you were holy.

Like love was worship.

The kiss deepened — not rushed, but rich. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he moved his lips against yours like he had all the time in the world. And he did. Because he wasn't chasing a feeling. He was building a future.

He kissed you like he planned to say I do one day.
Like you were already his home.

When you finally pulled apart, breath warm and shaky, he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered:

"You don't just make me better. You remind me who I am now. And I'll spend my whole life making sure you never forget who you are, either."

You swallowed the lump in your throat. "Who's that?"

"Chosen," he whispered. "Loved. Worth waiting for. Worth everything."

⸻

That night, you fell asleep in each other's arms — fully clothed, fully content. His hand rested on your waist. Your head rose and fell with the rhythm of his breath. Outside, the rain had stopped.

Inside, peace had taken root.

Not perfection. Not ease.

But still waters.

And He was restoring your souls.

Together.