Drew Starkey Imagines

Out of the Crowd

Another day, another Kook party.

The music thrums low and pulsing through the walls, some remix of something you've heard a hundred times before. Laughter bubbles from the kitchen, the scent of weed mixing with smoke from an expensive cigar someone lit just to be seen with it. Outside, pool water splashes as bodies cannonball in, and inside, in the dimly lit hallway, you're pressed against a wall nursing a red solo cup of watered-down vodka cranberry.

You hate these parties. Always have. But your friend begged you to come out tonight, and you figured one more wouldn't kill you. She'd dragged you here, saying you needed to "loosen up" and "have fun," which, in her mind, apparently meant slapping on eyeliner and squeezing into a top you can't fully breathe in. She's been in the bathroom for a while now, and you're patiently waiting outside the door, texting her to hurry the hell up.

Then he appears.

Typical Kook prototype. Clean-cut, teeth too white, hair that probably took more effort than yours did tonight, wearing a Ralph Lauren polo like it's a damn badge of honor. You clock the scent before anything else—alcohol with a sharp base note of cologne that screams overpriced and overcompensating.

"Hey," he says, leaning on the wall beside you, eyes already scanning you like you're something for sale.

You give him a quick, polite nod. No invitation. No smile.

But he doesn't take the hint. "You're not dancing," he says, too loud over the music. "That's a shame."

You take a sip of your drink and glance at the bathroom door. "Just waiting for my friend."

He steps closer, confidence dripping from him like sweat. "You're too pretty to just be standing here. C'mon, one dance."

You shake your head, barely looking at him. "I'm good, thanks."

But he doesn't move. Instead, his fingers brush your arm, lingering in that way that sends a jolt of warning through your body. You instinctively shift your weight, angling away.

"Come on, just one," he says, this time placing his hand on your hip like that's normal.

That's when your patience snaps.

"You're drunk," you say sharply, voice loud enough to cut through the thudding bass of whatever song's playing. You shove his hand off. "And I said no."

Your voice doesn't shake. You're proud of that. But your stomach knots—because you know how this can go. Guys like this don't always take no for an answer. You glance around, hoping your friend is about to walk out that damn bathroom door, but instead you see someone else.

Rafe.

Leaning against a nearby wall, partly cloaked in shadows. A cigarette smolders between his fingers, barely touched. But his eyes—they're locked on you. Watching. You don't know how long he's been standing there, but when your voice rose, so did he.

He moves fast, a quiet kind of storm. Calm, but there's something dark in his expression that slices through the party fog. You see him out of the corner of your eye first, the shift in energy unmistakable.

Suddenly, he's there. Right next to you.

His hand lands on the guy's shoulder. Not a shove. Not a yank. Just heavy. Firm. Undeniable.

"Hey," Rafe says, voice low, smooth, but with steel under it. "She said no."

The guy blinks, looking from you to Rafe. He tries to puff up his chest, act like he's not just got caught creeping. "We were just talking, man—"

"No," Rafe cuts him off. His eyes narrow, voice still calm but colder now. "You were touching her. She said no."

There's something dangerous in the way Rafe speaks. It's not loud. It doesn't have to be. The guy finally registers who he's messing with—Rafe Cameron. And suddenly, the tension shifts. No one wants to get on Rafe's bad side, not at a party filled with his friends, on his turf.