Drew Starkey Imagines

Every Light in the House

You didn't go far — just far enough to breathe again.

You didn't plan to leave forever, and Rafe knew that. But he didn't understand it at first. He stood on the porch of Tannyhill that day, jaw clenched and hands shoved deep in his pockets like if he squeezed hard enough, he could hold in everything he felt.

You had said, "I just need space, Rafe. Just time."

He had looked at you like you'd ripped the ground out from under him.

And yet, before you got in your car, he said quietly, "I'll leave the light on. In case you come back."

You smiled. Not because you thought it was funny, but because deep down... you really hoped you'd have a reason to.

⸻

Week One

The lights were on. Every single one.

The porch. The den. The kitchen. Even the one in the hallway upstairs that flickered every few minutes and made him want to rip the damn bulb out of the ceiling.

But he didn't.

That first week he waited, pacing, restless. He thought about texting you so many times his fingers twitched every time he unlocked his phone. But he didn't.

⸻

Month One

The lights were still on.

Rose called him crazy.

Topper told him to move on.

Even Wheezie asked gently, "Do you think maybe it's time to let her go?"

But he couldn't. He wouldn't. He missed you more than he could put into words. There were nights when he'd throw a bottle across the living room, screaming at himself or you or the world — it didn't matter who was listening.

Other nights, he sat on the front porch steps, eyes glazed over, staring at the driveway. Hoping. Praying. Blaming himself.

"Maybe if I hadn't lost it that night..."

"Maybe if I'd just told her how scared I was of losing her."

⸻

3 AM Thoughts

Sometimes at 3 a.m., when he was caught in the lull between insomnia and sleep, he'd wander through the house turning on lights just to make sure they were still working.

Like a ritual. Like if he kept them burning, maybe you'd see them from wherever you were and come home.

⸻

A Thursday in July

He wasn't expecting anything different. Just another heavy, humid Outer Banks day — the kind that clung to your skin like bad memories.

He'd had a rough morning. Rose had torn into him for racking up the electric bill. Told him he looked pathetic holding onto some "ghost of a girl."

He'd yelled. Hard. Told her to get out of his face before he broke something.

Then the screen door creaked behind him.

He froze.

Footsteps on gravel. Soft. Familiar.

He turned around slowly — part of him terrified he was imagining it.

And there you were.

Bag slung over your shoulder. Hair wind-tossed. Sunlight catching the hesitation in your eyes.

He didn't say anything at first. Just stared like he couldn't believe you were real.

"I saw the lights," you whispered.

He let out a shaky breath and rubbed at his face like maybe the tears stinging his eyes would go away if he just didn't acknowledge them.

"I left 'em on," he said hoarsely. "Just in case."

⸻

The Explosion

The reunion wasn't all soft words and slow hugs.

You fought. Oh, you fought.

He asked why you stayed away so long.

You yelled that he made it impossible to come back.

He shouted that you didn't even try.

You cried that you needed peace, and he cried that he was trying to be better — but how could he be better if the only thing that made him good was gone?

And in the middle of it, your voice broke as you said:

"I didn't stop loving you, Rafe. I just didn't know if loving you was enough."

Silence.

And then, like gravity snapped back into place, he crossed the porch and wrapped his arms around you like he was afraid you'd vanish.

⸻

The After

It didn't get perfect overnight.

There were still dark days, still doubts. Still nights when he held you too tightly in bed and whispered apologies into your neck while you ran your fingers through his hair and told him it wasn't all his fault.

But the lights stayed on.

This time, not just as a sign of hope.

But as a sign that he was home.

And so were you.