Drew Starkey Imagines

Tide Between Us

The sky was already darkening when you found yourself walking toward the dock behind the house. You could hear the low rustling of the trees, the distant echo of thunder somewhere far off, and the weight of your thoughts trailing behind you like an anchor.

You weren't running. You weren't angry. But you were... unraveling.

Somewhere in that space between not enough and too much.

And Rafe? He hadn't even noticed.

At least, that's how it felt.

You sat on the edge of the dock, bare feet brushing the water, heart tangled in things you hadn't found the words to say. Not yet.

Then you heard it. The sound of a car door shutting, then footsteps behind you—familiar ones. The kind that always seemed to find you, no matter how far away you tried to drift.

He didn't say anything at first. Just stood behind you, waiting, breath steady but cautious.

"Didn't think you'd come," you said finally, still not looking at him.

"I always come," he replied. "Even when you're mad at me."

You sighed. "I'm not mad, Rafe."

He moved closer, eventually sitting down next to you, mimicking your posture. Knees pulled up. Arms resting. Silence between you like a living thing.

"But something's wrong," he said.

You looked out at the water. "What if this isn't supposed to work?"

Rafe turned to you sharply. "What?"

You swallowed. "I mean, what if we're just... pretending? Holding onto something that's going to hurt more the longer we try?"

His brows furrowed, his voice suddenly rough. "Why would you say that?"

"Because I keep thinking one day you'll wake up and realize I was just a phase. A comfort. Something easy for a while."

Rafe stared at you like you'd just gutted him.

"Do I really make you feel like that?" he asked. "Like this isn't real?"

"No," you whispered. "You make me feel like everything's real. And maybe that's the problem. You're... so much. You love hard. You live even harder. And I keep wondering if I'm just something temporary in a life that's already too big for me."

He was quiet for a moment. Then:

"You think I'm too good for you?"

You looked away. "Sometimes."

A beat passed. And then he laughed.

Not mean. Not dismissive. Just disbelieving.

"I thought you were too good for me," he said.

Your eyes snapped back to his.

"I'm serious," he continued, eyes searching yours. "You... you're everything I'm not. You're grounded. You think before you speak. You look at people and actually see them. And then there's me—chaotic, angry, trying too hard to pretend I'm not falling apart half the time."

"You're not falling apart," you whispered.

"Aren't I?" he said. "I've spent my whole life trying to be someone I didn't even like. And then you walked in—all loud and messy and real—and I didn't know what the hell to do with that. Except fall in love with you anyway."

Your breath hitched. The water below rippled softly, like even it was listening.

"I'm not asking you to fix me," he went on, softer now. "But don't talk like you're not enough. You're the only thing that makes sense in my life."

You blinked, eyes starting to sting.

Rafe leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice lower now, the words thick.

"I don't know how to be perfect. And I'm not good at love—not the kind that actually lasts. I wasn't taught how to do that. I was raised in a house where silence said more than apologies ever did. Where mistakes got buried, not forgiven."

He looked at you, really looked, and your throat tightened.

"But I've lived before," he said. "I've lived without this. Without you. And it's not living. It's just... existing."

You couldn't breathe. Not from sadness. But from everything crashing at once—the honesty, the fear, the love too big to hold without spilling.

He reached for your hand then, slow and careful like he was afraid you'd vanish. His fingers brushed your knuckles, then gently, he lifted them to his lips and kissed them—soft, deliberate, like he was asking for forgiveness he didn't know how to speak.

"Then anchor me," he said. "Keep me here."

Your chest cracked open at those words.

And finally, finally, you let yourself believe he meant them.

"You don't have to run from the past," you whispered. "But you can't keep using it to punish yourself."

Rafe nodded slowly. "I know."

"I don't want perfect," you said. "I just want you. The real you. Even when you're angry. Even when you're scared. Especially then."

He looked at you like he was seeing something holy.

"I say it every time I look at you and think, God, I'm finally home."

Tears welled in your eyes.

"I love you," you told him.

He leaned forward, foreheads touching, both of you breathing the same fragile air.

"I love you too. Tell me what you need," he said, voice cracked and quiet. "Tell me how to prove it."

You didn't need him to prove it. Not anymore.

You closed the gap between you and kissed him—softly at first, then with the kind of desperation that only comes from two people who thought they were losing each other and realized they couldn't bear it.

And when you pulled back, soaked in silence and love and the fading sounds of the storm, you whispered, "Just stay."

And he did.

He stayed beside you on that dock long after the wind died and the stars came out. He stayed with your head on his chest, his arm around your waist, tracing circles on your skin.

He stayed even when words stopped coming, and all you had were heartbeats.

Because love isn't always easy.
Sometimes it's a war.
But when it's real, it's worth every battle.
Even when there's a tide between us.