Drew Starkey Imagines

Pretty and Pissed

Your parents were on some business trip in Europe, sipping wine and shaking hands in foreign time zones, completely unaware that you weren't staying with your "bestie from school" like you said. You were at Rafe's place. Two whole weeks in Figure Eight heaven — or so you thought.

The first few nights were bliss: lazy mornings, late-night drives, kisses that tasted like mint and mischief. But then he started vanishing. Disappearing for hours. Coming home late — like really late — with a smirk and the scent of someone else's perfume clinging to his hoodie.

You weren't stupid. You noticed. You always notice.

So when you sat down for lunch with Kie and Sarah at The Wreck, everything boiled over.

"He didn't come home last night," you said, playing with the straw in your lemonade. "I mean, not until 4AM. Said he was at Topper's, but... I don't know. He's lying. I feel it."

Kie shot a glance at Sarah. Sarah, who'd known Rafe since birth. Both of them wore the same look — the one people wear when they know something you don't want to hear.

"What?" you asked, already knowing.

Kie hesitated. "We think... he's cheating."

Your heart didn't break. Not right then. Because deep down, you already knew. You just didn't want it spoken out loud.

⸻

Operation: Find the Truth

The three of you formed a plan — cold and calculated.
• Kie would park near the house and follow Rafe the moment he left.
• Sarah would be on standby at the country club, hidden, quiet, watching.
• You would wait at home — pacing, overthinking, boiling.

When Rafe walked through the living room that afternoon, pulling a sweatshirt over his head, he paused to kiss your forehead. You didn't flinch.

"Heading out. Be back in a bit, okay?"

You forced a smile. "Okay, baby."

The door clicked shut.

You whipped out your phone.

You: He just left.
Kie: I'm already behind him. Following now.
You: Sarah, he might be headed your way. Get ready.
Sarah: On it.

Then came the worst part: the waiting. You paced like a ghost, haunting Rafe's house. Your fingers itched with anxiety. You wandered into his room and started looking around — drawers, hoodie pockets, glove compartments in his truck. Nothing. Not a single trace of betrayal.

But 45 minutes later — it came.

Kie: He just pulled into the country club.
Sarah: I see him. He's walking toward some girl... wait...

Seconds passed.

Sarah: He just called her baby. Oh my god.
Sarah: They're kissing. I'm taking a pic.

Your stomach turned. Your hands went numb. You weren't crying — just frozen. Seconds later, the photo arrived. Blurry. Zoomed in. But real.

Rafe. Your Rafe. Hands on her waist. His lips on hers.

⸻

The Breaking Point

Kie and Sarah showed up 20 minutes later. You were sitting on the couch, staring at the floor, arms hugging your knees.

They didn't say anything at first. But you saw it in their eyes — confirmation.

"I heard him say baby," Sarah said quietly. "And then they kissed. By her car."
"We're so sorry," Kie whispered.
"Rafe is an idiot."

You looked up. And something inside you snapped.

You weren't the weepy girl this time. Not the one who curled up and cried into someone's shirt.

"What the hell? So he's just gonna cheat on me and act like he can get away with it!?" you snapped, voice rising with every syllable. "Is he really that fucking stupid?!"

Kie blinked. "What are you gonna do?"

You stood up so fast the coffee table shook. "First?"
You stalked to the kitchen, eyes locked on the sink.

"I want to break something."

You grabbed the first plate and shattered it against the tile floor. Then another. Then a mug. A bowl. Glass flew. You were really pissed now — full rage mode, blood-hot and dangerous.

Kie and Sarah didn't even try to stop you.

In fact, Kie grabbed a pan and started whacking it into the side of the fridge like a war drum.

Sarah took a picture frame off the wall and smashed it against the counter.

It was chaos. Glorious, messy chaos.

Then came Rafe's room. You flipped his pillows. Threw his cologne across the room. Dumped his clothes out. You even took his stupid framed golf trophy and chucked it into the wall, the cheap plastic splitting in two.

When you were done, everything was quiet.

You sat on the edge of the bed, hair wild, chest heaving. The girls sat beside you.

"You okay now?" Kie asked softly.
"Yeah," you whispered. "I'm good. I just... I want to be here when he comes back."

Sarah nodded. "Save the photo to show him...you know just in case he tries to lie."

They hugged you one last time and left.

⸻

Confrontation

It was around 10PM when you heard the front door open. His footsteps stopped immediately.

"What the hell... what did you do?" he called out from the kitchen.

You stepped out from the hallway slowly.

"No, Rafe. The question is — who did you do?"

He blinked. "What?"

You mimicked him with pure venom. "'What?' Are you really gonna play dumb right now?"

He stepped toward you, frowning. "What are you talking about?"

You held up your phone — the picture front and center. "I know. Sarah saw you. She heard you. So drop the act."

He looked at the photo. For a second, his expression went blank — like his mask just slipped off.

Silence.

"I'm going to ask you one question," you said. "And I want the honest truth. How long has this been going on?"

He swallowed hard. Looked at the floor. Then back at you.

"A month."

It hit you like a brick to the chest.

"A month?! You've been seeing her for a whole month and still sleeping next to me every night?"

He nodded once. Shame painting his features.

"Wait," you said, stepping back. "Why only these past five nights? Why suddenly all the late nights now?"

He sighed. "She got a new place. It's farther away."

The way he said it — like it was just logistics — made you sick.

Without thinking, your hand flew across his face. A loud, sharp slap echoed off the walls.

His jaw clenched.

"Fuck you," you spat. No tears. No shaking voice. Just ice. "You don't even deserve an ending. I'm not grabbing a single thing. I'm done."

You turned. Grabbed your keys. Slammed the door.

⸻

That night, you didn't cry. You didn't spiral. You turned on Rihanna's "Breakin' Dishes" in your car, volume all the way up, windows down, and the occasional angry scream.

You weren't a girl scorned.
You were a girl reborn.

And he was nothing now.