Drew Starkey Imagines

Sunburned and Stuck With You

You and Drew had a flawless plan: beach day, uninterrupted. No work, no responsibilities, no thinking about how pale you both are and how you definitely should've reapplied sunscreen every hour. Because sunscreen? Overrated. Sun? Harmless. You're invincible. Right?

Wrong.

The plan went downhill faster than Drew's ability to resist making dad jokes. Now, eight hours, three mango smoothies, and one very questionable game of beach volleyball later, you're both back at the Airbnb looking like two overcooked lobsters who've seen things.

"I think my skin is crackling," you groan as you flop onto the bed, face-down. "Like bacon. Sizzling."

Drew follows suit with a hiss, dramatically holding his arms out like he's just been shot in a Western. "We flew too close to the sun, baby."

You roll your eyes against the pillow. "You didn't even put on sunscreen until noon!"

"You said, and I quote, 'Let's get some color.'"

"I meant tan, not become a rotisserie chicken! I can feel my soul peeling off with my skin."

He winces, sitting gently at the edge of the bed like any sudden movement might split him in half. He's shirtless, and you catch a glimpse of the perfect, crisp outline of his sunglasses burned onto his face. You snort.

"You have raccoon eyes. Like, severe raccoon eyes."

Drew perks up. "Do I look mysterious? Like a sexy little beach bandit?"

"You look like someone forgot to rotate you on the grill."

He narrows his eyes at you, ignoring the way the movement makes him wince. "Alright, roast me while I'm vulnerable. That's cool. That's real cool."

"Too soon?" you ask sweetly, though your voice is muffled by the pillow.

"We're both too well-done for this conversation."

After a long, pained silence, Drew stands with all the grace of a 90-year-old man who's slept on a rock. "Okay. This is an emergency. Stay here. Don't move. Don't breathe too hard. I'll be back."

"You sound like you're going to war."

He points at you with a stern finger. "Worse. I'm going to CVS."

⸻

Thirty minutes later, he returns like a hero returning from battle, arms full of supplies: aloe vera gel, a cool mist spray, hydrating sheet masks, a bottle of coconut water, and—because it's Drew—an inflatable donut pool float "just in case we need to stay off furniture." He looks proud. He also looks like someone slapped him with a red rubber glove.

"I almost fought an old lady for the last aloe bottle," he says, tossing the bag on the bed. "She was ruthless. I used my charm. She said I looked like a boiled tomato and walked away."

You wheeze, trying to laugh but then immediately regretting it. "Ow. Oh my gosh. No sudden emotions."

He carefully straddles the bed, applying aloe to his own shoulders with dramatic groans before turning to you. "Alright, babe. Your turn. Show me the damage."

You groan. "Are you gonna make it weird?"

"Oh, I intend to make it weird. But in a caring, romantic way. Like a nurse who flirts in Shakespearean."

You give in, peeling your tank top off slowly while making noises reminiscent of someone dying in a soap opera. "If I scream, it's not your fault."

He clicks the cap off the aloe with a flourish. "Permission to touch the forbidden red zone?"

"Granted. Proceed with caution, Nurse Starkey."

What follows is probably the weirdest romantic moment of your relationship. He applies the aloe in the gentlest, most exaggeratedly slow way possible, whispering things like, "Hang in there, brave soldier," and "You didn't die on the beach today. I won't let you die in this Airbnb."

You hiss every few seconds, and he kisses your shoulder in between like it'll counteract the sting.

"You know," you mutter, "if this isn't love, I don't know what is."

"This is absolutely love," he says, smoothing gel over your back. "This is the kind of love Taylor Swift writes about. Just... with more second-degree burns."

You glance over your shoulder. "Your face is literally two different colors."

"You're one to talk. You have a bikini tan line that looks like it was drawn with a ruler."

"Shut up and apply the aloe."

"Yes, ma'am."

⸻

Later, you both lie face-up on the bed like two sizzling slabs of meat, arms sprawled, sheet mask stuck haphazardly to Drew's face (it's a panda print, obviously), coconut water balanced on your stomachs.

"I'm never going outside again," you murmur.

Drew nods slowly. "The sun is our enemy."

"From now on, we vacation in caves."

"With no light. Or sand. Or heat. Just cool, safe darkness."

"...With a mini fridge and WiFi."

He turns his head slowly toward you, his mask half sliding off. "Next time, we bring an umbrella. And a responsible adult."

You raise your coconut water. "To not being trusted with our own skincare."

"To learning the hard way," he agrees, clinking his can against yours with a soft plink.

Then, under the pale blue glow of the TV and the gentle scent of aloe lingering in the room, he reaches over and takes your hand, lacing his fingers gently through yours.

"We may be burnt," he says, "but at least we're burnt together."

You smirk. "A couple that crisps together, stays together?"

"Exactly. Now shut up and help me flip over like a pancake."