Drew Starkey Imagines

If I Can Dream

"If I can dream of a better land
Where all my brothers walk hand in hand
Tell me why, oh why, oh why can't my dream come true?"

⸻

Tannyhill was quiet that night.

Not the comforting quiet of a home asleep, but that kind of brittle silence you only get after something's shattered — glass, maybe, or pride. Ward's voice had roared through the halls an hour ago. Now, all that remained was the soft ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the foyer and the low hum of the outdoor lights that lined the veranda.

You were in Rafe's room, curled against the window seat, watching him pace across the hardwood floor.

He hadn't spoken in a while.

His blue button-down hung open, his hands tugging at his hair every so often, like he was trying to wrestle the thoughts out of his skull. His knuckles were scraped again. You didn't ask why.

You never did, not at first. You waited until he wanted to tell you.

"He said I'm nothing," Rafe said finally. Quiet. "Again."

You didn't answer. Just let the words hang in the room, honest and ugly.

He turned to face you then — eyes glassy but dry. "He said I ruin everything I touch."

Your breath hitched softly, but you didn't let it show on your face. You stood from the seat, walked to him slow, barefoot, steady.

"He's wrong," you said, placing your hands on either side of his face. "So wrong."

His jaw clenched.

"What if he's not? What if I'm really just like him?"

You shook your head. "You're nothing like him, Rafe. You feel things. You fight your own demons. You want to be better — and that's more than he's ever tried to do."

You saw it then — the tiny crack in his armor. A flicker of something old and aching in his eyes. Longing. Grief. Hope.

⸻

You knew that Rafe Cameron wasn't who the island thought he was.

He wasn't just a Cameron boy with too much money and too much rage. He was late-night confessions and rough hands turned gentle. He was long drives to nowhere and music too loud and moments where he looked at you like he couldn't believe you were real.

You had seen the worst of him. The spirals. The shame. The self-hatred carved into him like initials in wet cement.

But you'd also seen the best.

And you believed in that version of him. Even when he didn't.

"You ever think about getting out of here?" he asked suddenly.

You blinked. "You mean Kildare?"

He nodded. "The island. The name. The shadow of Ward Cameron." His lips twisted bitterly. "I wanna go somewhere I'm not already guilty just by walking into the room."

You moved closer. "Then let's go. Someday. Anywhere you want."

He laughed once, low and disbelieving. "You'd really come with me?"

"You're my home, Rafe. I don't care where we are."

And it was true. Because when he looked at you like that — vulnerable, exposed, full of all the things he couldn't say — you saw the boy he could have been in a better world. The boy who still believed in something more.

⸻

Later, you laid together on the back lawn, grass damp and cool beneath your bodies, the stars sharp against the inky sky. Rafe's arm was beneath your head, and his other hand was resting on your stomach, fingers tracing shapes into your skin absently.

"Sometimes I dream," he said softly. "I dream about being... good. Not perfect, just—safe. To be around. To be loved."

Your eyes filled without permission.

"You are loved, Rafe. You're loved by me."

He was quiet for a long time.

Then:

"You think there's a version of me in another life — who didn't grow up in this house? Who didn't have him for a father? What would that Rafe be like?"

You turned toward him, brushing his cheek.

"I think he'd be just like you. Same eyes. Same heart. Just... less afraid to show it."

He pulled you close then — tight, like he could keep all the broken pieces from spilling out just by holding you hard enough.

"I want that version," he whispered. "I want to be that for you."

"Then be it," you whispered back. "You already are."

⸻

There was something powerful in that night. Not dramatic. Not loud. But powerful in the way that quiet hope is — the kind that grows in the dark, tender and stubborn.

Rafe fell asleep beside you on the blanket, his fingers still twined in yours, his breathing even and slow. For once, he didn't dream of violence or shame.

He dreamt of mornings in places he didn't recognize — small apartments with soft sheets and no legacy of blood. He dreamt of your laugh, barefoot dinners, kids who knew love instead of fear. He dreamt of a life he never thought he'd be allowed to have.

And when he woke up, heart full and chest aching, you were still there.

Looking at him like he was already forgiven. Already enough.

He thought: "If I can dream of a better sun... where hope keeps shining on everyone..."
"... then I can believe in this. I can believe in her."

And for the first time in a long time, Rafe Cameron let himself believe that maybe — just maybe — he could build a life that wasn't made of wreckage.

Maybe love could be the start of something better.

Maybe you were his dream come true.