Drew Starkey Imagines

Back to Friends

The house was too quiet. Too quiet for a Friday night, and too quiet for you. Normally, you would've been at Rafe's by now, curled up on his couch, teasing him about his terrible movie choices or raiding his fridge. That's what best friends did. That's what you two always did.

But this week had been different.

A week ago, everything shifted. One kiss at a party had done it. One kiss at his house, in the middle of the chaos of sweaty bodies, loud music, and flashing lights. It wasn't just any kiss — it was the kiss. The one you'd been thinking about for months, maybe years, but never let yourself believe could happen.

And then you stayed. In his bed. His warmth against you, his arm heavy across your waist as though he was claiming you in his sleep. And for a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe it meant something.

Until morning came.

You woke up before he did, heart pounding, head full of doubts. If you stayed, you'd have to see what that kiss really meant to him. If you left, you could pretend it didn't crush you when he brushed it off. So, you slipped out silently, not even leaving a note.

It was cowardly. And you knew it.

And now, a week later, you hadn't seen him. Hadn't texted. Hadn't called. You didn't know what to say, how to explain the storm inside your chest.

Your phone buzzed more than once with his name lighting up the screen, but you ignored it. Because if the kiss meant nothing to him, then at least you had the memory of what it felt like, and you could keep the friendship intact by avoiding the truth.

But apparently, Rafe had other plans.

⸻

It was nearly nine when you heard the knock. Sharp, demanding, like whoever was outside wasn't going to take no for an answer. Your heart skipped, and you already knew before you opened the door.

There he was. Rafe Cameron. Messy hair, a gray hoodie, his jaw set in that determined way that usually meant trouble for someone else—but this time, you had the sinking suspicion the trouble was meant for you.

"We need to talk." His voice was firm, no hesitation, no question.

You swallowed, fingers tightening around the doorframe. "Rafe..."

He pushed past you gently, stepping inside without waiting for permission. His presence filled the room instantly—too big, too loud, too him. You hadn't realized how much you missed it until right then.

"Why haven't you been around?" he started, turning to face you, blue eyes sharp. "Why haven't you answered my calls? My texts? Do you regret it?" His voice cracked slightly on the last question, just enough to betray the calm front he was trying so hard to hold.

You froze, every word catching in your throat. "I—"

"Do you regret the kiss?" he asked again, more desperate this time.

Your chest squeezed. "It's not that simple."

"Then make it simple," Rafe shot back, frustration dripping from every syllable. "Because I'm losing my mind over here, Y/N. One day you're here, in my bed, kissing me like it meant something, and the next you're gone. Not even a goodbye. Just—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Why did you leave, Y/N? Why sneak out like that?"

Your eyes burned. You hated crying in front of him, but your voice broke anyway.

"Because it's too damn hard, Rafe."

He blinked, stunned. "Hard? What does that even mean?"

You turned away, pacing because standing still felt impossible. "I've liked you for a long time, Rafe. More than a friend should. And that kiss? To me, it wasn't nothing. It wasn't just drunk fun or some stupid mistake. It was everything. And I can't stand here and pretend it didn't wreck me. Because if it meant nothing to you, then our friendship—the one thing I can't lose—is already ruined."

Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.

And then, softly, almost disbelievingly, Rafe said, "As a person who thinks she's always right, I'm afraid to tell you, Y/N... you're wrong."

Your head snapped up. "What?"

Rafe's jaw flexed, his eyes softer now but burning with something you'd never seen so clearly before. "The kiss meant something. It meant everything. You think I'd kiss you, hold you, let you sleep in my bed if it was meaningless?" He stepped closer, each word like a tether pulling you back to him. "I've loved you as my best friend for years. But somewhere along the way, that wasn't enough anymore. I don't just want you around as my friend, Y/N. I want you. All of you."

Your breath caught. "Rafe..."

He reached for you, tentative at first, but when his hands found your waist, his grip tightened like he was afraid you'd slip away again. His forehead brushed against yours. "Don't ever think you're the only one who felt it. I've been in love with you for longer than I can admit. And I don't want to go back to friends. Not now. Not ever."

Your chest swelled, heart pounding so loudly you swore he could hear it. Words tangled on your tongue, but you didn't need them, not when his lips crashed into yours in the next second.

It wasn't like the kiss at the party—blurred, hazy, tinged with alcohol and adrenaline. This was deliberate. Desperate. His lips moved against yours like if he stopped, he'd stop breathing. His hands held you close, grounding you, claiming you, and for the first time all week, the noise in your head quieted.

Because it was real. It was him. And he wanted you just as much as you wanted him.

You melted against him, fingers tangling in his hoodie as you kissed him back with everything you'd been holding inside. It wasn't just a kiss—it was an answer, a promise, a beginning.

And when he finally pulled back, breathless and grinning in that boyish way that had always undone you, he whispered, "You're mine now. No more running. No more sneaking out."

You smiled through your tears, forehead pressed to his. "No more running."

And for the first time, you believed it.