Drew Starkey Imagines

Where You Lead, I Will Follow

The automatic doors of Surfside Grocers slid open with a mechanical sigh as you pushed your cart through, the salty air following you in from the Outer Banks evening. The store buzzed softly with chatter and the faint hum of a refrigeration unit somewhere in the back. You were new here—two weeks into your move to the OBX—and still felt like a puzzle piece that hadn't quite clicked into place.

You were halfway down the cereal aisle, comparing two brands of granola, when a low, amused voice came from beside you.

"You know, locals usually skip that one. Too many raisins."

You turned to find him—tall, golden-haired, with that smirk that looked permanently carved into his lips. His blue eyes flickered down at your cart, then back up to your face.

"Sorry, didn't mean to eavesdrop on your breakfast plans," he added, the smirk softening. "You new around here?"

You nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Yeah, just moved in last week. Still trying to find the best places for... everything, honestly."

He extended a hand. "Rafe Cameron."

The name rang a faint bell—maybe from overheard conversations or local gossip—but you couldn't place it. His grip was firm, confident.

"Well, Y/N," he said, glancing at your name scribbled on a coffee cup in your cart, "if you ever want the grand tour, I know all the spots—good food, better views."

You smiled, partly flattered, partly cautious. "You offering to be my tour guide?"

He chuckled, leaning against his cart. "Only if you promise not to get scared off by the locals."

You both exchanged numbers, your phone buzzing with a new contact—Rafe—before parting ways at checkout.

At the time, you thought it was harmless. Just a friendly local being nice.

⸻

A few days later, your phone buzzed again:

Rafe: still up for that tour?
You: sure. when?
Rafe: now. sunset's killer. meet me at The Cut.

He wasn't wrong. The sunset that evening bathed the water in molten gold, the marsh grass glowing like embers. Rafe showed up in a worn white tee and black baseball cap, hands shoved into his pockets.

He took you everywhere—tiny seafood shacks tucked off the road, secret trails through the dunes, the docks where he and his friends used to sneak beers as teenagers. He talked easily, laughing at his own stories, and you found yourself drawn in.

At the end of the night, when the stars began to shimmer over the water, he turned to you, his tone softer.

"Let me take you out. Like, officially."

You hesitated only a moment before nodding.

That first date turned into another, and another, and another. Dinner by the beach, late-night drives blasting old rock songs, slow dances in the glow of his headlights.

Soon enough, people started whispering. The new girl's dating Rafe Cameron.

You brushed it off. Everyone had something to say, and people always warned you about things they didn't understand. Rafe had been nothing but sweet—protective, attentive.

Until he wasn't.

⸻

It started small.

Missed calls. Late arrivals. His jaw tight when you asked simple questions.