Drew Starkey Imagines

Tears

The kitchen smells faintly of citrus spray and warm dish soap, the kind that always leaves a soft sheen on the counters you've been wiping down for the past ten minutes. It's early evening, that sweet hour where the sun has dipped just low enough to spill honey-colored light through the windows, catching on the dust particles you've kicked up from your half-hearted attempt at cleaning.

You've already abandoned any real form of productivity.

The moment Sabrina Carpenter's "Tears" came on, your hips decided to take over your body. You had been wiping down the counter, then suddenly you were swaying, the sleeve of one of Drew's oversized t-shirts slipping down your shoulder as you spun, mouthing the lyrics into the wooden spoon you'd been using as a makeshift microphone.

You're singing without restraint now, perched on your toes, hair messy, half tangled from the day, falling in a curtain around your face as you bounce your head to the beat:

"I get wet at the thought of you...
Being a responsible guy..."

You laugh as you sing it, but it's a breathless laugh — because the thought really is about him. About Drew, specifically, sweaty and flushed after his usual gym session, doing something stupid like taking out the trash without being asked or tightening the wobbly handle on your dresser. The man folds a blanket and suddenly you're gone.

You spin again, letting your hips sway, running your hand down your thigh in exaggerated performance as you sing:

"A little initiative can go a very long way..."

You drag the towel along the counter dramatically, fully immersed in the moment, not caring how ridiculous you look — because nobody's watching.

Or so you think.

And then—

A soft, unmistakable chuckle breaks the air.

Your entire body freezes mid-hip roll.

The wooden spoon microphone drops onto the counter with a clatter.

You whirl around so fast your hair fans across your face, heart lurching into your throat — and there he is.

Drew stands in the doorway, gym bag slung over his shoulder, a thin sheen of sweat still clinging to the edge of his jaw. His tank top is a little damp at the collar, and his hair looks like he raked through it a dozen times on the drive home. He's leaning against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised, lips pressed together in a smile he's obviously trying — and failing — to hold back.

His eyes sweep over you slowly. And oh, he's enjoying the view.

Bare legs. His old t-shirt sliding off your shoulder. Hair messy and wild. Breathless. Blushing.

Your embarrassment is instant, scorching hot and unforgiving. You slap your hands over your face, groaning.

"Oh my god. How long have you been standing there?"

Drew laughs again — the kind of laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes and drops his shoulders. Not mocking. Not even teasing.

Admiring.

"Long enough," he says, voice warm and low, "to learn that the fastest way to make you think about me is... apparently... doing the dishes?"

You want the tile floor to swallow you whole. "Drew, I was cleaning. I was— I was actually being productive."

"I saw," he nods, amusement blooming across his features. "Very productive. Great technique, baby. Especially the hip action."

You groan louder, burying your face in your hands again. "I can't believe this. I thought you weren't coming home for another twenty minutes."

"Traffic was light." He sets his gym bag down quietly, then steps closer, his voice dipping into something softer. "Didn't know I was walking into a full concert, though."

"I wasn't— it wasn't— it was the song!" you protest, pointing franticly toward your phone on the counter as if it's responsible for your mortification.

"Oh, trust me," he says, closing the last few steps between you, "I heard the lyrics."

Your cheeks flame. "Please don't quote them."

He tilts his head, pretending to think. "Something about tears running down your thighs...?"

"Drew Starkey, I swear to—"

He laughs, wrapping his arms around your waist before you can bolt. His hands settle warm and wide on your hips, thumbs stroking gently as he pulls you closer. You feel the coldness of his wedding band through your shirt - well technically his shirt. Your breath catches — partly from embarrassment, partly from the way he looks at you, like the scene he just walked into is the best part of his day.

"Hey," he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair off your cheek. "I'm not making fun of you. I loved it."

"You did not."

"I did," he insists softly. "Seeing you dancing around in my shirt, hair all messy, singing a song about how I make you feel? Baby, that's... pretty damn great."

Your blush deepens, but the tension in your shoulders melts a little.

Drew leans in, nudging your forehead with his in the gentlest, sweetest way, his smile brushing against your lips.

"You know," he says quietly, "you look really, really good right now."

You try to look away, but his hands on your hips hold you there, firm but affectionate. "You're only saying that because I was just caught doing the world's worst kitchen choreography."

"You're adorable," he says simply. "And hot. Very hot. It's a dangerous combo."

Your breath stutters, your hands finally dropping from your face to rest on his chest, fingers brushing the cool fabric of his gym tank. He smells like clean sweat, laundry detergent, and a hint of eucalyptus from his body wash.

"I still can't believe you saw that," you mumble.

"I'm glad I did." He grins. "If that's what happens when I'm not home, maybe I should surprise you more often."

"Don't you dare."

He chuckles, then his expression softens again — the kind of soft that makes your stomach flutter.

"Sing it again?" he asks.

"What? Absolutely not."

"Please?" He dips his face closer, lips brushing your cheek. "For me?"

"Drew—"

"I'll even help with the next verse," he adds, mock-serious. "I can do backup vocals. Or choreography. I'm flexible."

You laugh despite yourself, leaning into his chest, your embarrassment slowly morphing into affection.

"Fine," you mutter, wrapping your arms around his waist. "But you're doing the dishes."

He grins. "Baby... that's exactly the kind of initiative the song was talking about."

You groan. He kisses the top of your head. And somehow, even embarrassed, you're smiling into his shirt.