Drew Starkey Imagines

The Sweetest Christmas

The house feels different now that OBX season five has officially wrapped.

Not quieter—just calmer. Like the air finally has room to breathe.

Christmas lights glow softly around the living room, draped lazily along shelves and window frames. Outside, the world feels hushed, cold pressing gently against the glass, but inside it's warm—warm in that way that only comes from laughter, familiar love, and the low hum of the oven preheating in the kitchen.

Drew pads around barefoot, sleeves of his sweater already pushed up, hair slightly messy in a way that tells you he hasn't thought about it at all today. He looks relaxed, lighter somehow, like the weight of filming has finally slipped off his shoulders.

"You ready?" he asks, holding up a bag of flour like it's a serious proposition.

You grin. "I was born ready."

The kitchen fills with movement—measuring cups clinking, Christmas music playing softly in the background, the two of you bumping hips as you pass each other without even thinking about it. It starts easy, casual. You read the recipe aloud while Drew pretends to follow it with exaggerated seriousness, nodding like he's about to perform a surgical procedure instead of baking sugar cookies.

"Are you sure that's a teaspoon?" he asks, peering into the bowl.

"Yes, Drew," you laugh. "I promise."

"Mmm," he hums. "I don't know. I might need a second opinion."

He leans closer, shoulder brushing yours, eyes flicking from the bowl to your face. The moment lingers—just long enough to feel it shift. The air thickens slightly, the way it always does when you're close like this, when the world fades down to just the two of you.

You catch him staring.

"What?" you ask, trying not to smile.

"Nothing," he says softly. "Just... missed this."

Your heart does a little flip.

The romance creeps in slowly—his hand resting at your lower back as he reaches past you, the way he kisses your temple without even breaking conversation, how you catch him smiling to himself while watching you stir the dough.

Then it turns flirty.

You're leaning over the counter, scooping dough onto a tray, when you feel it—a quick, playful slap against your butt.

You gasp, spinning around. "Drew!"

He stands there, absolutely unashamed, hand held up like evidence.

Except it's completely coated in flour.

His grin is wicked. "What? It was right there."

You stare at him for half a second before grabbing a handful of flour and tossing it straight at his chest.

"Oh, it's like that now?" he laughs, already scooping more.

Flour flies. It gets in your hair, on your sweater, somehow ends up on his nose. You're both laughing too hard to care, the kitchen turning into a snowy disaster zone as you chase each other in circles, slipping slightly on the dusted floor.

"You started it!" you shout between laughs.

"And I'll finish it!" he fires back, throwing another cloud of white into the air.

Eventually, you collapse against the counter, breathless, cheeks aching from smiling. Drew leans down, resting his forehead against yours, flour smudged everywhere, eyes bright.

"You're a menace," he says fondly.

"So are you," you reply, brushing flour from his eyebrow.

The cookies finally make it into the oven—slightly misshapen, absolutely covered in fingerprints, but perfect anyway.

Later, once they've cooled, you sit side by side at the table with bowls of frosting and sprinkles scattered everywhere. Drew concentrates way too hard on decorating his cookies, tongue peeking slightly between his teeth, while you take a more chaotic approach—colorful frosting, too many sprinkles, zero regret.

As you reach up to brush hair from your face, you accidentally smear frosting across your nose and cheek without realizing it.

Drew bursts out laughing.

"What?" you ask, confused.

He points, still chuckling. "You've got frosting... everywhere."

You laugh too when you feel it. "Well," you say, tilting your head playfully, "help me get it off."

He pauses.

Just for a second.

His smile softens, eyes flicking to your lips before he nods. "Sure."

He steps closer, fingers resting lightly at your waist. He leans in and presses a gentle kiss to the tip of your nose, carefully removing the frosting there. You giggle, heart fluttering.

Then he drags his tongue along your cheek, exaggerated and playful, clearly enjoying himself a little too much.

"Drew!" you squeal, swatting at his shoulder.

He laughs, pulling back with a grin, frosting now smeared across his own mouth. "What? I said I'd help."

"You're ridiculous," you say, laughing so hard you can barely breathe.

"And you love me," he replies easily.

You do.

Eventually, you both calm down, finishing the cookies together—some neat, some chaotic, all made with love. The kitchen is a mess, you're both covered in flour and frosting, and it couldn't feel more perfect.

Drew pulls you into his side, kissing your temple as you admire your work.

"Merry Christmas," he murmurs.

You smile, leaning into him.
"Merry Christmas."