Drew Starkey Imagines

Saltwater Snow

Christmas on Figure Eight Island never looked like the kind from movies.

There was no snow—just a pale winter sun glinting off dark water, marsh grass bending under cold wind, and palm trees strung with white lights that blinked softly against the dusk. The Camerons had gone all out, as they always did. The house glowed from the inside like a lighthouse, warm and gold, windows rimmed with garland and bows so perfect they looked staged.

You stood on the front porch for a moment longer than necessary, arms wrapped around yourself, breathing in the sharp salt air. You could hear music drifting from inside—old-school Christmas jazz, the kind Ward Cameron insisted on every year. It felt too polished. Too clean.

You rang the bell anyway.

When the door opened, it wasn't Rose or a housekeeper.

It was Rafe.

For a split second, he just stared at you, like he wasn't sure you were real. His hair was buzzed short, sharp and clean, making his features look more severe, more exposed than usual, and he was wearing a black sweater instead of his usual polo—soft, worn, like he'd grabbed it without thinking. The porch light caught the familiar tension in his jaw, the shadow under his eyes.

"You came," he said quietly.

"I said I would," you replied, offering a small smile.

Something in his shoulders loosened.

"Yeah. I just—" He stepped aside, gesturing you in. "Come in. It's freezing."

Inside, the house smelled like pine and cinnamon and expensive cologne. A massive Christmas tree towered in the living room, dripping in white lights and silver ornaments. Wrapped gifts sat beneath it in perfect rows. It was beautiful in a way that almost hurt.

You'd grown up coming here. You knew the rules. Smile. Be polite. Don't mention anything real.

Rafe lingered beside you as Rose greeted guests in the dining room, his presence grounding in a way that surprised you. He leaned down slightly and murmured, "You okay?"

You nodded. "You?"

He let out a humorless breath. "Ask me later."

Dinner passed slowly. Ward talked business. Rose talked charity events. Sarah wasn't there this year, which left a quiet ache hanging in the air no one addressed. Rafe barely touched his food, pushing it around his plate, his knee bouncing under the table.

When dessert finally came out, you caught Rafe's eye. He tilted his head toward the sliding doors that led to the back deck.

You followed him without a word.

The cold hit instantly, sharp and bracing. The marsh stretched out behind the house, dark water reflecting the moon. Christmas lights lined the deck railing, casting soft shadows over Rafe's face as he leaned against it, hands gripping the wood.

"You ever notice," he said, staring out at the water, "how everything's supposed to feel different tonight?"

"Different how?"

"Better. Lighter." He scoffed quietly. "But it never is."

You stepped closer. "You don't have to pretend with me."

That got his attention. He looked at you then—really looked at you—and something raw flickered across his face.

"I hate Christmas," he admitted. "Everyone acts like if you throw enough lights on things, it fixes everything."

"And it doesn't?"

"Not for me." His voice dropped. "I just feel... more aware. Of all the stuff I can't fix."

The honesty stunned you. Rafe Cameron didn't talk like this. Not to anyone.

"You're not broken," you said softly.

He laughed once, sharp and bitter. "You sure about that?"

You reached out before you could think better of it, your hand resting over his. He stiffened at first, then slowly relaxed, his fingers curling into yours like he'd been waiting for permission.

"I don't need you perfect," you whispered. "I just need you here."

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The wind picked up, rattling the lights. Somewhere inside, laughter drifted through the glass doors.

Rafe stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, smell the faint trace of salt and cedar. His forehead dropped to yours.

"You always do this," he murmured.

"Do what?"

"Make things quieter."

Your breath fogged between you.

"I'm not going anywhere," you said.

He swallowed hard.

"Stay with me tonight," he said suddenly. "Not—" He stopped himself, running a hand over his buzzed head. "Just... don't leave yet."

You smiled, soft and certain. "Okay."

Later, you found yourselves in his room—far from the noise, far from the expectations. A small Christmas tree sat in the corner, mismatched ornaments hanging crookedly. It felt more him than anything downstairs.

You sat on the floor, backs against the bed, sharing a blanket. Rafe handed you a mug of hot chocolate, his fingers brushing yours deliberately this time.

"You remember when we were kids," he said, "and we snuck out to the dock on Christmas Eve?"

"And you fell in?"

He snorted. "You weren't supposed to remind me of that."

"I had to pull you out."

"You laughed the whole time."

"I thought you were going to kill me."

Rafe smiled—a real one, slow and warm, the kind that felt like a gift.

"You make things feel normal," he said. "Like maybe I'm not doomed."

You leaned your head against his shoulder. "You're not."

Outside, the wind hummed low. Inside, the house finally felt quiet.

Rafe shifted, turning toward you. His hand brushed your cheek, hesitant, asking.

When he kissed you, it wasn't rushed or reckless. It was gentle, reverent—like he was afraid of breaking the moment. His thumb rested under your jaw, grounding, warm.

For the first time all night, Rafe Cameron exhaled like he could breathe.

"Merry Christmas," he whispered against your lips.

You smiled, heart full, the world hushed around you.

"Merry Christmas, Rafe."

And for once, it actually felt like it.