Drew Starkey Imagines

New Year's Between Us

New Year's Eve on Figure Eight always felt unreal — like the island held its breath waiting for midnight.

The Cameron house was glowing from the inside out, warm golden light spilling through the massive windows, music humming low and steady, bass vibrating through the marble floors. Expensive laughter floated through the air, champagne flutes clinked somewhere behind you, and outside, the ocean was dark and endless, reflecting pinpricks of fireworks from early celebrations down the shore.

You stood near the balcony doors, fingers wrapped around a glass you'd barely touched, watching the water instead of the crowd.

You hadn't planned on coming tonight.

But Rafe had texted you earlier — You should be here.
Not an invitation. Not a question. Just a statement.

And somehow... you listened.

You felt him before you saw him.

That familiar shift in the air. The way your skin prickled like it always did when he was near.

"Why do you look like you're trying to escape your own party?"

His voice came from behind you, low and lazy, carrying that unmistakable edge. You turned, heart doing that stupid little flip it always did, and there he was — Rafe Cameron in a black button-down, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms, gold chain catching the light when he moved.

He looked unfairly good. Effortless. Dangerous in the way only Rafe could be.

"I could ask you the same thing," you said, lifting a brow. "You're the one lurking."

He smirked, stepping closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne — warm, clean, familiar. "I don't lurk," he said. "I observe."

You snorted softly. "Right."

His eyes softened for half a second, gaze flicking over your face, then down — not in a gross way, just... like he was memorizing you. Like he always did when he thought you weren't paying attention.

"You look good," he added, quieter now.

Something about the way he said it — no joke, no arrogance — made your chest tighten.

"Thanks," you replied, suddenly shy.

The music shifted behind you, someone yelling about shots in the kitchen, but Rafe didn't move. He tilted his head toward the balcony instead.

"Come on," he said. "Too many people in here."

You hesitated, just for a second. Everyone knew Rafe Cameron came with complications. With storms. With feelings you didn't always know how to handle.

But it was New Year's Eve.

So you nodded.

Outside, the night air was cool, crisp, carrying salt from the ocean. The noise from inside dulled to a distant murmur once the doors shut behind you. The sky stretched wide above, dark but expectant.

Rafe leaned against the railing beside you, shoulder brushing yours. Not accidental.

Fireworks bloomed somewhere far away, soft pops of color lighting up the horizon.

"Crazy year," you murmured.

Rafe huffed a quiet laugh. "That's one way to put it."

You glanced at him. He wasn't smirking now. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the water like it might answer questions he never asked out loud.

"You okay?" you asked gently.

He shrugged, but it wasn't convincing. "I'm here, aren't I?"

That answer told you everything and nothing at the same time.

Another firework burst overhead, brighter this time, reflecting in his eyes. He turned to look at you, really look at you, and the moment stretched — heavy, electric.

"You ever think about how fast things change?" he asked. "One year you think you've got it all figured out, and the next—" He stopped, jaw flexing.

"And the next you're standing on a balcony at midnight with someone who makes you forget how messed up everything else is," you finished softly.

His breath caught.

Rafe stared at you like you'd just said something dangerous.

"That's not fair," he muttered.

"What isn't?"

"The way you do that," he said. "Say things I don't know how to ignore."

Your heart pounded. "Then don't ignore them."

For a moment, he didn't move. Then slowly, carefully, he reached out, fingers brushing yours where they rested on the railing. Not grabbing. Just... asking.

You didn't pull away.

His thumb traced the back of your hand, sending warmth straight through your chest. "I don't do promises," he said quietly. "You know that."

"I'm not asking for one."

The countdown began inside the house — voices rising, muffled but excited.

"Ten!"

Rafe stepped closer, close enough that your knees nearly touched. "Good," he murmured. "Because all I know is that I want to start the year like this."

"Nine!"

Your breath mingled with his. Fireworks lit the sky brighter now.

"Eight!"

"Rafe..." you whispered.

He swallowed. "Tell me to stop."

You didn't.

"Seven!"

His hand slid to your waist, warm and grounding.

"Six!"

Your fingers curled into his shirt.

"Five!"

The world narrowed to just the two of you.

"Four!"

His forehead rested against yours.

"Three!"

"I don't wanna mess this up," he admitted softly.

"Two!"

"Then don't run," you said.

"One!"

The sky exploded in color. Cheers erupted from inside the house.

Rafe kissed you.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Slow and sure, like he wanted to remember every second. His hand tightened at your waist just slightly, like he was anchoring himself, like you were something real in a world that never stayed still.

When he pulled back, his forehead still resting against yours, he smiled — small, genuine, and rare.

"Happy New Year," he said.

You smiled back. "Happy New Year, Rafe."

And for the first time in a long time, he looked like he believed the year ahead might actually be worth