Drew Starkey Imagines

Weren't for the Wind

You always knew when it was time to leave.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It was just a feeling—low and steady in your chest, like the tide pulling back before it surged forward again. A restlessness you couldn't explain without sounding ungrateful.

Kildare was beautiful. Too beautiful to complain about. Salt in the air, sunlight spilling across the water, nights that smelled like bonfires and freedom.

And Rafe Cameron.

Rafe was the problem.

Because if there was ever a reason to stay, it was him.

⸻

You were lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun lazily overhead. His arm was slung across your waist, heavy and warm, grounding in a way that made your chest ache.

This was the part you loved.
The quiet. The stillness. The feeling of being chosen without having to run.

Rafe shifted beside you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "You're thinking again."

You smiled faintly. "Am I that obvious?"

"Only when you're about to bolt," he said, half-joking.

You didn't laugh.

The wind brushed against the open window, lifting the curtain just enough to let cool air spill across your skin. It felt like a hand tugging at you. A reminder.

You turned onto your side to face him. He was watching you already, blue eyes searching your face like he was bracing himself.

"You ever wonder," you said slowly, "what kind of person you'd be if you stayed in one place your whole life?"

Rafe frowned. "Is this a trick question?"

"No. I'm serious."

He thought about it. "I'd probably be bored," he said. Then softer, "But if I had the right reason, maybe not."

Your throat tightened.

He was your right reason.

And that terrified you.

⸻

You loved Rafe in the way restless people love—fully, intensely, but with one foot already turned toward the door. You memorized him like you wouldn't get to keep him. The way his laugh cracked when something really got him. The way he softened when he thought no one was looking. The way his hand always found yours in the dark.

Rafe didn't rush you. Didn't cage you. He let you come and go in small ways—weekend trips, late nights driving nowhere, moments when you pulled back and he pretended not to notice.

That made it worse.

Because he would've stayed.

⸻

The fantasy crept in at the worst times.

You imagined a life where you didn't feel this itch under your skin. Where the road didn't call your name. Where the wind didn't feel like a dare.

In that life, you stayed in Kildare. You bought groceries instead of gas station snacks. You learned the neighbors' names. You woke up next to Rafe every morning and never once wondered what you were missing.

Sometimes you pictured a ring on your finger.

That was usually when the panic hit.

⸻

"You're leaving again, aren't you?"

Rafe said it quietly, standing in the doorway as you folded clothes into a duffel bag. The room felt smaller than usual. Too full.

You paused, hands tightening around a t-shirt.

"I don't know," you lied.

He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes tired but not angry. "You always say that."

"I always come back."

"Yeah," he said. "But you never stay."

The truth hung between you, heavy and undeniable.

You turned to face him. "I don't mean to hurt you."

"I know," he replied. "That doesn't really help."

The wind rattled the window, like it was impatient.

You swallowed. "I think there's something wrong with me."

Rafe straightened. "Don't say that."

"I can see the life right in front of me," you continued, voice shaking. "And instead of wanting it, I feel trapped. And I hate that. I hate that I can't just be normal."

He crossed the room in three strides, hands cradling your face. "You don't have to be normal."

"But I do if I want to stay," you whispered.

His grip loosened.

⸻

You kissed him like it was a confession.

Slow. Careful. Like you were apologizing with your mouth instead of your words. Rafe kissed you back, like he was trying to convince you to change your mind.

For a moment, you almost did.

But the wind pressed against the house, steady and relentless.

⸻

You left before sunrise.

Not because he asked you to.
Not because he pushed you away.

Because staying felt like lying.

Rafe watched from the porch as you loaded your bag into the car. He didn't stop you. He never did. He just stood there, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight.

"If it weren't for the wind," you said, voice breaking, "I think I'd be really good at loving you."

He nodded once. "I know."

That was the worst part.

He understood you.
Even when you didn't deserve it.

⸻

The road opened up in front of you, wide and endless. The wind rushed through the open windows, familiar and freeing.

And still—your chest ached.

Because somewhere behind you was a life you could've had.

If it weren't for the wind.