Drew Starkey Imagines

Every Thought Leads Back to You

I don't think I realized when it happened—when you stopped being just someone I loved and became the place my mind went when it needed peace.

It's late. The house is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of cars passing somewhere down the road. I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on my knees, watching you sleep like it's the most natural thing in the world to do. Like this is exactly where I'm meant to be.

You're turned slightly toward me, hair spread across the pillow in a way that looks effortless but somehow perfect. One hand is curled near your face, the other resting loosely against my thigh, even in sleep still finding me. You always do that—like your body knows where home is before your mind does.

I swallow, chest tightening for no reason other than the fact that loving you feels too big sometimes.

I've seen a lot of faces in my life. I've stood under bright lights, surrounded by people who smile easily, who are beautiful in ways that feel practiced. But nothing—nothing—has ever hit me the way you do when you're like this. Unaware. Unperforming. Just you.

The beauty of her face was beyond my wildest dreams.

The thought lands in my head so suddenly it almost knocks the air out of me. Because it's not just how you look—it's what your face holds. The softness around your mouth when you're relaxed. The faint crease between your brows you get when you're thinking too hard. The way your eyes change when you're excited, or hurt, or trying not to cry because you don't want to be a burden.

God, you've never been a burden.

If anything, you've been the one thing that made everything else quieter.

I reach out before I can stop myself, brushing my thumb gently along your cheek. You shift a little, letting out a soft breath, and my heart stutters like it forgot how to beat properly.

I've always been afraid of loving things too deeply.

I love fiercely, but carefully—like I'm holding something fragile I don't trust myself not to break. But you slipped past all of that. You didn't ask me to be fearless. You just stayed. You listened. You laughed at my worst jokes and called me out when I was hiding behind silence.

You saw me. And you stayed anyway.

I lie down beside you, careful not to wake you, pulling the blanket up around your shoulders. The room smells like you—clean skin, something warm and familiar. My arm slides around your waist automatically, like muscle memory, like instinct.

I press my forehead to the back of your shoulder and close my eyes.

I think about the way you say my name when you're half-asleep. The way you tuck your cold feet under my legs without asking. The way you believe in me even when I don't know how to believe in myself.

You love me gently, but completely.

And it terrifies me how much I need that.

I've been on sets where everything is loud—voices, cameras, expectations. I've been in rooms full of people where I've never felt more alone. But with you, even silence feels full. Even stillness feels alive.

You stir, turning slightly, your hand finding my chest like you've been searching for it. Your fingers curl into my shirt, grounding me, claiming me without ever meaning to.

I open my eyes again, heart swelling.

If you ever knew how many times I've looked at you and thought, This is it. This is the moment I'll remember when I'm old. The way you laugh with your whole body. The way you get passionate about the smallest things. The way you love—not loudly, not desperately, but with intention.

I press a kiss to your temple, lingering there.

"I love you," I whisper, even though you're asleep. Even though I'd say it a thousand times and still feel like it isn't enough.

Because loving you isn't just a feeling—it's a knowing. A certainty that no matter where I go, no matter how far life pulls me, some part of me will always be reaching for you in the dark.

You sigh softly, nestling closer.

And in that quiet, sacred moment, I realize something with startling clarity:

If this—you, here, now—is all I ever get, it will still have been more than I ever dreamed of.