Drew Starkey Imagines

Only His Under Bar Lights

The bar is already loud before you even step fully inside—music thumping low and heavy, laughter spilling over from every corner, bodies pressed close together in that chaotic, coastal-night way that only the Outer Banks seems to do right.

Rafe stays close behind you as you move through the crowd, his presence warm and solid, grounding. His hands rest on your shoulders, thumbs brushing absently as he steers you both forward, guiding you so you don't get bumped or lost. It's instinctive with him—protective without even thinking about it.

You can feel his chest just inches from your back, the heat of him, the faint scent of cologne and salt air clinging to his shirt. Every step you take, he matches. Like he's daring anyone to try something.

And then you feel it.

That shift in the air.

Two men leaning against the bar—older, bigger, already drunk enough to be bold. Their eyes drag over you, slow and unapologetic. One of them mutters something to the other, a smirk curling his mouth.

Before you can even react, Rafe stiffens.

His hands leave your shoulders.

You turn just in time to see him pivot sharply, jaw set, eyes darkening as he strides straight toward them.

"What are you looking at?" Rafe snaps.

His voice cuts through the music like a blade.

The men glance at each other, then back at him. Up close, Rafe is intimidating—broad shoulders, clenched fists, fury barely contained beneath the surface. The look in his eyes says he's one comment away from doing something reckless.

They hold up their hands defensively, backing off almost immediately.

"Nothing, man. Chill," one of them mutters.

Rafe doesn't move right away. He just stares them down, daring them to say one more word.

That's when you step forward and slip your fingers into his hand, squeezing firmly.

"C'mon," you say softly.

Your voice pulls him back faster than anything else could.

Rafe exhales through his nose, muscles still tense as he lets you tug him away. He doesn't look back, but you can feel the anger rolling off him as you guide him deeper into the bar.

"I don't like those guys checking you out," he says, low and tight, once you're out of earshot.

You glance up at him, slowing your steps just enough to meet his eyes.

"Rafe," you say gently, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. "It's all okay. Just relax. I'm with you—and that's all that matters."

He stops walking.

You almost bump into him as he turns to face you, his grip tightening just slightly around your hand. His eyes search your face, like he's trying to calm the storm inside himself.

After a moment, he nods. Tight-lipped. Controlled.

"Yeah," he mutters. "Yeah. Okay."

But you know him well enough to know he's still wound tight beneath the surface.

You weave through the rest of the crowd together until you finally spot familiar faces near the back—Topper leaning against a high table, Kelce laughing too loud with a drink already half gone.

"There they are," you say.

Topper notices you first, lifting his glass in greeting. "About time. Thought you two bailed."

Rafe slips an arm around your waist immediately, pulling you close against his side. Possessive. Unapologetic.

"Traffic," Rafe replies flatly.

Kelce grins, eyes flicking between the two of you. "You look like you're about to murder someone, man."

Rafe doesn't respond. Instead, he tightens his arm just a bit more, his thumb brushing the bare skin at your hip.

You lean into him, grounding him the way he grounds you.

The night moves on—drinks ordered, music louder, conversations overlapping—but Rafe never really relaxes. He stands just behind you most of the time, a hand always on you somewhere: your lower back, your waist, your thigh when you're perched on a barstool.

Every time someone looks your way for even a second too long, his jaw clenches.

At one point, while Topper and Kelce are arguing about something stupid, you turn toward Rafe and tilt your head.

"You okay?" you ask quietly.

He leans down so only you can hear him. "Just don't like this place tonight."

You smile softly and slide your hands up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt.

"Then take me outside," you murmur.

That does it.

His eyes darken instantly.

Rafe grabs your hand and leads you out the back, past the noise and the lights and into the cooler night air. The ocean breeze hits you both, carrying the distant sound of waves and muffling the chaos behind you.

As soon as the door closes, Rafe backs you gently against the brick wall, bracing his hands on either side of your head.

"You drive me insane," he says under his breath—not angry now, just intense. "You know that?"

You smile, lifting your hands to his jaw, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones.

"You're the one who decided to play bodyguard," you tease.

His lips twitch. "Someone's gotta."

He leans his forehead against yours, breathing you in, calming himself. His hands slide down to your waist, thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles.

"I just—" he starts, then stops. "I hate the thought of anyone thinking they can have you."

You soften at that, your tone gentler now. "They can think whatever they want. I chose you."

That finally breaks him.

Rafe kisses you—slow, deep, controlled but loaded with everything he's been holding back. Not rushed. Not sloppy. Just intense, like he's reminding both of you exactly where you belong.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours again.

"Mine," he murmurs—not as a claim, but as a promise.

You smile against his lips. "Yours."

He exhales, the tension finally easing as he pulls you into his chest, holding you there while the night hums quietly around you—safe, steady, exactly where you're meant to be.

And for the first time all night, Rafe Cameron actually relaxes.