The silence in Rhett's loft was a different kind of loud.
Not empty, not uncomfortable—just charged. Like the pause between a lightning strike and the roll of thunder.
They'd returned from rehearsal a little after 10 p.m., trailing behind a quiet Los Angeles night that smelled faintly of citrus and exhaust. Rhett had offered her tea. She'd accepted, though neither of them drank it. Now the mugs sat cooling on the coffee table between them, untouched, while they sat on the couch with three inches of space—and a whole universe of anticipation—between their knees.
Rhett shifted first. Not closer, not farther. Just... a subtle movement. Like a skipped beat.
"You okay?" he asked.
June nodded. "Yeah. Just…"
"Yeah," he said softly, smiling. "Same."
Her eyes flicked over his profile—his sharp jaw, the soft mess of curls falling over one eyebrow, the way his fingers fidgeted lightly against the seam of his jeans. She'd drawn that hand half a dozen times. And now it was right there. Alive. Slightly trembling.
"I keep thinking I'll wake up," she whispered.
He looked at her, really looked at her. "Then we're both dreaming the same thing."
She didn't mean to laugh, but she did. A small, breathy sound that cracked the tension just enough to breathe again.
Rhett exhaled and leaned back against the cushions. "I didn't expect to be this nervous."
"You're always composed on screen," she said. "All chill and effortless."
He made a face. "That's carefully curated chaos. Don't fall for the lie."
"I already did."
He stilled, the line settling between them like a confession neither of them had expected.
Then, slowly, he reached out and placed his hand on the couch cushion—open, palm up, fingers loose.
He didn't move closer. Didn't look at her while he did it.
But the invitation was clear.
June looked at it for a moment—those fingers she'd traced with pencil and charcoal, trying to capture their music. Now they waited, quietly trembling, not demanding anything. Just offering.
She slid her hand into his.
Their fingers met awkwardly at first, too quick, too much. But they adjusted, realigned, until they fit. Until warmth spread between them like melting snow.
He looked at her then. "Hi."
"Hi," she whispered, her voice catching slightly.
The first touch was lightning—awkward, yes, but real. More real than any call, any lyric, any sketch. His thumb moved slightly against the back of her hand, like he was memorizing her in Braille. And something in her chest gave way, the way paper does when soaked in water.
She didn't know what to say. So she didn't.
And he didn't push her to.
Instead, he let them sit there—hand in hand, breaths synced, silence full.
Then he said, almost too quietly to hear, "You smell like home."
She blinked. "What does home smell like?"
He smiled. "Graphite and lavender."
Her cheeks warmed. "That's just the hand lotion I use."
He turned, gaze soft but focused. "No. That's you."
She wanted to cry, for reasons she couldn't fully name. It wasn't sadness. It wasn't even joy. It was recognition. The kind that lives in your bones before you understand it in your mind.
She leaned into his shoulder slowly, gently, until her head rested against him. He didn't flinch. He just shifted so she fit better.
For a while, they stayed that way.
No kissing. No rushing.
Just touch.
The simple, aching miracle of closeness.
The silence eventually broke when Rhett whispered, "Do you want to hear what I didn't play at rehearsal?"
She tilted her head toward him. "There's more?"
He nodded, his voice lower now. "There's always more. But this one's... yours. Just yours."
She pulled back enough to see his face. "You wrote me a song?"
"No," he said. "You drew it. I just translated it into chords."
Then he stood and disappeared into the corner, grabbing his acoustic guitar. He returned and sat beside her again, tuning quietly. His fingers moved confidently now, steady. Familiar.
He played the first chord, and the air changed.
The melody was slower than his other songs, built on minor chords that clung to the room like mist. Then came the lyrics—soft, raw, and so completely hers.
You sketched me into focus, with hands that don't shake
You gave color to the corners I was scared to wake
I was grayscale and fading, a song left unheard
Then you drew me a future, without saying a word
June's throat closed.
Every note was a memory. Every word a moment they'd lived apart, layered with the longing of someone who had been waiting for her without knowing it.
She didn't realize she was crying until he looked up and gently thumbed the tear from her cheek.
"Too much?" he asked, smiling gently.
"Too perfect," she said, her voice cracking.
He set the guitar aside.
"June," he said, not as a question, but as an anchor. "Can I touch your face?"
She nodded before she even realized she had.
His fingers were hesitant at first, brushing her cheek like he was afraid she'd vanish. Then he cupped her face, his thumb resting just beneath her eye.
She leaned into it.
Their foreheads touched.
Neither moved to kiss.
It wasn't about that. Not yet.
This was slower. More sacred.
A miracle built in small movements.
"I was afraid," she whispered. "That if we met, the magic would dissolve."
He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "And now?"
"It's worse," she said with a teary laugh.
He pulled back slightly, confused.
She smiled through it. "Now I know it's real. And I don't ever want to lose it."
"You won't," he said. "Not if I have any say in it."
He leaned in. And this time, when their lips touched, it wasn't careful.
It was true.
Not perfect. Not smooth. A little clumsy. A little breathless.
But right.
Her fingers curled into his shirt.
His hand settled at her waist.
They pulled away slowly, eyes wide, breath shared.
"I think I stopped breathing," he murmured.
She laughed, half in wonder. "I think I just started."
He kissed her again—quieter now. Reverent.
And for the first time, in this city of strangers and noise, June felt still.
And held.