The next morning was slow and quiet—intentionally so.
June woke curled into Rhett's side on the couch, a light blanket thrown over them at some point during the night. The storm had passed, leaving behind only damp city air and soft light spilling through the loft windows. For a while, she simply watched the sun carve gold lines across his cheekbone and the bridge of his nose.
It was surreal.
He looked so peaceful, so unguarded. Nothing like the version the world knew. She reached out and touched his wrist, lightly, memorizing the feel of him—solid, warm, real.
His eyes opened slowly, and a smile tugged at his lips. "Morning."
"Morning," she whispered.
Neither of them moved.
Until his phone buzzed.
Then buzzed again.
And again.
He groaned, reaching for it, already tensing as he scanned the notifications.
June sat up, rubbing her eyes. "You okay?"
He didn't answer at first, just swiped and typed, brow furrowed. His jaw clenched slightly.
"Just... logistics," he muttered. "The team wants a new press photo before the showcase. They want me to drop the acoustic set for a more 'up-tempo performance.' And apparently I'm trending because someone thinks my lyrics are about my ex."
June blinked, not quite prepared for the shift.
The quiet morning air began to feel thinner.
Rhett stood, phone still in hand, pacing a little. "Management wants me to meet with styling this afternoon. Also, apparently we're doing a pop-up with fans. I didn't even agree to that."
She watched him move—saw the change in his shoulders, the way they tightened, the way his voice had taken on that edge he used when he was polite but distant on interviews.
He caught her staring.
"I'm sorry," he said, softening. "This isn't what I wanted today to be."
"It's okay," she said, though it wasn't, not entirely.
By noon, the quiet intimacy they'd shared the night before had been replaced by chaos.
June followed Rhett into the venue's backstage area, clinging to the edges of the noise. The band was already inside—tuning, testing sound levels, joking too loudly. Crew members zipped back and forth with clipboards and water bottles and cables. Two women in glossy black outfits stood near the green room door, whispering and laughing, tossing long glances in Rhett's direction.
Groupies.
The word drifted unbidden into June's mind, like a weed poking up through her carefully tended calm.
Rhett seemed to shrink a little when he saw them. He offered them a quick smile, a polite nod, and kept walking. But one of the girls followed him with her eyes all the way into the room—and when she noticed June, her brows lifted ever so slightly, like she was assessing, calculating.
June wrapped her arms around herself.
Inside the green room, the lights were too bright, the air too cold. Rhett was already being pulled aside by a man in tight jeans and a clipboard who introduced himself as Milo—"Tour coordination, brand strategy, performance flow." He spoke in rushed fragments and tapped constantly on his phone.
"You'll need to post something by 3pm—maybe you and the drummer? Keep the energy up," Milo was saying. "And don't forget to wear the jacket from the last shoot. It polled better. They want continuity."
Rhett's expression tightened.
"Can I breathe in between any of that?" he asked, only half joking.
Milo barely blinked. "Breathing's fine as long as it stays on brand."
June sat on the edge of the couch, trying not to take up space. No one seemed to know what to do with her—least of all Rhett, who looked over every few minutes as if to check she hadn't disappeared.
"Do you want me to leave?" she asked during a brief moment alone.
His face fell. "No. God, no. I want you here. I just… I hate that this is what you're seeing."
She offered him a small smile, though her stomach churned. "This is your world, Rhett. I'm just visiting."
"Yeah, well," he said, voice dry, "this world makes a terrible host."
Later, June wandered the hallways on her own. The venue was sprawling—wires trailing down stairwells, stickers from past bands plastered across the dressing room doors. She passed someone arguing on the phone. A stylist screaming about missing eyeliner. A guy throwing up behind a curtain.
The glamour she'd imagined cracked.
What she'd pictured—music and magic and creativity—had been replaced by exhaustion and performance and a low, simmering desperation. Everyone wanted something. Everyone was climbing, clawing, posturing.
She passed the mirror near the costume racks and caught her own reflection—damp hair, oversized sweater, quiet eyes.
She didn't belong here.
She wasn't loud enough. Sharp enough. Cool enough.
What if Rhett eventually realized that?
What if he already had?
He found her just before sound check, sitting on the steps that led to the loading dock. The air smelled like sweat and dust. Her sketchbook was open on her knees, but her pencil wasn't moving.
"Hey," he said gently.
She looked up. "Hey."
He sat beside her, quiet for a moment. "You disappeared."
"I needed air," she said.
He nodded. "Yeah. That makes sense."
They sat in silence.
Then she asked, "How do you do it?"
He looked confused. "Do what?"
"Live like this. All the noise. All the pressure. The people constantly telling you who to be, what to wear, how to post. It's suffocating."
He exhaled, resting his elbows on his knees. "Some days I don't. Some days I fake it so hard I forget where I end and the act begins."
She looked at him, really looked. "You don't seem fake."
"I try not to be," he said. "But there are versions of me I've had to make just to survive it all."
She nodded. "And which version am I here with?"
He turned to her, expression raw. "The real one. The version I don't get to be onstage. Or in interviews. Or with fans. You're the one person I don't feel like I have to win over."
That hit something deep.
She set the sketchbook aside. "It's just a lot to take in."
"I know."
"I don't think I could live in this world full time."
"You don't have to," he said immediately. "I don't want you to change. I just want you to know what it costs me."
She reached for his hand. "It costs you. That's what I hate."
He gave a small, grateful smile. "You make me want to build something quieter."
She leaned into his shoulder, exhaling slowly. "And I'll be there when you do."
That night, she stood backstage during sound check, watching him sing under the lights. There was no audience, no screams, no social feed waiting to go viral.
Just Rhett.
Singing for the echo of the walls and the girl watching from the wings.
She sketched him again that night.
Not the polished performer. Not the chaotic frontman.
But the boy who came undone in her arms after the storm.
The one who handed her his heart, even as the world tried to take pieces of it.