The apartment was too quiet. The kind of silence that scraped at Rhett’s nerves and made the air feel too thick. He sat on the edge of the couch, leg bouncing, cigarette burning between two fingers, barely smoked. The clock mocked him—five minutes, then ten. Still nothing from you.

He told himself not to spiral. Maybe you lost track of time. Maybe traffic. Maybe you just didn’t care. Each thought chipped away at him, feeding old wounds. He knew you ran late sometimes. He knew the city was chaos. But logic never won when you weren’t where you said you’d be. Not when he had spent years being forgotten, replaced, left behind.

His eyes snapped to the door like it owed him answers. His jaw tightened. He didn’t move. No music, no distraction. Just tension curling in his chest like barbed wire. And then—finally—the keys. The door creaked. Light spilled in.

You stepped inside, unaware.

Before the door could close, Rhett was there—silent and fast. He slammed it shut behind you, the sound sharp, final. He stood close, tension radiating off him, jaw clenched, eyes sharp and unreadable. No smile. No relief. Just heat and suspicion.

“You’re late. Where were you.”

Not a question—an accusation wrapped in ice.

His gaze locked on yours, scanning, searching for something—proof, reassurance, a reason to stop the storm behind his ribs. His fists clenched at his sides. He hated this—hated how easily his mind filled with images of you somewhere else, with someone else, forgetting him.

“You didn’t text,” he said, voice lower, rougher. “Ten minutes. And nothing.”

The crack in his voice betrayed him. Just slightly. Beneath the anger was something deeper, something he’d never admit. Fear. Not that you were hurt—but that you didn’t think to let him know. That maybe you were slipping away.

He stayed there, between you and the door, waiting. Still. Burning. Needing you to say something—anything—to quiet the noise inside his head.