It started with a blurry photo.
At first glance, it could've been anyone—two people walking out of a venue under an umbrella, half-shadowed by the streetlamp glow. But the angle caught just enough: the curl of Rhett's jawline, the back of a girl's head, and the unmistakable way his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders.
June saw it for the first time on a fan account, @RhettRetweets, the caption bubbling with speculation.
Is this the mystery girl Rhett's been writing about? 👀
She blinked at the post, pulse ticking faster as she scrolled through the comments.
SHE'S CUTE WTF 😭
He better treat her right
She looks so normal. Like... grocery store normal.
I KNEW those songs weren't about his ex
Why hasn't he said anything yet??
WHO IS SHE?!
Her stomach twisted. She set the phone down slowly, like it was something that could explode.
Across the room, Rhett's back was turned as he played through a new chord progression. The windows were cracked open to let in the late afternoon breeze, and the hum of LA traffic floated in like background static.
"Rhett," she said quietly, not turning from the screen. "You've been spotted."
He stopped playing. "What?"
She handed him her phone.
His brow furrowed as he scrolled. Then his jaw tightened. "Shit."
A pause.
"They weren't even supposed to be out there," he muttered. "We left through the side. I was told that was clear."
She sat on the edge of the couch, arms folded tightly around her chest. "It's already everywhere."
He handed the phone back to her with a sigh. "Okay. We'll handle this."
"How?"
"I'll talk to Milo. We can put out a statement or—"
"I don't want a statement," she snapped before she could stop herself. "I want to not be a headline. I want to be invisible again."
His eyes softened, guilt flashing across his face. "I'm sorry, June. I should've been more careful."
Her voice lowered. "You said this part of your life wouldn't touch me."
"I said I hoped it wouldn't," he said. "But we both knew that might not last."
She stood, pacing toward the window. Her reflection looked back at her in the glass—half-transparent, haunted.
"I'm not built for this," she whispered.
Behind her, Rhett stood slowly. "Then we make rules. Boundaries. You don't owe anyone access to your life just because they saw a blurry photo."
"But they'll dig," she said. "They'll want more. They'll find me."
His voice turned serious. "Then we make sure they hit a wall. You don't post. You don't respond. You don't explain. I'll take the heat. Let them speculate."
"And what happens when they don't stop?"
He stepped forward. "Then I remind them I'm allowed to have a private life. And you're part of it. But that doesn't mean they get to touch it."
She turned slowly to look at him, and something in her face must have shifted—because he stepped closer and took her hands.
"I want you," he said, steady. "Not for press. Not for headlines. For me."
She wanted to believe him. Part of her did.
But another part—the quiet part that still lived in shadows—felt like the girl she'd always been was slipping out of her skin.
By the next morning, three more photos had surfaced.
A shot of them walking hand-in-hand through a bookstore.
Another of them at a crosswalk—Rhett smiling down at her, June laughing.
The third was from the back alley exit of the rehearsal venue: June holding his guitar case, clearly waiting, clearly with him.
The comments had multiplied. Fan edits. TikToks. Threads speculating who she was. Whether she was "just a friend." Whether this meant Rhett's "sensitive era" had found its muse.
One particularly viral tweet read:
i can't even be mad. rhett's mystery girl gives artist girlfriend energy. she looks like she makes zines and drinks earl grey out of chipped mugs.
June stared at it, equal parts horrified and oddly amused.
"Artist girlfriend energy," she muttered. "Is that even a category?"
"Apparently," Rhett said, glancing over her shoulder with a crooked smile.
"They don't know me."
"They don't need to," he said.
"But they think they do. That's the scary part."
He exhaled slowly and closed her laptop. "Then let's step back. No appearances for a few days. I'll talk to Milo. Cancel the promo run."
"What about your image?"
"I don't care about that right now. I care about you."
But the rumors didn't need Rhett to fan the flames—they grew on their own.
That afternoon, while Rhett was on a brief call with his label, June wandered into a small coffee shop a few blocks from the loft. It was quiet, tucked away—exactly the kind of place she liked.
She ordered, sat by the window, pulled out her sketchbook.
And then felt it.
Eyes.
She glanced up.
Two girls in the corner had their phones angled suspiciously. One of them whispered something, then giggled.
June's stomach dropped.
She packed up quickly, hands fumbling.
One of the girls stood, approaching with wide, hopeful eyes. "Sorry—are you the girl from—are you Rhett's girlfriend?"
June froze.
She didn't answer.
Didn't smile.
Didn't run.
She simply looked at the girl and said, "I'm just a person trying to have coffee."
And left.
Back at the loft, she dropped her bag by the door and sank to the floor.
Rhett found her there, sketchbook hugged to her chest like a shield.
"Hey," he said softly. "Bad day?"
"They followed me," she murmured. "They recognized me. I didn't even do anything."
His jaw clenched, fury clouding his features. "You shouldn't have to go through this."
"I didn't sign up for this," she whispered.
"I know."
He sat beside her. Pulled her into his arms.
And for a long time, they sat there—two people caught in the undertow of fame, trying to hold on to something real.
That night, Rhett posted a story.
No photo. No tag.
Just a black background with white text:
Some things belong to the stage. Some things belong to the heart.
This—she—is the latter. And she doesn't owe anyone anything.
It wasn't a statement. It was a line in the sand.
And even as the internet burned with theories and opinions, June closed her laptop, shut off her phone, and leaned into the arms that reminded her of who she really was.
Not famous.
Not claimed.
Just loved.