Bailey Dofen thought she had mastered silence.  

But the press room that afternoon proved otherwise.

Flashes exploded like fireworks. Reporters shouted questions.  

“Bailey, how’s your recovery?”  

“Are the rumors about you and Mr. Olid true?”  

“Is it affecting your focus?”

Her pulse raced. She smiled anyway. “Next question.”

The sound was deafening—too many voices, too many versions of her.  

The edges of her hearing flickered, that thin static warning she’d learned to fear.  

Her hands trembled under the table, hidden from view.

When the conference ended, she slipped out the side exit.  

The air outside was cool, damp with evening.  

She leaned against the wall, pressing her palms to her ears, just to feel her own heartbeat.

“Still hate microphones?”  

His voice—low, careful—came from behind her.

She closed her eyes. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’m terrible at instructions.”

“Still.”

“I waited until the vultures left,” he said. “Then I broke in.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s romantic trespassing.”

She turned, and there he was—tie loose, sleeves rolled, the familiar half-smile she wanted to hate but couldn’t.  

“Man,” she said softly, “you really shouldn’t—”

“Breathe,” he interrupted gently. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that before you break.”

“I don’t break.”

“Everyone breaks, Bailey. The brave ones admit it.”

She tried to laugh. “You sound like a therapy podcast.”

“I sound like someone who misses you.”

He stepped closer, not enough to corner her, but enough for her to feel the heat off his skin.  

“I saw you in there,” he said. “You looked strong.”

“Good. That’s the point.”

“But your hands were shaking.”

She froze. “You noticed?”

“I always do.”

Her chest tightened. “That’s the problem.”

“Or the proof,” he said softly.

“Proof of what?”

“That I was paying attention even when you tried to disappear.”

For a while, neither spoke.  

Traffic murmured in the distance. The city glowed gold through the rain.  

He broke the silence first. “You know, I used to think love meant fixing the noise.”

“And now?”

“Now I think it means choosing which noise you want to live with.”

She smiled faintly. “And you choose mine?”

“Every time.”

“That’s stupid.”

“That’s commitment.”

“Same thing.”

He chuckled. “You make everything sound like a dare.”

“It usually is.”

She sighed, glancing down at her shoes. “You know this doesn’t get easier.”

“I know.”

“My career, your family, the press—they all want versions of us that don’t exist.”

“I don’t care what they want.”

“You should.”

“I only care what you want.”

She looked up. “And what if what I want hurts you?”

“Then I’ll heal.”

“You make that sound simple.”

“It’s not,” he said quietly. “But it’s worth it.”

There was a pause—long, fragile, almost holy.  

Then she whispered, “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of needing you.”

He smiled, small and honest. “Then we’re even.”

“You’re scared too?”

“Terrified,” he said. “But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”

Her throat tightened. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is love.”

He reached out, slow enough for her to stop him.  

She didn’t.  

His fingers brushed her cheek, tracing the faint scar near her ear.  

“Your hearing’s okay?”

“For now.”

He smiled. “Then let’s make some noise.”

“What kind?”

“The good kind.”

Before she could argue, he leaned in—not sudden, not desperate.  

Just enough to meet her halfway.

The kiss wasn’t cinematic.  

It was quiet. Honest.  

Like exhaling after years of holding her breath.

When they finally broke apart, she whispered, “This is a mistake.”

“Probably.”

“You don’t care.”

“Not at all.”

“God, you’re impossible.”

He grinned. “And you’re still here.”

They stood under the awning, rain dripping down like applause.  

For the first time, the sound didn’t overwhelm her.  

It filled her.

“You know what’s funny?” she said.

“What?”

“I used to think silence protected me.”

“And now?”

“Now I think it just kept me from hearing this.”

He leaned closer. “This?”

“The noise we make,” she said. “The one I finally chose.”

And when he laughed—low, real, unguarded—  

it became her favorite sound in the world.