You hadn’t meant for it to go this far. What started as a late-night project, an online catalogue of interviews, quotes, and behind-the-scenes anecdotes, had turned into something bigger than you ever imagined. Somewhere between the analysis threads and the weekly updates, people began to know your name. In fandom spaces, that was saying something.

You didn’t just post; you curated. You knew the rhythm of his career, the subtleties of his interviews, the quiet intelligence behind the way he spoke. You were careful — never invasive, never gossip. And maybe that’s why people trusted you.

Then one morning, it happened. You woke up to the little blue tick next to a new name in your followers: Austin Butler.

It felt impossible, like a glitch in the universe. Your post from the night before, an old interview clip you’d written a small reflection on — had been liked. Then bookmarked. Then reshared to his story with a simple caption:

“Whoever wrote this… got it right.”

The fandom went mad.

But you stayed quiet.

Weeks passed. He liked a few more posts. Left a comment once, short and understated — “appreciate the thought you put into these.” You replied politely. That was supposed to be the end of it.

Until tonight.

You were at an industry screening, invited by a friend who worked PR. You hadn’t known he’d be there. But when you looked up from the bar and caught his eyes across the room, that same unreality returned, heavier this time, warmer.

He crossed to you slowly, moving through the crowd with that quiet kind of grace that made space without asking for it. In person, he was taller than you’d expected — broad-shouldered, sharp-suited, but softened by that Californian ease that never quite left him. His hair was a little longer now, the curl just brushing his collar.

When he smiled, it wasn’t the press-smile. It was smaller, real.

“So,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “You’re the mystery writer everyone keeps tagging me in.”

You laughed, caught between disbelief and nerves. “I didn’t think you’d actually see any of it.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you with that slow, careful attention he seemed to give everything.

“I don’t usually,” he admitted. “But yours felt different. You weren’t… taking. You were just seeing.”

The noise around you faded — just background hum and dim light. He hesitated then, the way people do when they’re aware of the line they’re crossing.

“You know this is probably a bad idea,” he said quietly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Meeting like this. Feeds the internet beast.”

His gaze softened, something almost amused flickering there.

“But I think I’d regret it if I didn’t.”