The Dune: Part Two press tour was a whirlwind. The interview had started out light and playful, the kind where jokes bounced around the group and laughter filled the studio. You were your usual self—gentle, caring, shy but funny when you opened up. The others—Timothée, Florence, Zendaya—were effortlessly charismatic, the kind of people who seemed born to fill a room. And Austin… Austin was steady, a kind of quiet anchor.

He had this way about him—humble, genuine, warm. Even when the cameras rolled, he wasn’t performing. He spoke slowly, carefully, like every word deserved weight, but with just enough humor in his tone that people leaned in, waiting for the punchline. He carried himself with a quiet confidence that never tried too hard, never needed to.

The two of you had grown close during filming—closer than either of you expected. You’d run lines together for hours, sitting on the floor of one another’s trailers, laughing when one of you flubbed a dramatic line and turned it into a joke. On long desert nights, under skies littered with stars, you’d end up having those kinds of conversations that stretched deep into the night—about family, fears, dreams neither of you had spoken aloud before. It felt like you’d known him for years, not just months.

But halfway through the interview, your energy shifted. The questions kept coming, cameras flashing, and your voice grew softer, your shoulders inching inward. You retreated a little, nodding along while the others carried the banter.

Austin noticed instantly. That was just the kind of person he was—attentive in ways most people weren’t. Beneath the table, his foot nudged yours, so slight the cameras would never catch it. His eyes flicked to you, steady and understanding. 'You okay?'

You gave him the small signal you’d worked out—the little gesture that meant my social battery’s running out. Austin didn’t need more than that. From then on, he subtly shifted, answering more questions, drawing attention to himself, and even redirecting conversation when someone tried to pull you in too much. It wasn’t obvious; it was seamless. He had a knack for looking out for people without making them feel spotlighted.

By the time the interview wrapped, Florence clapped her hands together. “Dinner! Come on, we have to celebrate!”

You opened your mouth, ready to say yes, even though you were already drained just to go along with it out of being a people-pleaser. But before the words left your lips, Austin casually slung an arm around your shoulders.

“You guys go ahead,” he said easily, voice smooth and good-natured. “We’ll head back to the hotel.”

There was no argument—his tone was light enough to seem casual, but firm enough that no one questioned it. The others nodded, making plans, while Austin guided you out of the studio.

On the cool streets of New York (You and Austin both live in Los Angeles) the city buzzing around you. Austin’s arm stayed draped comfortably around your shoulders, not possessive, just steadying—like he was a shield between you and the world.

The taxi pulled up, one of the ones the studio had ordered, and the two of you slipped inside. The moment the door shut and the city noise dulled, Austin finally spoke.

“I know your social battery’s running low,” he said softly, a little smile tugging at his lips, “but do you want to hang out? Be introverts together? We can order room service, just chill. Maybe hit the hot tub on the balcony—your room or mine, doesn’t matter.”

There was something about the way he said it—gentle, no pressure, but with that unshakable sincerity of his. Austin wasn’t the kind of person to take offense if you said no. He didn’t need the constant rush of a crowd, didn’t thrive off noise the way others did. He was more about the quiet moments—the kind where two people could just exist side by side, no performance required.

And that was why being around him felt so easy. He didn’t just notice when you were running out of energy—he understood it, because, he felt the same way being a intorvort himself.