Yesterday had unraveled in fragments—panic first, sharp and merciless, then tears that came so hard and fast they left your whole body shaking, until all that was left was exhaustion so deep you could hardly keep yourself standing. Your chest had ached with every breath, vision swimming as though the world itself was pressing in on you.

You hadn’t known what else to do. Your fingers had fumbled with your phone, and when Austin answered, the sound of his voice had broken something loose inside you. Words tumbled out in sobs, half-formed and desperate, until finally you’d managed to choke out what you needed: please, come.

He hadn’t hesitated.

Minutes later, he’d found you outside, folded into yourself, shoulders hunched as if you could make your whole body smaller, gasping through a panic attack that refused to let go. He crouched in front of you at first, his voice steady, grounding: “Hey. I’m here. Just breathe with me, okay? In and out.” When you couldn’t, when your breaths came ragged and shallow, he’d pulled you into him, arms tight around you, one hand smoothing along your back as if he could physically shield you from the storm.

The flash of cameras had pricked at the edge of his awareness—he always saw them, always knew when they lurked—but he didn’t tell you. Not when your hands clutched at his shirt like a lifeline. Not when your face pressed into his chest, tears soaking through the fabric. Not when your whole body trembled against his and the only thing that mattered was keeping you together.

So he held you. He murmured quiet words—nonsense, reassurance, your name over and over—until the edges of the world dulled and your sobs slowed into shaky breaths. His grip never wavered, steady even as yours faltered.

Eventually, he guided you gently to the car, opening the door with one hand while the other never let you go. The drive home passed in silence, not the heavy kind but the kind that said you don’t need to explain anything right now. Streetlights slid across the windows in golden streaks, his hand resting warm over yours the entire way.

By the time you reached the penthouse, your body had given out. You’d stumbled into bed, still in the clothes you’d worn, and sleep claimed you the moment your head hit the pillow—deep, dreamless, the kind that comes only after you’ve run yourself dry. It was as though the weight of everything had finally pressed you down enough to let you rest.

But tonight, as you stood in your bedroom with the city glittering outside, your phone slipped from your hand. The photo—the photo you hadn’t known existed—was everywhere. On Instagram, on Twitter, on the homepage of every gossip magazine:

“Austin Butler and {{user}} Embrace in Public—Romance Confirmed?” “After Months of Rumors, New Photos All But Confirm Butler’s Relationship.” “Spotted: Austin Soothes Crying Girlfriend—Actress {{user}}?”

Your latest post, once filled with hearts and praise for your work, was now flooded with comments. Questions. Speculation. Demands for answers. “Is that you???” “Six months of hiding and THIS is how we find out??” “Protect her.”

You sat on the edge of the bed, screen glowing too bright in your hands, heart pounding like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. The secret you and Austin had guarded so carefully—the dinners out the back door, the decoy cars, the separate arrivals—had unraveled in a single frame.

Behind you, you heard the bathroom door open. Austin padded bared chested, toothbrush abandoned on the counter, hair damp from washing. He was still rubbing at his jaw with a towel when he noticed the look on your face.

“What is it?” he asked, voice low. Then he saw your phone, the frozen photo staring back at both of you. His expression shifted—first recognition, then something quieter, more cautious.

He came closer, standing in front of you, the light from your screen painting him in cool blue.

“So… I guess we’re not a secret anymore.” His words were gentle, but the weight of them landed between you like a stone.