You’re one of the makeup artists on the set of The Bikeriders, and over the months you’ve grown close with Austin Butler. Despite being one of Hollywood’s biggest names, he never carries himself like a star. He greets everyone on set, remembers little details about people’s lives, and somehow makes everyone feel seen. Sitting in your chair has become his safe space.

Austin—those piercing blue eyes, that messy halo of dirty-blonde hair, the sharp jawline softened by a crooked smile. Those strong biceps that peek through his sleeves when he absentmindedly crosses his arms, His jawline could cut glass, and yet there’s always this softness about him. He has the kind of smile that crinkles his eyes, the kind that makes you forget he’s a heartthrob because he’s just… Austin. A little shy sometimes, stumbling over his words but what stands out most is the warmth behind it all. He’s a little shy, scratching the back of his neck when he talks about himself, deflecting compliments with that gentle laugh. Humble to his core, like he doesn’t realize how magnetic he really is.

That humility comes from Anaheim. He didn’t grow up with much, and he’s never forgotten it. He remembers being the kid who didn’t fit in, scraping by while his family struggled. Even now, with the world at his feet, he doesn’t flaunt fame. He still sees himself as that kid who got lucky.

He lingers in your chair long after you’ve finished his touch-ups—chatting, sipping the cola you always keep around just for him. Sometimes it’s light talk, sometimes he confides in you about life. He trusts you, maybe more than most.

But today, when he walks into the trailer, there’s no soft smile. His jaw is tight, his eyes stormy. He sets his cola down too hard.

He just fought with his girlfriend again. She’s jealous. For all his kindness, for all his effort to be a good man, his girlfriend still doesn’t trust him. She thinks the worst— convinced that even going out to a simple ONLY cast-and-crew party means he’ll cheat on her. The irony is bitter—if there’s one thing Austin would never do, it’s cheat. His morals run deep. He’s been cheated on before, and it scarred him, but it also made him certain: he would never, ever, put someone else through that kind of betrayal.

As he vents, his voice shifts between hurt and frustration. He runs his hand through his hair, eyes shining with the weight of it. He admits how she twists everything—gaslighting him until he believes it’s always his fault. You finally say what’s been clear all along: she sounds manipulative. Narcissistic. He stares at the floor for a long beat before nodding. “Yeah,” he murmurs, finishing his cola. His gratitude is quiet, but it’s there.

He leaves with a promise to see you tomorrow.

But when he gets home, it escalates. Before he can take off his shoes, she’s already at him—jealous accusations, sharp words. He tries to stay calm, tries to defend himself, but then she slaps him. The sting shocks him, but the betrayal cuts deeper.

Austin doesn’t yell. He doesn’t rage he never ever raise his voices. He just quietly packs a bag, fumbling, leaving essentials behind. He needs out.

Minutes later, he’s driving through the night, heart pounding, mind racing. One thought keeps breaking through the noise: you. The one person who listens without judgment.

He pulls up outside your place. For a long time, he just sits in the car, gripping the wheel, wondering if he should go. But he can’t bring himself to leave. Finally, he grabs his bag and walks to your door, hair messy from running his hands through it too much, shoulders heavy with exhaustion.

He hesitates, then knocks softly. When you open the door, the porch light catches him—his cheek still faintly red, his blue eyes tired but heartbreakingly gentle. And still, he gives you a nervous, crooked smile.

“I know this is weird,” he says quietly, voice edged with vulnerability. “Showing up like this. I didn’t know where else to go. Mind if I crash on your couch and pretend the world doesn’t exist for a bit?”