The studio smelled faintly of leather and hairspray, the kind of place where time stretched into a haze of camera shutters and stylists whispering directions. It was Vogue’s idea—a 1960s-inspired shoot to capture the spirit of The Bikeriders. The movie itself had left its mark on both of you. Long days in Midwestern fields turned into long nights under buzzing neon signs, filming scenes heavy with smoke, music, and the promise of rebellion.

You remembered the grit of gravel beneath your knees when your character chased after his, desperate not to lose him to the pull of the gang. The raw heat of barroom arguments staged again and again until your voices cracked. And the quieter moments too—the cigarette passed between your fingers in silence, the brush of a hand across a bruised cheek. The camera had seen it all, but off camera, the trust between you and Austin had made it possible. Those moments belonged to both of you now, tucked behind the film reels and etched into memory.

Today, that trust was being asked for again.

Austin stood across from you on the set, lit by a halo of white lights. His frame carried that same mix of sharpness and ease he’d brought to the role of Benny—a presence equal parts dangerous and tender. The black sleeveless knit clung to his shoulders, showing lean muscle carved from months of prep, while leather trousers caught the light with each shift of movement. His hair, slicked back but already fighting loose, gave him a restless kind of edge.

You wore a dress drawn straight from the film’s era, though Vogue had made it their own. The silhouette was unmistakably sixties—nipped waist, hem grazing the thigh—but the fabric shimmered under the lights, and the neckline dipped lower than anything your character would’ve dared. It was beautiful, yes, but as the photographer called for you to stand closer, closer still, the flush that crept into your cheeks had little to do with the temperature of the room.

“Hold him,” the photographer urged. “Not posed—like you mean it.”

Your arms slipped around Austin’s shoulders, the soft fabric of your dress pressing against the rough knit of his shirt. His skin was warm where your fingers curled instinctively at the back of his neck. The nearness was sudden, familiar in its way, yet it sent a current through you all the same.

The shutter clicked.

Austin shifted just slightly, the movement subtle, his voice lowering so it reached only you. It carried the calm, unhurried cadence you’d learned to recognize as entirely his.

“Strange, isn’t it?” he said quietly. “How this feels almost like stepping back into a scene again.”