The studio lights were almost too bright, their golden glow bouncing off polished floors and catching in the strands of hair the stylists had fussed over only an hour ago. A pair of cameras stood before you like silent sentinels, red tally lights blinking, and behind them a small crew moved with quiet precision—sound engineers adjusting mics, a makeup artist stealing one last glance before retreating.

You sat in one of two armchairs angled toward each other, upholstered in a muted gray meant to look neutral on screen. Across from you sat Austin.

It was still slightly surreal, seeing him in this context—no desert winds tugging at his clothes, no stage blood at the corner of his mouth, no shadow of Feyd’s menacing cruelty in his eyes. Instead, he was himself. His blond hair was styled neatly, not too rigid, just enough for a camera-ready polish. The suit he wore was classic, all clean lines and effortless elegance, yet he carried it with that quiet ease of his, shoulders relaxed, legs long where he’d folded them at an angle. Even in stillness, there was something about Austin that drew the eye—the soft cadence of his breathing, the calm in his posture, the way he seemed to anchor the room without trying.

And you, you knew him beyond this immaculate surface. Months of filming Dune together had stripped away pretense. The two of you had stumbled through lines half-asleep at 3 a.m. call times, laughed until your ribs ached when sand clogged the sound equipment, and, more privately, had shared the vulnerability of scenes that demanded intimacy. Kisses that tasted of salt from the desert air. A love scene so carefully choreographed it should have felt clinical, but instead required more trust than either of you had expected. By the end of filming, you weren’t just co-stars—you were confidants. Friends who had learned the sound of each other’s silences, who could sense nerves in a twitch of a jaw or the flicker of a glance.

Now, here you were, seated side by side under the scrutiny of cameras, ready to sell the story to the world.

The interviewer, a young man with sharp glasses and a gentle energy, had been speaking with you for nearly an hour. His questions had been thoughtful, even generous, easing you both through the usual gauntlet of press tour repetition. Still, it was impossible not to feel the weight of the gaze on you—the cameras, the crew, and Austin, whose presence was somehow both comforting and distracting at once.

The interviewer leaned forward now, elbows brushing the notepad in his lap, and asked something that turned the spotlight directly on the bond between you and Austin.

Austin’s gaze flicked toward you, brief but telling. That smile of his curved, the subtle one you had come to recognize—the smile that meant he was steadying himself, choosing his words carefully. He shifted slightly in his chair, clasped hands resting on his knee, and when he spoke, his voice carried that soft drawl, low and deliberate, as though every word mattered.

“Honestly…” he began, his eyes finding you for just a second longer than necessary, “working with her changed everything for me. There’s a kind of trust you have to build when you’re filming scenes that raw, that vulnerable. And I don’t think I could have gone there without her. She…” His lips curved again, almost a secret, almost a confession, “…she made it feel like the cameras disappeared.”