SO Reading This Later...

SO reading this later...

"I'll behave"-UGH🤤🤤 here's hoping 😌

Also note, this interview had me damn near CLENCHING- Like damn.. just SO openly flirting on camera, couldn't care less about the people watching. Totally on the prowl, tryna find himself a woman, obsesseddddd. Being younger than Austin, I love the power play, I love the confidence he has, and how he controls the conversation... sUCH a turn on.

I found your fics recently and can't stop reading them! You're really talented at this and i look forward to reading more of your work

Can i request something inspired by austin's flirty interaction with a reporter during the sydney premiere of bike riders? He looked so hot in a drenched suit/wet hair.Except the reporter is reader and they end up exchanging numbers and hooking up afterwards.

Word Count: 6.8k

Masterlist

Exit Through the Side Door

The rain hadn’t let up all night. It fell in a steady curtain over the Sydney premiere of The Bikeriders, drenching everything, the carpet glistening with every flash of the camera lights. You stood under a canopy that didn’t help much, microphone in hand, nerves in check—mostly.

You stepped into position just as Austin Butler was ushered over, suit drenched and hair slicked back in a way that really shouldn’t have looked as good as it did. He was all sharp cheekbones and slow charm, water dripping from his collar, his grin disarmingly casual as he turned toward you.

Oh.

That was your first thought. Just—oh.

Because you’d seen the press photos, the interviews, the clips. But they didn’t quite prepare you for the real thing. Not for the way his gaze locked onto you as if he had all the time in the world. Not for the way he wore the rain like it was part of the suit.

“Hi Austin,” you said, offering your hand. “I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N?” he repeated, taking your hand with a firm but warm grip. “Have we met before?”

You smiled. “Not unless you’ve been secretly watching Australian breakfast news. Maybe I just have one of those familiar faces.”

He glanced down at his soaked attire and then back at you, noting your relatively dry appearance. “You’re dry; I’m soaked,” he said with a grin.

“I was going to say—we’ve really turned on the weather for you,” you quipped, gesturing to the rain around you.

“You sure did,” he laughed. “Are you from here, from Sydney?” he asked before you could get to your first actual question.

You nodded. “Born and raised.”

He smiled. “That explains the accent.”

Before you could reply, he tilted his head slightly, still watching you. “So what are you into?”

The question caught you off guard—not because it was inappropriate, but because of the way he asked it. Casual. Curious. Like he really wanted to know. And maybe it was the way he was looking at you, maybe it was the weather, or the fact that his voice dropped just a little when he said it—but for a split second, your mind absolutely did not go to hobbies.

You blinked once, composing yourself. “What am I into?”

“Yeah,” he said, flashing a slow smile. “Like, what gets you out of bed in the morning?”

You let out a soft laugh, deflecting gently. “Bit of a heavy question for a red carpet, isn’t it?”

His mouth curved. “I’m just trying to get to know you.”

You raised a brow. “I’m supposed to be interviewing you, by the way,” you said, angling the mic back between you with a knowing smile. “Just in case you forgot.”

He grinned, leaned in just a little. “Am I being difficult already?”

“A little slippery.”

“I’ll behave,” he said, though there was a glint in his eye that suggested otherwise. “I just don’t like talking about myself.” The admission was low, sheepish—and absolutely not the energy of someone who looked like he’d been airlifted in from a perfume commercial.

You arched a brow. “That’s kind of your job tonight.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged. “I’d rather learn about you.”

“Oh, smooth,” you said, laughing despite yourself.

“What else can you tell me?” he asked, still not letting go of the thread. “How old are you?”

You raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the directness—but far from rattled. “Wow. Straight for the kill.”

He grinned. “You don’t have to tell me.”

You leaned in, mic angled just slightly away, like you were about to tell him a secret. “Let’s just say… old enough to know better.”

Austin’s grin widened, and you could see the moment it clicked for him—that you weren’t flustered. Not really. You were playing back.

“Now I’m intrigued.”

You tried not to laugh. “I should probably jump into the questions, ’cause this is my job. You wouldn’t want me to get in trouble, would you?”

“Depends,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Is it the fun kind of trouble?”

You tried not to laugh.

“Okay, okay,” he added, still not taking his eyes off you. “What do you want to talk about?”

And just like that, the flirtation hung in the air—light but electric, threaded beneath the rhythm of rain and red carpet chatter.

You hadn’t expected to enjoy it as much as you did. The interview, that is. After weeks of watching clips and prepping questions for the premiere, you’d figured it would be another round of carefully measured answers and predictable talking points. But Austin had surprised you.

Once the teasing simmered down, he’d answered your questions about the film with a quiet thoughtfulness that felt… rare. He spoke about the physicality of the role, the camaraderie on set, the way riding felt like freedom on wheels—his words, not yours. You’d been half-listening by that point anyway, too caught up in the way he kept sneaking looks at you mid-sentence. The whole time, he kept circling back to you. Like he genuinely liked that your questions weren’t the same ones he’d been asked all night. Like you’d managed to catch him off guard, too.

Your crew was wrapping up now, voices raised over the sound of distant applause and the chatter of the still-moving press line. You’d taken a step to the side, microphone now tucked into its bag, your fingers absently smoothing the skirt of your dress as the adrenaline started to ebb. The energy of the red carpet was winding down, and you could already feel the buzz of it fading into something quieter—something a little more surreal.

You were still turning the moment over in your mind—his smile, the way his gaze had lingered just a beat too long—when someone stepped into your periphery.

“Hi,” a woman said, polite but brisk, with a sleek blazer and a laminated crew pass hanging around her neck. “You’re Y/N, right?”

You blinked, a little startled. “Yes?”

She glanced around quickly, then leaned in just a touch. “Austin asked if you’d be alright with passing along your number.”

You stared at her, thrown for a half-second before catching yourself. “He… did?”

She smiled, like she wasn’t surprised you were surprised. “Or, if you’d prefer, I can give you his.”

Your stomach flipped—just a little—and you hesitated. Not out of doubt, but out of sheer disbelief that this night was unfolding like a scene from something scripted. “Right. Um. Sure. You can give him mine.”

She pulled out her phone, efficient as ever. “Great. Go ahead.”

You rattled it off, still vaguely stunned, and she repeated it back to confirm. “Thanks,” she added, already typing something out. “You’ll probably hear from him tonight.”

And with that, she was gone—vanishing into the well-oiled chaos of handlers and publicists and umbrellas moving in choreographed circles.

You stood there for a second longer, barely noticing the rain anymore, heart thudding with something dangerously close to anticipation.

Well. That was unexpected.

But not unwelcome.

Not even a little.

You didn’t linger too long after the carpet wrapped—just enough time to collect your gear and say a few goodbyes. You weren’t technically required to attend the screening, but tonight… you’d made an exception.

Part of it was curiosity. The film, the buzz, the scale of it all. But mostly? It was him.

Inside the ornate, velvet-draped theatre, you slipped into a seat near the back. The crowd buzzed with anticipation, the kind of low, charged hum that only comes with red carpet premieres and sold-out venues. You let your dress settle around your legs, your lanyard tucked away in your bag now, trying to look like just another guest. Though part of you was keenly aware of where the exits were, just in case.

And then the lights dimmed.

The screen flickered to life—not with the film, not yet—but with the host stepping into the spotlight. Moments later, Austin appeared beside him.

Still in the same drenched suit, hair slightly rumpled now from running a hand through it, he took the mic with an easy smile. The audience erupted into applause, whistles echoing through the cavernous theatre. You felt it more than heard it.

He didn’t speak for long. Just a few words about the film, the team, how grateful he was to be there. But he delivered it the same way he’d given your interview—sincere, understated, a little rogue around the edges. You caught yourself smiling.

Then, just as the host moved to wrap up, Austin glanced out into the audience. A quick scan, casual. Meaningless to anyone else.

But somehow—maybe it was luck, maybe it was instinct—his eyes caught yours.

You couldn’t be sure. Not from this far back. But for a second too long, his gaze stayed fixed somewhere in your direction.

Your breath caught.

And then he was gone. Offstage. Applause rising again as the lights dimmed fully and the opening credits rolled.

You stayed for a few minutes. Long enough to be polite, long enough to confirm what you already knew: your focus was not on the film.

Your phone buzzed quietly in your lap, lighting up with a number you didn’t recognise. You opened the message before your heart had even caught up.

Austin: Hey, it’s Austin. Didn’t want to interrupt the movie... But I’m still drenched and skipping the after-party.

Austin: Want to sneak out with me instead?

Your heart did something entirely inconvenient and unprofessional.

You glanced at the screen. The darkened crowd. The glowing stage below.

Then you reached for your bag.

And stood up.

You moved quietly, slipping past knees and whispered apologies, heart thudding in your throat as you edged down the curved row toward the exit. You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to.

The theatre lobby felt cavernous now, mostly empty save for a couple of ushers and a group of stragglers lingering by the merch table. You stepped out into the cool night air, the rain finally slowed to a misty drizzle, the kind that clung to skin and curled into hair.

You barely had time to check your phone again when another buzz lit up the screen.

Austin: I’m out back. Black car. Driver’s with me.

Austin: You coming?

You didn’t respond. Just moved.

Your heels clicked softly against the slick pavement as you followed the side path skirting the venue, past ropes and service doors and a stagehand smoking something that definitely wasn’t a cigarette. It was that in-between moment—storm fading, night settling, the kind of hush where anything felt possible.

And then you saw him.

Still in the same suit, but with the jacket unbuttoned now, clinging to his frame in a way that was entirely unfair. His shirt was wrinkled, the collar slightly askew. He was leaning against the open back door of a black car, posture casual but eyes locked on yours the second you rounded the corner.

His smile was quieter now. Realer. Less for show.

“You made it,” he said.

You lifted a brow. “Didn’t even wait for the opening scene. Bold of you to assume it wasn’t the best part.”

He laughed, head dipping, and opened the door wider. “Couldn’t risk it.”

You tilted your head. “What, missing the film?”

His eyes flicked over you, amused. “Missing you.”

You stood still for a second longer, then ducked into the car.

The door shut behind you with a soft, insulated thud. Inside was warm and quiet, separated from the noise of the night and the hum of the festival. You heard him slide in beside you, the faint rustle of wet fabric and the click of the door as it locked.

You turned toward him.

He was closer now.

Much closer.

His voice was soft when he spoke, low and amused. “You never did tell me.”

You lifted a brow. “Tell you what?”

“What you’re into.”

Your lips curled. “You’re still thinking about that?”

“I haven’t stopped.”

And just like that, the space between you tilted. The quiet of the car was thick now. Not uncomfortable, just… waiting. His knee brushed yours where you were both angled slightly in, facing each other like the rest of the world had politely excused itself.

“I thought maybe you’d change your mind,” Austin said softly, his voice barely above the hum of the engine as the driver pulled away. “Go home. Do the sensible thing.”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “I considered it.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded. “And then I remembered you said you don’t like talking about yourself. Which makes you a terrible interview. So really, I’m just here for professional closure.”

He laughed quietly, that same slow, low sound that had already started to take up space in your head. “Of course. You’re very committed to your craft.”

“Painfully.”

His eyes drifted over your face, less playful now, something warmer settling in. “Wasn’t just the interview.”

You met his gaze, pulse skipping.

“No?” you asked.

He shook his head. “You were different.”

You arched a brow. “Because I didn’t ask what it was like working with Tom Hardy?”

“That helped.” His smile tugged a little wider, then softened. “But nah. Just… the way you looked at me.”

You went still. “And how did I look at you?”

He was quiet for a second too long. Then, “Like maybe you already knew me.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You tried to play it off, to reach for something flippant, but nothing came. Nothing that didn’t sound exactly like what it was—a deflection.

Austin didn’t push. Just let the silence stretch. Let the air do its work.

The lights of the city blurred by the tinted windows, casting flashes of movement across his face. You watched them flicker along his jaw, his cheek, the collar of his shirt still damp from the rain.

“You warm enough?” he asked after a moment, his voice quieter now.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

But he still reached over. Just to adjust the air slightly. Just to check.

His hand lingered between you for a second longer than necessary, and when he settled back, his thigh pressed lightly against yours. He didn’t move. Neither did you.

Your phone buzzed in your bag, a faint, tinny sound you ignored without hesitation.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

He glanced at you. “Do you want me to tell you?”

You considered. “Not really.”

He smiled. “Okay then.”

And that was that.

The rest of the drive passed in companionable silence, thick with anticipation and the occasional glance that lingered too long. You felt like you were floating above it all—like it wasn’t entirely real yet. Like someone might call “cut” at any moment, and you’d laugh and step out of character.

Except this wasn’t performance. And the look in his eyes wasn’t scripted.

By the time the car slowed to a stop, you still didn’t know where you were, only that it was somewhere tucked away—quiet, dimly lit, and far from the buzz of the premiere. A private entrance. No photographers. No fans. Just a door. And him, holding it open.

“You coming?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

You walked through.

The small lobby was nearly silent, a discreet hum of soft lighting and polished marble. A nod from the driver to the concierge, a keycard already in Austin’s hand. No waiting.

He guided you into the lift without a word, the space too small, too quiet, too charged. You could feel the weight of him beside you, the damp cling of his shirt, the slow way his eyes traced the line of your jaw when he thought you weren’t looking. Or maybe he wanted you to notice. Maybe that was the point.

Neither of you said a word.

The elevator chimed. He stepped out first.

You followed.

The walk down the hall was short. Carpeted. Quiet. You didn’t realise you were holding your breath until he swiped the key, opened the door, and stood aside.

“After you,” he murmured.

You stepped inside.

The door shut behind you with a heavy click, muffling the world outside. Inside, everything was quieter. Dim lighting. Soft shadows. Clean lines and dark wood and the faint hum of an air conditioner overhead. A hotel suite—minimal, expensive, impersonal. But he didn’t look out of place in it.

He raked a hand through his damp hair and looked down at himself, letting out a low laugh. “I’m still completely soaked.”

You stepped in closer, already reaching for him. “Good thing I’m here, then.”

He didn’t move as you slid your hands to his chest, fingers brushing over the lapels of his blazer. You pushed it back slowly, the fabric heavy and damp beneath your touch, and eased it off his shoulders, letting it fall onto the arm of a nearby chair.

Then your hands found his tie—dark, saturated, clinging slightly to his collar. You loosened it carefully, your fingers grazing the skin of his throat as you pulled it free. He watched you the whole time, eyes darkening with each movement.

You moved to his shirt next, fingers finding the buttons one by one. Each one you undid revealed a little more skin—warm beneath your touch, slick where the fabric had clung tight. Your knuckles brushed his chest as you worked lower, and his breath caught, just barely.

When the last button came undone, you slid the shirt off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. His body was lean, solid, damp from the rain—but none of it seemed to bother him. He didn’t say anything, just watched you—eyes dark, mouth parted, chest rising and falling as you skimmed your palms over the planes of his chest, tracing the dip between his collarbones, the slope of his ribs. When your fingers drifted down to the waistband of his trousers, he caught your wrists—not to stop you, but just to still them. To look at you.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, rough at the edges.

You nodded, eyes steady. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

That grin curled again, and he leaned in to kiss you.

It started slow—tentative, exploratory. Then his hands came up, one to your cheek, the other to your waist, and he deepened it, pulling you closer with slow, certain intent.

He walked you backwards without breaking the kiss, his mouth warm and sure, and you didn’t realise where he was leading you until the backs of your thighs bumped a low console table. You let him guide you onto it, the wood cool beneath your legs as your dress slid up slightly.

His hands found your waist, gripping just tight enough to make you squirm, and when your fingers tangled in his wet hair, he groaned into your mouth, kissing you harder. One hand cradled your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, the other slipped between your legs, dragging your dress up higher.

Then—heat.

His fingers brushed the inside of your thigh, stroking up slowly until they pressed over your underwear. You let out a sharp breath, hips canting forward. His mouth found your neck, teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver, and then he was palming you through the thin fabric, fingers firm and teasing.

Your head tipped back against the wall with a soft thud, a quiet, breathy sound leaving your lips.

“Look at me,” he said, voice rough, his mouth hot against your jaw.

You forced your eyes open.

He was already watching you.

And then he slid his fingers under the fabric, just enough to part you, to feel the heat and slick waiting for him. He started slow, stroking between your folds, dragging his fingertips over your clit in soft, maddening circles.

Your thighs trembled, hands fisting in the back of his hair, your breath coming harder now—whimpers you didn’t mean to let out falling freely as he worked you open.

You were close—already. His voice, his mouth, his fingers—

But just when your body began to tighten, when your hips rolled into his touch with desperation, he pulled away.

You gasped. “Austin—”

“Shh,” he murmured, dropping to his knees.

His hands slid up your thighs, slow and reverent, as he tugged your underwear down and off. Then he hooked your legs over his shoulders and leaned in.

The first stroke of his tongue was soft—barely there—but it still made you cry out, your back arching, fingers flying to his hair again. He groaned at the contact, hands gripping your hips tighter, holding you steady as he licked you open, slow and thorough.

He was patient. Methodical. Every flick, every press of his tongue felt intentional—like he was learning you in real time, testing what made you gasp, what made you shudder.

When he focused on your clit, lips wrapping around it with just the right pressure, your head fell back again, legs tightening around him. He moaned against you like he could feel it too, the vibrations shooting straight through you.

Your body was shaking now, breath broken and shallow, and still he didn’t stop—just kept going, kept devouring you like he couldn’t get enough, like this was all he wanted.

Like tasting you was his whole goddamn purpose.

And when your orgasm finally hit—sharp, sudden, flooding every nerve—you didn’t even realise you were crying out his name until your voice cracked around it.

Austin groaned like it was the sound he’d been waiting for all night. He didn’t move at first—just held you there, tongue slow and lazy now, coaxing every last ripple of pleasure from your body until you were trembling beneath him.

Then, finally, he eased back. Kissed the inside of your thigh. Let your legs fall gently from his shoulders.

You blinked down at him, flushed and unsteady, as he straightened up. His lips were slick, jaw tense, eyes dark with something deeper than want. His hands settled on your knees, spreading them wider as he stepped between them.

“Come here,” you whispered, your voice rough, breath catching on the words.

He didn’t make you say it twice.

His mouth was on yours before you could catch your breath, and you tasted yourself on his tongue. He kissed you like he meant it—slow and deep, hungry but still savouring you. You tugged at his belt as he kissed you, fingers fumbling for the buckle. He let you work it open, then helped you push his trousers and boxers down in one rough motion.

And then he was fully bare before you.

You inhaled sharply, eyes dragging down, taking in the sight of him—cock hard and flushed, curved up against his stomach, impossibly perfect.

You met his gaze again.

“Condom?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, leaning just long enough to grab his wallet from the dresser and produce one. You took it from him, tore it open with steady hands, and rolled it on—slow, careful. His hips tilted into your touch, a soft sound escaping his throat.

Austin stepped back in, kissing you again as he reached down, guiding himself to your entrance. He paused, the tip pressing against you, and his eyes searched yours one last time.

“You sure?” he asked again, voice barely more than a breath.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulled him in. “I’ve never been more sure.”

Then he pushed in—slow, thick, stretching you open inch by inch until you were full to the hilt, your breath catching hard in your throat.

You clung to him, mouth falling open, a broken sound escaping your lips as he bottomed out.

Austin let out a curse against your shoulder. “Fuck… you feel—” He cut himself off, pulled back slightly, and rolled his hips into you again. “So fucking good.”

You couldn’t answer. Could barely think. All you could do was hold on as he started to move—slow at first, deep and deliberate, like he wanted you to feel every inch of him.

And god, you did.

Your head fell back against the wall again, your fingers locked in the damp strands at the base of his neck, hips meeting his with greedy little rolls as the rhythm built. Each thrust sent a jolt through you, your whole body thrumming with the aftershocks of your first orgasm and the climb toward another.

“Austin,” you gasped, nails dragging down his back.

He kissed you hard. “I’ve got you.”

His hands slid under your thighs, lifting you off the console in one smooth motion. You wrapped your arms tighter around his shoulders, breath catching again as he carried you across the room—still inside you, every step a slow, careful press that made your head spin.

He paused beside the bed, holding you there with your bodies still pressed close, and looked down at you with something close to reverence.

“This dress,” he murmured, brushing a hand up your side, over the fabric still clinging to your body. “It needs to go.”

You nodded, heart thudding.

He set you down on your feet, your balance unsteady, hands still resting lightly on his chest. You didn’t look away as he reached for the hem of your dress, dragging it up over your hips, your ribs, then over your head, letting it fall to the floor. The air hit your skin—cool against the heat of you—and his gaze swept over your body with something close to awe.

You stood there, bare before him, the soft light painting every line of you.

Then he guided you back onto the bed, eyes never leaving yours, and followed you down. He climbed over you with slow, deliberate weight—mouth finding yours again as he sank back in with a low, desperate sound.

This time, the angle was deeper. He moved slowly, letting you feel it, letting you adjust.

One hand braced beside your head, the other cupping your breast, thumbing your nipple until you whimpered into his mouth. He groaned at the sound, hips pressing deeper, his tongue dragging against yours with an urgency that bordered on reckless.

“You like that?” he murmured against your lips.

You nodded, breath hitching. “Yes.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice thick, like it was costing him to keep his control. “Feels so fucking good.”

His thumb circled again, teasing and insistent, until your back arched and your breath turned ragged. He dropped his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering closed for half a second before he started to move faster—stronger now, like he couldn’t help it.

You met him thrust for thrust, your body tuned to his, every nerve alight and wanting. Everything he gave you—the slow drag of his hips, the warmth of his body pressed tight to yours, the way he said your name like it meant something—had you slipping closer to the edge.

Austin rocked into you harder, each thrust smooth and purposeful, hips meeting yours with that perfect mix of restraint and urgency. His mouth trailed down your jaw, over your neck, until he found the spot just beneath your ear that made you gasp. He stayed there, sucking gently, his breath ragged now against your pulse.

Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs. He was everywhere—his weight, his heat, the sound of his voice breaking in your ear. Your body moved with his like it had always known how.

One hand slid between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, circling with just enough pressure to send a bolt of heat straight through your core.

You cried out, back arching. “Austin—fuck—”

“I know,” he rasped. “I know, baby, you’re close.”

You were. So close it hurt.

His mouth was back on yours, swallowing your moans, his pace relentless now—more erratic, less polished. The edge was close for him too; you could feel it in the way his body tensed above you, the way his rhythm stuttered.

“Look at me,” he said again, voice sharp and pleading this time.

You forced your eyes open, locking onto his.

And came hard.

Your body clamped around him, trembling beneath him, a cry catching in your throat as waves of pleasure surged through you. You barely heard his curse before he followed—hips jerking once, twice, a groan tearing from his chest as he collapsed against you, burying his face in your neck.

The room pulsed with silence after that, broken only by the sound of your breath and the soft thud of your heart against his.

He didn’t move for a long moment—just stayed there, holding himself over you with shaky arms, his chest rising and falling against yours. Then he lifted his head, eyes meeting yours again, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.

You reached up and brushed your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

He exhaled, a soft, almost disbelieving sound. “That was…”

You smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

Austin pressed a kiss to your jaw—soft, lingering—before easing out of you. He moved carefully, like he didn’t want to jar the moment, and rose to his feet. You watched the shift of his body in the low light as he turned away, discarded the condom, and returned a moment later, sliding back under the sheets beside you.

You lay there in silence for a beat, still catching your breath. Then, finally, you shifted to sit up slightly, pulling the sheet with you.

“I should go,” you said quietly. “We’ve both got early starts.”

“Don’t,” he said gently, cutting you off.

You looked over, surprised by the softness in his voice. You expected some cheeky line, maybe an invitation for round two. But it wasn’t that. He wasn’t asking for more sex—though the heat between you still simmered under the surface.

He just didn’t want it to end yet.

And if you were honest with yourself… neither did you.

Austin pulled the covers up around you both, then turned to face you, propped on one elbow. You mirrored him, shifting closer until your knees brushed under the sheets. Your hand drifted to the edge of the duvet, fingers fidgeting slightly—still a little unsteady from everything he’d just done to you.

“This isn’t really my thing,” you said after a moment, voice low. “Sneaking out of premieres with the guy I just interviewed.”

Austin smiled—warm, a little crooked. “Yeah. Me either.”

You raised a brow. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “This kind of thing… the timing never lines up. Or the person isn’t right.”

You hummed, eyes meeting his. “And tonight?”

He reached out, tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “The timing still sucks. But the person’s definitely right.”

You smiled despite yourself.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The quiet between you was soft now, comfortable. His hand lingered where it had tucked your hair, fingers brushing lightly along your jaw before he let it fall.

Then, almost sheepishly, Austin glanced toward the other side of the room. “I haven’t eaten since before the carpet.”

You blinked, surprised. “Seriously?”

He nodded, lips tugging into something crooked. “Didn’t have time. Got soaked. Got distracted.” His eyes flicked back to yours. “Still distracted.”

You laughed, the sound quiet in your throat. “You want to order something?”

“If you’re hungry,” he said, but the tilt of his voice gave him away—hopeful, a little too quick. Like he didn’t want you to go. Not yet.

You tilted your head, teasing. “What do you usually get after premieres and impromptu hotel sex?”

Austin grinned. “I usually don’t do either.”

That made you laugh again, and this time it lingered. “Okay, fine. What would you order if you did?”

“Fries,” he said instantly, like he’d been waiting for the question. “And something chocolate.”

“Solid choices.”

“I knew you’d approve.”

You sat up, the sheet slipping slightly down your chest, and reached for the room service menu. The air was cool against your skin, but the heat between you hadn’t gone anywhere. Your legs brushed his beneath the covers as you scanned the options.

Austin shifted beside you, propping himself up, his gaze heavy on your face.

You glanced sideways without looking up from the page. “Are you even reading this?”

“Nope.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away.

Eventually, the two of you settled on a late-night order that made absolutely no sense—fries, a sandwich neither of you could pronounce, and some kind of molten chocolate cake that Austin insisted was necessary. He called it in, his voice smooth and relaxed on the phone, like this was something the two of you did all the time.

While he ordered, you slid off the bed and padded into the bathroom. You didn’t bother getting dressed—just slipped one of the soft white robes from behind the door around your shoulders, tying it loosely at the waist. You ran a hand through your hair, still a little wild, still damp in places, then caught your own eye in the mirror and shook your head with a quiet, breathless laugh.

When you came back out, Austin was already under the covers again, stretched across the bed like he owned it, one arm behind his head, the other resting lightly over his stomach. His eyes flicked to you the moment you stepped into view.

“That’s a good look,” he said, nodding toward the robe.

You smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”

He chuckled and held up the covers, an invitation. You climbed in beside him, and he tucked them back around you like it was instinct.

And for a while, you just talked.

Not about the film, or the junket, or your job. Not even about the fact that you were in a strange hotel bed with someone you’d only just met.

You talked about everything else.

Music. Books. Childhood stories. The way certain songs made you cry on long flights. The dumbest thing he ever did as a teenager. The cities you’d loved. The places you still wanted to go.

Somewhere between the laughter and the promise of shared fries, he told you about the best view he’d ever seen—from the back of a motorbike in Joshua Tree, the desert washed gold at sunset. You told him about a night drive down the coast with the windows down and no shoes on, the smell of salt and petrol and freedom in your lungs.

At some point, his hand found your knee under the blanket—like it had just landed there. But he didn’t move it after.

The food came. You shuffled upright, propping yourselves against the headboard, the tray between you. You shared everything—swapping bites, comparing favourites, arguing over who got the last fry until he fed it to you with a grin. The chocolate cake was rich, dense, and wildly indulgent. You took turns stealing bites off the same spoon.

You didn’t even notice when the heat crept back in—until it was already there.

The way his hand drifted from your knee to your hip.

The way your leg slid over his, the robe falling open slightly without either of you fixing it. The way your fingers grazed his chest, just resting there… then stroking, slower, softer, testing the beat of his heart beneath your palm.

You looked up at the same time.

The question didn’t need asking.

The kiss came next.

Slower, deeper this time. Less urgency. More weight. The kind of kiss that said I liked the first time… but I’m not done learning you yet.

Austin shifted beneath you, one hand sliding to your hip, the other curling around the back of your thigh as he guided you forward. You let him, knees bracketing his hips as you straddled him, the robe slipping from your shoulders and pooling around your waist before you shrugged it off entirely.

He looked up at you like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

You reached for the packet together, your fingers steady now as you tore it open, rolled it on. His hands never left your body.

And this time—god, this time—it was slower. Deeper. Your body moved with his like you already knew how. He sat back against the pillows, letting you take him in at your own pace, his hands roaming your thighs, your back, everywhere he could reach.

It wasn’t frantic. It was deliberate. Drawn-out. Felt. Every rock of your hips, every sound in your throat, the way he watched you like he never wanted the moment to end.

He kissed you through it. Held you steady. Whispered your name like it meant something.

And when you came again—softer this time, clinging to his shoulders, your mouth pressed against his neck—he followed not long after, breath stuttering, his hands gripping you like he didn’t want to let go.

You stayed there like that for a while. His arms loose around your waist, your cheek resting against his shoulder, your breath still shallow. The room had settled into quiet again, the kind that made everything feel suspended—like time had pulled back to give you a moment before it all started moving again.

Eventually, you shifted just enough to press a kiss to his neck, then leaned back slightly to meet his eyes.

Austin cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “You okay?”

You nodded, lips tugging into something small and real. “Yeah. You?”

His smile was soft. “Definitely.”

You climbed off his lap with a quiet, reluctant sigh. He disposed of the condom while you pulled the sheet loosely around yourself and flopped back onto the bed with your hair a mess and your skin still warm. He joined you a moment later, lying on his side, facing you again.

Neither of you said anything for a while. The weight of what had just passed had mellowed into something slower, more grounded. You could still feel it in your limbs, in the places he’d touched you, but the urgency had passed.

Eventually, you spoke—your voice softer now, hesitant. “I should probably…”

He didn’t let you finish.

“Don’t,” he said gently.

You glanced over. “Austin…”

“I know,” he said, already reading it in your tone. “I know you’re not staying overnight. Just—don’t go yet.”

You hesitated, then nodded once. “Okay.”

You pulled the sheet tighter around you and lay back beside him. He reached for your hand this time, tangling your fingers together over the blanket. It felt oddly intimate. Strangely natural.

For a few more minutes, you just breathed in the quiet together.

“I’m glad you came,” he said finally, breaking the silence.

You turned your head toward him, brow raised. “To your hotel, or in general?”

He grinned, unabashed. “Both.”

That made you laugh, and the tension eased again.

Time passed without either of you marking it. The food trays still sat abandoned at the foot of the bed, the chocolate cake forgotten halfway through. Somewhere in the suite, a clock ticked. Somewhere outside, the rain had stopped entirely.

You shifted slowly, the sheets rustling as you sat up. Austin didn’t say anything—just watched you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting across the space you were just in. His gaze was soft, unreadable in the low light.

It was late now. Not quite morning, but close enough to feel it coming. You had work in a few hours. He had a full day of press.

You gathered your things slowly, slipping back into your dress, your skin still humming from everything that had happened between these walls. He stayed in bed, propped up, the sheet pooling at his hips.

He didn’t try to stop you this time.

You walked to the door and hesitated, hand on the handle, then turned to look back.

“You’ll be gone after the junket?” you asked.

He nodded once. “Yeah. Early flight the next day.”

You gave a small nod, lips curving faintly. “Well… have a good rest of the trip.”

He held your gaze for a beat. “You too. Take care, alright?”

You didn’t answer. Just stepped back to the bed, leaned in, and kissed him—slow, soft, like a thank you that you didn’t know how else to give.

He kissed you back with the same quiet weight, his hand rising briefly to your hip, grounding you for one last moment.

When you finally pulled away, you smiled. “Bye, Austin.”

“Bye, Y/N.”

Then you turned.

And left.

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