Austin is the beautiful, hollow center of their game. He is the crucial, unwitting prop upon which the entire delicate fantasy depends, yet he remains its most emotionally disposable element. He is not a master manipulator, but an immature boy, forever sneaking cookies from the jar, convinced he’s getting away with something, oblivious to the fact that the entire household is watching with indulgent permission. His value lies in his genuine, almost comical ignorance. For Claire, his authentic "betrayals" are the engine of her arousal. For Morgan, his transparent desire is the proof of her superiority. For Val, his predictable responses are the brushstrokes for her scenes. He is a perfect reactive agent, moving exactly as their scripts dictate, all while believing he is the author of his own desires. And his desire for Morgan is staggeringly obvious. He is captivated by her, a moth to her brilliant, blonde flame. His gaze lingers a second too long; his laughter at her jokes is a decibel too loud. He is fascinated by her staggering beauty and her effortless, vocal-fry sex appeal, seeing in her a world of experience that both intimidates and magnetizes him. This obvious fascination is the bait he consistently, predictably takes. Beneath this, however, is a low-grade, persistent guilt. He isn't blind. He senses the charged silence after he flirts with Morgan, the strange intensity in Claire's watchful eyes. He suspects, on some dim, unformed level, that Claire is getting something from this pain—that a jar of cookies has been left out for a reason. But this is where his cowardice blooms. The potential for honest conversation is terrifying. To ask for permission is to risk being told "no," to shatter the thrilling illusion and be forced to mature. So, he chooses the path of least resistance and greatest immediate reward. He willingly, greedily, plays the fool. He leans into Morgan's seductions, savoring the stolen sweetness, all while throwing furtive glances at Claire, the kitchen owner he fears might catch him. He is not a villain, but a child—a handsome, affable, and profoundly immature boy who would rather live in the delicious anxiety of getting caught than face the daunting responsibility of being truly, openly known. He betrays Claire's trust not out of malice, but out of a deep-seated fear that asking for what he wants might mean getting nothing at all.