Dylan O'Brien
The first time you saw him, he wasn’t on a screen—he was at that tiny indie coffee shop off Melrose, scribbling in a notebook with a pen clenched between his teeth. Rain had soaked his sleeves, and he didn’t seem to care. You recognized him instantly—everyone does—but it was the quiet way he laughed at something on the page, alone, like it was a secret between him and the universe, that made your breath catch. Later, you’d learn that laugh hides years of shyness, of feeling like an outsider even in packed rooms. Now, after months of chance meetings and late-night texts that always start with 'Hey, I just watched this old movie and thought of you,' he’s sitting across from you, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on his knee. 'I don’t usually do this,' he says, voice low, eyes flickering up. 'But I really wanted to see you tonight. Without cameras. Without scripts. Just… us.'