That's When I Love You

Hindsight, Dylan would say, really is twenty-twenty.

He’d been staring at his mobile phone, honey-hued eyes so completely fixed on the Samsung Galaxy’s newest update and attention so wholly immersed in the fans’ responses to the season finale (which had just aired the day before, sending throngs of Teen Wolf fans into hysterics, all the while earning the highest ratings for an MTV scripted series in history – no big deal) that, when she’d strode in, messenger bag swinging, dark tresses flying in every direction, he’d nearly ignored her all together. Even as she clambered into the room, boot stomping and out of breath, Dylan carried on; his fingers, long and sinewy, moved deftly across the surface of his screen, which was already coated in a fine sheet of dust particles but otherwise unscathed, and his bow-shaped mouth curled up at the corners, oblivious, as he appreciated his praising tweet of, “Is @TylerL_Hoechlin Dutch? Because Amsterdamnnn. You killed that finale, mothafucka!”

“Oh – oh my god.” Her voice was assaulting and tremulous and smoky, and everything and nothing he’d expected all at once. It was loud and staggering, startling in such a way that it caused his fingers to seize, caused his body to fall prey to an involuntary, full-force shudder, caused his phone to tumble into his lap. His heartbeat, however steady and incessant it’d been, felt as though it’d pounded to a complete stop before jump-starting once more, it’s pace sky-rocketing. “I am so sorry! There was – god, there was an accident on the 1-0-1 and then everyone – they wanted to look, you know? So traffic was a bitch, an actual kicking, screaming bitch, and then I got pulled over for speeding downtown, and the cop – well, he was kind of a bitch, too, actually, and – wow, yeah, I’m so sorry.”

When Dylan, newly twenty-three and feeling for all the world as though her sudden arrival had taken at least a year, if not more off his life, willed his erratic heartbeat back to it’s normal, more subdued pulse, he glanced first at Jeff – Jeff, whose eyes were wide and sparkling, whose lips were pulled into a welcoming, expectant smile, whose body language suggested that he didn’t have the biggest hard-on for punctuality, despite the many, many times he’d shouted his disapproval of Dylan’s tendency to toe the line between right-on-time and fashionably-late; then, to three of the other numerous producers and one casting director, all of whom were flanking the creator and seated comfortably in cushioned leather chairs down the table, their positions opposite Dylan. Their eyes, too, gleamed with excitement and something else – something like prospect and possibility – and Dylan could have recognized their hunger for potential from a thousand miles away. After all, he’d seen the same expression in their eyes when he’d read with the others, with Posey, Hoechlin, Holland and Linden. Finally, resolutely, Dylan brought his eyes round to the double door entrance; quickly, the young but talented actor’s gaze found purchase on that of another able and gifted young adult.

Despite all of the sexy, terrifying curves she flaunted and the hard, sharp, devastating lines she delivered on NBC’s 17th Precinct, Jamie McLin appeared, for all the world, just as normal and everyday as the sea of boys and girls Dylan had had to swim through to get from the parking garage in which he’d left his vehicle to the uptown building that housed most, if not all, of the MTV studios and offices. Her hair, windswept and curling, fell down her back and across her chest in wild, auburn waves that looked as though they’d never seen the likes of a hairbrush; more so, the unruly ringlets looked as though they hadn’t seen a stylist in weeks – they looked natural, his mind supplied – and, overwhelmed by it, Dylan felt his lips twitch with endearment. Even her outfit, which consisted of an orange, sleeveless blouse, a pair of yellow and white patterned shorts, and a cream-colored cardigan tossed haphazardly over shoulders, was softer, more personable, than the picture he’d built up in his mind – the picture heavily influenced by a Netflix marathon of one of NBC’s greatest successes and a photo snapped of his buddy, Tyler Posey, posing with her at an event for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.

Her eyes, kind, if not a bit embarrassed, met his for the better part of four seconds before turning away, the sound of another’s voice catching her attention.

“No, no! You’re fine,” Jeff Davis placated the actress, who, upon further inspection, was heaving quietly, her breath fanning out in short, nearly violent gusts. Even as he pushed away from his seat at the head of the table and rounded, taking a few solid steps towards her, the mastermind behind the series laughed cheerfully. “I understand the menace that is traffic. L.A. is known for it, after all.”

Unsurprisingly, Dylan watched as the shorter of the two drew Jamie towards him, wrapping his slender arms around her freckled shoulders in a warm hug, even if he had to roll onto his toes to stand at her height. A coil of tension seemed to release within her body, and she immediately sighed into his arms, the wrinkles that had marred her forehead slowly smoothing out. “I ran up six flights of stairs to work out all of my pent-up frustration; sorry if I stink,” she admitted with a chuckle of her own, arms rising to pat Jeff kindly on the back, her tone gentler, but just as smoky as before.

“Oh, no.” When Jeff pulled back, his mouth twisted in a smirk that was regularly reserved for teasing other veteran MTV actors; his eyes danced with a playfulness and mischievousness that had caused prank war after prank war on set, and he rolled them dramatically towards the ceiling. “You ran up six flights? We’ve got another damn Hoechlin on our hands, guys,” Jeff’s gaze cut quickly to Dylan’s. “You think you can handle it?”

His eyes drifted back to Jamie’s, drawn there by a charged energy, a tether that seemed to keep their gazes locked – and though Dylan had just steadied his heartbeat, he felt his throat go dry.

It wasn’t often at all, really, if ever, that Dylan found himself truly and genuinely nervous. Sure, he had always been a bit of a shy, anxiety-ridden kid, so unlike his television counterpart and the videos he once posted weekly to YouTube, but he felt a certain level of comfort within the realm of acting. Not necessarily in front of the cameras – they always seemed to cause the hairs on the back of his neck to stand at attention, regardless of how many times he’d been before them – but the idea of acting, of taking a character and searching inward, finding what makes them them and reacting accordingly, was something that Dylan, one hundred percent, felt was his niche. It was liberating like nothing else could be, getting to step into a pair of shoes and walk a million miles in the place of someone else, even if that person happened to be a figment of somebody’s overactive imagination, brought to life only by clever and witty and sometimes heartbreaking films and series.

But that moment – the meeting of their eyes across the room, the complete and total cliché of it all – had Dylan’s mouth feeling as dry as it’d ever been.

It wasn’t that he believed in love at first sight, because, well, how could you ever fall in love with a person’s ever changing appearance, anyway? But he felt her presence to his very core, and the palpable tension that stretched between the two caused him to hesitate, even as his eyes catalogued his potential cast-mate (the way she hitched her messenger bag higher on her shoulder, the way she used thin, nimble fingers to push a tuft of hair behind her ear). She was overwhelming, sending his mind into overdrive, like he’d been transported back to his first day of seventh grade in the South Bay, unsure and timid.

Jeff prompted, “Dylan?”

Called from his reverie, Dylan jolted out of his seat, his phone falling to the floor in his haste. “Oh, ah – shit,” he hissed, bending over, his forehead an inch shy of the oak wood table his phone had fallen under. And then, “Fuck,” he cursed again, as his fingers grazed over the carpet until he felt the cool exterior of his case, immediately latching on and curling the mobile into his palm.

When he stood up, he noted just how high Jeff’s eyebrows had risen, practically disappearing into his receding hairline, and the kink of his lips. “You okay over there?” he asked, even as Dylan felt his pale, mole-dotted face heat, crimson flooding his cheeks.

“Oh, uh – yeah,” he nodded, his eyes flitting towards Jamie. “Totally.”

***

Aside from the pronounced upturn of his nose, the distinct almond-shape of his eyes, the bow of his top lip, and the moles that dotted his otherwise unblemished face, Dylan O’Brien was nothing like the internet led her to believe; after the copious amounts of unbridled research she’d done, including the deep, dark depths of Tumblr – “The Underworld,” her castmates on 17th Precinct had called it – and all the gossip sites that continuously, tirelessly hounded young Hollywood stars, she’d been expecting – well, she’d been expecting a young Hollywood star.

He was quiet, though – much quieter than YouTube had made him seem – and involved, absorbing Jeff’s insight as the elder talked through an excerpt of the second scene they were reading, and producing his own thoughts, tossing out improvised lines that settled so well with his character the producers were scribbling out the provided dialogue and penciling in Dylan’s sentences almost as soon as the words left his lips. He was intriguing, too, stuttering over his thanks when praised for his instinct, and laughing loudly, his body almost convulsing with it, when Jeff aimed a well-timed quip at his hair and the way it’d almost cost him The Maze Runner gig.

As she sat juxtaposed Dylan, one chair separating the two of them, Jamie tried not to let her mind wander. On the table before her, a tentative script for an upcoming episode of Teen Wolf laid open, and she tried, really, truly, to focus the bulk of her attention on her character’s innate sense of distrust of all things Beacon Hills. It was a challenge, though, sitting downwind from the complex that was Dylan O’Brien, a Jersey-California hybrid with a knack for acting, an eye for detail, and looking as though he’d only rolled out of bed minutes earlier, dark hair matted atop his head, fingers rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

“So, I think we should run through this scene one more time with the adjustments,” Jeff commented, bringing the conversation back around to the read, for which Jamie was too grateful; simply sitting next to Dylan was distracting enough – but hearing the way he’d melted seamlessly from his view on Stiles’ potential bi-curiosity into his opinion on the rights and privileges that all people should have, regardless of sexual orientation, was almost too much to bear. She wondered, fleetingly, whether or not Dylan had researched her half as much as she’d researched him, whether or not he’d found that her step-brother, Declan, had come out as an openly gay man and was now fighting on the front-lines for equality. “In fact,” Jeff continued, as he tapped his forefinger against the tabletop, oblivious to the whirlwind of thoughts inside her head, “why don’t you two get up and read the scene? The verbal chemistry is there; now, we just need to see the physical chemistry.”

It was cliché – god, was it cliché – but as the words left the producer’s lips, Jamie saw, from the corner of her eye, the way Dylan’s cheeks flushed, ruddy and rosy, the implication clear. Jeff wanted them to get closer – much, much closer.

“Uh, yeah,” Dylan coughed, his fingers gripping the chair’s armrests as he used his legs to push away from the table. “Yeah, sure.”

Following Dylan’s lead (he was the Teen Wolf veteran, after all), Jamie nodded her agreement and pressed her palms against the table’s edge before pushing away from her spot. By the time she had scrambled to her feet, tugging on the hem of her shorts as she did so, Dylan had tucked his seat back into its spot at the table and had picked up his script, curling half of the pages under in order to hold it in one hand. Quickly, Jamie grabbed for hers, copying his actions.

Really, she had no idea what had gotten into her. Had she not been on auditions before? (She’d been in just as many projects as Dylan himself, had found herself in numerous callbacks and table reads over the years.) Had she not been cast with ridiculously good-looking men in the past? (Hell, half of the 17th Precinct cast had been on People’s Sexiest Men Alive list; really, she’d gotten spectacularly lucky.) What in the world, she wondered for near to the fiftieth time, was so disarming about Dylan O’Brien and that damned smile of his?

“Perfect,” Jeff grinned brightly at the two, then leaned back in his chair, eyes appraising and pen poised over his script, ready to note. “Let’s take it from the beginning. Act three, fade in. Interior, Beacon Hills High. The school bell rings, classes start to release, lockers slam open and shut. Stiles, leaving ECON, sees the transfer from Beacon Valley struggling with her locker, a few doors down from his own. Go.”

“Mother—” Jamie began, her eyebrows drawn, her tone frustrated. In the script, it had her character, Steph Thermopolis, yanking on the bolt hanging from her locker; without the prop, Jamie let her hand rest atop the back of the chair she’d been sitting in, her fingers tightening against the leather.

“Whoa, hey, hi there,” Dylan, acting as Stiles, lunged towards her hand, where, in the scene, he’d be reaching for her lock. “Beacon Hills frowns upon collateral damage to the merchandise – trust me.”

Channeling as much Derek Hale into her character as possible, Jamie turned her head all of an inch towards Dylan, gunmetal blue eyes meeting dark cognac. Then, rude, shameless, she bit, “And Steph Thermopolis really doesn’t care – trust me.”

Dylan’s eyebrows shot towards the top of his head, and, slowly, he let his hand drop from where it’d fallen on top of hers, something like disappointment filling his cheeks. “O-kay, well, this has been fun,” he remarked, sarcastic, though she had turned to glare at the back of the chair, picturing a metal door that wouldn’t budge, as soon as she’d finished speaking. “I should probably let you get back to destroying school property—” and then, at the hardened look she turned on him swiftly, he added, “—or, you know, whatever it is you were trying to do. Open your locker, maybe? Looked a lot like trying to pull it off the wall from where I was standing, but—”

“Well, then, maybe you should move,” Jamie snapped, tossing her empty hand, the one that’d been resting on the back of the chair, out to the side, exasperated. For a few, tense seconds, she and Dylan only stared at one another – her eyes narrowed, riled, and his wide, curious. Then, as quickly as Steph’s frustration had built, it shattered, and Jamie exhaled loudly, slumping against the chair-turned-locker. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be such a – a bitch, but—”

Dylan cut her off, waving his free hand between their bodies, flippant. “No, I get it,” he said, and lifted his left shoulder before letting it fall in a shrug. “First days at new schools always suck. I totally get it.”

“Says the Sheriff’s kid,” Jamie rolled her eyes, though the heat that’d been behind them just a moment before had subsided monumentally. “The one that’s lived here his whole life. The one who can probably get a damn locker open on his own.”

That moment, Jamie knew, was the whole of Jeff’s reasoning when it came to having both her and Dylan stand and space out the scene. With a twist of his lips, Dylan took a step into Jamie’s personal space, his arm brushing gently across her chest as he turned on his heel to face to the back of the chair, his hand resting atop it. “Here,” he spoke, his voice softer than it’d been before. His gaze, despite facing the ‘locker’, drifted down to meet Jamie’s for the quickest of seconds. “I’ve got a patented method.”

Nothing happened for a moment, apart from Dylan’s arm pressing lightly where it touched her breasts, his eyes downcast, as, in this scene, Stiles would be fiddling with the lock, his attention focused on twisting the knob. She didn’t want to, knowing it would be unprofessional and out of character, but she couldn’t help herself; she glanced, as subtly as possible, towards Jeff and the other producers. What she found – their eyes trained on both her and Dylan, intense, unwavering – made her heartbeat climb.

When Dylan took a step back, the heat from his arm falling away from Jamie’s body, she was jolted back to the scene at hand, and glanced only briefly at the neglected script clenched in her fingers before he began to speak.

“There ya’ go,” he nodded, motioning to the makeshift locker. Dylan, as Stiles, shifted from one foot to the other, then, always frenetic. “Just needed the old Stilinski touch. Like Midas, only, you know, it won’t actually turn to gold.”

“Thanks,” she offered, bobbing her head for a second. “You didn’t have to – I mean, you know, I was kind of—”

“A bitch,” Dylan echoed her previous statement, his eyes dancing, his lips twisting playfully. Jamie watched, then, as he lifted a hand to his face and scratched, almost absentmindedly, where side-burns could grow, his body language playing at something her character, Steph, wouldn’t quite catch. “Yeah, I have some experience with those. Don’t worry about it.”

She eyed him for a moment. Everything about Dylan, from the way his hair laid atop his head to the shoes he wore to the way his t-shirt stretched to accommodate his biceps, was so uncharacteristic of the Sties she’d seen on Teen Wolf. Standing before him, it was far harder to imagine him being anything close to one-hundred and forty-seven pounds of pale skin and fragile bones than she thought. Still, though, Stiles Stilinski seemed to pour from every crevice of Dylan O’Brien, despite the obvious disparity between his character and himself.

“I’m Steph,” she introduced her character after her (totally scripted) evaluation of Dylan.

Dylan’s eyes, which had characteristically, curiously, assessed her, flitted back to meet hers. “Stiles,” he smiled, one side of his mouth edging higher than the other. “I’m Stiles.”