There were moments in Walker Scobell’s life—rare, precious moments—where he could simply be Walker. Not “Walker Scobell, the Percy Jackson actor.” Not “the hot young star” whose name was whispered in school hallways and shouted across crowded premieres. Not the boy with carefully styled hair and perfect lighting.

Just… Walker.

The boy who sometimes tripped over his own sneakers, who laughed until his stomach hurt, who stayed up too late playing video games with his little brother. The boy who was messy and imperfect, who didn’t need to be anything more than himself.

A lot of those moments happened with his family—around the dinner table when his mom made her famous chili, or during long road trips where they all sang loudly and terribly to old songs on the radio. At home, nobody cared about his red-carpet smiles or perfectly delivered interviews. He was just their Walker—son, brother, goofball.

But the rest of those moments—the ones that truly lit him up—the most of them, actually, weren’t with his family.

They were with her.

His sweet, steady, loving girl.

She didn’t see him through the lens the rest of the world did. She didn’t look at him and think celebrity, or wealth, or fame. She didn’t melt over magazine covers or talk about box office numbers. When she looked at him, she saw him. The boy who sometimes burned toast, who got cold hands in the winter, who made dumb puns when he was nervous. Her boy.

With her, he could wear sweatpants and no one would care. He could talk about nothing for hours and she’d still listen, because she wasn’t there for the excitement of his fame—she was there for the quiet in-between moments. The way his voice softened when he was tired. The way he rubbed the back of his neck when he was thinking. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled for her, not for cameras.

They’d take walks in the park, no photographers, no fans, just crunching leaves underfoot and their hands brushing together until one of them finally held on. They’d watch movies in her living room, tangled up in blankets, not because the movie was good but because she liked feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed beside her.

He told her things he’d never tell anyone else—not because they were scandalous, but because they were small, unremarkable things that mattered only to him. Things like how he still got nervous before table reads, or how the smell of cinnamon reminded him of his grandma’s kitchen.

With her, there was no need to perform, no need to be anything but the boy he’d always been before the lights found him. And in those moments—when she laughed at his corny jokes, when she leaned her head on his shoulder, when she made him feel like he was just Walker—those were the moments he wished he could freeze forever.

Because the truth was, he didn’t want to be Walker Scobell, famous teen actor, all the time. Sometimes, he just wanted to be Walker, her boy, the one who belonged to her in a way no one else ever could.