ANOTHER ROUND FOR THE RIZZ MASTER

The Marvel bosses see it. The Internet sees it.

-  LAUREN LARSON

His superstar girlfriend sees it.

What makes TOM HOLLAND so damn special? And with a new N/A beer, can he bottle (er, can) it?

IT'S ALMOST 80 DEGREES ON AN OCTOBER MONDAY IN NEW YORK CITY, BUT THE NEW YORKERS DRIFTING IN and out of a lounge at the Greenwich Hotel are committed to their fall aesthetics. The hotel, too, is resigned to an autumn gestalt: Thanks to a roaring fire in a monumental hunting-lodge hearth, the dimly lit lounge is also 80 degrees.

Tom Holland sits in a striped silkarmchair near the fireplace. He is wearing white On running shoes, wide-leg trousers, and an ivory sweatshirt that he quickly peels off, issuing a muffled apology from within the fabric as his T-shirt rises with it. Liberated, he sits back in the chair. Behind him are shelves of ancient books and a taxidermied antelope head. He is lit from the right by the fire and a lamp with a red shade so large it achieves personhood, and every divot in his face, especially the cleft in his chin, is deeply shadowed. He looks primed for a live reading of one of the tomes behind him, an impression helped along by his English accent, which is un-posh and friendly—more Harry Potter than Prince William.

“My accent annoys my parents,” he says. “They are quite well spoken, and I like to think I exist in a world that’s just below well spoken.” His brother Harry’s accent, he adds, is “much worse” than his. “Efuck-een thinks he’s, like, from the East End? And it drives my parents nuts.”