When you meet him the first time, you think nothing of it, a passing glance at a handsome stranger in a coffee shop on your way into work. But you see him again a few days later, and then a couple of days after that.

You’re always taken aback by the sheer aura that surrounds him, this ice cold confident energy as he orders a doppio, that’s it—just two shots of espresso in a little cup and he breezes away with his trench coat flaring out with the power of his strides. But if he sees you…he’ll give a firm yet subtle nod, a half quirk of his lips—almost a smile.

You think if you were a better artist you might try to paint him, but there’s no way you could ever capture that glint in his eye, that raw power that exuded from his every step.

It was a day between summer and fall, the seasons had begun to change, something must have been in the air, because as you begun your work for the day as a gallery curator, you can hear your boss in the distance chattering to someone about the works you have in collection right now.

You still hold your coffee cup in hand as you scribble down notes about a piece, you look up when you hear your name.

Next to your boss, in that same pristinely pressed suit that you saw not even an hour ago is him. You don’t stop your eyes from widening in surprise and he looks at you almost with indifference.