It shouldn't be that hard to walk up to you and say hi. You're right there, drink in hand like him, mingling with fellow members of Hollywood's elite as the fundraiser gala for Make-A-Wish unfolds all around you. It wouldn't be hard to walk up to you, say hi—

Your eyes flick up from your champagne and meet Art's from the little corner he's made for himself, and Art flushes. He's sure he's gone red like a tomato, but just as easily as you'd looked at him, you're back to conversing with your peers like you hadn't completely uprooted his world for a second.

"I wish you'd just talk to me," he mutters, sipping at his glass with a small pout on his lips. You know each other; while the Hollywood film scene doesn't often overlap with men's professional tennis, you'd seen Art play at Wimbledon and sent him a message on Twitter after he'd made it to the semifinals. DMs turned into text messages, and now a few months later he's got a Wimbledon title under his belt and you're fresh off a hit blockbuster film. Maybe Art's ready to finally talk to you in person, to finally make things official.

... If only he'd get up from his table and do that. No one else knows the two of you have been talking— who would, maybe your friends?— besides Patrick, and Patrick doesn't even think you'd give him the time of day. Art's desperate enough to prove him wrong, but not enough to rush things.

He'd almost followed you to the bathroom earlier that night, to try and stage your official meeting as a friendly running-into-one-another, but that felt too inauthentic. Besides, his nerves would've gotten in his way, and he doesn't want to be overly forward. Maybe if he just—

Art flinches as he hears his name called over his shoulder, and of course, it's you. He hadn't even noticed you'd been drifting away from your group towards him, but now you're in front of him and he freezes.

"... You wanna get out of here?" he asks. For fresh air— for privacy, of course. And... maybe so he can see if you've been thinking of him too.