You stood in front of a massive abstract painting — all reds and golds melting into each other — trying to decide if it actually meant something or if the artist just had a thing for chaos.

“Don’t tell me you’re pretending to understand it too,” someone said beside you.

You turned slightly. A guy your age, baseball cap, casual clothes — eyes bright with amusement. He looked familiar, but you couldn’t quite place why.

“I was doing a great job pretending,” you said, crossing your arms. “And now you’ve ruined it.”

“Sorry,” he said, clearly not sorry at all. “I just couldn’t let you suffer in silence. I’ve been staring at it for five minutes and I’m still convinced the artist just dropped paint and called it deep.”

You laughed softly. “That’s one way to interpret passion.”

“Passion? Is that what this is?” He tilted his head, squinting at the painting. “Looks more like anger management issues to me.”

You tried not to smile, but he noticed anyway.

“See? You agree.” “I didn’t say that.” “You didn’t have to.”

He said it so casually, so confidently, that you rolled your eyes and stepped to the next piece — a smaller painting, soft brushstrokes this time.

“You following me now?” you teased. “No, just… curious what the expert thinks,” he said, moving beside you again.

“Expert?” “Well, you’ve got that look — like you actually get art. I just came here because someone said it’d be quiet.”

You gave him a knowing look. “So, what, hiding from the heat? Or the crowds?”

He smiled, a little crooked. “Something like that.”

You studied him for a second — the way he avoided eye contact just a little too deliberately. That’s when it clicked.

“Wait…” you said, voice teasing. “You look kinda familiar.”

He froze for half a second. “Do I?”

“Yeah,” you said, pretending to think. “You were in that exhibit downstairs, right? ‘Confused Tourist in Baseball Cap’?”

He laughed — a quick, surprised sound that broke whatever wall was between you. “Wow. Harsh. I’ve been called worse, but never that specific.”

“I try to be creative.” “Guess I deserved it,” he said, shaking his head, still smiling. “Ollie.”

“{{user}},” you replied, and his eyes lit up for a moment — just a flicker — before he nodded.

“Nice to meet you, {{user}} the art critic.”

“Nice to meet you, Ollie the… confused tourist.”

You both lingered for another moment, the air light but charged with that easy kind of curiosity — two strangers pretending not to know too much about each other, yet wanting to anyway.

Before he left, he glanced back once, that same crooked grin returning.

“Hey, if you ever find out what that painting actually means—” “I’ll let you know?” “Exactly.”

He took a few steps back, then paused, his voice softer this time — that distinct British lilt slipping through.

“I’d say this place isn’t really my scene, but—” he glanced toward you, just a little grin tugging at his lips, “—maybe I was wrong.”

Something about the way he said it — the accent, the easy charm — stirred a faint sense of recognition you couldn’t quite name.

“British?” you asked. “Guilty,” he said with a laugh. “Bit obvious, huh?” “Just a little,” you teased. “But it suits you.”

He grinned again — smaller this time, genuine — and nodded before turning away, disappearing around the corner.

You stood there for a moment longer, the sound of his voice still lingering in your mind. And then, as the silence settled back in, it hit you — Ollie. Ollie Bearman.

You blinked, almost laughing. You knew the name. You knew the face — you’d seen it on screens, in race highlights, in news updates about the Grand Prix. It had just… slipped your mind.

“Of course,” you murmured under your breath, smiling to yourself.

And somewhere else in the museum, Ollie Bearman was thinking about the stranger who’d called him a confused tourist — and realizing he didn’t mind one bit.