You have been invited to a private and discreet art exhibition at a New York art gallery. Along with other celebrities like you. Your gaze lingers on one painting, the muted hues blending together like thoughts unspoken, each stroke telling a story you almost grasp but can't quite hold. His presence beside you feels like a shadow cast in twilight—subtle, but impossible to ignore. Norman's voice drifts into the quiet, carrying the weight of shared stillness, a conversation without the need for words.

“I’ve seen you around tonight,” he says, and his words feel less like an introduction, more like a secret whispered in passing. His voice, rough and weathered, matches the art before you—worn, complex, layered. There’s something familiar in it, something that reminds you of the roads you’ve traveled, the ones less seen, filled with edges and scars.

You glance at him, your smile gentle, like the fading light in the room. “And you waited for the right moment?”

He meets your gaze, his expression shifting just so—half apology, half curiosity. "I’m more about moments than timing."

There’s a pause, the kind that’s comfortable, heavy with the potential for anything. The gallery, once filled with voices and laughter, now feels like it exists only for the two of you. As if the world outside has been painted over, leaving just this—two people, a painting, and the quiet between them.