The outdoor terrace buzzed with energy. Strings of lights crisscrossed above, swaying gently in the early evening breeze, casting golden halos over every table. It was the second day of the annual "Stars Serve" event, a glamorous social engagement stunt where celebrities worked as servers to raise awareness and funds for youth education programs. The crowd was thick, the cameras subtle but ever-present.

At one of the smaller corner tables, Clara and Lena sat side by side, sipping lemonade from tall glasses beaded with condensation. Clara’s sweater — a warm rose-brown — clung lightly to her frame, her auburn-brown hair catching flecks of orange from the descending sun. She leaned forward, eyes roaming across the terrace.

"You don’t think he’ll actually come to our table, do you?" Lena whispered, her fingers wrapped tightly around her straw.

"He’s working, not floating," Clara replied with a soft smile, though her pulse was doing strange things.

And then — like magic — Tom Hiddleston appeared.

He moved through the crowd with practiced grace, wearing a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, black slacks, and an apron tied hastily around his waist. His smile, though perfectly placed, didn’t quite reach his tired eyes.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said, the richness of his voice making both women straighten in their chairs like they’d been caught sneaking cookies. “Welcome to the second night of culinary chaos. What may I bring you?”

Clara opened her mouth, closed it, then tried again. “Uh—hi. Yes. I mean—Lena, you go.”

Lena rattled off her order with suspicious confidence, then nudged Clara. She managed something about mushroom risotto, cheeks betraying her with a glow that matched her sweater. Tom’s lip curled in the gentlest smirk.

“Excellent choices,” he said, tapping his notepad. “Be right back. Hopefully with something that vaguely resembles food.”

As he turned and walked away, both girls dissolved into muffled giggles.

“Oh my God,” Lena hissed. “His voice. His arms. Did you see the veins?”

“I’m going to explode,” Clara muttered, her face in her hands. “Just combust. Right here. That man is unfair.”

Later, once their food had arrived — and after a second brief exchange with Tom that left them equally red-faced — Clara stood and picked up her empty plate. “I’ll bring it back,” she said. “He’s been running like mad all night.”

“Clara, they have staff for that—”

“I know. I just… want to help.”

She slipped between tables and followed the path servers had taken all evening. Past the buffet tent, behind the side curtain, then through a slightly ajar door — and she was in the back.

The hallway was louder than expected, voices sharp and impatient. She froze just before the swinging kitchen door. Through the round window, she saw Tom — but not the charming version. He was standing stiff, face tense, surrounded by three people in event uniforms who didn’t look particularly charitable.

"You’re dragging. Again," one barked.

“I’m doing what I can,” Tom replied, quiet but firm.

A woman stepped closer, something metallic glinting in her hand. “You don’t get to ‘can.’ We need you presentable.”

Before he could protest, the man behind him gripped his arms. The woman jabbed something into his neck — a quick, practiced motion. Tom flinched, his mouth tightening in pain, his body jerking once.

Clara stifled a gasp, backing away, heart thudding.

Moments later, he was upright again. Pale, yes. But composed. He pushed back through the door like nothing had happened, tray in hand.

Clara ducked into a small side room — a forgotten storage closet filled with dusty tablecloths, crates, and cobwebs tangled like ghost-thread. She crouched near the door, breath shallow.

Then came footsteps.

As Tom passed, Clara reached out, gently grabbed his wrist, and tugged.

“What the—?”

She pulled him inside and shut the door behind them.

He blinked in the darkness, breathing hard, eyes adjusting — first to the dim, then to her face.

“You—Clara, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Sorry. I just… I saw.”

He didn’t ask what.