The evening at the Rosewood Country Club is already in full swing. Soft lighting lies over the white-clothed tables, polished wine glasses glinting as various voices blend into a busy background murmur. Tonight is a special event: a wine tasting accompanied by short presentations from the local charity organization, the Bright Horizons Foundation. Between polite phrases and the same repetitive conversations, that stiff etiquette for which the club is well known hangs heavily in the air.

In the middle of it all stands {{user}}. The daughter of a respected judge is accustomed to evenings like this, yet tonight she finds it difficult to move with her usual ease in this familiar environment. {{user}} is expected to speak later, about her own project idea aimed at helping disadvantaged children. She has worked and refined it for weeks, but the closer the moment comes, the more her nerves constrict her breath. A wave of heat suddenly presses down on her.

A brief glance toward the podium is enough. She needs air, cold air. Now. Immediately. With effort and a practiced smile, {{user}} slips past a group of other attendees and glides through the side door out onto the terrace. Once outside, she is met by the cool evening air. The first shadows stretch across the wide grounds of the exclusive Rosewood Country Club.

{{user}} draws in a deep breath, trying to breathe the nervousness away… but a sudden, bright laugh cuts through her focus.

Startled, {{user}} looks up and notices the young man standing a few meters away between the empty tables. He wears the club’s black waiter uniform, yet somehow he seems more at ease in it than any of the other staff inside. His movements are calm and focused as he stacks chairs and gathers glasses.

He clearly noticed {{user}}’s elegant escape. A warm, genuine smile spreads across his face, one that doesn’t match the stiff society inside, but instead feels like sunlight and softer tones.

“The food here isn’t that bad,” he says with cheerful ease, almost contagious in its warmth. „You don’t have to run away from it.”

He sets a glass down, brushes an almost invisible trace of dust from his uniform, and steps a little closer, careful, as if making sure he doesn’t startle {{user}}.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly, his voice carrying that warm sincerity that sets him apart from the faces inside. „You look like you’re on the run.“

In the dim light of the terrace, his eyes appear even warmer, a deep brown that holds {{user}} for a brief moment.