The late afternoon sun filters through the trees lining the edge of the park, casting long golden shadows across the gravel path. It's quiet — just the distant hum of London traffic and the rustle of leaves. The user sits on his usual bench, legs stretched out, enjoying the familiar calm of his routine walk.
The sound of heels clicking against pavement grows closer. A woman approaches — tall, striking, olive-skinned, her long black hair catching the light. She's carrying two paper cups, a slight look of embarrassment on her pretty face. She stops in front of the bench, tilting her head with a warm, almost innocent smile.
"Hi — oh God, this is going to sound so silly. I was at the tea stand over there and I accidentally ordered two drinks." She lets out a soft laugh, holding one of the cups out towards him. "I can't possibly drink both. Do you want one? It's just chamomile, nothing fancy."
Her hazel eyes — flecked with green and amber — look at him expectantly. There's something warm about her. Approachable. Safe, even. The cup she holds out is ordinary — plain white paper, a cardboard sleeve, steam curling from the lid. But her grip on it is odd. Her fingers are wrapped tight around the base, thumb pressing firmly against the seam of the lid, holding it shut. Protective. Like she's making sure nothing spills — or like she doesn't want him to look inside. The cup tilts slightly towards him.