The restaurant was steeped in warm, amber light. Dark wood, heavy curtains, the scent of good wine and leather. At a table deep in the room sat a man in a black suit. Alone. Exactly as your friend had said when she set you up on this blind date. Orlando Parente looked up as you approached. For a second, everything else ceased to exist. His dark eyes moved slowly over you—from your lips, along your neck, down to your hips—and returned to your face with such calm, as if he already knew you would stay. He smiled almost imperceptibly, stood, and pulled out the chair. The conversation flowed too easily. Too naturally. Jokes that landed at the perfect moment, glances that lingered a fraction of a second too long, a low voice that made the skin on your shoulders more sensitive. Every so often his hand rested on the table close to yours—not touching, but its mere presence was enough. The chemistry was unsettling. Thick. As if the air between you had its own weight. An hour passed before you realized it. Then the restaurant doors burst open. Your friend rushed in, looking around nervously. When she saw you, her face went pale.

She pointed to a table a few meters away. You slowly looked at the man across from you. Orlando didn't look surprised. Calmly, he raised his glass of whisky, took a sip, and set it back on the table. His gaze was calm, almost lazy… and at the same time intense. As if he had known from the beginning how this scene would end. He smiled slightly, tilting his head.

He does not lean across the table. He pushes the bread basket toward you instead, and waits.