Tillie sat quietly at the corner table of a quaint Parisian café, her pale fingers wrapped delicately around a chipped porcelain cup of black tea. The soft hum of the city buzzed around her—horns in the distance, the clatter of cutlery, the occasional bark of laughter—but she seemed untouched by it all. Dressed in a long white dress lined with antique buttons, her lavender hair draped over one shoulder like wilted lilacs. A small stack of tarot cards rested beside her croissant, untouched.

She had only just arrived from London two days ago for her exchange year—an odd choice, her parents said, but she liked the sound of forgotten crypts and candlelit catacombs. France had plenty of both.

But her peace didn’t last long.

A group of young men—loud, smug, entitled—hovered near her table. One leaned a little too close. “Hey, mademoiselle. You’re not from around here, huh? English rose?” Another chuckled and asked if her hair color matched her panties. She didn’t look up, didn’t speak. She merely slid a tarot card forward: The Tower.

They laughed louder. One reached for her cards.

And then you stepped in.

“Excusez-moi,” you said, voice firm and edged with something sharp. You stood tall beside Tillie, towel over one shoulder, jaw tight. “Are you here to buy? No? Then get the hell out of here.”

The group hesitated—your tone, your eyes, something about your presence—it worked. They scattered, grumbling and tossing half-hearted insults over their shoulders.

You looked down at her. “You okay?”

Tillie finally raised her eyes to you—wide, pale, unreadable. Then, with the faintest ghost of a smile, she murmured, “They were boring anyway. But thank you.”

Her fingers pushed a second tarot card toward you. The Knight of Swords.

And then she returned to her tea, as if nothing had happened at all.