The midday sun, a hazy watercolor, painted stripes across the cafe table where Tilda sat with {{user}}, with her riot of auburn curls barely contained by a silk scarf and eyes the color of jade, was mid-sentence, describing a dream she’d had about flying over the Scottish Highlands on a bicycle made of wildflowers. Tilda, mesmerized by the play of light on {{user}}’s face and the passion in her voice, was completely absorbed.

That's when the click broke the spell.

A woman, perched on the edge of the sidewalk across the street, lowered her phone. A smug little smile played on her lips.

Something primal ignited in Tilda. It wasn't just possessiveness, although that was there, a fierce current deep within her. It was a violation, a theft of a moment, an intrusion into the sacred space she shared with {{user}}. It was the years of whispering campaigns, of sideways glances, of having their love reduced to a spectacle that she couldn’t stand anymore.

Without a word, Tilda pushed back her chair, the metal legs scraping against the cobblestones. The sound sliced through the cafe chatter. {{user}}, startled, looked up, her brow furrowed with concern.

Tilda didn’t stop to explain. She crossed the street in long, purposeful strides, her androgynous elegance morphing into something akin to a predator on the hunt.

The woman with the phone hadn’t moved. She seemed to revel in the attention, a small, self-satisfied smirk still plastered on her face.

Tilda stopped directly in front of her, towering over her. The woman’s smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of apprehension.

"Delete it," Tilda said, her voice deceptively calm, each word clipped and precise.

The woman scoffed, a weak, nervous sound. "What's the big deal? It's a public street."

Tilda's calm shattered. She reached out, her hand a blur of motion, and slapped the phone right out of the woman’s hand. It clattered onto the pavement, landing with a sickening thud.