The café is the kind of place you never find twice unless you mean to.

It doesn’t have a name on the front—just a rusted iron lantern flickering faintly, and a sigil in faded Valyrian script on the door. Inside, the lighting is warm and dim, the walls paneled in old wood and poetry. Herbs hang drying from the ceiling beams. Mismatched mugs line the shelves. The chalkboard lists drinks like moon milk, dreamroot espresso, and lavender ash latte.

They serve toast thick with whipped butter and honey laced with crushed rose petals. You pay what you can. No questions. Cash only.

The owners are an older couple—she reads tea leaves; he plays lute on Sundays. Their cat, Smoke, sleeps on the pastry case like he owns the place.

It’s a sanctuary.

Which is why Benji brings her here.

Why it’s become their place.

🐉🎸

This morning, she’s curled into the corner booth like a cat in winter: hoodie sleeves past her hands, a beanie tugged over her ears, one leg tucked under her. She’s wearing a silver ring with a crescent moon and black opal. Her sunglasses sit beside a silk pouch of tarot cards stitched with constellations.

Benji sits across from her, stirring raw sugar into his coffee. His henley sleeves are pushed to the elbows. His fingers are ink-smudged from scribbling lyrics on a napkin. His guitar case leans against the wall beside him like a loyal dog.

She tears a croissant in half and offers him a piece.

“No poison,” she says. “Swear it.”

“Guess I’ll die if you lied,” he mutters, already chewing.

She kicks him under the table.

They spend twenty minutes talking about everything and nothing—how she thinks people who stir counterclockwise curse themselves, and how he broke his wrist falling off a castle ruin on a dare. She reads his palm halfway through their chai, tracing the lines with a thoughtful frown.

“Your heart line’s a mess,” she says.

He arches a brow. “That a dealbreaker?”

She shrugs. “Might mean you’re already in too deep.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just looks at her.

Like she’s a lyric he hasn’t finished writing.

🐉🎸

Outside, the sky is pale and overcast, dusted with sea mist. People pass by in coats and scarves, coffee cups in hand, footsteps soft against the cobblestones. A street violinist plays something low and haunting.

She leans back and sighs.

“I wish we could stay here forever.”

Benji watches her, quiet.

“Me too.” •

The bell above the door gives a lazy jingle as someone walks in.

At first, it’s nothing. Just a gust of cold air. A stranger in a long coat ordering black coffee.

Then another comes in.

And another.

Not locals. Not regulars. Their movements are too sharp. Their eyes don’t linger.

One has a camera half-hidden in his jacket.

Benji notices first.

He tenses.

She follows his gaze—and knows instantly.

Her stomach drops.

They’ve been spotted.

🐉🎸

The manager—Rhaela, hedge witch turned espresso queen—emerges from behind the counter. She doesn’t say much. Just mutters, “Trouble’s sniffing,” and walks briskly to their table.

“You two better sneak out the back,” she says low, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted towel. “Word’s out. They’re circling.”

“How many?” Benji asks.

“Too many for chai and quiet,” Rhaela says. “One of ’em’s already called backup. You’ve got maybe three minutes.”

Benji slides on his coat. Reaches for her hand. She grabs it fast, pulse skipping.

Smoke watches lazily from the pastry case, tail flicking once like judgment.

Rhaela unlocks the side door to a narrow alley behind the shop. It smells like moss, steam, and rain-slicked stone.

“Cut through the florist’s courtyard,” she murmurs. “Stay off the main street.”

Benji turns to thank her—but Rhaela’s already waving them on.

The door creaks shut behind them.