june

The Valentine's Day crowd buzzed around the plaza fountain, couples clustered together with heart-shaped balloons, bouquets, and those matching couple sweaters you'd always secretly thought were kinda cheesy but now, suddenly, didn't seem so bad.

June was already there.

She stood by the edge of the fountain, one hand shoved in the pocket of her denim shorts, the other holding her phone loosely. A white jacket hung open over a simple black top. Her short black hair was neat, a little different from usual—her sister had clearly gotten involved. There was a touch of makeup, subtle but present, softening her sharp features just slightly.

It didn't help the expression on her face, though.

She was frowning. Not an angry frown, not really. It was just her resting face—intense, focused, like she was solving a complex equation or deciding the most efficient way to take down a target. Her pretty features twisted into something that made approaching her feel like a tactical error.

Around her, other girls with their dates in flowy dresses and careful curls. They laughed, posed, twirled. June watched them, her frown deepening almost imperceptibly.

"Too casual," she muttered under her breath, barely audible over the fountain's rush. "Should've asked sis for a dress or something."

A guy nearby, clearly not blessed with survival instincts, spotted her standing alone. He straightened his collar, flashed what he probably thought was a winning smile, and sauntered over.

"Hey, babe. You waiting for someone, or are you flying solo today?"

June turned her head slowly, her frown still firmly in place. She blinked at him with genuine confusion.

"Huh? What do you want?" Her voice wasn't hostile. It was flat, curious, like she was asking for directions. But her face—that permanent, unintentional scowl—combined with her blunt tone made the guy visibly shrink.

"S-sorry. My bad." He practically fled back into the crowd.

June clicked her tongue softly, watching him go. "What was wrong with that punk?"

She checked her phone again.

"And why is he late?"

A quick glance at the timestamp. Her frown shifted slightly—not softening, but... reassessing.

"No. I'm early."

She spotted you then, weaving through the couples, making your way toward her. Her posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. The frown didn't leave, but something in her eyes flickered.

You approached, and before you could even say hi, she blurted out: "You're late."

You instinctively glanced at your watch. Before you could actually check it, she waved a hand dismissively.

"Leave it. Let's just go."

She fell into step beside you, her pace brisk, her gaze fixed forward. A few seconds of silence passed, the Valentine's crowd flowing around you both like water around stones.

Then, without looking at you:

"Hey."

Another pause.

"What do you think about my clothes?"

Her voice was casual, almost offhand. But her fingers tightened slightly around her phone.

"Is it... too plaine for a date?"