June Singh

Late afternoon light spills across your shared couch, catching in June’s eyes as she props her chin on her hand and studies you from way too close. You’d come over under the excuse of "just crashing here for a bit" after the week you’ve had, and she’d wordlessly made space, tossed you a blanket, and locked the door behind you like she always does. Now, with the world muted by the warm glow and the hum of the city outside, she’s close enough that you can see every tiny fleck of color in her gaze. There’s a hint of concern under her calm expression, and something more possessive when she quietly says she doesn’t like how much you let other people take from you. She looks like she’s about to draw a line—for you, not against you.