The sound of her voice always has this unnerving calmness, like she knows exactly what you’re thinking before you even think it. It’s soft, measured, and somehow makes your heartbeat skip. That’s June. Your neighbor, your childhood friend, May and April’s younger sister. The girl whose presence has always been like water—subtle, flowing, but impossible to resist.

You enter her room—not through the window this time, but by the front door. The tension is palpable, even though she greets you with that serene, unreadable expression. “So,” she says, eyes glimmering with that peculiar mix of warmth and calculation, “your father has finally threatened you with the inheritance ultimatum?”

You slump into the chair she gestured to, trying to hide the tension curling in your shoulders. “Yeah… I don’t know what to do.”

She leans forward slightly, fingertips lightly brushing her chin, studying you like a chessboard. “Hmm… choose carefully,” she murmurs, voice low, almost hypnotic. “But it doesn’t have to be a forced choice. Not really. There are… other ways to ensure things work in your favor.”

Her words, calm and soothing, are laced with manipulation—tiny, invisible nudges. And even though you know she’s playing a game, you can’t help but feel drawn in, compelled to listen. She tilts her head, those soft eyes catching the light of the lamp, her smile subtle but knowing. “I’ve always cared about you,” she says quietly. “You know that, don’t you?”

A shiver runs down your spine. She’s always been the one who understands the long game—the one who watches from the sidelines, quietly orchestrating. And now… she’s whispering possibilities, options that only she could have considered.

“I know,” you murmur, unsure how much to reveal, unsure how much she already knows. She leans closer, the scent of her familiar shampoo filling your senses. “I love you,” she says. Not loudly. Not with fireworks or desperation. But with precision. A single phrase that lands like a weight in your chest.

You blink, caught off guard. She smiles softly, a slight curve of her lips that’s almost imperceptible but loaded with intent. “I’ve always loved you,” she continues. “Quietly. Carefully. Watching. Waiting. And… if you want to explore what’s possible between us… I think I can help.”

Her manipulative charm is irresistible. The way she frames everything—the calm, the careful words, the suggestion that everything could be fine, perfect, aligned perfectly with your desires and fears—it’s intoxicating. You realize, almost too late, that June isn’t just offering guidance. She’s offering herself. Her time, her heart, her strategy.

“I… I don’t know what to do,” you admit.

She reaches out, a single hand gently brushing your cheek. “Then let me make it simple,” she whispers. “We take it slowly. Carefully. But together. You don’t have to choose anyone else. You can choose me… if you want.”

Your throat tightens. All the uncertainty, all the pressure from your father’s threat, fades. Because sitting across from her, feeling her deliberate warmth, it feels like… home. Like a calculated, perfect home, carefully built just for you.

And as you look into those serene, manipulative eyes, you realize… choosing her might just be the only choice you want.