Just June

Posted on 17 Jan 2026 @ 12:11am by Captain Sabrina Corbin

1,164 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Lathira Shoreleave
Location: Tide Gardens, Lathira IV

The music found her before the place did.

Not polished. Not amplified enough to carry far. Just a human voice, slightly off key, drifting through the night with more confidence than precision. Sabrina slowed without meaning to, the sound drawing her beyond the resort’s enclosed promenade and its carefully spaced lighting, onto a side path that felt intentional rather than advertised, marked by lanterns that guided rather than showcased, leading her somewhere not meant to be found by accident.

There was a hand-painted sign at the entrance, the letters bold and unapologetic.

OPEN MIC TONIGHT

Someone inside missed a note and laughed through it. The room answered with applause anyway.

Sabrina paused at the threshold, one hand resting lightly against the stone wall as she leaned in to look. This was not a place designed for visitors. The bar was narrow by design, its counter finished in durable stone meant to withstand crowds rather than impress them. Tables were mismatched, chosen for function over uniformity. The lighting was low, deliberate, forgiving by intent rather than neglect. A local place. Alive in a way that did not require her attention to justify itself.

She stepped inside.

The air was warmer here, carrying the scent of citrus and clean wood, of people who stayed because they wanted to. She took an empty stool near the end of the bar and rested her hands lightly against the counter.

“Something without alcohol,” she said when the bartender glanced her way, ‘Citrusy, refreshing.” Sabrina shrugged.
There was no pause, no question. A moment later, a glass appeared in front of her, bright with citrus and something herbal, cool against her fingers. She took a sip and felt herself settle.

The singer finished to applause that felt earned rather than polite. A theatrical bow, laughter, the microphone handed back to the host. The room shifted, expectant.

“That one was fearless,” a voice beside her said.

Sabrina turned.

He stood close enough that she could feel the warmth of him without touching. Tall, broad through the shoulders, relaxed in the way of someone accustomed to moving through open spaces. His skin held the even warmth of long days under the sun, not burned, just thoroughly acquainted with it. He smelled faintly of clean air and heat, like fabric warmed outdoors rather than anything bottled.

“Or reckless,” she replied.

“Usually both,” he said, smiling. One corner of his mouth lifted first, an expression more amused than practiced. “Depends on the song.”

She angled slightly toward him, forearms resting on the bar. “And which do you think it was?”

“Fearless,” he decided. “She didn’t apologize for missing the note.”

Sabrina smiled, small but genuine.

On stage, the host called out another name. Cheers rose from one table, groans from another. The list shifted.

“You’re watching the stage like you’re measuring it,” he said.

She blinked. “Am I?”

“Like you’re deciding whether it’s worth the effort.”

She huffed quietly. “You make a habit of observing strangers?”

“Only the interesting ones.”

That earned him a look, dry rather than offended. “Bold.”

“Accurate,” he countered, unbothered.

He held out his hand between them, casual, not demanding space across the bar. “Evan.”

She took it after a brief pause. His grip was warm and steady, neither tentative nor possessive.

“June,” she said.

The name settled easily. A softer thing. Family used it. People who knew her before titles did. And sometimes, when she did not want to be known at all, she chose it deliberately. Not a lie. Just a narrowing.

“Nice to meet you, June,” Evan said, repeating it once and letting it go.

On stage, the next singer launched into a song with more enthusiasm than ability. The room leaned in anyway.

“You sing,” Evan said.

It was not phrased as a question.

Her fingers paused where they had been tapping lightly against the bar. She glanced down at them, then back at him.

“That’s a dangerous accusation.”

“You know the words,” he said. “All of them. And you’re counting the beats.”

She considered denying it. Habit urged her to. But the warmth of the room, the ease of the night, loosened her grip on caution.

“Occasionally,” she admitted. “In controlled environments.”

“They’re about to open the list again,” he said.

She followed his gaze to the stage. The host was already lifting the stylus.

“No,” she replied immediately.

“Didn’t ask,” he said. “Just observing.”

She took another sip of her drink, eyes still on the microphone. The pull was there, undeniable. The quiet thrill of a room that did not care who you were, only whether you showed up.

“Anyone else?” the host called.

The decision settled before she could second-guess it.

Sabrina slid off the stool.

Evan’s eyebrows lifted, delight flickering across his face. “There it is.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said softly.

She did not respond. She was already walking toward the stage.

When the host asked her name, she did not hesitate.

“June.”

The microphone was warm in her hand. The room stilled, curious rather than demanding.

She chose an older song, familiar, unflashy. When she sang, her voice was lower than expected, controlled and clear. Not showy. Precise in a way that suggested care rather than performance. She did not oversell it. She trusted the notes to do their work.

The room listened.

When the final note faded, the applause came a beat later. Real. Appreciative. Not loud for the sake of it.

She handed the microphone back and returned to the bar, pulse steady, warmth rising in her chest.

Evan watched her approach with an expression that had shifted from amusement to something quieter.

“You hid that,” he said.

“Closets exist for a reason,” she replied, lifting her glass.

They stayed until the music softened and the night deepened, conversation narrowing comfortably, voices dropping as the bar eased toward closing. She learned he worked the surrounding agricultural terraces and, when the crops were out of season, taught local students who preferred the land to classrooms. The rhythm of it suited him, he said. When he asked what she did, she answered simply, “Logistics.” He accepted that without probing. She appreciated him for it.

When they stepped outside, the air was cooler, the lantern-lit path quiet. The water below caught fragments of moonlight.

“So,” he said, hands in his pockets. “June.”

“Yes.”

“Will I see you again?”

She considered the question, the ship waiting in orbit above them, the careful life she would return to soon enough. She met his gaze.

“Maybe,” she said. “That’s rather the point.”

He smiled and leaned in, kissing her once. Gentle. Unassuming. The kind that asked rather than took.

She let it happen.

The rest of the night did not belong to words.

And when she finally turned back toward the path, Sabrina Corbin did not look over her shoulder.

 

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