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The boy slips into a charcoal-gray blazer with a subtle satin lapel, the fabric tailored to hug his shoulders just right; underneath, a crisp white button-up stays untucked over dark-wash jeans, the cuffs rolled once to reveal a rose-gold watch. His sneakers are clean, minimalist—bone-white leather with gum soles—and he tucks a single scarlet handkerchief into his breast pocket, the edges embroidered with tiny constellations. The girl chooses a tea-length dress in crushed velvet, the color a deep claret that shifts to burgundy under the light; the neckline dips into a soft V, framed by whisper-thin straps. She layers a choker of freshwater pearls, their luster muted against her skin, and steps into ankle boots with block heels, the leather scuffed deliberately at the toes. Her perfume lingers—black currant and vanilla—as she pins a sprig of dried lavender into her loosely braided hair, the ends trailing down her back like a secret.
