Ryan had been worried—deeply, endlessly worried—that Jane might let something slip, that she might open her mouth and spill his secrets to Steven. The thought wouldn't leave his head; it clung to him like a shadow. Ever since the other day, since that moment he wished could be erased, the fear of exposure had been gnawing at him. And what made it worse, what made it nearly unbearable, was the way Jane seemed to orbit around Steven. For some reason Ryan couldn't understand, she had been unusually close to him, closer than made sense, closer than was comfortable. She always seemed to find a way—any excuse, any opportunity—to talk to Steven, to stand near him, to share words and smiles that Ryan noticed even when he tried not to. And every time she did, every time her voice drifted in Steven's direction, Ryan felt the unease coil tighter in his chest. It bugged him, it really bugged him, more than he wanted to admit. It wasn't just irritation—it was a gnawing, restless worry that wouldn't go away.
The other people in the house noticed. They weren't blind, and they weren't deaf either. They saw the way Jane carried herself, the way she seemed to lean a little too comfortably toward Steven whenever he was around, and they found it strange—suspicious even. Alya was the first to quietly mention it in passing, her eyes narrowing whenever Jane slipped into another conversation with him. Rora picked up on it too, exchanging knowing looks with Kiara and Chloe, as if the four of them shared an unspoken agreement: something wasn't right. They didn't need words; the suspicion hung in the air like a silent cloud between them.
But then there was Britany. Britany was different. She was sharp, wise in ways the others weren't, yet she held herself back. She saw it too—of course she did. She wasn't blind to the little shifts and glances, to the tension that stirred just beneath the surface. But she didn't push, didn't pry. Maybe it was because she simply didn't care enough to involve herself. Or maybe—just maybe—it was because she already knew. Knew more than anyone else. Knew exactly what was happening, and chose silence over interference.
Ivan, though… Ivan was different from all of them. He wasn't the type to brush things aside or chalk them up to coincidence. He was sharp-eyed, restless, suspicious about everything. He watched, he noted, he collected details in silence until the weight of them pressed too heavily on his mind. And that evening, when the entire house sat together at dinner, his eyes kept drifting back to Jane. He barely touched his food, his thoughts louder than the voices at the table.
Later, when the plates were cleared and the house grew quieter, Ivan found himself alone with Jane in the kitchen. The clatter of dishes filled the silence, the water running in steady streams as they worked side by side. And he couldn't hold it back any longer. The question pressed at his lips, demanding to be spoken. And when the moment came, when the air grew just a little heavier between them, Ivan turned to Jane—his suspicion sharp, his voice steady—and asked her.
"What's up with you and Steven?" Ivan finally asked, his voice carefully measured, the tone casual, almost careless, as if the question had just slipped out. He tried to sound cool, as though it was no big deal, but his eyes betrayed him, holding just a second too long on her face.
"Nothing," Jane replied quickly, her voice even, calm, her hands moving steadily as she continued with the dishes beside him. The clink of porcelain against porcelain filled the silence between words. She didn't look at him, not immediately. "Noticed anything?" she asked after a moment, her tone feigning innocence, though she already knew the answer. She knew exactly what Ivan had noticed. Still, she played it off, light and unbothered, as though the matter was nothing at all.
"Uh…" Ivan shifted his weight, his words stumbling. "You just seem… close." The word slipped out heavier than he intended, rough around the edges. Whatever he was feeling, he didn't want to give it a name, didn't want to admit it, not even to himself. He just hoped—desperately—that it wasn't jealousy. Because he'd never been jealous over a girl before. Not once.
"Oh, I'm just getting to… y'know, know him." Jane shrugged, offering a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. It wasn't a lie. Every word was true, technically true. But beneath it, there was another layer, one Ivan couldn't see. She was doing it to torment Ryan, to press on him in ways only she could. And only God knew how much she was enjoying it.
"Oh… I see." Ivan's response was short, clipped, a flimsy cover for the heaviness stirring inside him. Later, when he was alone, he told himself, he'd have to look it up—search for "how to handle jealousy"—because clearly, he was doing a terrible job hiding it.
"You okay?" Jane asked softly, turning just enough to glance at him. The question carried real concern, because the sudden shift in his mood was impossible to miss.
"I—uh—wanna grab ice cream tomorrow?" The words slipped out of Ivan almost before he knew what he was saying. "I mean… if you… want." His voice cracked slightly at the end, unpolished, uncertain. He didn't even realize where the hell it came from, only that it was there now, hanging between them in the warm kitchen air.
Jane would've been a big, fat liar if she said she didn't feel something—excitement, thrill, that flutter in her chest she had always tried to suppress. She'd wanted this, wanted it with Ivan for what felt like forever. Something as simple as ice cream with him—it was stupid, ordinary, but in her heart, it had always been more.
But then reality caught up. She remembered. Tomorrow wasn't free. Tomorrow she had her job, her shift at the café, evening till late. A sigh pressed against her lips, heavy and reluctant. She didn't want to say no. God, she didn't.
"I have plans tomorrow… won't be able to make it." She forced a smile, nervous, awkward, as she set another dish into place.
Ivan's heart squeezed painfully in his chest. Just for a second, before he pulled himself together, before he forced the expression back into something neutral, collected, cool. "Uh… alright… I guess."
He wanted to say more. He wanted to ask, to push, to find out when she would be free, but the words wouldn't come. He swallowed them, buried them, pretending they didn't exist.
The kitchen fell into silence after that, broken only by the running water and the soft clatter of dishes. They worked side by side, but the air between them felt heavier, slower, until at last, the last plate was set away, the counters wiped down, and the moment quietly ended. Neither of them said much else. And when the kitchen was clean, they called it a night...