The sun was bright today, the kind of bright that made everything look kinder than it really was. The weather was impossibly good—almost unfair, as if it had decided to take no part in anyone's nerves.
Jayna sat on the sofa, staring straight at the television as though she could bore a hole through it with willpower alone. Ginevra asked what she wanted to watch.
"Anything," Jayna said with a smile that tried to sound casual.
So, naturally, Ginevra flipped to the international news on Channel Thirteen.
French poured out in a relentless stream—clean, fast, merciless. Jayna kept her smile in place, but it started to feel like something taped onto her face. She glanced sideways.
"Um… Ginevra," she asked, forcing a lightness that didn't quite reach her eyes, "you can actually understand this?"
There weren't even subtitles.
"I can," Ginevra answered.
"…Oh."
For a second, Jayna felt as if the distance between them had quietly expanded into an entire galaxy. She lifted her brows, testing the air like someone touching water before stepping in.
"Channel Eight is playing a Korean drama right now," she offered. "It's pretty good. Just… extremely melodramatic."
Ginevra wasn't stupid. She handed the remote over without comment.
Jayna had no choice but to accept it with exaggerated reluctance, flipping over to Channel Eight. Sure enough, on-screen, a wife was swallowing every accusation like broken glass, tearing herself free from her husband's grip, stumbling toward an escape she didn't yet believe she deserved.
"You like watching this?" Ginevra asked.
She was peeling a mandarin as she spoke, her fingers steady, practiced. She'd barely raised a segment toward her mouth when Jayna turned, as if her head came equipped with a built-in radar for anything edible. She looked at Ginevra with the most pitiful, soft-eyed expression she could muster—an unspoken plea dressed up as innocence.
Ginevra paused, exhaled through her nose, and placed the peeled segments into Jayna's hand.
Jayna ate one. Sweet. Ridiculously sweet.
"This drama is huge," she said, eyes brightening. "Everybody's watching it. Don't tell me you haven't heard of it?"
Ginevra glanced at the translated title on the screen—Love Among Thorns—and could already predict the bitter devotion, the retaliatory tenderness, the endless cycle of harm disguised as fate.
"I don't watch these," she admitted. She rarely watched dramas at all. They felt like time slipping away while you stared at someone else's problems and called it entertainment.
"Well then," Jayna said, turning toward her with a show of generosity, "what do you like? I'll switch it."
Ginevra shook her head. She didn't really want to say that if she watched anything, it was usually news—serious programs, world events, things that didn't ask you to feel too much. Jayna would call her boring. Jayna would laugh, and the laugh would land like a tiny stone.
Jayna, as if reading the answer in her silence, immediately flipped to the national news channel instead. She grinned, pleased with herself.
"See? I'm so considerate," she said, leaning back like a victor. "My Lord Volkova, always concerned with the fate of the nation."
Ginevra listened to her laughter for a beat, then cut her a sideways look.
"Are you making fun of me?"
Jayna reacted fast—faster than guilt. She stuffed a mandarin segment into Ginevra's mouth mid-sentence, sealing the accusation with citrus.
"I'm freeloading at your place," she said, all wide-eyed sincerity. "Eating your food, drinking your drinks—how would I dare disrespect you? I should be pouring you tea, fetching you water, flattering you until you feel smug. Want coconut water?"
She held it up as if offering tribute.
Somehow, Jayna always found a way to tease Ginevra—never too hard, never at the wrong angle. Like she knew exactly where the boundary was, and how to press her fingertips right up against it without crossing.
Then Jayna's voice softened, hesitating around the edges.
"Hey… do you think I should go help in the kitchen? It feels kind of wrong to let your mom do everything alone."
Truthfully, ever since she'd stepped through the door, Jayna's body had been tense in ways she didn't want to admit.
"No need," Ginevra said. She reached out and patted Jayna's shoulder—brief, firm, like a reassurance delivered in the language of practicality. "I already prepped a lot of the ingredients. Just sit and wait."
"I'm still… a little nervous," Jayna murmured. She pouted, speared a strawberry with a small fork, then froze before biting. Her appetite seemed to stall somewhere behind her anxiety.
Ginevra's mouth curved—barely there, but real.
"Aren't you supposed to be fearless?"
Jayna shot her a stubborn glare. "Who told you that? This is my first time coming to your house. Of course I'm going to be a little… careful." She lifted her chin as if daring anyone to disagree, then asked, "Where's your dad?"
Ginevra glanced up at the clock. Around this time, he should be home.
As if summoned by the thought, footsteps approached—heavy, steady, coming closer until they filled the hallway. There was a faint sound of breath, like someone who'd climbed a few stairs too quickly.
The front door opened.
Jayna sprang up from the sofa. She smoothed the skirt of her little dress, then instinctively adjusted her hair, fingers moving too fast, too precise. Her mind was already staging worst-case scenarios: Her dad used to run a boxing gym, right? Strict. The kind of strict that can see through you. I have to be good. I have to be perfect.
The man who stepped in was tall and broad-shouldered, built like someone who took up space without apologizing for it. For an instant, Jayna felt as if his shadow swallowed the light in the room.
When she looked up, she saw a handsome face made severe by habit—a dark-haired man with a hard set to his jaw, eyes that carried a faint edge of violence even at rest. The pressure rolling off him was almost suffocating.
"Sir—hello," Jayna blurted, not even waiting for introductions. "I'm Jaynara Stevens."
She bowed so deeply it was practically ninety degrees. And as she bent, her gaze caught the tattoo at his wrist.
Her throat tightened. What kind of person is he, exactly…?
But his eyes swept over her and, in a blink, his stern expression cracked open like sunlight. He smiled—big, warm, almost exuberant.
"Oh! You must be Jayna," he said, as if they were already familiar. "Welcome, welcome. I've heard Ginevra mention you plenty."
Ginevra, standing to the side, looked faintly puzzled. When have I ever—
Jayna let out a stiff little laugh, clutching Ginevra's sleeve like a lifeline.
"R-really? Ha… I was worried I might be bothering you and Mrs. Volkova."
"Nonsense," he said, voice booming with easy cheer. "You should come often. We'd love that."
He swapped into house shoes and waved them toward the living room.
Jayna was still trying to process the whiplash—terrifying shadow, then suddenly a golden retriever of a man—when a small sound drifted up from his arms.
A soft whimper.
Jayna's eyes sharpened with curiosity.
A tiny puppy poked its head out—cream-colored, with a little black spot on its crown. It spotted Jayna and immediately wagged its tail like it had been waiting for her all day.
"This is—?!" Jayna gasped. It looked… familiar. Too familiar. She stared between the puppy, Mr. Volkova, and Ginevra, confusion blooming into disbelief.
Mr. Volkova chuckled. "Our very soft-hearted Ginevra found him one night and brought him home. I took him to the shop this morning—Fergus next door loves dogs."
He set the puppy on the floor. The little thing shook its chubby body, then toddled over on quick, clumsy steps. It sniffed around Jayna's shoes and rubbed against her ankle like it belonged there.
Jayna's hands moved carefully, as if afraid to startle something precious. She scooped the puppy up from its squat little sit and placed it gently in her lap.
"You… adopted him?" she asked, voice quieter now, like she didn't want the truth to run away.
Ginevra lowered her lashes, looked at the puppy resting against Jayna, and nodded.
Jayna didn't know what to say.
That night in the rain—both of them crouched over this trembling little life, hands shielding it from the downpour. The next day, when Jayna tried to find out what happened, she'd heard a high school student had taken the puppy in. She'd felt relieved. Grateful. She'd pictured a kind stranger with warm hands.
She hadn't, not even once, imagined Ginevra—ice-calm, sharp-edged, seemingly untouchable—was the one who had carried this warmth home.
Somehow, the coldest person she knew had turned out to be… gentler than anyone.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Jayna huffed, poking Ginevra lightly between the shoulders with a finger, half-angry, half-distraught. "What kind of friend are you?"
"I didn't have a chance," Ginevra said simply.
Mr. Volkova tilted his head. "You already know his name?"
Jayna blinked. "Name?"
"Little Raindrop," Mr. Volkova said, like it was the most natural name in the world.
Jayna repeated it in her head. Little Raindrop. Soft. Lucky. Like something you'd find when the world was at its bleakest and somehow still decide to keep.
"It's perfect," she said, then added quickly, "Sir, I actually found him with Ginevra. But my place can't keep pets, so we left him by a convenience store to see if someone kind would take him in." She shot a delighted look at Ginevra, who was pretending this had nothing to do with her. "I just didn't expect the kind person would be her. And she never told me."
Mr. Volkova laughed. "Ah, so that's how it was. I was wondering—she went out late that night, in the rain, and she said something about…"
"—Ahem." Ginevra coughed at exactly the right moment, cutting the sentence clean in half. Her expression didn't change much, but the timing was surgical. "Mom's calling you in the kitchen."
Mr. Volkova paused, then obediently drifted away, muttering to himself with amused resignation. This kid really does get shy easily.
Jayna watched him go, then dropped her gaze to Little Raindrop. The puppy made a pleased little sound, eyes half closing as she stroked its head.
"So you named him," she said, turning back to Ginevra. "You really are something." Then, with a fake glare, "Keeping secrets from me. You deserve to get smacked."
She lifted her hand, aiming for Ginevra's arm with exaggerated menace.
Ginevra dodged smoothly. Jayna's palm hit nothing but air.
"You can't beat me," Ginevra said, looking down at her—calm, annoyingly confident.
Jayna bristled. "So what if you know a little self-defense? Big deal. I— I'll sign up with your dad too. Learn some skills. And if that fails…" She narrowed her eyes, utterly serious. "I can bite you."
Ginevra didn't respond. She wasn't about to let Jayna ruin her father's reputation by implying he was the strongest person in the room. If it ever came to it, her father might not even be her match.
Instead, she gave Jayna a look that seemed to say, Sure. You can do it.
Jayna, sensing the hopeless difference in their "strength," dropped into a crouch, hugged Little Raindrop again, and rubbed his tiny head like it was therapy.
"Then that means I'm basically his co-owner too," she declared. "I'll bring him treats and food from now on."
"That's fine," Ginevra said.
From the kitchen, Mrs. Volkova called, "Ginevra, come here a second."
Ginevra went.
And almost immediately, Mr. Volkova emerged from the kitchen with perfect bad timing, sitting down beside Jayna on the sofa like this was the most normal thing in the world.
With him this close, his face relaxed but his aura still heavy, Jayna felt sweat gather at the base of her neck. She pretended to focus on Little Raindrop, petting him to fill the silence.
"Jayna," Mr. Volkova said warmly, "eat some fruit."
"Oh—yes. Yes, sir." Jayna speared another strawberry. She was honestly so full she could've cried. Ginevra, where are you? Please come back.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Volkova spoke briskly. "We're out of soy sauce. And there's barely any black pepper. Go buy some."
Ginevra frowned. She was pretty sure they'd bought soy sauce a few days ago. "Isn't it in the upper cabinet?"
"I… couldn't find it," Mrs. Volkova said, eyes flicking away in a way that was almost suspicious.
"I'll look—"
Mrs. Volkova moved fast, pressing her hand against the cabinet door before Ginevra could open it. "Just go buy it. And pick up some drinks too. Go on, go on."
Ginevra stared at her mother for a beat, then, like a good daughter who knew when an argument was pointless, went to change her shoes.
Jayna leaned over the armrest, voice suddenly too high. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to buy something," Ginevra said.
Excuse me?
Jayna's heart stumbled. You're leaving me here. Alone. With your father. This is how I die.
"I—I'll come with you!" Jayna said instantly, volunteering herself like it was a heroic sacrifice.
Ginevra gave her a strange look. "You're a guest. I'll be quick. It's close. Just watch TV."
She didn't see the desperate pleading in Jayna's eyes. Or rather—she saw it, and misread it as Jayna simply being polite.
So Jayna sat rigidly upright, staring down at Little Raindrop. Mr. Volkova's friendliness did little to erase the seriousness Jayna felt in him, the weight of someone who seemed to have lived through things you didn't ask about.
Then Mrs. Volkova appeared behind the sofa, voice suddenly conspiratorial.
"Jayna," she said, "do you want to see Ginevra's childhood photos?"
Jayna's head snapped up. In Mrs. Volkova's hands was a thick, old-fashioned photo album, the kind with slightly yellowed pages and that faint smell of paper that had been touched for years.
"Childhood photos?" Jayna practically lit up. "Yes. Yes, I do!"
Mrs. Volkova beamed and slid in beside her, hugging the album like a treasure. With a wave of her hand, she sent Mr. Volkova back toward the kitchen to watch the stove.
"We can only look while she's gone," Mrs. Volkova whispered, delighted. "Otherwise she'll get shy and won't let you."
Jayna raised her thumb in silent approval. So that's why you sent her out. Genius.
Mrs. Volkova flipped the album open, talking as she went. "I just love sharing these. You know how it is in those shows—when a kid brings a friend over, the parents always pull out the old photos…"
Jayna almost corrected her—in those shows, it's usually a girlfriend or boyfriend—but she decided not to. She didn't mind this misunderstanding. In fact, a small, secret part of her felt absurdly pleased.
"Oh my god," Jayna breathed, staring at a photo of a small Ginevra. "She looks like a child star."
"Right?" Mrs. Volkova said proudly. "The studio wanted to put her picture up in the front. You should've seen her—Giny was adorable."
Jayna listened with a soft smile as Mrs. Volkova narrated Ginevra's childhood like a story she'd been waiting years to tell. Then Jayna turned a page and saw a snapshot of young Ginevra running—crying—while a goose chased her with furious determination.
Jayna's laughter burst out before she could stop it.
"I can't—this one—" she wheezed. "I'm dying."
Mrs. Volkova laughed too, delighted by the shared amusement. "That was at her grandmother's place. She teased the goose, and it chased her like it had sworn vengeance. I think it even nipped her. The way she cried—oh, goodness."
Jayna wiped her eyes, still smiling, and kept turning pages until she found a photo of Ginevra as a slightly older kid—lean, cool, already wearing that sharp, distant expression.
"This one is so…" Jayna murmured, gaze drifting to the figure beside her in the picture. "And the person next to her—"
"That's her grandmother," Mrs. Volkova said. Her tone tightened just a little. "She adored Giny, but she's… a serious woman. Not easy to deal with."
Jayna nodded slowly, studying the image. The background looked like a coastline—wind, water, sky. Young Ginevra wore a white top, hair pulled into a high ponytail, face set in a stern line that mirrored her grandmother's exactly. The grandmother looked elegant, intelligent, the sort of woman who'd been beautiful in youth and never lost the authority of it—only gained a distance that made you hesitate before calling her name.
So that's where your chill comes from, Jayna thought, half fond, half awed. That face, even when you were little. What a waste of such a pretty smile.
"Where was this taken?" Jayna asked aloud.
Mrs. Volkova glanced at the photo. "At the family docks."
"The family—?" Jayna echoed, puzzled.
Mrs. Volkova inhaled, about to explain—
And a voice came from behind them, low and sudden.
"Looks like you're having fun."
Mrs. Volkova jolted, hand flying to her chest. She snapped the album shut with impressive speed, as if sealing a crime scene.
Jayna whipped around to see Ginevra standing behind the sofa, expression unreadable.
"You're back so fast," Jayna said, startled—and honestly, a little regretful. She hadn't gotten nearly enough time with the album.
Mrs. Volkova laughed too loudly. "Oh! My food—my pots—how could I forget?" She fled toward the kitchen with the album clutched in her arms like contraband.
Ginevra exhaled quietly, relief slipping through the crack in her composure.
She'd walked in just in time. If she'd been a few minutes later, her mother would've said everything. And she'd heard the words "family docks" hanging in the air, the kind of phrase that carried too much history behind it—history that, explained poorly, might cast shadows in Jayna's mind.
Ginevra didn't want Jayna to be afraid. Didn't want her to flinch away because of the faint, hidden darkness tied to old family business, to an intimidating grandmother who had "washed her hands" of the past and now ran legitimate port trade—still, inevitably, with echoes of something harder underneath.
"Ginevra," Jayna said.
Ginevra pulled herself back from her thoughts and looked down.
Jayna was sprawled on the sofa, head tipped up, eyes narrowed slightly in a slow, appraising stare. From this angle, Ginevra's jawline must've looked sharper than usual, her lips slightly parted as if she were about to say something—or invite something.
Jayna's mind betrayed her with a sudden, treacherous image:
If I kissed her—just a little—it would taste like strawberries.
What am I thinking?!
Jayna blinked hard and forced her gaze away from Ginevra's mouth.
"You're seriously perfect," Jayna said, attempting recovery with compliments. "Like… flawless from every angle."
Ginevra, not immune to praise—especially not from Jayna—was just about to respond with something polite when Jayna added, bright with triumph:
"But I didn't expect you to have a history of getting chased by a goose and crying your eyes out. I can't stop laughing!"
Ginevra's face cooled instantly. Her eyes flicked to Jayna—calm, lethal.
Fine. Now she knew. The animal she hated most in the world was geese.
Jayna, still giggling like an actual honking bird, reached back and grabbed Ginevra's wrist to keep her from walking away.
"Hey. Don't go."
Ginevra paused.
"Are you mad?" Jayna asked, her voice lowering, softening into something coaxing. "Then punish me. Make it even."
Ginevra looked down at Jayna's smiling face.
"You said it," she murmured.
She lifted her hand and poised her fingers above Jayna's forehead, measuring the distance like she was calibrating force.
Jayna's eyes widened in sudden horror. "You're going to flick my forehead?!"
The beautiful fingers came closer.
Jayna shut her eyes tight, bracing herself with the grim courage of someone facing a necessary death.
She even pleaded, voice small and earnest. "I'm afraid it'll hurt. You have to be gentle."
Ginevra stared at her—this person who was bold in public and instantly cowardly the moment consequences appeared, this person who was clearly acting pathetic and yet somehow still… disarmed her completely.
Jayna waited for the blow with the noble resignation of: If I don't take this punishment, who will?
But instead—
A touch.
Light as a dragonfly landing. Just the soft press of a fingertip to her forehead.
Jayna opened her eyes, confused, and touched her own skin. There was no pain. Nothing.
Ginevra looked at her with a faint, helpless sort of resignation, then rubbed Jayna's hair once—slow, brief—like she was smoothing something unruly back into place.
"Dinner," she said.
Jayna stared.
That touch—so small, so gentle—ran through her like a current, shocking every strand of hair on her head. And in Ginevra's eyes, Jayna thought she saw something impossible.
Indulgence.
Fondness.
"…No way," Jayna whispered to herself.
And yet her cheeks were heating, and her heart was pounding too fast, too loud, like it was trying to escape her ribs.
"Kids! Come eat!" Mrs. Volkova called from the kitchen, voice loud enough that even Little Raindrop lifted his head and flicked his tiny ears. "Giny, take Jayna to wash her hands—come try my cooking!"
"Okay!" Jayna answered quickly, snapping back into motion before her own feelings could swallow her whole.
She followed Ginevra into the bathroom.
As the water ran, Jayna splashed her hands, then patted her warm cheeks as if she could cool the flush away. She glanced at herself in the mirror—eyes a little too bright, mouth a little too soft.
Then she turned her head toward Ginevra and asked, almost shyly, "Ginevra… do I look pretty today?"
It wasn't the first time she'd asked. Ginevra had heard it earlier, at the entrance to Riverview Court. So she gave her the same answer again—quiet, certain—and handed her a fresh towel.
Jayna took it, then dampened the small, rebellious strands of hair that kept sticking up at her forehead. As she did, Ginevra spoke, voice careful, like she didn't want to reveal the question was sharper than it sounded.
"When you go to Calista's house," she asked, "do you dress up like this too?"
Even Ginevra didn't fully understand what was tucked into her tone—something that sounded casual on the surface, but carried a faint, strange edge underneath.
"Calista?" Jayna blinked, then laughed. "Oh—Calista and I have known each other since elementary school. I go to her place like it's my own. In weather like this, I just throw on a tank top and shorts. In winter I'll wear this huge quilted jacket—like, super tacky." She giggled. "She teases me for it, but she wears the same thing!"
"Mm," Ginevra said.
Tank top and shorts… just like that, to someone else's home. Ginevra wiped her hands slowly with the towel Jayna had used, mind snagging on the image.
Isn't that… too little?
Jayna leaned in, studying her face. "Huh?" she said, eyes widening. "Your mood feels off."
Ginevra instinctively leaned back a fraction. "It's not," she said.
Jayna gave a soft snort through her nose. She couldn't see much change in Ginevra's expression—Ginevra was always like that, controlled, composed—but Jayna's instincts insisted: there was a small sulk hiding somewhere.
"Come on," Jayna said brightly, reaching out and taking Ginevra's hand. "Let's help your mom carry dishes. I can't just sit there waiting to be fed—I know better than that."
Ginevra froze for half a beat.
Jayna glanced down at their clasped hands and immediately let go, as if it had been an accident. She raised her chin and declared shamelessly, "I washed my hands. You're not allowed to accuse me."
Then she marched into the kitchen.
"Auntie, I'll help carry things!"
"Oh, it's fine," Mrs. Volkova said. "You and Giny sit—"
"No, no, I'll do it," Jayna insisted, already reaching for a plate. "Really."
Mrs. Volkova hesitated, then softened with obvious delight. "Well… okay. Thank you, sweetheart. What a thoughtful girl…"
She passed forks and utensils toward Ginevra, then sighed, half admiring, half wistful.
"I don't know how her parents raised such a wonderful kid," she murmured. "Pretty, cheerful, polite… just lovely."
Ginevra shot her mother a look. "The soup," she said quietly. "It's about to burn."
Mrs. Volkova yelped and rushed to turn down the heat. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Ginevra felt mildly wronged, but she didn't argue. She set the bowls and utensils neatly on the table. Jayna stood to help, but Ginevra intercepted, placing things in front of her instead.
Her mother's praise echoed in her ears—pretty, cheerful, polite—and yet Ginevra couldn't help remembering: tank top and shorts, straight to someone else's home.
Jayna sat beside her, shoulder nearly touching. She could still feel that faint imbalance in Ginevra, that quiet, stubborn mood.
She just couldn't figure out why.
"Jayna," Mrs. Volkova said warmly once everyone sat down, "I didn't know what you liked, so I made a few things. Try them—see if it suits your taste."
Jayna lifted her fork, smiling brightly. She looked across the table—and her eyes widened.
Cajun-spiced shrimp, honey-glazed ribs, an asparagus-and-egg sauté, chilled okra salad… It was all exactly what she loved, as if someone had mapped her cravings in secret.
"Can I say…" Jayna whispered, genuinely stunned, "…these are all my favorites?"
As she spoke, she stole a glance at Ginevra. Still that faint tension. Still that tiny, stubborn cloud.
Under the table, Jayna slid her left hand carefully toward Ginevra's side and poked her once—lightly, testing.
Ginevra's brows tightened. Without looking, she shifted her chair away by an inch.
Jayna bit her lip.
Oh. So it was like that.
She poked again—more daring this time, as if challenging a fortress with a fingertip.
Ginevra felt it. She set her utensil down, reaching under the table to catch Jayna's hand and haul it back into neutral territory—
But Jayna flipped the game. Instead of pulling away, she clasped Ginevra's hand first, holding on. And then, with quiet cruelty masked as sweetness, she traced her fingertip across Ginevra's palm—one slow stroke, like a match dragged gently along skin.
Jayna leaned in, turning her head just enough that only Ginevra could hear.
"If you stop being mad," she whispered, voice soft as breath, "I'll let go."