To be honest, Jayna was savoring this kind of time.
Even if, at this exact moment, her idea of happiness looked like an intimate relationship with plates and forks.
After breakfast, she insisted on washing the dishes herself—practically snatching them away with the righteous urgency of someone trying to correct the universe. It wasn't complicated. She just couldn't bear the thought of Ginevra taking care of her so completely, not when Ginevra was the guest.
"There's no way I'm letting a guest wash dishes," Jayna declared, rolling up her sleeves with theatrical conviction. She squeezed dish soap onto the sponge and glanced back at Ginevra as if daring her to argue.
Ginevra did argue—briefly, quietly—but Jayna's stubbornness was a closed door with three locks. In the end, Ginevra let it go.
Part of her wanted Jayna to rest. After everything that had happened yesterday, letting her stand here for so long felt… wrong.
But Jayna moved with surprising competence. A little pampered, sure—yet these small chores weren't beyond her. And she knew about Ginevra's injured hand.
There was no world where Jayna would allow Ginevra near the sink.
"Giny," Jayna complained, now wearing an apron that made her look absurdly domestic—like a determined little newlywed playing house. Her hands were covered in foam. "Why don't you ever trust me? Do you have to stand there and watch me wash dishes?"
She scrubbed quickly, too quickly. Water splashed up into her eye. She blinked hard, eyelashes fluttering, but the sting clung stubbornly, making her eyes go sour and hot.
Then Ginevra's voice came close—low, precise.
"Don't move."
Jayna froze immediately, obedient as a child.
Ginevra stepped in, her touch light at Jayna's eyelid, careful enough to feel like a question rather than an order. And then—so softly it was almost absurd—she blew a small breath across Jayna's lashes, as if she could chase the irritation away with air alone.
A warm towel appeared in her hand next. She dabbed at the corner of Jayna's eye with slow patience, wiping away the water and soap residue as though Jayna's face were something delicate she didn't trust the world to handle.
"Better?" Ginevra asked.
Jayna blinked experimentally. The sting had eased, the harshness softened into nothing.
"Mm. Much better," she said, her voice suddenly gentler. "Thanks."
And because she couldn't resist—because gratitude always made her mischievous—Jayna lifted one foamy finger and tapped Ginevra on the tip of the nose.
A bubble stuck there.
Jayna laughed. "Ha! Look—soap bubble nose!"
Ginevra tried to go slightly cross-eyed to see it, looking both irritated and faintly bewildered, as if she couldn't believe she was living this scene. Then she huffed a small breath, blowing the bubble away.
"Wash," she said flatly. "Stop playing."
"Yes, ma'am." Jayna gave a mock bow, eyes glittering with mischief. "My dear Volkova, would you like dessert fruit after your meal? Your personal maid will cut it for you after she finishes the dishes."
Ginevra's brow tightened.
Jayna called it a "game," but the words landed with the lazy warmth of flirting, and Ginevra's instincts immediately went to one place: Knives. Carelessness. Jayna's hands. Jayna's mood.
Ginevra didn't want Jayna doing anything that could hurt her—not even something as small as slicing fruit.
She stepped closer, her presence suddenly at Jayna's shoulder.
And before Jayna could continue her ridiculous act, she startled, looking up with wide eyes.
"Oh my God," Jayna blurted, "Ginevra—did you get taller?"
Jayna was holding a fruit knife when she said it.
Ginevra's hand moved like a reflex.
The knife was gone from Jayna's grip, transferred into Ginevra's, clean and quick.
Jayna caught the faint reproach in Ginevra's eyes and immediately realized she'd done something stupid—standing there with a blade while fooling around. She stuck her tongue out, sheepish.
"I'm serious," she insisted anyway, as if doubling down would save her dignity. "I really think you got taller."
She tugged Ginevra to stand still, then rose onto her toes and tried to measure them with her hand.
"No—wait." Jayna frowned, unconvinced by her own method. "Come here."
She dragged Ginevra to the living room's full-length mirror like she was conducting an investigation. They stood side by side.
And there it was.
In the mirror, Ginevra was nearly Jayna's height now.
Jayna stared, then—because envy was sometimes a reflex too—she lifted Ginevra's sleeve and compared their skin tones with shameless honesty. Ginevra's complexion was cool and pale, almost luminous, a clean winter-white that made Jayna feel darker by contrast.
Jayna sighed dramatically. "Unfair. Really unfair."
Aside from her face—yes, her face could compete—everything else suddenly felt like it lost by default.
"I told you," Jayna said, shifting instantly into the tone of an older sister who had always known better. She patted Ginevra's shoulder. "Your dad is tall. There's no way you'd end up short."
Ginevra listened with a calm that bordered on indifferent, then looked at Jayna and said, "So you're also complimenting yourself as tall."
Jayna's eyes narrowed. This girl—this child—had a talent for saying things that made people want to flick her forehead.
"My proportions are great," Jayna shot back, chin lifting. "You have no idea how many love letters I've gotten."
She said it with pride, like a trophy held up to the light.
Ginevra's expression shifted—so slight most people would miss it.
But Jayna saw it.
Ginevra didn't say anything. She simply stepped around Jayna and walked toward the bedroom, leaving one sentence behind her like a door shutting.
"I'm going to change."
And she was gone.
Jayna blinked after her, confused. What did I say wrong?
From that moment on, she followed Ginevra like a small dog with a guilty conscience—Ginevra moved, Jayna trailed behind, trying to catch her eye, trying to press her way back into warmth.
Ginevra didn't speak.
"Ginevra!" Jayna finally snapped, frustration boiling over into a shout.
Ginevra turned and stared at her coolly. "I'm changing. Go out."
Jayna hooked her hands on the doorframe, shameless as ever, adopting the posture of a person who could not be drowned or burned or shamed into moving.
"I'll go out," she bargained, "if you tell me what you're mad about."
Ginevra blinked once.
The truth was… she didn't know how to name it.
The emotion in her chest was tangled and ugly, something she didn't have language for. But when Jayna had mentioned those love letters, irritation had sparked through her—sharp, unreasonable.
It didn't feel like jealousy.
It felt like… refusal.
Like she didn't want those words in the air at all.
For a long time, Ginevra said nothing. Then, as if the question forced its way out of her before she could stop it, she asked—quietly, too quietly for how much it mattered:
"Did you like any of them?"
The moment the sentence left her mouth, Ginevra regretted it.
She regretted it so hard it was almost physical.
Jayna froze.
Her eyes widened, round and startled, and she stared at Ginevra as if she'd just discovered a crack in marble.
Ginevra turned her back immediately, pretending to be busy folding clothes, as if fabric could hide the small, unruly thing happening in her.
Jayna lifted her brows. "You mean… the people who gave me love letters?"
"Yes." Ginevra's answer came out too firm, too clean, as though she were confirming a medical fact.
Jayna pressed her lips together, then shook her head. "No."
She spoke carefully, like someone rushing to clarify before damage could be done.
"If I liked someone, I would've dated them already," she said, meeting Ginevra's back with steady honesty. "You know me. If I want something, I don't just stand there. I grab it."
Her eyes held light—bright and urgent.
She wanted Ginevra to understand.
Ginevra glanced over her shoulder. Jayna's expression didn't look like a joke now. It looked like truth laid bare.
And without warning, the tightness in Ginevra's chest eased.
Not completely.
But enough.
She didn't chase Jayna out anymore. If Jayna wanted to stay, then… fine.
A faint curve tugged at the corner of Ginevra's mouth—so small it was almost private. She gripped the hem of her sleep shirt, then slowly peeled off her outer layer, revealing the clean line of her waist, the pale stretch of skin beneath—
And as the fabric rose, as the movement continued—
"Hey—!"
Jayna's voice cracked into the room like a thrown shoe.
"You—you—you're changing and you don't even warn me? No shame. No dignity. Honestly!"
She sounded furious, but the fury was laced with panic, with flustered embarrassment, with the undeniable fact that she had seen it—seen Ginevra's pale body so clearly.
Only half.
And still.
Jayna turned her head away too late, too loudly, too dramatically, as if scolding could erase the image.
She did it on purpose, Jayna thought wildly. She absolutely did.
Ginevra was becoming bad. Deep down, she'd always been a bad kid.
"Go out," Ginevra said, unhurried as ever. "Close the door."
Jayna fumed.
This girl used her like she was hired help—and somehow Jayna kept letting it happen.
She slammed the door hard, then immediately crouched down outside it, face burning, heart pounding, both hands pressed over her cheeks as if she could physically hold herself together.
Oh God.
What was wrong with her?
Why did seeing Ginevra's body make her feel like this—like heat was blooming under her skin, like her thoughts couldn't stay obedient?
Seriously. What is happening to me?
A click.
The door opened.
Ginevra stepped out fully dressed, composed and pale, wearing that maddeningly restrained expression again—cold, abstinent, untouchable—like she hadn't just scattered Jayna's mind across the floor.
Jayna turned too quickly, cheeks still blazing, and the contrast made her feel even more ridiculous.
"So… changed?" Jayna asked, pretending she wasn't dying.
"Yes." Ginevra's voice didn't shift. "I'll wash this."
Jayna took the sleep shirt from her hands and shook her head. "No. I'll wash it with my stuff later."
Ginevra looked like she was about to argue, but Jayna didn't give her space. She grabbed Ginevra's arm and started tugging her upstairs.
"Come on. I'm giving you the grand tour."
It wasn't to show off.
Jayna simply wanted to share—wanted to open every door and say this is mine, and now it can be yours too, if you want it.
And there was another reason, one she didn't admit out loud:
She was afraid Ginevra would say she was leaving.
And Jayna…
Jayna wasn't ready for that.
Ginevra allowed herself to be led.
Jayna's house was large, the rooms bright and orderly, almost too immaculate—as if cleanliness could keep loneliness from settling in. Jayna's bedroom was on the second floor. She admitted, with sheepish honesty, that she was afraid of the dark and slept with a little lamp on.
"Then why didn't you turn it on last night?" Ginevra asked, looking straight into her eyes.
Jayna smiled, shy and a little pleased. "Because you were next to me," she said. "I just… felt safe."
Ginevra's face stayed cool, but something in her chest lifted.
To hide it, she made a small motion of her hand—an order disguised as indifference.
"Keep going."
Jayna didn't notice the hidden delight. She just kept walking until they reached a small attic room at the far eastern end of the house.
She stopped, fingers on the doorknob, and glanced back.
"Do you want to hear me play the piano?"
Ginevra gave a small nod—permission.
Jayna opened the door.
The room looked exactly as it had the last time she'd been in here. No one touched it, except for Mrs. Rose, who came in every other day to dust and tidy. It was a quiet space, almost sacred in its stillness.
A beautiful white piano sat inside, covered by a deep red cloth.
Jayna went to it and lifted the cloth slowly.
A faint dusting of gray rose into the air.
"Sorry," Jayna said, lowering herself onto the bench. "Other than the time I played for you, I haven't touched it."
Her fingertips brushed the keys.
Then the first notes rang out—clean, bright, crisp as sunlight on glass.
She didn't need to tune it. The piano answered her immediately, like it had been waiting.
Jayna turned her head and looked at Ginevra standing nearby, and a sudden idea flashed through her.
"I'll teach you," she said. "How about it?"
Ginevra blinked once, then—unexpectedly—said, "Okay."
She walked over and sat down on Jayna's right side, posture straight, gaze attentive. Jayna's mouth twitched, amused by how obedient Ginevra looked when she was trying to learn.
Jayna frowned thoughtfully.
"Let's start with something easy," she decided. "How about 'Frère Jacques'? It's playful. Not too hard."
Ginevra watched her closely and nodded. "Mm."
She looked… good like this. Quiet. Focused. Mild.
Jayna had the sudden urge to reach out and tap Ginevra's nose again, to praise her like a child who'd done well. It took effort not to.
"Watch me once," Jayna said, shifting into teacher mode. "Then I'll show you slowly. Let me play it through first."
She straightened her back and took a breath, placing both hands on the keys with ceremonious seriousness.
And then she played.
The melody danced—simple, cheerful, familiar—flowing out without hesitation. A child's song, bright as morning.
When she finished, Jayna stared at her own hands, delighted. "No way. First try!"
She really hadn't played in a while. The last difficult piece she'd attempted had still felt slightly off, like a memory she couldn't quite hold. But this—this went cleanly.
Jayna turned to Ginevra with a grin.
"Now," she announced with mock formality, "Ms. Jayna is teaching a little student today. Are you ready, Miss Ginevra?"
Ginevra didn't rise to the teasing. She only nodded, calm as ever.
Jayna stood and made Ginevra sit squarely at the center of the bench. She bent slightly and demonstrated the finger positions with one hand, painfully slow, ensuring Ginevra could see every movement.
When Jayna finished, Ginevra placed her fingertips on the keys.
Her hands—
Her hands were ridiculous.
Long, pale fingers. Clean knuckles. Defined bones. A pianist's hands. Jayna found herself staring, admiration swelling in her chest like something she couldn't swallow down.
Ginevra pressed the keys.
The melody appeared again—clean, even, nearly perfect.
Jayna blinked. "Have you played before?"
Ginevra shook her head honestly.
Jayna felt a tiny surge of complaint inside herself. Unfair. Really unfair.
She stepped closer, then—without thinking too much—placed her hand over Ginevra's fingertips.
Her voice dropped into a near-whisper at Ginevra's ear.
"Here," she guided softly. "This note should be lighter. Just a half step."
"…Mm." Ginevra's breath caught slightly.
Jayna's face had come too close. Ginevra could feel her warmth, her breath, the living heat of her body next to hers—and it didn't feel normal. It made it hard to breathe evenly.
"I'll show you again," Jayna said, not noticing. She pressed down gently on Ginevra's fingers, guiding them together, hand over hand, moving as one.
Ginevra couldn't focus.
Her gaze drifted sideways—toward Jayna's face.
Jayna's lashes trembled in the sunlight. Her eyes looked almost gold, bright and clear in a way that felt dangerous to stare at too long.
Ginevra's fingers slipped.
She hit the wrong note.
"Oh—no," Jayna said quickly. "Not like that."
Ginevra withdrew her hand, brows knitting faintly. "I'll do it myself."
Jayna froze.
A hurt she hadn't expected rose up fast, sharp as a swallowed thorn.
"…Are you disgusted by me teaching you like this?" she asked, voice small despite her attempt at casualness.
Ginevra wanted to deny it.
But she knew Jayna would chase the truth until it broke into confession.
So she made herself say the cruelest answer—clean and simple.
"Yes."
Jayna stared, stunned.
Then her cheeks puffed with indignation, anger snapping into place to cover what she didn't want to admit.
"I'm mad," she announced, glaring. "You actually said that. Fine. Play by yourself!"
She threw the words down like a gauntlet, eyes locked on Ginevra's face as if she were waiting for something—anything—to change. For guilt. For softness. For chasing.
But Ginevra only looked back, honest and blank, still too wooden to read the hidden language Jayna was speaking.
Jayna's lips pushed into a pout.
She turned and stormed out.
If you don't come comfort me today—
Then I'll wait.
I'll wait a little longer…
She really left.
Ginevra watched her go, that wind-swift retreating figure, and exhaled with quiet helplessness. With Jayna in the room, Ginevra couldn't concentrate. Not because Jayna was loud—though she was—but because Jayna's presence made Ginevra's thoughts refuse to line up properly.
Ginevra turned back to the piano.
Her fingers settled on the keys again.
She played the simple children's tune once more, smooth and exact, not a note out of place.
About fifteen minutes later, she brought a plate of fruit into the living room.
She leaned against the wall with a composed, almost leisurely posture, watching Jayna sprawled on the sofa in a dramatic sulk. Jayna was attacking a throw pillow like it had betrayed her personally—tugging, punching, twisting. The poor bear-shaped cushion looked like it might not survive.
"Want some fruit?" Ginevra asked, carefully, as if testing thin ice.
On the coffee table sat a little plate of apple slices—cut into rabbit shapes.
Jayna lifted her eyes briefly, glanced at the fruit, then dropped her face back into the sofa, resolutely miserable.
Ginevra frowned.
She didn't understand why Jayna was angry.
But the truth was, Jayna wasn't even that upset anymore. The moment Ginevra brought fruit, warmth had already seeped back into her chest. She was simply… being stubborn. Being bratty.
Because Ginevra's words earlier had stung.
So Jayna forced her face into blankness and asked, with a solemnity that didn't quite fit her eyes:
"You cutting fruit for me… is that you trying to—mm—comfort me?"
"It's not…" Ginevra denied, but the denial landed weakly, uncertain.
"Okay." Jayna sat up, took a sip of plain water, and said in an aggrieved voice, "Then you eat it. I'm not eating. I'm not hungry."
Ginevra stood in front of her, hands tucked behind her back, fingers twisting slightly as if she were fighting her own instincts. She wasn't stupid. She could see Jayna's little performance for what it was.
And still—
Ginevra couldn't ignore it.
If this had been anyone else, she would've turned away. She would've let them pout themselves tired.
But this was Jayna.
Ginevra counted silently to three, as though gathering courage the way people gathered breath before stepping into cold water.
Then she moved.
She reached out, caught Jayna's hands, and pressed them gently to her own cheeks—one on each side—holding them there with a resigned seriousness that looked almost tragic.
"I'm not disgusted," Ginevra said, face stiff, eyes refusing to look away. "If you want to touch… then touch."
Jayna's eyes widened so far they looked almost comically round.
"You—what are you doing…?" she whispered, as if afraid the scene would shatter if she spoke too loudly.
"It's not to comfort you," Ginevra insisted, voice awkward, stubborn. "I just… you haven't smiled for half an hour. The rabbit apples don't seem to work. So…"
Her words faltered there.
She didn't finish the sentence.
Instead, she lifted her gaze and tried to explain with her eyes—this is all I know how to do, so don't make it harder than it already is.
Then her expression tightened like someone accepting defeat.
Fine.
She'd lost.