It had to be said—almost no girl could stay completely unmoved when a handsome boy offered her flowers. And Mason Hawthorne wasn't just handsome in the casual way people used the word; he had the kind of face and build that made him the secret crush of half the hallway without even trying.
Jayna stared at the bouquet—red roses so lush they looked like they might bleed color if you held them too tightly. She reached out and brushed a fingertip over a petal. It was still damp, carrying the coolness of fresh water.
But she didn't take the bouquet.
"Giving roses leaves a fragrance on the hands," she said with a smile that looked polite on the surface and sharp underneath. "But it feels like, Mason… you're not here just to give me flowers."
Mason frowned, confusion creasing his brow. He still didn't pull the bouquet back. "You don't like them?"
Jayna's expression didn't change—still smiling, still gentle, like she could play the part of sweetness perfectly even when her insides were tightening.
"Of course I like them," she said lightly. "Who doesn't love flowers? But you should probably just say what you really want to say."
For a moment, Mason went still, as if he hadn't expected her to cut straight to the center like that. Then he let out a small laugh and shook his head.
"You really are smart." He hesitated, and when he spoke again there was an awkwardness that didn't belong to him, like his mouth wasn't used to admitting things. "Fine. I'll admit it. I actually like… Ginevra Volkova."
The instant the name left his lips, Jayna's world tilted.
It wasn't a dramatic shift—nothing cracked, nothing shattered—but inside her chest something dark and hot surged upward like a wave in a narrow throat.
So her intuition had been right.
There was nothing more lethal than hearing someone say that out loud, as if it were natural, as if it were allowed.
He dares to like my Ginevra?
Jayna's smile deepened, though her eyes cooled.
"Oh?" she drawled, rising slightly and leaning closer, just enough to invade his space. "So you want my help. And the flowers are your… bribe?"
Up close, Mason's face was handsome in a way that could be disarming. But at that moment, Jayna found his smile almost blindingly obnoxious—as if it were shining directly into her eyes.
Mason didn't quite understand what she was doing, but he didn't step away either. Jayna's beauty—especially like this, in a dress and stage makeup and that impossible glow—had a gravity that made people forget their balance.
Jayna narrowed her eyes.
"You really like her?" she asked, voice low and velvet-soft, almost coaxing. "How much do you actually know about her? Or is this just… curiosity dressed up as affection?"
As she spoke, she lifted a hand and placed it lightly against his chest—barely any pressure, just the faintest touch, as though she were testing the temperature of his heart through fabric. Then she raised her eyes and held his gaze without blinking.
"If you like her," Jayna murmured, "why don't you refuse my touch?"
Mason froze.
He hadn't expected her to be like this—so deliberately tempting, so unashamedly close. A beautiful girl touched him first. Who could reject that?
No one.
His hand lifted instinctively, reaching for her—
Jayna shoved him away before his fingers could land.
The softness fell off her face like a mask dropped to the floor.
"See?" she said, crossing her arms, her expression turning icy. "You don't really like her. In your heart, anyone could replace her. As long as they're willing to date you—" her eyes flicked over him with open contempt, "—or sleep with you."
Mason blinked, then laughed, genuinely baffled.
He couldn't understand why Jayna reacted as if his confession were a personal offense.
"So you won't help." He tilted his head, studying her. "I'm curious—are you jealous of her… or jealous of me?"
Jayna's brow lifted. "What are you talking about?"
Mason smoothed the wrinkles in his shirt, taking his time, as if he were laying out a conclusion piece by piece.
"You're rejecting me so hard, it's not because you envy her," he said. "It's because I can confess to her, and you can't."
When he finished, he lowered his head slightly so their eyes were level, and he smiled at her as though he'd just pinned a butterfly through the center and expected it to stay still.
Jayna's face darkened.
She stared at him, her throat tightening with a sudden, violent mix of anger and panic—like someone had reached inside her and punched the most secret part of her heart.
He guessed.
He dared.
Mason watched her reaction, then lifted both hands in a casual surrender.
"Okay, okay. I'm kidding." He chuckled. "No need to look so scary."
He bent to pick up the roses—one or two had slipped and fallen—and set the bouquet on her vanity again with irritating calm. As he turned to leave, he leaned in toward her ear and murmured, voice low, amused:
"You're really interesting."
Jayna's smile returned—thin and dangerous, like the edge of glass.
She leaned in, lips close to his ear, and whispered with the same lightness, as though she were chatting about the weather.
"If you dare get close to her. If you toy with her feelings." Her voice smiled while her eyes sharpened. "I'll make you a eunuch. You don't have the right to like her."
In that moment, Jayna's teeth even ached with the impulse to bite.
And that was exactly when Ginevra arrived.
She saw them.
From her angle, the two figures at the vanity weren't simply speaking close—they looked like they were brushing against each other, breath mingling, bodies tilted in that intimate way people tilted when they were sharing something private.
Jayna felt it—the shift in the air, the sudden presence behind the curtain—as if her skin had grown a second set of ears.
She turned her head.
And there Ginevra stood.
Jayna pushed Mason away immediately, the motion full of instinctive disgust. But it was too late. Ginevra had already seen enough to let her imagination fill the spaces.
"Giny—" Jayna's voice lifted with genuine delight the instant she saw her, but that delight stumbled when she caught Ginevra's expression. Something cold and stormy. Something restrained.
Jayna's heart dipped.
"It's not what you think," she blurted, and the urgency in her tone betrayed her. She didn't even know why she was panicking like this—except she did. Because she knew Ginevra could misunderstand. And she knew, terrifyingly, that Ginevra could care.
Mason turned, spotted Ginevra, and offered a perfectly polite smile.
Ginevra's face was dark, her eyes like iced steel.
Mason's gaze flickered with satisfaction—as if his guess had just been confirmed.
Then, like an absolute menace, he shoved the bouquet of roses straight into Jayna's hands and bolted out of the room, escaping with the speed of someone who suddenly remembered what a predator looked like.
Jayna stood there, stunned, holding the roses as if they were something dirty.
She lifted her eyes carefully to Ginevra.
Ginevra was holding a white gift tote.
Inside… were those flowers?
"Giny, I—"
"I didn't realize," Ginevra cut in first, her voice so calm it sounded dead, "that you'd already received flowers."
The coldness wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It was the kind of chill that crept under the skin and stayed there.
Jayna's chest tightened.
Ginevra didn't look at her directly—as if her own face might betray too much if she did.
She had been gripping down her anger so hard her palms felt sore. She'd nearly torn Mason apart in her mind—ripped him into pieces and left him as nothing but blood and regret.
And the only reason she hadn't done it was because, somewhere in the back of her consciousness, she suspected Jayna wouldn't want to see that side of her.
Even so, it terrified her—how easily her thoughts had gone there.
Jayna followed Ginevra's gaze to the roses.
Without hesitation, she turned and threw the bouquet into the trash.
"I don't need flowers from anyone else," she said.
Ginevra's eyes lifted at last, confused—caught off guard by how immediate, how absolute Jayna's rejection was.
Jayna stepped closer, voice softening.
"You don't understand," she said, and the sincerity in it made her eyes shine. "I've been waiting for you."
She gathered the hem of her long dress lightly so she could move, then came right up to Ginevra. Her hand rose, fingertips brushing Ginevra's cheek—cool skin, tense jaw.
"Giny," Jayna whispered, her playing cute voice like a key turned gently in a lock. "Am I pretty today?"
And as if she feared the answer might slip away unless she forced it into being, she leaned forward, bringing her face close—too close—until she was nearly pressed against Ginevra's breath.
Her eyes glittered like a creature born of night. Beautiful enough to make you forget your own name.
One little tone changing—and the violence in Ginevra's heart softened, melting into something dangerously tender.
She looked at Jayna for a long time.
Then, finally, she nodded.
"Pretty."
Jayna's mouth curved up, relieved and bright, like she'd just won something sacred.
"You have no idea," she complained, tapping her cheek with her fingertips as if she were scolding her own impatience. "I waited five whole hours for you to praise me. And instead, Mason showed up."
She glanced away dramatically, then sighed.
"You're going to ask why he came," Jayna said, voice turning casual—too casual. "It's obvious. He came to confess to me."
Ginevra's eyes widened.
Her body went rigid with a shock she couldn't hide.
"Then you…" she demanded, the question sharp with fear. "You said yes?"
Jayna's voice dropped into stillness, clear as glass.
"No."
She looked into Ginevra's eyes as though her next words were stepping stones over a deep river.
"Do you think I should have?" Jayna asked quietly. "Or… do you feel something for him?"
The last part she couldn't quite finish. She was afraid of hearing the answer.
Ginevra's face stayed cold, but the certainty in her voice was immediate.
"I don't like him."
The relief that rushed through Jayna was so intense it practically colored her cheeks. Her whole face seemed to bloom.
"Good," she said quickly, smiling again. "Because I don't like him either. I don't like him at all."
It was—technically—a small lie.
She wasn't telling Ginevra the whole truth: Mason hadn't come because he liked Jayna.
He liked Ginevra.
But why should she tell her that?
Why should she give Mason the dignity of being treated seriously, when he'd set his eyes on someone he had no business wanting?
Ginevra stared into Jayna's eyes.
She believed her.
And that trust—combined with the confession she didn't say out loud—made Ginevra's stomach twist.
She admitted it, silently.
Just now, she'd been jealous.
A jealousy so dark and sudden it had swallowed her whole like a swamp—thick, desperate, hungry.
She was lucky she'd kept control.
Otherwise, this room might have become a crime scene.
"Giny?" Jayna called softly, teasing. "Are you stunned by my beauty? You're staring like you've forgotten how to blink."
Ginevra snapped back to herself, a faint smile breaking through at last.
She reached into the white tote, moving with careful delicacy. And when she pulled out the bouquet she'd prepared—small, neat, restrained—her ears turned faintly pink.
She held it out to Jayna, awkward and shy in a way that didn't match her usual severity.
Jayna's eyes widened.
"Wait—this is—!?"
"Daisies," Ginevra said, gaze slipping away as though the ceiling suddenly needed her full attention.
Jayna took them at once, hands closing around the stems as if she feared the flowers might vanish. She leaned in and breathed in their scent, nose brushing the petals—gentle, reverent.
Of all flowers, daisies were her favorite.
Ginevra knew her.
She'd always known.
Jayna didn't have to say anything; her joy spoke so loudly it filled the room.
And watching that joy, Ginevra felt warmth spread quietly through her chest.
"Jayna," she said, voice soft, formal in the way a person became formal when their feelings were too full. "Congratulations. Your performance was a success."
As she looked at Jayna, words rose unbidden in her mind—beautiful, impossible phrases knitting themselves together:
A night spirit.Morning dew on petals.A Victorian portrait in oil.Red cherries, glossy and tempting.
Every bright, vivid image seemed to belong to Jayna.
Ginevra's gaze flickered—just once—toward Jayna's lips.
So shiny. So soft-looking.
Her breath caught.
She turned her eyes away immediately, afraid her face might betray the thoughts she couldn't afford to have.
"You're congratulating me so formally," Jayna said, cheeks warming, smiling into the mirror and then at Ginevra as if she wanted to bottle this moment. "You're making me shy."
She hugged the daisies closer, then suddenly lit up with an idea.
"Giny," she said. "Let's take a photo together."
"A photo?" Ginevra echoed, confused.
"Yeah—selfie." Jayna hooked her arm through Ginevra's and tugged her under better light, pressing close until their shoulders touched. "We don't even have a single picture together. And today I got flowers from you. I should show off a little."
She held the daisies up with one hand, lifted her phone with the other, and set the camera to a three-second timer.
"One, two, three—cheese~"
The shutter clicked.
Jayna immediately peered at the screen, delighted.
"Ginevra, you're so shy," she laughed. "You can't even smile properly."
In the photo, Jayna was grinning wide, a tiny fang-like canine showing, eyes bright with mischief. Beside her, Ginevra's mouth only curved slightly—barely there—but she was still breathtaking. Still elegant. Still like the kind of beauty that made you go quiet without realizing you had.
Jayna loved it.
Anyone looking at the picture would think they were close. Intimate. Like something warm and private lived between them.
"I'm posting it," Jayna announced.
"Posting?" Ginevra's face heated instantly. She didn't like attention. She didn't like being displayed.
Jayna already knew she'd object.
So she moved first.
"Oops," she sang, tapping the screen. "Already posted. Public. Everyone can see. Hehe."
Ginevra stared at the update.
Jayna had added a caption—mortifyingly cute.
Sweet flowers. A glowing person. Sarangheyo~
Ginevra frowned, genuinely puzzled.
"What does 'sarangheyo' mean?" she asked, voice flat.
Jayna tilted her head, gazed up at the ceiling like she was consulting the universe, then shoved out an answer with perfect shamelessness.
"Just… a vibe word," she said. "Like—being happy."
Ginevra nodded slowly, only half understanding.
Jayna stole a glance at her from the corner of her eye.
Thank god—no interrogation.
Jayna scrolled through the comments, watching the likes and replies pour in. Her smile kept growing, larger and larger, until one comment hit her like a burst of fireworks.
A younger student—short hair—someone who'd added Jayna after the rehearsal.
Not only had she liked it instantly, she'd commented:
(Jaynara, you two look so perfect together!!)
Jayna's heart exploded with giddy satisfaction.
"What are you looking at," Ginevra asked, eyeing Jayna's expression with suspicion, "smiling like that…?"
Jayna snapped her phone face-down against her chest.
Not letting Ginevra see.
Of course, the more Jayna hid it, the more it sparked something rare and unfamiliar in Ginevra.
Curiosity.
"Feeling guilty?" Ginevra narrowed her eyes, eyebrows lifting.
Jayna always crumbled under that look—dangerous, quiet, like a wolf who didn't need to bare teeth to be understood.
"I'm just… reading my comments," Jayna admitted.
"And?" Ginevra stepped closer, trying very hard to appear indifferent—failing completely, because her eyes kept flicking toward Jayna's phone like a cat pretending it wasn't staring at the fish.
Jayna smiled, delighted.
"You want to see?"
Ginevra retreated exactly one step, as if she'd been caught.
"Me?" she said coolly. "No."
Jayna leaned in, grin wicked.
"Hm? Because what I'm seeing is this: 'Oh my god I really want to look. Why won't Jayna show me. How do I make her show me without looking like I want to look.'" She squinted, imitating with exaggerated accuracy. "Such a proud, cold, tsundere face."
Then she winked.
Ginevra froze.
Silent.
Because… she'd been read perfectly.
So, without another word, she turned and walked away.
"You—where are you going?" Jayna called after her, laughing.
Ginevra didn't answer. She kept walking.
Jayna sighed theatrically, spreading her hands as if the universe were being unreasonable.
"So you're really going to leave a poor little girl in a floor-length dress," she whined, voice pitiful, "and go home alone? I can barely walk like this, you know."
Ginevra stopped.
Her whole body screamed defeat.
She didn't turn around. She only frowned, lips pushing into a small sulk that didn't match her attempted coldness at all.
"Fine," she said stiffly, as if doing Jayna a great favor. "Since you're pitiful."
Then she extended a hand backward.
"Only hold my sleeve."
"Okay," Jayna chirped, delighted.
She stepped up behind Ginevra—and instead of grabbing the sleeve, she slid her hand into Ginevra's and laced their fingers together, ten fingers interlocking as if that was the most natural thing in the world.
"Understood," Jayna said sweetly. "Yes, ma'am."