That night, the world was hushed into stillness.
Jayna lay on her bed beneath a dim light that barely reached the corners of the room, and no matter how long she stared at the ceiling, sleep refused to come.
Tomorrow was her birthday.
She couldn't tell whether the restlessness in her bones came from excitement or from something heavier, something hollow. She'd finally managed to get Ginevra to agree to spend time with her tomorrow—just a few hours, just a small pocket of the day carved out for her—so why did her chest still feel so empty?
Yes.
She was depending on Ginevra more and more.
And selfishly, she wanted to tell her—Tomorrow is my birthday—just so Ginevra would say those simple words to her. Just so she could hear them. But she didn't dare.
If she made it too deliberate, too obvious, would Ginevra get annoyed? Would she start to dislike her?
Jayna didn't actually care about anyone else's wishes.
She only wanted Ginevra's.
Restless, she sat up and drank a mouthful of cold water—then froze, suddenly remembering that Ginevra had once told her to drink less at night. She set the cup back down, as if obeying a quiet rule could make her feel closer.
She opened her wardrobe and pulled out the jacket she'd tucked away.
It was Ginevra's, from before.
She'd had plenty of chances to return it. She'd simply… "forgotten."
"Giny…" Jayna whispered, fingers stroking the collar, voice turning into something like a sigh.
If Ginevra found out the truth—that Mason had liked her, not Jayna—what would she think?
Would she decide Jayna's character was rotten? Would she see her as petty and vicious?
Ginevra was upright. Principled. She disliked liars.
If she knew the truth, she'd be disappointed.
And even knowing that, Jayna still couldn't bring herself to tell her—because she was afraid of whatever came next.
She was afraid Ginevra would become close to someone else.
(You're rejecting me so hard. It's not because you envy her. It's because I can confess to her, and you can't.)
Mason's words kept resurfacing in her mind like something sharp floating up in dark water.
He'd claimed it was a joke.
But Jayna knew—painfully—he'd been right.
She envied the fact that Mason could confess to Ginevra.
And she couldn't.
Jayna buried her face in the jacket.
She wanted to drown in Ginevra's scent.
She wanted it so much it made her throat tighten.
I miss her.
A bitter laugh escaped Jayna.
Then she picked up her phone, lit the screen, turned it off—lit it again, turned it off—
Over and over, dozens of times, until the gesture began to feel like a kind of prayer, a kind of punishment.
What was Ginevra even doing lately? Why had she been so busy?
Tomorrow, she was going to ask.
She had to.
-
On the other side of town, the person Jayna kept complaining about sneezed twice in a row.
Ginevra frowned, annoyed, and pulled a tissue to wipe her nose. She shut the window—she'd been wearing plenty, so why did she still feel chilled enough to shiver?
She returned to her desk and lowered her gaze.
On the tabletop sat a jewelry box.
Her eyes softened immediately.
Yes—she had been waiting for tomorrow.
If Jayna hadn't asked her out first, Ginevra would have contacted her tonight and said she wanted to give her something.
She stared at the box, and for the first time in a long time, doubt crept into a place where Ginevra was usually confident.
Would Jayna like it?
Ginevra had never given anyone a birthday gift before.
That fact, embarrassingly, made her cautious. Hesitant. These past weeks, aside from tutoring and earning money, she'd spent her spare time searching—reading—trying to figure out what kind of gift was "right."
As for how she even knew Jayna's birthday…
It had been an accident.
When she'd helped Ms. Harper organize the class roster earlier, she'd seen Jayna's information in passing—and she'd quietly memorized it, as though her mind had decided it was important before she could stop it.
She'd wanted to ask Jayna what she liked. She'd tried to circle around it, to probe subtly.
But every time the question reached her lips, it died there.
Still—looking at that bracelet now, glittering like a piece of captured starlight—Ginevra felt certain Jayna would like it.
Jayna liked sparkly, beautiful things.
Like herself.
In Ginevra's eyes, Jayna shone.
"Jayna… happy birthday."
Ginevra held the red velvet box and practiced in front of the mirror, voice careful, posture too stiff.
"Jayna, this is… um. This is your birthday gift."
She lifted the box from behind her back as though rehearsing a stage entrance, but it didn't feel right. The movement looked awkward. Too formal. Too unnatural.
She exhaled.
Then tried again, expression firming, as if she could will herself into composure.
"Jayna. Happy birthday." She raised the velvet box once more. "This is a gift I've… been preparing for you. I hope you'll accept it. And I hope you'll like it."
Ginevra stared at the girl in the mirror—herself—looking oddly uncertain.
So this was what it felt like.
Caring this much about someone's reaction.
Hoping for their joy.
Craving the sight of their surprise.
Her anticipation was so intense it made her uneasy.
Ginevra let out a small, self-mocking breath.
She really had fallen.
Completely.
It felt like standing in a swamp—each attempt to struggle only pulled her deeper.
How could she not know what this was?
Why else would she care so much about every word Jayna spoke, every expression on her face? Why else would she worry, constantly, about Jayna's safety—about who might get close to her—about what might steal her attention away?
The feeling of knowing something shouldn't be done, and doing it anyway… didn't suit someone like her. Someone calm. Controlled.
It was madness.
And it was bitterness.
"—Tch."
Ginevra lifted the bracelet from its box.
Under the lamp, it flashed like a tiny constellation.
She closed her eyes and pressed a reverent kiss to it—like a vow placed on metal and light.
The next morning, Jayna slipped into a deep red gown, draping a luxurious little coat over it.
For someone so young, she knew exactly how to dress—there was already the faint silhouette of a future star in her. She stood at the mirror, shaping her brows, tracing color onto her lips, delicate and careful—like an ancient beauty painting herself into elegance.
"Is this a bit… too much?" Jayna murmured at her reflection.
She flushed, then wiped her lips clean and replaced the lipstick with a softer shade—something subtle, something that wouldn't look aggressive.
She wanted to be beautiful.
Not loud.
Beautiful enough that Ginevra wouldn't be able to look away.
Jayna touched her own cheek and let her mouth curve faintly.
She was done pretending she could restrain herself.
She wanted Ginevra to be drawn to her.
She wanted it openly.
But Ginevra was cold, quiet, difficult to read. Jayna didn't know if she'd understand what Jayna was trying to do—what she was trying to be.
Even if Ginevra didn't know today was her birthday… so what?
There would be time.
One day, Ginevra would know everything about her.
And Jayna would know everything about Ginevra.
This thought was half comfort, half self-mockery—something Jayna had to cling to in order to step into the day with something like brightness.
"Jayna, you're going out?" Ms. Rose came upstairs, brows knitting as she saw Jayna at the vanity.
Jayna turned, shy despite herself.
"Yeah. It's Saturday." Then she smiled, reminding her softly, almost playfully, "And today is my birthday, Ms. Rose."
"Oh my goodness." Ms. Rose stopped in the doorway, horrified. "I'm an old fool—I forgot!"
"It's fine," Jayna said quickly, waving it off. "You forgot this once. That's all. You can make it up to me later."
Ever since she was small, Ms. Rose had always celebrated her birthday ahead of time. This was the first time she'd slipped.
Ms. Rose stood there a moment longer, watching Jayna admire herself in the mirror, her gaze full of warmth—yet shadowed by something else, too, like worry.
She looked as if she wanted to say something.
Then, when Jayna turned her head again, Ms. Rose quickly looked away, hiding that expression.
"Ms. Rose," Jayna said, suspicious, "do you have something you want to tell me?"
Ms. Rose forced her usual smile back into place. "Just be careful when you're out. Watch your phone and wallet. All right?"
Jayna snapped her makeup case shut with a little huff.
"Ms. Rose, I'm not three. Stop worrying about me."
Ms. Rose walked up behind her and gently smoothed Jayna's hair, fingers tender.
"I've been with you since you were tiny," she murmured. "And in the blink of an eye… you've become a young lady."
Jayna laughed, cheeks warm. "Stop, Ms. Rose. You're making me embarrassed. And don't you dare pull out pictures of me in toddler pants to tease me."
Ms. Rose paused, stroking Jayna's hair again and again, her gaze settling somewhere far away.
"If you run into Mr. Stevens," she said quietly, "show him how beautiful you are today."
Jayna spun around, startled.
"My dad's back?"
When Ms. Rose nodded, Jayna hurried out of the room.
Downstairs, she saw the back of Mr. Hart—her father's assistant—standing in the living room, and her excitement flared instantly. It had been over a month since she'd seen her father.
And ever since she'd visited the Volkova home, her feelings about her father had shifted slightly. Every family was different. Her father wasn't warm with words—but she still missed him.
"Dad!" Jayna barreled into the living room in her slippers.
Her sudden voice made Mr. Hart stop mid-report. He glanced anxiously at the man on the sofa.
Only then did Jayna notice the ashtray on the coffee table.
It was full of cigarette butts—half-burned, crushed out.
Her father didn't smoke at home like this.
"Dad…" Jayna's eyes widened. "Why are you smoking so much? Did something happen?"
Mr. Stevens waved Mr. Hart away. He stubbed out the cigarette he'd just lit, and the heaviness in his face smoothed over as he turned toward his daughter.
He smiled.
"Happy birthday, Jayna."
"What is this?" Jayna pouted, trying to act unimpressed. "Why are you suddenly being sentimental?"
Her gaze skimmed his face—and even if she didn't say it aloud, she saw it: he'd grown thinner.
"What's wrong," she asked quietly, the softness slipping out before she could stop it. "Business trouble?"
"You—" Mr. Stevens tried to look stern. "Is that how you talk?"
Then he looked her up and down, taking in her dress, her careful makeup, the way she'd made herself into something radiant.
"Going on a date?"
Jayna's face burned.
She hesitated, then tried to explain in a voice that didn't betray her too much.
"Mmm… not really. I just want to go celebrate. It's my birthday."
Mr. Stevens stared at her, and suddenly his eyes looked wet around the edges.
"I've been so busy all these years," he said quietly. "I don't think I've ever really celebrated your birthday properly."
Jayna smiled, flustered by the sincerity.
"But you give me gifts every year," she said. "That's enough."
"Be careful on the road," her father said. "Do you want Mr. Carter to drive you?"
"No," Jayna answered quickly. "I'll go myself. And I won't be home for dinner."
Mr. Stevens watched her—so light, so eager, like a bird about to take off—and for a moment he saw someone else in her expression.
Her mother.
Back then, the way her mother looked at him had been exactly like this.
Jayna… had someone in her heart now, didn't she?
Mr. Stevens smiled faintly, shook his head, and lit another cigarette.
He flipped open the document on the table—the one he'd just covered a moment ago—and fell back into silence.
As Jayna stepped outside, a gust of winter wind stung her eyes.
She tucked her scarf under her neck but refused to pull it up over her face. She didn't want it smudging her makeup—especially her eyes, soft and luminous, and her lips, glossy and inviting.
Even if the cold numbed her cheeks, she endured it stubbornly.
Then—
"Giny?!"
Jayna had just stepped out of her residential gate and was about to call a taxi when she spotted a familiar figure waiting nearby.
Ginevra stood there in a white wool coat, her pale face made even softer by the color. Jayna had the sudden, irrational urge to reach out and pinch her cheek.
Ginevra looked up, surprised.
Jayna today was… stunning.
For the first time, Ginevra realized someone could wear a red dress like this—like it was made for them.
"Aren't you cold?" Ginevra asked, stepping closer.
Her hand lifted instinctively toward Jayna's scarf, wanting to pull it higher, protect her—
Jayna stopped her.
"I put on makeup today," Jayna explained, shy but proud. "If the scarf rubs it off, it'll look bad."
Then she gazed at Ginevra with open expectation, eyes bright.
"Do I look good?"
"Good," Ginevra answered, voice steady.
No elaborate praise. No flattering poetry.
Just that one word—spoken with such sincerity Jayna understood it meant the best.
"You look good too," Jayna said quickly, cheeks warming. "You're beautiful even without makeup."
Then, barely above a whisper, she added, "I dressed up because I'm going on a date with you, Giny."
The word date caught in the air like a spark.
Ginevra's ears warmed instantly.
She could have asked: What do you mean by date?
But she couldn't.
So she pretended she hadn't heard, eyes flicking away.
Jayna tugged lightly at Ginevra's coat sleeve.
"Why did you come to pick me up?" she asked, still a little dazed by the sight of her here.
"Because I wanted to see you earlier."
Jayna's eyes widened.
Ginevra said it so plainly, as if it were a practical reason—like arriving early to avoid traffic.
As if she didn't realize what those words could do to a heart.
Ginevra didn't explain further. She simply crouched slightly, wiping the back seat of a small electric scooter with a towel, then gestured for Jayna to get on.
Jayna's face grew hot under the helmet Ginevra placed on her.
Did she know what she'd just said?
Did she understand?
Jayna gathered her skirt and sat carefully behind her, the helmet muffling her voice just enough to hide how breathless she felt.
"Where did you even get a scooter?" she asked.
"I borrowed it from Chloe," Ginevra replied, then started toward the destination Jayna had given her.
Jayna sat behind her, and strangely… she didn't feel cold.
Maybe because Ginevra drove slowly.
Maybe because Ginevra blocked the wind.
And at this distance, Jayna suddenly wanted to hold her—desperately.
Even if she had to use the cold as an excuse.
"Giny," she called softly.
"Mm?"
"I… can I hug you?" Jayna's voice trembled. Afraid of being refused, she rushed to add, "I'm cold."
Ginevra nodded.
What Jayna didn't see was the way Ginevra's entire face flushed beneath the helmet.
Jayna's arms slid slowly around Ginevra's waist.
Ginevra was slim. Even through layers of winter clothing, her waist didn't feel bulky at all. Jayna resisted the urge to move her hands, to explore. Instead she held her carefully—like she was afraid that any wrong touch might shatter something.
She leaned in, pressing her body against Ginevra's back.
Warm.
Safe.
That long-awaited closeness made Jayna feel like she could stay like this forever.
It made her want to spend a lifetime with Ginevra.
She wanted it with a devotion so fierce it almost frightened her.
Jayna knew it was taboo.
She knew it was almost impossible.
So she lowered her desire into something smaller—something she could live with.
At the very least…
She could bind herself to Ginevra as a friend.
She wasn't greedy.
She only wanted permission to love her like a good friend loves a good friend—staying close, laughing together, watching each other from day to day.
If she could do that, perhaps she could hold Ginevra—carefully, quietly—without losing her.