Ginevra's mind was a tangle of threads she couldn't sort out.
She couldn't understand Jayna's behavior—couldn't make sense of it in any neat, rational way. And just as she couldn't pretend she didn't notice it, she also couldn't ignore that scorching gaze pinned to her skin, as if it were something physical—warm, invasive, impossible to brush away.
"Giny," Jayna said, voice soft with intention, "I'll clean up."
As she spoke, she deliberately loosened the collar of her pajama top, leaving it unbuttoned down to the third button. The sleepwear was meant to be proper—almost conservative—yet on Jayna's body it became something else entirely. Not loud. Not vulgar.
Just… distracting.
A quiet kind of alluring.
Jayna stepped closer and reached for the plates Ginevra had been about to carry away.
Ginevra faltered. The instant Jayna's fingers brushed near her own, she withdrew her hand as if the contact might spark something she couldn't afford.
"…Alright," she said, a little stiffly.
In the kitchen, Jayna and Ginevra moved around each other, too close and not close enough. Meanwhile, in the center of the living room, Tom Hanley paced like a man trapped on a boiling skillet.
His forehead was going to rot off from stress.
His boss really did whatever she pleased—on a whim, on a mood, on a heartbeat—and now she'd announced she was moving into someone else's home as if she were casually switching hotel rooms. If the company found out, they'd skin him alive first and ask questions later. Jayna had always been willful, arrogant, hot-tempered in that fearless way that made people either worship her or resent her… but this?
Living at someone else's place without warning? That was new.
And if some shameless media outlet caught the scent of it—if rivals bought the story and spun it into something lurid and malicious—Tom could already feel the migraine blooming behind his eyes.
How was he supposed to explain this upstairs?
Everything was technically "the boss's decision," sure. But he was the one who filed reports. He was the one who got grilled. And her manager—Mr. Jarvis—had always indulged Jayna. He wouldn't be able to talk her out of anything if his life depended on it.
Tom couldn't sit still.
He lurched up and headed toward the kitchen, hoping—praying—Jayna had already changed her mind.
But the moment he neared the doorway, he felt it: that subtle, intimate atmosphere clinging to the air like steam. It made him stop short, instinctively retreating as if he'd walked in on something sacred… or something dangerous.
Because there, right in front of him—
Jayna—who, in Tom's entire time working with her, had never been physically close to anyone off-camera in any tender way—had wrapped her hand around Dr. Volkova's wrist.
And then, inch by inch, she used that hold to guide Ginevra backward, following her, pressing her, until Ginevra's back met the narrow corner beside the sink. Nowhere to step. Nowhere to slip away.
Jayna looked up at her, eyes misted over, as if a whole twilight sky had gathered behind her lashes. Her lips parted, and the breath she let out sounded warm—too warm.
"You don't want me to stay here, do you?" Jayna murmured. "Or… will it make things inconvenient for you? Like—" her voice dipped into something sharper, more pointed, "—like maybe someone else lives here too?"
"It's not that," Ginevra answered at once, the denial almost too quick. She met Jayna's eyes and held them. "No."
She had always lived alone.
Jayna's fingers tightened around her arm, keeping her close, keeping her caught. Ginevra could have pushed her away easily. She could have. The strength was there, the certainty.
But she didn't move.
Jayna's mouth curved faintly.
So she lives alone too, Jayna thought, satisfaction sliding through her like a slow exhale. Good. No extra hands. No needless obstacles.
"Then why do you look unhappy?" Jayna asked, leaning in a fraction. "Or am I really bothering you?"
She was close enough that the last of her fragrance—something sweet and human—slipped into Ginevra's breath without permission. Ginevra stared at the woman she had been thinking about day after day, night after night, for eleven years—at her brows, her nose, her mouth, that beautiful mouth she could never ignore.
And the truth rose inside her with a chill that wasn't fear, not exactly, but something darker.
I want it all.
I want to possess every part of her.
I want her to belong to me.
That was the real problem.
If Jayna stayed here, consequences would happen—consequences even Ginevra couldn't imagine clearly, only sense like a storm behind the horizon. Her self-control was exceptional, yes—
But who could guarantee anything, after eleven years of restraint?
When desire arrived, what was "human decency" but a brittle test, something that shattered the moment pressure was applied?
If the feelings she should never have had began to show—slowly, inevitably—where would their relationship go?
Ginevra couldn't picture it.
When Jayna lifted a hand as if to touch her face, Ginevra pushed her back several steps in one smooth motion, forcing a normal distance between them.
Jayna's eyes flickered.
Wounded.
Ginevra saw it—and her throat tightened. She had to swallow down her own agitation, her own roaring joy, and pretend this distance was simply the responsible choice.
"If you really want to stay," she said, voice steady with effort, "then stay."
She'd softened again. She always did.
The moment she met Jayna's eyes, she could never say anything cruel.
Inside, Jayna let out a silent breath of relief.
She had been terrified Ginevra would refuse. If that had happened, Jayna honestly didn't know what she would've done—how she would've convinced her without humiliating herself. They had finally found each other again; how could they go back to the old pattern, each retreating to their separate lives as if this reunion meant nothing?
Jayna had too many words to say. Too many things she wanted to do—with her, beside her, in the ordinary hours that used to be stolen and rare.
Because the person in front of her wasn't just important.
She was the most important.
If Jayna had to use a little trickery—just a little selfishness—so be it.
For the first time, Jayna felt grateful for how long the rest of life could be.
Long enough to wait.
Long enough to finally arrive here.
"Giny," Jayna said, and her smile wobbled at the edges, as if it hurt to hold. "Do you think I'm still the same as before… chasing you, clinging to you?"
There was a sour ache in her chest. In front of Ginevra, she had no pride to lean on, no celebrity persona to hide behind. If anything, she felt small—quietly inferior—because she knew Ginevra's nature.
If Jayna didn't move forward, Ginevra would never take even half a step toward her.
"It's not that," Ginevra said, gaze lowered. She didn't dare look up, afraid the feelings in her eyes would leak out even by accident. "I've never thought that."
Jayna watched her force those words out, watched the fine sheen of sweat appear at Ginevra's forehead, as if the sentence itself had taken strength.
Jayna's heart eased. "Really?"
Ginevra nodded, solemn. "Mm."
Stay by my side, Ginevra thought—and don't ever leave again.
Jayna is so painfully, hopelessly sincere. If I could…
A shadowy impulse surfaced, cold and startling: lock her inside. Hide her away. Keep her where she can never step beyond the reach of my sight.
Ginevra stiffened at the ugliness of her own thought.
Immediately, she turned the tap and washed her hands under cold water, as if she could rinse the darkness out of her skin—cool herself down, punish herself back into silence.
Only then did Jayna place the dishes into the sink. She rolled up her sleeves, ready to wash.
Ginevra adjusted the water to warm without thinking—an old habit of care.
Jayna scrubbed lightly, speaking as if this were all casual, normal. "So I'm staying," she said. "No taking it back later. And—of course—I'll pay rent."
"You don't have to," Ginevra said at once, frowning at the distance that word created between them.
Jayna's ears reddened slightly. "But I want to stay for a long time," she admitted, almost sheepish. "It feels weird if I don't pay anything. I can pay in advance."
Ginevra heard that—a long time—and her mouth softened without warning. She looked at Jayna with a gentleness she couldn't stop.
"You can stay as long as you want."
As long as you want, she said aloud.
A lifetime, Jayna thought in silence.
I want to spend the rest of my life with you.
I want to live with you for an entire lifetime.
Jayna lowered her gaze to the clean dishes gleaming in the sink, as if staring at them would keep her heart from spilling out.
"B-but… Boss," Tom blurted, unable to hold it in any longer. "You're a celebrity! Moving into Dr. Volkova's place so suddenly—are you sure this is okay?!"
He had been hovering at the door long enough to witness the scene in full—those invisible bubbles of intimacy floating between them, sweet with a sharp tang that made him stare like a man watching a romance drama in real life.
Jayna turned, startled. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Uh…" Tom scratched his head and laughed awkwardly. "A little while."
Jayna dried her hands, then grabbed Tom by the ear—pinching and tugging him along with ruthless affection—and hauled him out toward the living room as if dragging a misbehaving puppy.
Ginevra watched them go, a small smile pulling at her lips.
Jayna was still Jayna—temper and all.
Ginevra took out the strawberries she'd bought earlier, rinsing them carefully, one by one. The water ran over their bright skins.
Want but never get.
Hold but never release.
That was the deepest shape of her love for Jayna. It had been that way before. It was that way now.
But at least now—
At least now she could stay near her, quietly, in a place where her eyes could reach. She could watch her, protect her, love her, without asking for anything more.
(Your long wait is over.)
Is it enough?
The voice inside her answered immediately: not even close.
She wanted more. She wanted so much more that it frightened her. Jayna's entire world—she didn't want to yield even a fraction of it to anyone else. Maybe one day she would lose control and cross the forbidden line.
No one in this world was a saint.
Ginevra stared at the strawberries in the bowl.
The water had overflowed, spilling over the rim, flooding the plate without anyone noticing.
Her mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"So," Jayna asked, still holding Tom's ear between her fingers, eyes narrowed. "You saw it?"
Tom nodded obediently.
"Then did you figure anything out?" Jayna pressed. She wanted to know—wanted to see their relationship reflected in someone else's eyes, as if that would make it clearer.
Tom looked bewildered. It was rare for Jayna to ask a question like this, almost… uncertain.
"I think…" he said carefully, courage failing and returning in the same breath, "I think you might have a thing for Dr. Volkova."
Jayna didn't deny it.
Instead, she caught Tom's arm and asked, voice low, "Is it obvious?"
Tom shook his head. "Not really. It's just… I know you too well. You've never been close like that with anyone. So the contrast makes it obvious—to me."
But… so it's real.
Boss actually likes Dr. Volkova.
Holy— Tom's mind exploded like a tabloid headline: TOP ACTRESS FALLS FOR MYSTERIOUS DOCTOR?! Inside him, a stampede of ridiculous, screaming thoughts thundered past.
Outwardly, he forced his face into calm professionalism.
"And what about her?" Jayna asked, even softer now. For the first time, a tremor of nervousness slipped into her tone.
Tom swallowed.
He couldn't read Dr. Volkova at all. Ginevra's expression was too thin, too controlled—like frost on glass. He didn't dare say the wrong thing.
When Tom couldn't squeeze out a single useful word, Jayna patted his shoulder. "Okay. I get it. Stop."
It didn't matter, she told herself.
It doesn't matter if she doesn't love me yet.
As long as I love her.
She had fallen for Ginevra eleven years ago. That was simply who she was: once she decided, she decided to the end.
Jayna steadied herself with that thought and looked at Tom. "Your boss's happiness is in your hands."
Tom blinked. "Huh?"
Jayna gave him a look full of disdain—as if he were hopeless. "I'm living here now. You need to quietly bring clothes from my place. And important documents. You know all my preferences. And the pajamas Juliet gave me—the sets I never wore—bring those too."
Tom stared.
Juliet's gifts were those ridiculous, dangerously sexy pajamas—super, super, super indecent. Jayna had always said she didn't want them.
"Boss," Tom said weakly, "have you thought this through? It's so sudden. I haven't even checked the security system here, whether everything's complete. This neighborhood is decent, but it's not like your place—"
"My place isn't that great either," Jayna cut in, her voice flattening, her eyes drifting somewhere colder. "When everyone around you has a name, they don't give you privacy. They give you an audience. Unless you're close friends, half of them are waiting for you to trip just so they can watch you fall."
She spoke like someone who had learned the rules the hard way—clawing her way up through years of absurd, ugly experiences. The industry's survival code was simple: you could see through things, but you weren't allowed to say them out loud. Jayna had done nothing shameful, yet people still slandered her, still tried to smear her, still wanted her to be guilty of something.
Sometimes even neighbors would kick you in the back when you weren't looking.
She remembered a "senior" in the same gated area—sweet as syrup to her face, calling her "little Jayna" with such intimacy—then the next day posting from a hidden account to drag her name through the dirt.
Jayna's gaze sharpened, the thought turning her expression frighteningly cold.
"Boss—stop," Tom said quickly, pushing her shoulder as if that could push her mind off the ledge. "Don't think about it. Your face right now is… terrifying."
Tom had never doubted it: Jayna was still Jayna.
It was just that in front of Dr. Volkova, she became soft.
And Tom—Tom was dying of curiosity. He couldn't help it. He kept wondering who, exactly, Dr. Volkova was to Jayna, to make her this obsessed.
"Boss," Tom began, then swallowed. "Forgive me for asking. No—I'm begging you. Just let me suffer properly before I die."
He sat at one end of the sofa, watching Jayna absently twirl a lock of hair between her fingers. Her eyes kept drifting toward the kitchen—toward that figure moving there—so tender it was almost liquid, like it could spill.
"You can ask," Jayna said.
Tom drew a deep breath and muttered, "You really do like Dr. Volkova? You're not just messing with me?"
Jayna set her cup down and looked at him, expression painfully sincere. "You've been with me this long. Have you ever seen me say I liked anyone?"
Tom shook his head. "No."
"Then I'll tell you now." Jayna didn't dodge it, didn't hide. She looked toward Ginevra's half-seen silhouette and spoke as if admitting the truth was a kind of relief. "I like her."
Then she paused, as if even that word was too small.
"No," she corrected quietly. "It's far more than that. What I feel for her… I can't put it into words. It's too deep."
She shook her head afterward, embarrassed, almost laughing at herself.
Tom went silent.
He could see it—could feel it in the way Jayna looked, the way she softened without noticing. It was real. She truly, genuinely loved Dr. Volkova.
His shock sat heavy in his chest, but underneath it was something like reluctant respect. Jayna had always been like this: bold, honest, fearless in love as in everything else. A person like that deserved to chase happiness.
He just hoped—looking at Dr. Volkova's cool, distant aura—that Jayna's hard-won love wouldn't have to bleed too much before it found its way.
"I'm going to the bathroom," Jayna said suddenly, pinning Tom with a warning stare. "And you are not allowed to tell her anything else about me. Do you understand?"
She stared especially hard at Tom's eager mouth, as if it were a dangerous weapon.
Tom grinned and nodded. "Go. Go. I'll behave."
Jayna left.
The second she was out of sight, Tom immediately turned into a trembling little schemer, perched at the edge of the sofa like an obedient spy. When Ginevra came over carrying a plate of washed strawberries, Tom sprang up to greet her.
"Dr. Volkova," he said quickly, "Jay—uh, Ms. Stevens went to the bathroom."
"Mm," Ginevra replied.
She sat down and slid the fruit plate toward him.
Tom waved both hands in panic. He'd already eaten her breakfast—he couldn't possibly take more. Besides, strawberries were Jayna's favorite.
Still, he stole a glance at Ginevra's profile.
Having spent years around celebrities, Tom didn't often get surprised by beauty. But Ginevra's presence had that innate, untouchable coldness—proud, restrained—nothing like Jayna. One was fire. One was ice. Two extremes facing each other like fate.
Ginevra wore almost no makeup—nearly bare-faced—and yet her features were striking enough to rival any star.
Tom couldn't help thinking, with a quiet awe: Jayna really does have unbelievable taste.