If someone you'd been separated from for eleven years…and on the second day after reuniting, you suddenly wanted to pin her down—anywhere you could, any surface that would hold—and take her with that blunt, reckless hunger…
What would Jayna think?
Ginevra lowered her eyes, the darkness in them unreadable. She looked at Jayna's face—at the way Jayna had obediently shut her eyes, lashes trembling faintly as if a small animal were bracing for a storm.
Was she afraid of me?
And what Ginevra couldn't understand—what made her feel most unhinged—was that Jayna's helpless, pitiful expression didn't soften her at all.
It excited her.
As if something inside her had snapped cleanly in two.
She must be insane.
Jayna felt it first as a cool, damp comfort against the side of her neck—soft, featherlight, almost tender. Then, without warning, a sharp sting flared through her skin.
Her eyes flew open.
"Y-you… you bit me?" Jayna demanded, eyes reddening at the corners from pain as she stared at the woman who had just committed violence with the calm of a surgeon.
Ginevra's gaze had already returned to its usual cool clarity. She looked almost innocent as she met Jayna's eyes.
"Punishment," she said.
"Punishment?" Jayna sucked in a breath, brows knitting. She could already imagine the mark: deep, red, obvious. The kind you couldn't hide unless you lived inside a turtleneck.
Ginevra's eyes drifted, briefly, to Jayna's neck.
The bite mark looked… sweet.
She had held back—at least somewhat. But it would still take a day or two, maybe longer, to fade. And from the color blooming beneath the skin, it might bruise. There was even the faintest hint that it might bead into a drop.
A mark.
A claim.
Still, Ginevra's face didn't change. She only said, coolly, "The punishment for trying to undress me."
"Why are you punishing me?" Jayna protested, distracted now by outrage more than pain. "Did I do something wrong? I only—because—"
"Under Section Three-One-Two-Six of the criminal code," Ginevra interrupted, crisp and composed, "your behavior can be sentenced to up to five years, or detention."
Her diction was immaculate. Her tone was so flatly convincing it sounded official.
Jayna stared.
For a few stunned seconds, she listened as if she were watching a polite monster explain a bedtime story.
Then her mouth dropped open. "You're making that up. I tugged a strap and suddenly I'm going to prison? For what charge?!"
"Indecent assault," Ginevra replied—calmly—and smiled.
"Indecent—? For God Sake!" Jayna went red with indignation. "Then what about you biting me?! Compared to me accidentally hooking your bra clasp, you biting me is way more—more indecent!"
"That was self-defense," Ginevra said evenly.
Self-defense.
Jayna had no words.
She was losing on every point, and it infuriated her. Somehow, she was the one who'd been hurt, the one who was bleeding, and yet she was the one being sentenced. She argued until her cheeks burned, and anyone watching would've thought she was guilty just because of how flustered she looked.
"You just like bullying me," Jayna finally muttered, lips pulled down in a pout she couldn't stop. She couldn't win, so she could only sulk. "You always do. You're awful, Giny. You're not cute at all anymore. You hold grudges and you bite people…"
Watching her grumble like that—mouth pushed out, eyes shining with sheer offended misery—Ginevra's resolve wavered.
Her expression softened by a degree.
"Did it hurt?" she asked quietly.
"Obviously it hurt!" Jayna snapped. "Let me bite you and see! I swear you're a dog—no, you're a vampire. Who bites that hard—"
She reached up to touch her neck again, still fuming, and then froze.
There was a thin smear of red on her fingertips.
Her voice shot up. "Ginevra Volkova! You drew blood—!"
She shoved her hand toward Ginevra like evidence in a courtroom. "Am I going to get rabies?!"
Ginevra looked, and something like… regret flickered through her eyes, quick and tightly restrained.
"I'm sorry," she said, almost stiffly. "You shouldn't."
Jayna was so angry she went wordless.
A hundred years from now, their "love's light" still wouldn't shine on them, because right now she honestly wanted to hang Ginevra upside down and beat her with a pillow until she begged for mercy.
"It hurts so much…" Jayna whined, the complaint slipping out despite her pride, because she truly felt wronged. Ginevra had no sense of measure when it came to her.
Guilt tugged at something inside Ginevra. Her voice softened again, more quickly this time.
"I won't do it again."
And Jayna—maddeningly—felt her own anger weaken the moment Ginevra sounded even a little apologetic. Jayna hated how easily she melted.
Ginevra watched Jayna's face as the storm gradually settled, and then she spoke gently, as if offering a compromise like a peace treaty.
"Then fasten it for me," she said. "That makes us even."
"What?" Jayna blinked, confused.
"You unfastened it," Ginevra said, meeting her eyes with a sincerity that looked almost… pure. "So you fasten it. You have to take responsibility."
The words landed soft, almost like a shy plea.
Jayna couldn't refuse that look.
Still sulking, cheeks burning, she stepped closer and—hands trembling slightly despite herself—fastened the clasp back into place.
"There," Jayna muttered, lips hot, tongue darting over them in an unconscious motion. "Done."
But inside her mind, the sentence replayed again and again.
You have to take responsibility.
It sounded far too much like a spoiled little demand. Like a quiet kind of possessiveness. Like… a kind of intimacy that didn't know it was intimacy.
Ginevra checked the time, then said softly, "I think it's better if I wait outside."
Jayna nodded at once.
For the first time all morning, they reached an agreement with perfect, wordless harmony.
Ginevra stepped out and pulled the door closed behind her.
The second the latch clicked, she pressed her back to the cool wood, palm flattening against her chest as if she could physically hold her heart still.
It was pounding too hard.
Her pride—her self-control—had nearly snapped.
And this was only the first day of living together.
She didn't want to imagine what the coming days would do to her.
That bite—she told herself—had been a way to control her desire. A small, sharp anchor to drag herself back from the edge.
It had been unfair to Jayna, of course. Jayna was the one in pain. But—
If Jayna kept provoking her like that, what did she expect?
If Ginevra truly lost control one day… it would be Jayna's fault for pushing her.
She gave herself that excuse without even blinking.
And then, as if her mouth had betrayed her, the corner of her lips lifted—slowly, helplessly—into a beautiful, faint curve.
Inside the room, Jayna was trembling too.
Only she was face-down on the bed, angrily pounding the mattress like a furious child.
She'd been played.
Not only bitten, but framed.
And charged with a crime.
Once Ginevra finally steadied her breathing, she glanced at her phone, calculating. Jayna should be dressed by now.
Earlier that morning, she'd gone to the hospital and handed off a few things to Director Ward. Then she'd done something she'd never done in her entire, relentlessly disciplined working life—
She'd taken two days off.
The director had stared at her like she'd lost her mind.
Ginevra Volkova. Taking leave.
It almost sounded like a joke.
"Giny," Jayna called from behind the door. "I'm ready."
Ginevra turned.
Jayna leaned against the doorframe, eyes slightly unfocused, looking at her as if she were still afraid she'd vanish.
Ginevra's brows knitted.
Jayna wore Ginevra's tracksuit, and somehow—somehow—it didn't look athletic at all. It looked like temptation disguised as comfort. The zipper was pulled only halfway, revealing her collarbones and the faint, suggestive curve of her chest beneath the velvet.
Ginevra's gaze sharpened.
"You're not wearing anything underneath," she said.
It wasn't a question.
Jayna walked closer, unhurried, as if she enjoyed being watched. "I only had last night's bra," she explained, perfectly reasonably, "and you threw it into the laundry basket. So I didn't have one."
Then she added sweetly, "If you think it's too much, I can zip it all the way up."
And she did—obediently—zipping it right to the top.
No skin showed.
But the velvet clung.
The outline remained, bold and unmistakable, and the faint point at the center was still… there.
Jayna was clearly still annoyed about being bitten. This was her quiet revenge: cheerful disobedience.
Ginevra looked away at once and took a step back, throat tight. She couldn't stand to look too long. It made her feel… improper.
"You have to be properly dressed before we go out," she said, voice low and hoarse with restraint.
"Then give me one," Jayna replied lightly. "I don't want to go out like this either."
Ginevra hesitated.
Something about giving Jayna a piece of intimate clothing felt dangerously personal. But Jayna's eyes were bright with stubbornness, and Ginevra—once again—couldn't refuse.
She found a clean, unworn one and handed it over without meeting Jayna's gaze.
Jayna tried it on.
It was a little tight at the front, but at least it didn't dig into her back. She looked down at the fabric, cheeks flushing.
This is hers, Jayna realized. This belongs to Ginevra.
And the thought made her heart do something strange and soft.
Meanwhile, Ginevra—already thinking three steps ahead—quietly added a note to her mental list:
Buy Jayna several sets.
And as she recorded that, the image of Jayna in the tracksuit flickered through her mind again.
Her heart lurched.
She felt heat crawl up her spine.
This is bad, she thought grimly.
When Jayna came out again, Ginevra's eyes lifted—and for a brief moment, she almost forgot to breathe.
Jayna had smoothed her slightly wavy hair and let it fall behind her ear. A small cross-shaped hairpin held a strand in place. She'd brushed on a touch of powder and put on a vivid lipstick that made her look alive—radiant, warm, untouchable.
Jayna pressed her lips together, pleased. It was a shade from the line she endorsed, and lately it had become her favorite—perfect for her complexion.
Thank God she'd shoved a few essentials into her little makeup pouch before going out to drink last night. Otherwise she'd be forced into the world bare-faced today.
And the bite mark—
She'd zipped the collar up high to hide it.
Still mad. Still secretly sulking.
Jayna looked beautiful. She looked like the kind of brightness that made people turn their heads. Her smile was infectious—like sunlight set on fire—and it caught at Ginevra's heart and burned.
"Am I pretty?" Jayna asked.
Ginevra nodded, eyes steady, sincere.
"You're pretty too," Jayna said, smiling back.
For Jayna, going out with makeup was routine. Her public image mattered—one tired, barefaced photo could be turned into a headline by lunchtime.
"Wearing makeup so often can damage your skin," Ginevra said quietly.
"I don't want to, either," Jayna replied with a little self-mockery, following her toward the entryway. "But when you're always in front of people, what choice do you have?"
At the shoe cabinet, Jayna noticed Ginevra bending toward a pair of boots with a noticeable heel.
"Wait!" Jayna reached out and stopped her.
Ginevra looked up, puzzled.
Jayna picked out a flat black pair—short boots, only a small lift—and handed them to her.
"You're already two or three centimeters taller than me," Jayna declared, as if this were a matter of dignity. "If you wear heels like that, you'll crush me. Wear these."
In her head, she measured quickly: Ginevra's boots—about two centimeters. Jayna's "chunky sneakers"—about five. Perfect.
Balance restored.
Ginevra glanced at the other pair, mildly confused. Were they really that high?
But she accepted the ones Jayna chose and put them on without argument.
Jayna watched her—this composed, elegant doctor with that quiet, devastating air—and felt an itch under her skin.
I'm the celebrity, Jayna thought, half offended, half amused. Why does she look like the star today?
Then she blamed it on her own outfit. A tracksuit did dull her usual dramatic impact.
Ginevra started the car. She waited until Jayna had buckled her seatbelt before driving off.
"You don't have to wear makeup around me," Ginevra said suddenly, eyes fixed on the road. Her voice had softened. In her heart, Jayna was perfect in every form—there was nothing to criticize, nothing to correct.
Jayna went still.
She pulled Ginevra's coat around her shoulders and slid on her sunglasses, hiding the fact that her expression had already fallen apart.
After all these years, Jayna thought, is her reaction time still that slow?
"You're about to follow that up with an insult, aren't you?" Jayna asked, tipping her sunglasses down slightly. Even in a tracksuit, she managed to sound like royalty.
Ginevra frowned, thinking seriously about phrasing, then said, slowly, "I've seen you when you look ugly, too."
Jayna slumped back, groaning. "I knew it. You're exactly the same as before. Either you don't talk at all and you seem gentle and sweet, or you open your mouth and you kill people. And now you're disrespecting me too."
She stared out the window, annoyed, mind spinning in circles.
How do I make her understand my feelings?
Almost at the same time, Ginevra thought of the problem that hovered over everything:
How do we live like this without losing control?
They both sighed in silence—quietly, privately—swallowing down the restless thudding in their chests.
And so, in that awkward, shimmering tension, their romantic cohabitation began:
Beautiful.
Slightly chaotic.
And not easy at all—
Because living with a top-tier star was never going to be simple.
Ginevra drove smoothly, steady enough to make Jayna feel safe.
Jayna turned her head, resting her chin lightly against her long fingers, and studied her "exclusive driver" with unhurried satisfaction.
Ginevra's profile was striking—clean lines, calm focus, a face that could easily break hearts without meaning to. The day was bright, sunlight spilling everywhere, and for the first time in years Jayna felt that sunshine could actually feel… pleasant.
Maybe it was only because Ginevra was beside her.
Jayna smiled faintly.
They hadn't seen each other for eleven years. They'd been together less than a day since reuniting, and yet it already felt like they'd been doing this forever—existing in each other's orbit with this peculiar ease. Quiet could be romantic too.
"Don't look at me like that," Ginevra said abruptly.
She didn't even turn her head, but she could feel Jayna's gaze like heat on her skin.
Jayna didn't look away. "Why? I'm not allowed to look? Is Dr. Volkova shy?"
"You talk too much," Ginevra replied.
But her lips twitched—so slightly it was almost invisible.
Jayna's mouth curved as she studied the car interior instead.
It was so… Ginevra. No pointless decorations. No clutter. Everything clean, almost sterile, like the car had never been lived in. The scent inside was faint, cool, and familiar—Ginevra's.
Jayna recognized the model too. She'd seen it overseas at an auto show and thought it was stunning—sharp, cold, built for speed and power. Not many women drove it.
It suited Ginevra perfectly.
Reserved. Shadowed. And yet, quietly arrogant.
And it wasn't cheap.
"This car—did you just buy it?" Jayna asked, curious.
Ginevra thought a moment. "About half a year ago."
"Wow," Jayna said. "Half a year and it still looks brand new."
"I don't drive it often," Ginevra said. The hospital wasn't far. Sometimes she walked home for exercise. And she didn't like taking this car to work—it drew attention.
Jayna shrugged. She understood Ginevra's low-key nature.
But she still couldn't help wondering. From what she remembered, Ginevra's family hadn't been especially wealthy. Ginevra wasn't a lavish person either. So why buy a car like this?
As if reading her question, Ginevra lowered the window slightly. Cool air slipped in, mixing with the faint sweetness of Jayna's perfume, making Ginevra's focus waver.
"It was a gift," she said.
A gift?
From who?
Jayna's body went tense at once.
An admirer? Someone pursuing her? Someone who'd already begun moving pieces around Ginevra without Jayna knowing?
Jealousy crawled up Jayna's throat, bitter and hot.
It's just a car, Jayna told herself furiously. If Ginevra wanted the moon, I could get it for her. I've made enough money to support her for a lifetime—
"Ginevra, if you're willing, I—I can—"
"My grandmother," Ginevra cut in, calm as ever. "It was from my grandmother."
The older woman had been stubborn, insisting on forcing it on her. She'd been furious about Ginevra becoming a doctor—furious in a way that scorched the whole family—but Noxi had stepped in and taken the heat like a decoy.
(You love killing, yet you insist on saving people. How does our family end up with a freak like you?)
That had been Noxi Volkova's suicidal comment to her.
Ginevra came back to the present and realized Jayna was looking at her strangely. Jayna's earlier outburst had cut off mid-syllable.
Ginevra glanced sideways, puzzled, and asked, "What were you going to say just now?"
Jayna swallowed hard.
She forced down the words I can take care of you—forced them down like a secret she wasn't allowed to speak yet.
Then she turned toward the window and laughed twice in an awkward little burst.
What was I even thinking? she scolded herself. If Ginevra knew the ridiculous things that just ran through my head, she'd probably pull the car over and throw me out on the side of the road.