When Jayna heard that low murmur at her ear, she went briefly, helplessly still.
She hadn't expected it—not the words, not the way Ginevra said them, not the tremor she could feel in the hands holding her as if Jayna were something that might vanish if she loosened her grip for even a second.
Ginevra wasn't as unbreakable as she looked.
Not really.
She was anxious because Jayna had walked away without a word.
She'd been frightened. She'd been worried.
And that realization—sharp as a needle—made Jayna's chest tighten.
Ginevra's fingers were clenched in the fabric at Jayna's back, and when Jayna shifted, she felt it: the faint, undeniable shaking.
Something was wrong.
"Giny… I get it." Jayna's voice softened immediately, instinctively, the way it always did whenever she sensed weakness under that icy surface. "I promise. From now on, wherever I go, I'll tell you first."
She lifted a hand and patted Ginevra's back—slow, gentle—trying to soothe her, trying to coax her out of that brittle edge.
Ginevra, who looked so cold and hard to the world, was in truth all sharpness over softness. A doctor who could stare down blood and death… and yet still tremble over Jayna.
But of course, hugging like this in public wasn't wise.
They were standing right beside the new coffee shop, and people were gathered in a loose crowd—some waiting for their drinks, some clearly lingering because two women were holding each other like they didn't remember how to let go.
Jayna swallowed her embarrassment and murmured, "Giny… people are watching."
Jayna had sunglasses on. She was dressed in Ginevra's clothes. She could pretend she didn't care.
But Ginevra—Ginevra had nothing to hide behind except her own face.
And Jayna had been wicked enough to dot that beautiful face with freckles.
When Ginevra finally realized what she'd done—how reckless she'd been—she loosened her arms as if she'd been burned. She released Jayna's shoulders and drew back, frowning faintly, smoothing the moment into something less obvious.
Her expression was naturally distant—cool and unfriendly even when she meant nothing by it—and the nearby onlookers immediately looked away, suddenly fascinated by their phones.
Children had cried at that face before. It had the quiet menace of a snowstorm.
They walked together toward the underground parking, and Jayna tilted her head, watching the woman at her side remain stubbornly silent.
Still shy?
Still flustered?
"I bought you coffee to make you feel better," Jayna said lightly, handing her the cup. "Because earlier, in that fitting room, I kind of… made someone upset."
Ginevra took it with a soft grunt, saying nothing.
Jayna's mouth curved. "If you accept the coffee, that means we're even. And besides—you were the one who took advantage of me. I don't know why you're the one who got mad."
Ginevra's brows knit at once, as if Jayna had twisted the entire universe backwards.
"It was you who put my hand on your—"She stopped.
Her ears reddened.
The sentence died in her throat.
Jayna lifted her brows and sipped her iced cocoa, looking unbearably innocent. "And you were the one who touched me."
Ginevra went quiet in defeat and opened the paper sleeve around her cup instead.
Black Meteor coffee.
Jayna stared at it and fell into a brief, strange stillness.
"When I ordered," she said slowly, "I thought I would've forgotten by now. But the words just popped into my head—Black Meteor. That was what you drank back then."
Her mouth held a shadow of bitterness, thin and almost hidden.
Ginevra's expression softened instantly.
"I've always liked it," she said.
"So your tastes are still boring," Jayna teased, trying to lighten the weight she'd created.
Ginevra glanced sideways at her, and something like a small, private smile flickered across her face.
Yes.
Eleven years, and she was still unbearably single-minded about the same person.
"You ordered iced cocoa," Ginevra countered.
Jayna shrugged. She hadn't liked it when she was younger—until Ginevra bought it for her once, and then the flavor had become tangled with a feeling she couldn't name.
"Fine," she said, letting the truth show in her eyes. "But there's something else I like too. You forgot, didn't you?"
Ginevra took a sip of coffee, then looked at her with a gentleness that made Jayna's throat tighten.
"Strawberry sparkling water."
Jayna's eyes widened. "You remember that?"
"There's some in the fridge," Ginevra said, almost too quickly.
Jayna tilted her head. "You bought it?"
Ginevra nodded.
Every time she went to the store, she'd put a bottle in the cart.
Over time it became habit. A quiet ritual.
Because somewhere, in the deepest part of her mind, she kept thinking: If Jayna ever comes back… she'll want this.
She didn't say any of that aloud.
Instead, she added quietly, "But the clerk said that brand might be discontinued soon. Last time I went, they told me they may not be able to stock it anymore."
Something faintly downcast passed through her eyes.
As if even a small shared thread between them slipping away could hurt.
"Discontinued?" Jayna frowned.
She remembered the gossip—some lawsuit, stock losses, the way bigger companies swallowed smaller ones without blinking. Her agent, Uncle Jarvis, had mentioned it in passing once.
Apparently the drink company had tried to find a celebrity spokesperson to save sales. It was an old, familiar flavor—something people associated with childhood.
But the offer was insultingly small.
No star wanted to "do charity" for a failing beverage brand when the industry's giants were throwing around contracts ten times the amount.
Jayna thought of the brands she represented now—jewelry, couture, watches, the kind of luxury that came with velvet boxes and cameras.
People would call it "lowering herself" to endorse a drink.
But what she cared about wasn't her image.
What she cared about was the tether between her and Ginevra.
"It won't be discontinued," Jayna said, voice calm, certain.
She pulled off her sunglasses, eyes dark and bright as she looked straight at Ginevra.
"Believe me."
Then—almost softly, almost cautiously—she asked, "You don't want it to disappear, do you?"
Ginevra blinked, puzzled by the question, and still answered honestly.
"…No."
"Then it won't," Jayna promised, and smiled—sweet, bright, and full of trouble.
If Ginevra wanted something, Jayna would make it happen.
And she could already imagine a plan—just a little trick, a little maneuvering—so that every time Ginevra saw that sparkling water, she would think of her.
Adults did that.
They set traps made of tenderness.
They made people fall, one step at a time.
They got home around three in the afternoon.
Jayna and Ginevra arrived with their shopping bags and saw a mountain of sealed boxes stacked outside the door.
No mystery there.
Tom Hanley.
Jayna crouched beside her assistant, who had fallen asleep leaning on the boxes, and flicked his natural curls.
"Hey," she said. "Wake up."
Tom startled violently, slapping a hand over his hair like someone had attacked his pride. "Who touched my curls—!"
Then he saw Jayna and wiped at the corner of his mouth, mortified.
"Boss… you're finally back."
"You could've told me you were coming," Jayna scolded, though her tone was more brotherly than harsh. "I would've told you what time we'd be home. You didn't have to wait out here."
Tom shook his head quickly. "You finally got a chance to go shopping. I didn't want to interrupt you two. I just packed everything I could think of."
Jayna glanced at the boxes and turned to Ginevra with a pleading, guilty smile.
Ginevra didn't say much. She keyed in the door code, took off her coat, and began hauling the big cartons inside as if they weighed nothing.
Jayna sighed, took off Ginevra's coat as well, and helped.
Tom tried to be useful, too—though it somehow still felt like he was the one being taken care of.
Ginevra looked cold on the outside, but she moved with clean efficiency, and there was something about her presence that made everything feel… handled. Safe.
Tom was privately grateful he'd sent Ginevra those notes and precautions earlier. With Jayna, trouble loved to appear out of nowhere—like Mindy Hall showing up at the worst possible time.
"Oh—Boss," Tom suddenly remembered something and jumped up. "There are scripts in the car you need to read. I'll grab them."
He rushed off before Jayna could stop him.
"Walk slower," Jayna called after him, exasperated. "Why are you always sprinting like the world is on fire?"
When she turned back inside, she realized Ginevra had already moved everything in.
Jayna stared, helplessly annoyed at her own lack of athletic superiority. Same height, similar build—yet the difference was humiliating.
"Giny," Jayna said, washing her hands, "you rest. I'll organize the boxes later."
Ginevra didn't argue.
Jayna opened the fridge—and there they were.
A neat row of strawberry sparkling water.
Jayna smiled and grabbed two bottles, tossing one to Ginevra, who was sitting on the sofa.
"There really is sparkling water," Jayna said brightly. "When you asked Tom earlier, why didn't you mention this?"
Ginevra looked up, a little stiff. "I forgot."
No you didn't, Jayna thought, amused.You just didn't want to share.
But Ginevra was thin-skinned in the sweetest way. Jayna wouldn't tease her too hard.
"Mhm," Jayna said smoothly. "Getting old does that. Memory gets fuzzy."
Ginevra opened the bottle and drank with effortless elegance, throat moving, face turned slightly to the side.
Jayna watched far too long.
Something warm and restless stirred under her ribs.
She suddenly decided she didn't need to open the second bottle after all. She slid it back into the fridge.
"You're not drinking?" Ginevra asked.
Jayna shook her head. "If it might get discontinued, we should save it. I can just drink yours. Leave me a little."
Before Ginevra could respond, Jayna stepped closer, took the bottle out of her hand, and—under Ginevra's startled gaze—drank it down in one long, greedy swallow.
"Ah." Jayna licked at the corner of her mouth. "So good."
Ginevra stared at Jayna's red lips—too vivid, too soft-looking—and didn't know where to put her eyes.
She didn't understand Jayna's intimacy. She never had.
But she'd also never wanted to push it away.
If anything… she was sinking deeper.
When Jayna turned back toward her, Ginevra lowered her gaze quickly, as if looking at Jayna too long might expose something dangerous.
Jayna set the empty bottle on the coffee table, then exhaled with faint discomfort.
Ginevra's underwear—being squeezed into it all day—was starting to become genuinely unbearable.
"Giny," Jayna said casually, "I feel kind of… tight in the chest."
The word tightness was a trigger for doctors.
Ginevra was on her feet instantly, hands on Jayna's shoulders, posture snapped into professional precision. She checked her face—normal color, normal breathing. She listened, measured, assessed.
"Any other symptoms?" Ginevra asked, serious.
Jayna blinked at her, then waved frantically. "No, no—nothing like that." She laughed awkwardly. "It's just… the bra is digging in. I need to unclasp it, that's all."
"…."
Ginevra released her like she'd been burned.
Her ears turned red again.
She blinked twice, then retreated into the guest room with a quiet, flustered murmur.
"I'll… take your duvet out to air."
Jayna watched her go, dizzy with affection.
That domestic, quietly competent little-wife energy—Jayna wanted to grab her face and kiss her until she couldn't breathe.
She repeated be good, be good, be good to herself like a mantra, then quickly unclasped the bra while Ginevra's back was turned.
Instant relief.
"Thanks," Jayna called lightly. "I'll organize the boxes."
Jayna tied her hair up into a messy bun so it wouldn't get in the way.
Then she drifted toward the balcony almost without noticing—drawn there by the sight of Ginevra shaking out sheets in the pale afternoon light.
She leaned in the doorway, watching Ginevra's careful hands, the way she checked each corner and seam with meticulous attention.
"Giny," Jayna said softly, "can I ask you something?"
"Go ahead," Ginevra answered without turning, still smoothing the fabric.
Jayna's eyes were filled with something warm and steady—love so obvious it almost made her feel foolish.
She hesitated only a moment, then asked, as if it were idle conversation:
"Have your parents ever hinted—if you get married someday—what they'd expect?" Jayna cleared her throat and tried to sound casual. "Like… ring, wedding, that sort of thing."
Ginevra finally turned, brows drawn in confusion. "What?"
Jayna hurried to cover it with a shrug, like she was making small talk. "Marriage is… a tradition, right? Families have expectations. Have they ever mentioned anything? Or… never?"
Ginevra frowned, then shook her head honestly. "They've never said."
"Oh," Jayna said, smiling, and patted Ginevra's shoulder.
Then, because she couldn't resist, she pinched Ginevra's pale cheek—just once.
Ginevra's eyes widened, about to protest—
Jayna cut her off instantly, pointing with her chin. "Why did you stop? The corner on that side still isn't straight."
"…."
Ginevra narrowed her eyes at Jayna, but the fight drained out of her like water.
In the end, she turned back and obediently fixed the sheet.
Jayna's smile lingered as she walked away, hiding her giddy triumph.
Back in the bedroom, she pressed a hand to her chest.
New motivation.
New purpose.
If Ginevra's family had never named a number, never set a bar—
Then Jayna would set it herself.
She would go as high as it took.
Because once she spoke her heart aloud, once she made it clear—
She wasn't going to "date" Ginevra quietly in corners.
She was going to do it properly.
With a ring.
With vows.
With everyone watching.
She was going to marry Ginevra Volkova in the open—beautifully, formally, unmistakably.