Jayna dragged her suitcase to the door of the second bedroom.
It was technically a guest room, yet it looked nothing like a place that was meant to be merely "used when needed." The space was clean and bright, so bright that the afternoon sun could pour straight through the window without meeting any resistance. The curtains were especially lovely—an unhurried, gentle blue, scattered with tiny stars like someone had stitched a quiet night sky into fabric.
She reached out with her fingertips and lightly traced the edge of the wardrobe, the smooth line of the desk. Not a speck of dust. It didn't take much imagination to picture the kind of person who lived here: someone meticulous, almost disciplined about cleanliness—someone who cared about details enough to make them feel like a kind of devotion.
Jayna began placing her personal things into the nightstand. And of course, the photos.
A few of her glossy portraits—shots she had insisted Tom Hanley bring over before she left. She stared at them for a second, expression unreadable and then faintly satisfied, because she knew what those photos did to people. No one looked at them without their heart hitching. No one.
She picked one of the smaller frames and set it at the corner of the bedside table—positioned so that the moment someone stepped into the room, they would see it immediately. A deliberate little ambush. A soft, pretty kind of trap.
The corner of her mouth lifted into a tender smile.
She wasn't in a hurry.
This time, she would make up for the eleven years she'd lost. She would stay by Ginevra's side properly—steadily—no matter what stood in her way. She wouldn't back down. Even if that quiet, stubborn little closed-off person never ended up liking her, she wouldn't regret it. As long as she could be near Ginevra, that would be enough.
Enough my ass, she thought, a spark of wickedness flickering in the dark part of her chest. When the time comes, I'll take what I want. I'll snatch and steal and claim.
"Do you need help?"
The cool, familiar voice came from behind her, and Jayna's mind—just for a moment—snapped back from the shadowy thoughts it had been toying with. She turned slowly.
Ginevra had washed her face clean, and without the smudges and soap and water-softened mess, that stunning face emerged as if it had been waiting beneath it all—beautiful in a way that made people forget to breathe, calm and sharp at the same time.
"I'm just organizing my clothes," Jayna said, forcing her tone to sound casual as she reached into the suitcase and pulled out neatly packed garments.
They were almost all long dresses—one after another, different cuts, different fabrics, different moods. Jayna liked long dresses. Ginevra knew that. And with Jayna's figure, they suited her so well it almost felt unfair.
Ginevra walked over, her gaze drifting to the material. She lifted a hand and brushed her fingers across the satin surface—lightly, as if testing the truth of it.
Still, she said, almost stern in the way she cared, "It's winter. You should keep warm."
She's worried about me.
Jayna's chest warmed in a slow, spreading way. She pretended not to take it too seriously and teased instead, "Do you think I don't know if I'm hot or cold? Giny, did you forget—I'm older than you. I wear plenty. Dresses like these are for formal events, or shoots, or when I have to meet certain important people. And those places all have heating."
Ginevra gave a small nod. She watched as Jayna lifted the dresses out one by one, hung them carefully in the wardrobe, smoothing the hems as if each piece deserved a little respect.
"Jayna."
The way Ginevra said her name made Jayna pause without meaning to. Jayna turned her head. "Hmm?"
Ginevra hesitated.
Then she sat down at the edge of the bed, hands resting loosely on her knees, posture straight but not rigid—like someone trying to appear calm while her thoughts kept circling the same fragile point. She watched Jayna tidying the clothes, and the scene did something strange to her, something quietly disorienting. It made her feel—as if by mistake—as though she and Jayna had already been living together for years. As though this were ordinary. As though it belonged to them.
Finally, she asked, her voice careful, almost too controlled. "Why… do you want to live with me?"
The question landed, and immediately she seemed to regret how it might sound. As if afraid Jayna would mistake it for rejection, Ginevra added quickly, a little clumsy with the words, "If you don't want to say, I won't force you."
God. What am I even saying?
It really was unfair, she thought bitterly, how the world treated people who weren't good at expressing themselves—how easily their sincerity became awkwardness, how their hearts turned into stumbling sentences.
And yet Ginevra's difficulty with expression only existed in front of Jayna.
In medical school, she could give presentations that made professors pause. She could explain complex concepts in flawless, the kind of clarity that made the word "genius" sound less like praise and more like a fact. Even her venom—when she chose to threaten someone—came out polished and terrifying, with a precision that left no room for misunderstanding.
But with Jayna, she turned into this.
"You don't want me here?" Jayna frowned on purpose, stopping what she was doing. She looked genuinely confused, as if wounded by the idea.
"Of course not." Ginevra denied it immediately, too fast, too firm.
Jayna waved a hand, putting on the most pitiful expression she could manage—like someone who'd been rejected in the cruelest, most dramatic way. "Right, right. I mean, I did decide on my own to move into your place. And look at this room—so clean. Maybe someone else has stayed here before."
Ginevra's frown deepened.
How could Jayna take "why do you want to live with me" and somehow twist it into "so other people must have lived here too"?
It didn't make sense. It was like watching someone build a bridge to the wrong island and then act surprised they weren't where they meant to be.
"Wait. You've completely misunderstood." Ginevra's voice sharpened slightly—not in anger, but in the urgency of someone who knew that if she didn't correct this now, Jayna would take it and run in the most chaotic direction imaginable.
Jayna hung the last dress on its hanger. Then, unhurried, she leaned back against the wardrobe with her arms folded, watching Ginevra with a relaxed, almost smug patience—as if she were settling in to enjoy the spectacle of Doctor Volkova desperately trying to explain herself.
"Mmhmm?" Jayna tipped her chin. "What did I misunderstand?"
Ginevra let out a quiet sigh. Fine. I'll explain. Please don't make this weirder.
"First," she said, voice measured, "I live here alone. There is no second person. So your assumption doesn't stand."
Jayna blinked, still smiling, eyes bright.
"And second," Ginevra continued, as if building a case that had to be airtight, "I have obsessive cleanliness habits. You know that. I clean almost every day, even if no one stays here. So your assumption stands even less."
When she finished, silence fell—thick and dead, as if the room itself had stopped breathing.
I ruined it.
That was the only thought in Ginevra's mind, immediate and unmistakable. She could practically feel herself misstepping, could feel how her blunt logic had stripped the moment bare.
Then Jayna laughed—soft at first, then fuller, unable to hold it in.
She had only been trying to tease her. That was all. She hadn't expected Ginevra to respond so seriously, so quickly, like a person sprinting to close a door before a storm got inside.
Jayna reached up and gently swept aside the long hair falling against Ginevra's cheek. Her fingertips lingered for a heartbeat. Her gaze settled into Ginevra's eyes—those eyes that always seemed to pull people under, slow and deep and dangerous in their calm.
"If I told you," Jayna said quietly, "that I've wanted to live with you since a long time ago… would you believe me?"
Ginevra looked straight back at her. She knew Jayna wasn't joking now. This was the truth, offered with bare hands.
But who could ever know—who could ever truly understand—how Ginevra had endured those eleven years when Jayna wasn't there?
Ginevra's throat tightened. She asked, slowly, "All these years… were you really okay?"
Her voice was gentle, but every word seemed carefully weighed, as if she were holding something fragile and didn't trust her hands not to break it.
"Did you ever think about looking for me," she continued, "even once?"
As she spoke, a mist gathered in her eyes—not the kind of tears that fell easily, but the kind that hovered, trembling, refusing to become obvious. Under that thin haze was a depth of feeling no one could fully measure.
Jayna heard the question, and her mind drifted—suddenly and helplessly—into those eleven years.
A cramped attic. The hollow space of losing family. Foster homes that never quite felt like homes. Blame. Side jobs and school stacked together until she could barely stand. Being yelled at. Being dismissed. Getting sick—collapsing on the street—until someone finally saw her, someone who would become her mentor, the respected elder who pulled her into the world of film and made her visible to the world.
She remembered arriving at her biological mother's side and discovering that so much of her identity had been altered—papers rewritten, information changed—so she could remain overseas without being traced back.
In a way, "Jaynara Stevens" had ceased to exist.
Only because she begged—because she pleaded until her voice went raw—did she manage to keep "Jaynara" as her name, the surname replaced with the one belonging to the man her mother married later. And when she entered the industry, she used only Jaynara Stevens.
Had she lived well?
No. Not even close.
But who didn't grit their teeth and keep going anyway?
Her half-sister had once pointed a gun at her and told her to get out. So Jayna left early, supported herself, rented a tiny place on her own. In those lightless days, the only thing that ever seemed to glow was the bracelet Ginevra had given her—its small shine carving out a narrow path through loneliness, through cold.
Jayna smiled, almost unconsciously. It was a small smile that didn't belong to happiness. She pushed the grief down, forcibly, compressing it into the deepest part of herself where it could not leak out.
Then she lifted her eyes to Ginevra.
This person was her light.
Always.
"I wasn't doing great at first, Giny," Jayna said, forcing a smile so hard it almost hurt. She swallowed the urge to cry, kept her voice steady by sheer will. "You know… being in a completely new place, not knowing anyone, my surrounding was awful. So, yeah, I ran into problems. But later I got better. Slowly."
She paused. Her lashes trembled.
"I did think about finding you," she admitted, quiet but sincere. "I always did. It's just that…" I didn't have the right. And I couldn't.
"Thinking about it is enough," Ginevra said softly.
Her eyes were so gentle it felt like forgiveness without conditions. She understood Jayna must have had her reasons, so she didn't press. She didn't force the words out like a confession.
Jayna only needed to say she had wanted to find her.
That was enough.
Truly.
But then Ginevra tilted her head slightly, her expression complicated, and glanced at Jayna as if something had finally caught up to her.
"So," she said, "you just tricked me."
"Hm?" Jayna lifted her brows innocently. Her reaction time is slow today, she thought, amused—and when did she start holding grudges like this? She didn't use to.
"You knew I didn't mean I wasn't welcoming you," Ginevra said, stepping closer, one pace at a time, watching Jayna's tiny, unnatural expressions as if collecting evidence. "But you still said those things, just to see me flustered."
Jayna widened her eyes dramatically, the little bun of hair on top of her head bouncing as she shook it. "Did I? I have no idea what you're talking about. And even if I did, I had a reason. You're being petty."
Jayna always had a reason. She always had a way to talk Ginevra into a corner where blame couldn't quite stick.
Ginevra wanted to tell her not to do it anymore—those games where she pretended not to understand, where she asked questions she already knew the answers to. But she couldn't bring herself to scold her. Instead, she deliberately set her face into a blank, stern line and turned as if to leave the room.
"Oh?" Jayna's hand shot out, quick and sure, and caught Ginevra by the arm. "So if you can't win the argument, you're running away?"
Ginevra paused, caught.
"If you're helping," Jayna continued, tugging her gently back, "then help properly. You want to hear it? Fine. I'll tell you what you want to hear. Or I can act it out for you—give you a whole scene. You know, having the famous actress personally perform for you is an honor most people will never get."
She winked.
And just like that, something inside Ginevra softened. Melted. As if her sternness had never existed.
"What do you need help with?" Ginevra asked.
"You being here with me is helping," Jayna said.
She lifted a finger and lightly pressed it against Ginevra's lips, stopping whatever response might have tried to leave. Then Jayna's gaze slid down Ginevra's frame—measuring, pleased, full of a private confidence.
"Actually," Jayna added, a little smug now, "I practiced a bit over the years too. You know. That kind of thing."
"A few amateur tricks?" Ginevra asked bluntly, sitting down on the bed as if she were settling in to watch a performance.
Jayna had been expecting praise.
"You are so bad at talking," she snapped, offended. "Not amateur tricks! It's Brazilian jiu-jitsu, damn it—"
Ginevra clapped her hands with a perfectly calm face, the applause so clearly fake it was almost insulting. "Jayna is amazing. So impressive. Good job. There. I praised you."
Jayna froze, then narrowed her eyes. "Are you looking down on me?"
She dropped the bundle in her hands and stared at Ginevra on the bed. That applause—absolutely insincere. And the way Ginevra's mouth tightened—
She's trying not to laugh.
"Fine," Jayna said, rolling up her sleeves with theatrical determination, pointing her chin up like a challenger in a ring. "Then spar with me. You've definitely gotten rusty."
The infuriating part was that Ginevra didn't move at all. She simply sat there, steady and composed, watching Jayna with a calm that felt like provocation.
"No," she said. "I'd rather not. I might hurt you."
Ah—!
That damned calm, that smug, unbothered expression. She was even more annoying than when they were kids.
Jayna smiled suddenly, a bright curve of lips that promised trouble. "If I can pin you down so you can't move, you'll agree to one condition."
Ginevra's eyes cooled as she stared at Jayna, as if she could already see the little scheme hidden behind the smile. Then, almost amused, her mouth curved slightly.
"Fine," she said.
And sure enough, the moment Jayna stepped closer, she did exactly what she used to do as a kid—she went straight for the cheap, shameless tactic: tickling, trying to overwhelm her into surrender.
But Ginevra had learned. A genius only needed to be fooled once.
She dodged with ease, caught Jayna's wrist, and in one smooth motion shoved her back onto the bed—pressing her down, decisively, efficiently, as if demonstrating a medical restraint protocol rather than playing a game.
Jayna struggled, but she couldn't move.
"You cheated! You..." she huffed, cheeks flushed with indignation.
Ginevra looked down at her, gaze steady.
"Mm," she said, voice quiet and unhurried, and then—almost as if she were savoring it—"I'm shameless."
She said it first, stealing Jayna's line before it could be thrown at her.
Jayna blinked, stunned. "You—You actually admitted it?!"
Her words tangled. She was so angry she couldn't even speak properly. "You, you—you…"
"Mm?" Ginevra's tone rose slightly at the end, deliberate, as if she were coaxing the next reaction out of Jayna just to watch it happen.
Jayna's flustered face made something warm flicker through Ginevra's chest. She almost smiled.
If she kept indulging Jayna, there would come a day when Jayna would climb right onto her head and make herself comfortable there.
To prevent that day from arriving, Ginevra needed to establish rules on the very first day of living together.
And Jayna didn't listen to softness.
So Ginevra would have to be firm.