It was unusual for Geneva to react hastily, angrily -- and although he had only barely anticipated it, Jefferson was clearly taken aback by the fiery words of the girl of typically cool, calm emotions. Geneva had seen his anger before. She'd seen all sides of him: anger, loss, pain, and even the rarely seen, paternal side he'd only realized recently. She'd seen his defensiveness over Addison and the twinkle of his eye discussing his own children. Geneva did know him inside-out: it still scared him, and yet, her words instilled a feeling of... trust. His tattered ears flicked back as she spoke and he pulled back his head in surprise, retreating a step when she stepped forward two.
Jefferson remained silent throughout her lecturing, ears tilted backward and eye averted away in a stubborn shame. He knew she was right, he just didn't want to admit it. But instead of having to, instead of arguing further, he was quiet when she finished. The Patriarch couldn't admit a thank you or anything similar, couldn't say that he was grateful for her presence and that he'd grown quite fond of her. Instead, after a silence spanned between them, his ears slowly perked and his shallow green eye gently rolled to look at her. "You've never told me about your past, Geneva," he said quietly. For some reason, her name was like taboo: the way it rolled off his tongue was a unique feeling, as if it was something precious. He didn't address many by name often -- typically only DaVinci and Addison -- but doing so assured some sort of level of... seriousness with him that he couldn't explain. His words were hardly a statement; the subtle look in the emerald of his eye plead for something more, something she could finally admit herself. "You already know everything about me," but I know nothing about you.