Kurt/Gina
Something's up.
Kurt's a smart guy; he can tell.
He doesn't get dragged from his early-morning daze by two chattering, giggling girls who usually barely even talk in public, every morning.
He doesn't look up from Lyla's flowers to the sight of that Dia girl from Clove Villa inching nervously along, keeping the hem of something light and shimmery carefully out of the dirt, every morning.
He really doesn't stand up slowly when a little flash of blue catches his eye, and then stare in bewilderment as Dia's little glasses-wearing maid pops into view, beaming the kind of pride he's not sure he's ever seen on anyone, and he's damn sure he's never seen on her, every morning.
His eyes jump from that gorgeous dress the dark-haired girl's got on, to the other girl, and back and forth a few more times, and even through a state of immobility that's only partly the result of the hardcore crush he's been working on for a while now, he's pretty sure his admiration is for the seamstress, not the model.
He's been apprenticing for Woody long enough that he can tell that too, can see at a glance that she's the one with bruised fingers and aching back and shoulders from hours curled in over her work, working the needle through layers of fabric. You can always tell who the craftsman was if you look carefully; it shows in their face when they look at their baby.
Woody always laughs at him when he comes back annoyed from a delivery because the recipient of the piece, up to the same nearly impossible standards Woody always sets for himself, took all the credit in front of a gushing friend. N'yes, lovely, isn't it? I walked all the way down to the workshop and filled out the order form myself.
Returning to his gardening as their laughter dies away, he barely notices a little smile creeping over the corners of his mouth.
Now he knows they have something in common; maybe now he can work up the nerve to find out more.