Val sighs heavily. Sometimes she wants to be waited on, but not by Jupiter. There's a nebulous line dividing those whom she wants to be subservient, and those whose subservience offends her. Valkyrie's yet to suss out who falls where and why.

"I can get it myself," she objects, but her exasperation is friendly. She takes a tissue, and for a moment looks at the difference between her perfect manicure and Jupiter's rougher hands. Both of them have plenty and callouses, despite the contrast in presentation. "Don't baby me."