15. Jules
Jules
It is just after three in the morning when the bond wakes me.
Not because it hurts. It is only buzzing beneath my skin, steady enough that I cannot ignore it. Camille is awake, which is not surprising. Camille being awake and working probably qualifies as her natural state.
The feeling coming through the bond is different.
Tight. Sharp. Buried beneath so much control I almost miss it.
Something is wrong.
I check my phone, find several messages from Mina about room-service fries and nightmares, and climb out of bed. The main room is empty, but the balcony door stands slightly open.
It slides wider with that soft, expensive whisper Eon loves, like even the glass has been trained not to be disruptive.
I step outside barefoot, phone still in my hand, and stop.
Oh.
That’s not fair.
Camille is leaning against the railing as if she is part of the architecture, city lights behind her and the wind catching the loose strands of her hair.
She is not wearing her usual armor. No blazer.
No severe lines. Just a white button-down, slightly wrinkled, with the sleeves rolled to her elbows and the top button undone like she needed room to breathe.
And, God help me, glasses.
Thin gold frames sitting low on her nose.
I forget how to walk, which is impressive considering my entire job involves walking aggressively in time with music.
She glances over when the door closes behind me, already halfway through something on her tablet. For an instant, I catch rows of dates and names before she shifts the screen away.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks, as though she did not just fundamentally alter my brain chemistry by existing differently for five seconds.
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Cool. Great. Love that for me.
I clear my throat and push away from the door like I meant to pause there. Evie once described Kaia’s shoulders as illegal. I laughed so hard I nearly choked because I had not understood what that was supposed to mean.
I owe her an apology.
“You look… illegal.”
Camille’s brow furrows. “Illegal?”
“Yeah.” Doubling down is my brand. “Like there should be a law somewhere against that.” I gesture vaguely at her entire situation.
She looks down at herself, then back at me. “It’s a shirt, Jules.”
“No, I know what a shirt is. Big fan. Own several. This is different.”
She studies me like I am a puzzle she is not certain is worth solving, then returns to her tablet. Which is rude, honestly.
I step closer anyway, because apparently self-preservation is optional tonight. “You always dress like you’re about to fire someone. This is new.”
“I am about to fire someone,” she says calmly. “I’m just doing it from the balcony.”
I laugh and lean against the railing a few feet away.
“Glasses,” I say.
She glances up. “Yes.”
“Didn’t know you had those.”
“I don’t wear them on camera.”
“Tragic,” I murmur.
Something flickers across her face, too quick to name.
I look away first. If I do not, I might say something real. That would be a problem.
The balcony is barely large enough for two people, which is probably why Camille chose it. Contained space. Limited variables. Controlled environment.
I drag the second chair away from the small table and sit with a quiet groan, propping my injured leg on the railing. The medic called it minor swelling, which feels like an offensively casual description for the sharp pain running through my knee every time I bend it.
Camille glances at my leg, then disappears inside without a word.
Apparently, I’ve finally scared her away.
I pull out my phone and text Mina.
JULES: Awake. Interested in fries. Emotionally available for nightmare debriefing at a premium hourly rate.
The balcony door slides open again before she can respond. Camille steps outside holding an ice pack.
She offers it to me without comment.
I beam. “Look at you, falling so naturally into the devoted-wife role.”
Camille looks like tolerating me is becoming a medically significant burden. “Take it.”
“Yes, wifey.”
I accept the ice pack and settle it over my knee. The cold bites immediately, but the ache begins to ease.
Camille sits across from me, tablet balanced on one knee, posture straight even out here where no one is watching. The city stretches below us in soft lights and distant noise, but the balcony is quiet.
I press the ice down harder. “Wow. Love this for me. Peak athletic performance.”
“You overextended your landing.”
“Thank you, Coach.”
“You need to adjust your recovery time,” she adds.
“I need you to stop talking like my body is a spreadsheet.”
“It would be easier if it were.”
“God, I hope not. I feel like I’d have terrible formatting.”
She does not respond.
Of course she does not.
I let my head fall against the chair, and there it is again. The steadiness that comes whenever she is close, like something inside me has finally stopped vibrating at full volume. It is stronger out here, or perhaps simply easier to notice without everything else getting in the way.
I do not need to look at her to know where she is.
Constant. Annoying.
Comforting.
Nope. Not that last one.
She scrolls through something on her tablet. She looks focused, as always, except not quite. Her fingers pause over the screen before continuing, every movement too controlled and deliberate.
Like she is compensating for something.
Then I feel it again through the bond.
Anxiety.
I sit up and watch her more closely. I have felt her presence before: structure, clarity, that relentless control that settles everything inside me whether I want it to or not.
This is different. Quieter. Hidden.
“Okay,” I say. “What’s wrong?”
Camille does not look up. “Why would something be wrong?”
“You feel weird.”
That gets the smallest pause.
I gesture vaguely at her. “Extra controlled.”
“I am always controlled.”
“See? That. That tone.”
She exhales softly. “I’m working.”
“No, you’re avoiding.”
That gets her attention. Her eyes lift to mine, flat and neutral.
“Incorrect.”
I grin. “Wow. Immediate denial. Classic.”
“Jules.”
“What?”
She returns to the tablet, apparently ending the conversation. Except it is not over, because I can still feel the pressure she is trying to compress into something manageable.
And I do not like it.
Weird. I distinctly remember wanting to make her uncomfortable, mainly with flirting, and a part of me still does. This is different though.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Hey.”
No response.
“Hey.”
She looks up, annoyed. “What?”
My mind goes back to backstage, to the fear that tore through the bond when those cables started moving. Not ordinary fear either. Recognition.
The hallway.
Of course that is what this is about. Getting pinned down by demon cables and nearly possessed would mess with anyone, even Camille Hart.
“You got held down by demonic cables in a hallway, almost possessed, and now you’re awake at three in the morning glaring at a tablet like it personally betrayed you.” I tilt my head. “You could have died. It’s okay for it to terrify you.”
“That is not why I’m awake.”
“Maybe not,” I agree. “Doesn’t mean it isn’t why you’re trying to crawl out of your own skin.”
“Jules.”
“Camille.”
We hold each other’s gaze, neither moving or backing down. Beneath the argument, her anxiety tightens.
She is not unaffected.
She is only hiding it behind structure. Words. Control.
I lean back and drag a hand through my hair. “You know that’s not normal, right? The whole ‘nearly getting possessed in a hallway and then immediately opening a spreadsheet about it’ thing?”
“It is efficient.”
I laugh under my breath. “God, you’re impossible.”
“And you are reckless.”
“Yeah. That’s my thing.”
“You should consider changing it,” she states.
“You should consider having a single human emotion.”
“I do.”
I blink. “Name one.”
She pauses, then says, “Concern.”
“For what?” I ask.
She hesitates, and I feel the shift before she speaks. The concern is not general or abstract. It is focused.
Specific.
Me.
“System stability,” she says.
I snort. “Wow. That was almost convincing.”
“It is accurate.”
“Sure. Because when I almost get eaten by a demon, your first thought is, ‘Wow, this is going to ruin my quarter.’”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re misinterpreting data.”
“I’m reading between the lines.”
“There are no lines.”
“There are always lines.”
She looks at me for a second longer than usual, like she is trying to decide something, or trying not to. Then she shuts off the tablet and sets it aside.
That is new too.
Silence settles between us. Not awkward. Just full.
I adjust the ice against my knee and wince.
“You’re going to need to rest it,” she says.
“I am resting it.”
She does not argue. She only watches me, and something softer moves through the bond. Not sharp or tight. Just there.
Somewhere between control and chaos, there’s something quieter.
I don’t know what to do with it.
The city hums beneath us. The air has cooled, and the noise in my head is lower. Manageable.
Because she is here.
Because of the bond.
Because—
I stop that thought before it goes anywhere dangerous.
“She’s not wrong, you know,” I say.
“Who?”
“Mina. About you.”
“What did Mina say?”
“That you care.” I smile. “Just in a very ‘I made you a color-coded survival plan’ kind of way.”
“That is not—“
“It is exactly that.”
She does not respond. Does not deny it either.
“Actually, why am I yellow?” I ask.
Camille looks at me. “What?”
“On your schedule. You said I’m yellow.”
“It indicates personnel movement.”
“Sure it does. Why yellow?”
Her gaze moves over my face before settling on my eyes. “Because people find you first.”
My smile falters.
She continues before I can respond. “Onstage. In a crowd. During an emergency. Attention moves toward you whether you intend it to or not. Yellow made the relevant data easiest to locate.”
There is a beat of silence.
“That sounded almost romantic,” I say.
“It was a visibility classification.”
“Of course it was.”
She reaches for her tablet again, but I catch the faint warmth moving through the bond before she can bury it.