24. Camille #3
She drinks half before dropping back against the pillow with a soft exhale. “Okay. That helped a little. I still feel like I got run over, but, like… gently.”
“That will improve.”
She turns her head and looks at me properly, her eyes narrowing. “Why are you being nice?”
“I’m not.”
“You brought me water.”
“You are currently non-functional,” I say. “This is correction, not kindness.”
She hums, unconvinced. “Sure. Correction. Totally not care.”
I do not respond.
She watches me for another moment, as though attempting to solve something, then looks towards the ceiling. “Did I get back here myself?”
“No.”
“Cool. Did I…” She hesitates, then grimaces. “Talk to anyone?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes close immediately. “I hate that answer.”
“It is the correct one.”
“Did I embarrass myself?”
I consider the question. There are several possible interpretations.
“You were… expressive.”
Her eyes open again. “That’s worse than a yes.”
“It was not detrimental.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It is accurate.” I pause. “You called me Cami.”
She blinks, then shrugs against the pillow. “It suits you.”
“No one has ever called me that before.”
“That’s because they were too scared to realize you’re more Cami than Camille sometimes.”
I have no immediate response to that.
Jules groans and drags a hand over her face. “I don’t remember anything after…” She stops, frowning. “After we were… out.”
“You consumed a high volume of alcohol in a short period,” I say. “Memory gaps are expected.”
“Great. Love that for me.”
She pushes herself a little farther upright. The blanket slips down, revealing the lingering tension in her shoulders.
Residual.
Not solely the hangover.
She has not fully recovered, physically or otherwise.
I reach for my tablet and adjust my watch.
The movement is automatic. My fingers press against the band, aligning it and resetting—
“Hey.”
I pause and look up.
Jules is watching me with greater focus now. “You’re doing it again.”
My hand stills. “Doing what.”
“That.” She pushes herself upright despite the obvious discomfort. “The watch thing.”
I lower my wrist. “It’s irrelevant.”
“It’s not,” she says, already moving.
She swings her legs over the side of the bed, winces, and ignores it. Before I can determine whether standing is advisable, she closes the distance between us.
“Jules—“
“Hold on.”
Her hand closes around my wrist.
Not forcefully, but deliberately.
Everything in me locks.
Jules stills once contact is established, as though recalibrating midway through the action. Then, more carefully than I have ever seen her move, she adjusts the watch.
She does not fidget or repeatedly correct it. She simply straightens the face, sets the band, and stops.
“There,” she says quietly.
Her fingers remain around my wrist for a fraction too long. I am aware of the contact, of her stillness, and of the fact that I am not pulling away.
Her gaze rises to mine, and something unreadable passes between us.
Then the bond shifts.
Warmth reaches me first, followed by hesitation and the sharper edge of everything she is trying not to say. I feel it too clearly to mistake it for my own.
Judging by the way her expression changes, she can feel me in return.
The realization breaks the moment.
Jules looks away first.
Of course she does.
I lower my hand slowly while the bond continues to hum between us, unsettled and far too revealing.
She nods as though that settles something, though it does not. After a moment, she rubs her face and lets her shoulders fall. “Okay. I feel like I might survive this. Barely. But still.”
“That would be preferable.”
“Yeah, I imagine you’d hate the paperwork.”
“I would.”
She gives a quiet laugh, then drags both hands down her face before looking at me again. “Why do you need me functional? Besides your deep and abiding concern for my electrolyte balance.”
I do not smile. “I need you coherent.”
“For what?”
“A discussion.”
Her brows draw together. “A meeting?”
“No.”
That gets her attention.
She tilts her head. “That sounds like a meeting.”
“It is not an official one. Only you and the other members of Midnight Halo.”
Her expression sharpens. “Shouldn’t Blaire be there?”
“No.”
“Why not.”
“Because this does not go through her.”
The last of the humor leaves her face. She studies me more carefully. Hungover, slower than usual, but no longer missing anything.
“What’s ‘this,’” she asks.
“I will explain during the meeting.”
Jules watches me for a long moment, attempting to read something I am not presenting. “Okay. That’s… new.”
“It is necessary.”
She releases a quiet breath and pushes herself fully to her feet, bracing one hand against the mattress until the dizziness passes.
“Give me,” she gestures vaguely at her entire state, “like ten minutes. And maybe a miracle.”
“You have twenty. Eat first.”
Jules shakes her head, but there is less resistance in it than before.
“You really won’t just tell me what this is about?” she presses.
“No. Eat.”
She huffs. “This doesn’t feel ominous at all.”
I do not answer, because it is ominous.
For the first time, I am not trying to make the system work.
I am preparing to work against it.