26. Camille #3
“You thought the room was haunted because you activated the blackout shades.”
“It might still be haunted,” she says, unfazed.
I look at the dish again. “On what basis have you concluded I will like it?”
Her answer is immediate. “It’s balanced, not too sweet, looks elegant, and seems simple until you actually pay attention.”
Her finger remains beside the photograph.
I look at her.
She is watching the menu rather than me, but her expression has gone carefully neutral.
The bond does not allow her the same protection as her face. Affection moves through it, warm and uncertain. Not a demand. Not even an expectation. Simply something she cannot fully suppress while she is this close to me…
Something answers from my side before I can contain it. A quiet warmth. Recognition. The unsettling relief of being understood without having to explain myself first.
Jules feels it. Her smirk softens, just slightly.
“I’ll order it,” I say.
She smiles without looking up. “Good choice.”
The food arrives in waves, filling the table until there is almost no visible surface left. Mina takes photographs of everything before Jules begins distributing plates.
When the aubergine arrives, she places it in front of me without comment.
I take a bite.
Jules watches me from the corner of her eye with an attempt at subtlety so inadequate that it borders on insulting.
“You were correct,” I say.
Her head turns immediately, grin slowly brightening her face. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
“No.”
Jules looks across the table. “Kaia, did you hear her?”
Kaia nods once. “I heard.”
“Remy?”
Remy lifts her glass. “Unfortunately.”
Jules turns to Mina. “Record the date.”
Mina lifts her phone. “Already done.”
I take another bite. “This reaction discourages future admissions.”
Jules beams. “Worth it.”
Dinner proceeds with a degree of disorder I would normally find irritating.
Mina insists everyone try a citrus drink she ordered because the bottle is “too cute not to share.” Remy and Kaia debate whether the final arena arrangement can be altered without drawing attention from Eon’s production team.
Jules steals food from all three of them while insisting she is conducting quality control.
The table shifts as Mina reaches across for another dish. Jules’s thigh presses more firmly against mine.
Neither of us moves away.
The bond settles into the contact, quiet and warm. Her physical discomfort remains present beneath it, a low ache she has compartmentalized so thoroughly that she may believe no one else can detect it, not even me.
But I can.
“Are you in pain?” I ask quietly.
Her expression does not change, but the bond tightens. “What? No.”
“The bond says otherwise.”
“I’m fine,” she insists.
“You are compensating again.”
“I’m sitting.”
“You can compensate while seated.”
She looks at me, then glances towards the others. Mina is attempting to convince Remy to eat something she claims is “emotionally important,” while Kaia watches with visible resignation.
Jules lowers her voice. “It’s not bad.”
“That is different from no.”
“I know,” she admits.
“You should return to the hotel.”
The warmth between us recedes.
“I knew that was coming,” she mutters.
“It is the medically responsible recommendation.”
“And if I say no?”
“I cannot force you.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Growth.”
“I can, however, arrange transportation and inform Kaia that your pain has increased.”
Jules narrows her eyes. “Betrayal.”
“Accuracy.”
She exhales through her nose and looks down at her plate. For several seconds, she says nothing.
I feel the emotion before I understand it.
Not anger.
Disappointment.
I have disappointed her.
She thinks I am trying to remove her from the evening. Separate her from the others. Return her to the room where she will be expected to rest while life continues without her.
I do not want to be the reason that happens again.
“You do not have to leave,” I say.
Her gaze rises.
“If you remain seated and stop pretending you feel nothing, you can stay.”
A smile pulls slowly at one corner of her mouth. “That almost sounded reasonable.”
“It was entirely reasonable.”
“And caring?” she asks, teasing, though hope flickers beneath it.
“It was conditional.”
“Sure, Cami.”
The nickname lands differently when she is sober.
More deliberate.
I should correct her.
I do not.
By the time we leave the restaurant, Jules’s pain has eased enough that I no longer consider overriding her objections and returning her to the hotel. The group walks through several illuminated side streets towards the karaoke building Mina selected.
Tokyo continues moving around us.
Bicycles pass close to the pavement. Music spills from open doors.
Screens flash advertisements several storeys above the street, changing faster than I can process their content.
Jules notices everything. A wall of capsule machines.
A narrow shop selling nothing but umbrellas.
A restaurant display with plastic desserts arranged behind glass.
She stops in front of a vending machine.
“There are hot drinks in this one.”
“Yes,” I say.
“In cans.”
“Yes.”
“That come out hot,” she adds, staring at the machine with open fascination.
“I understand the mechanism.”
Jules looks at me. “You’re not appropriately impressed.”
“It is a temperature-controlled vending system.”
“It’s magic,” she insists.
“You have witnessed actual magic.”
“This is better organized.”
Kaia continues walking without turning around. “We’re leaving you.”
Jules points at the machine. “I need one.”
“You had two citrus sodas with dinner,” I remind her.
“But this is coffee.”
“It is nearly midnight.”
“Exactly.”
“You require sleep.”
“I require an experience.”
She buys two canned coffees before I can object, then promptly hands one to me.
I look down at the warm metal in my palm. “You said you needed one.”
“I thought you might too.”
“Why?”
“You’ve been working since before we landed,” she says, as though that should be obvious.
“That does not answer the question.”
“It answers it perfectly.”
She walks ahead to join Mina before I can respond.
The can is pleasantly warm against my hand.
I keep it.
The karaoke room is larger than the private one at the restaurant but significantly louder. A curved bench wraps around three walls. colored lights pulse along the ceiling. Two microphones rest beside a touchscreen containing an extensive catalog of songs.
Mina takes control immediately, selecting an energetic pop song from several years earlier. Kaia protests for approximately twelve seconds before Mina drags her to the center of the room.
They sing together.
Kaia is technically better. Mina is louder.
Remy selects the next song, a darker track with intricate harmonies. Mina joins her halfway through. Their voices fit together unexpectedly well, Remy’s lower control anchoring Mina’s softer tone.
Jules watches them with open affection.
She does not perform while she watches. There is no concern about cameras or audience response. No calculation.
Only pride.
“They’re good,” I say.
“They’re incredible.” Her answer is immediate.
“You are not surprised,” I state.
“No.” She looks at Kaia, who is filming Mina despite pretending not to. “They forget sometimes. All of them.”
“Forget what?”
“How good they are when no one’s demanding it.”
The statement settles between us.
Jules continues to watch them, but I think of her asleep in the hotel room. The only time her body fully released its tension. The only time no one expected her to entertain, fight, or absorb attention.
“You forget as well,” I say.
She glances at me. “Forget what?”
“That you do not have to perform constantly.”
For a moment, she is entirely still.
Then her smile appears, quick and bright. “Wow. One drink and you’re already getting emotional.”
“I had one coffee.”
“Lightweight,” she teases.
I turn my attention back to the screen, but the bond carries the hurt beneath her deflection.
She knows I felt it.
Neither of us mentions it.
Several songs later, Mina turns towards us with the microphone raised, but Jules is already getting to her feet.
“I’m doing this one,” she announces.
She selects a flirtatious pop song and positions herself at the front of the room, one hand wrapped around the microphone.
Even without choreography, she knows how to command attention.
Every look, pause, and subtle shift of her hips is deliberate.
She turns the cramped karaoke room into a stage without appearing to try.
I have seen Jules perform for crowds of thousands. I have studied audience reactions, camera angles, and engagement metrics built around the effect she has on people.
None of that explains what happens when she looks directly at me.
The bond warms, carrying her satisfaction when she realizes I have stopped pretending not to watch. Her smile sharpens.
Then she winks.
I remain completely still.
Jules turns back towards the screen, visibly pleased with herself.
She finishes the song with a final, unnecessary flourish, holding the last note just long enough to make Mina cheer and Remy accuse her of showing off.
“Correct,” Jules says, handing the microphone to Mina. “That was the point.”
She drops back onto the bench beside me, careful enough to avoid another wince this time. Her shoulder presses against mine.
“How did I do, wifey?” she asks, fishing for praise so openly that it would be insulting to pretend otherwise.
“You already know you performed well.”
“Knowing and hearing are different things,” she quips. “I like hearing.”
I look at her. “You were very good.”
Her smile returns immediately, bright and satisfied. “See? Was that so hard?”
Mina appears in front of us before Jules can respond, offering me the microphone. “You should sing.”
“No, thank you,” I say, a bit too sharply.
Jules shrugs. “She doesn’t want to.”
There is no teasing in her voice. No attempt to make the situation more interesting by increasing my discomfort.
Mina accepts this immediately and turns to Remy instead.
The group moves on.