26. Camille #4
I keep my attention on the screen, but Jules remains at the edge of my vision. She is difficult not to watch. Even sitting still, she draws the room around her, all restless energy and easy confidence, as though attention bends towards her without permission.
The next song begins. Kaia and Remy attempt a dramatic ballad that surprisingly neither of them can sing well. Mina collapses against the bench laughing. Jules joins in on the chorus from her seat, deliberately singing worse than both of them until Kaia shoots her a warning look.
Jules laughs harder.
Pain flashes through the bond.
I reach for her instinctively, one hand settling over hers while the other steadies her at the waist. “Stop.”
Her laughter fades, but she does not pull away.
The others continue singing. No one appears to notice the stillness between us.
Jules turns her hand slightly beneath mine until our palms touch.
She does not lace our fingers together.
Neither do I.
We remain like that for several seconds, hands resting between us on the bench, her skin warm against mine.
The bond strengthens around the contact. Her pain recedes beneath affection, caution, and something almost peaceful.
I feel her waiting for me to pull away.
And… I do not.
When the song ends, the room fills with applause and deliberate criticism. Our hands separate naturally as Mina returns to the controls.
Jules says nothing.
Neither do I.
But the absence of contact remains distinct.
Mina scrolls through the catalog. “Camille should pick one.”
“I do not know these songs.”
Jules studies me. “You know ours.”
“That is professionally necessary.”
Mina makes a triumphant sound. “Found ‘Electric Halo.’”
Kaia groans. “We are not playing ‘Electric Halo.’”
Mina holds the microphone towards me.
“No.”
“Oh, come on,” Jules says, already reaching for the second one. “I’ll sing it with you.”
“That does not improve the situation.”
“Come on, Camille. Please?“ The final word stretches into something deliberately excessive. She leans closer. “You don’t have to be good. You just have to be here.”
The room seems to narrow around the words. She says it lightly, but the bond delivers the intention beneath it.
No expectation. No test.
Only an invitation.
“Fine.” I take the microphone.
Mina makes an excited sound. Kaia immediately reaches for her phone.
“No recordings,” I say.
She lowers it. “Fair.”
Jules rises and takes the second microphone from Mina. I join her in front of the screen, where the space between the low table and the display is narrower than it appeared from the bench. Our shoulders nearly touch.
The introduction begins.
I regret my decision immediately.
Not because of the song.
Because Jules is beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her through the bond before she even starts singing.
I look at the lyrics and find my attention shifting towards her instead: the curve of her mouth, the gold hoops moving when she turns her head, the ease with which she occupies even this small, private room.
She catches me watching.
Her smile turns knowing.
Then she winks.
Of course she does.
I return my attention to the screen with more force than necessary.
The lyrics appear on the screen. Jules starts singing the first line without hesitation. She is not using her performance voice. There is no deliberate texture or calculated breath. She is simply singing, slightly rough from the late hour and the strain of the last week.
She glances at me when my line approaches.
I sing.
My voice is technically competent and entirely unremarkable, but Jules smiles as though I have done something extraordinary.
The bond floods with delight.
It distracts me enough that I miss the beginning of the next line.
She leans closer and sings it with me.
Our shoulders touch. Her voice anchors mine, warm and imperfect at this distance. The others join the chorus despite not being invited. Mina is half a beat early. Kaia changes the harmony. And Remy smirking at us as she sings the words.
Jules laughs in the middle of the song.
I do too.
The sound escapes before I can stop it.
Jules misses her next line entirely. She only stares at me, microphone lowered slightly, as though she has forgotten the song exists.
The backing track continues without her.
Mina’s mouth falls open. Kaia looks as though she has witnessed a rare atmospheric event. Remy is the only one with enough self-control to conceal most of her reaction.
I lower my microphone. “Continue.”
Jules’s expression brightens slowly. “Did you just laugh during karaoke?”
“No.”
“You did.”
“Finish the song.”
Her grin becomes unbearable. “Cami has karaoke joy.”
Despite her words, she obeys and starts singing again, though not without looking at me every few seconds as though checking that I remain real.
By the end, all five of us are singing.
Badly.
The final note collapses under Mina’s laughter and Kaia’s refusal to follow Jules into an unnecessary key change. Remy announces that none of us should ever perform the arrangement publicly.
I return to the bench.
Jules sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders remain pressed together.
“You were really good,” she says.
“That is an exaggeration.”
Jules shrugs one shoulder. “You had fun,” she counters, victorious.
I look towards the others. Mina is selecting another song. Kaia is stealing food from a plate she claimed she did not want. Remy is correcting the pitch setting with the concentration of someone disarming an explosive.
“I did,” I admit.
Jules goes quiet.
The warmth moving through the bond is almost painful. Not because it overwhelms me, but because it is careful.
She is still protecting herself from me.
I created that response. I said things I have not taken back, and I am beginning to understand that words do not disappear simply because I regret them. Once spoken, they remain where they landed. They become something the other person has to carry.
Only now do I realize how much I care that Jules is still carrying mine.
“I should have said it differently,” I say.
Her head turns, brow furrowing. “Said what?”
“The arrangement involving your sister.”
The room remains loud around us, but Jules’s attention narrows completely.
“I did want you to feel better,” I continue. “The benefit to the bond was relevant. It was not the reason.”
Her expression changes, entirely serious and not joking for once. “So… what was the reason?”
I could answer with efficiency. Recovery. Risk reduction. Every phrase I have used to avoid the simplest truth.
Instead, I say, “Because you were unhappy.” The words are insufficient. I make myself continue. “And I did not know how to help you.”
Jules looks down at her hands. “So you imported my dog?”
“Yes.”
A small laugh escapes her. “Normal solution.”
“It worked.”
“It did.”
The bond warms again, though the hurt remains beneath it.
I cannot resolve all of it here. Not tonight. Not with the final performance approaching and the Patron’s system waiting beneath the arena. Not with the sudden uncertainty with Eon.
But I can stop creating additional damage.
“The room was not a mistake,” I add quietly.
Her breathing changes. I look towards the karaoke screen because meeting her eyes makes precision more difficult.
“I chose to kiss you. I chose everything that followed. My response afterwards was…” I pause. “Poorly managed.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“I was attempting to restore boundaries.”
“You were attempting to pretend nothing happened.”
“Yes.”
The admission comes more easily than expected.
Jules does not make a joke. “Why?”
Because I wanted her. Because I still do. Because wanting her has made every system I understand feel unreliable… and dangerous.
“Because I could not control what it meant.”
The truth moves through the bond before the sentence is complete.
Jules feels it.
Her shoulder presses more firmly against mine. “You know, most people just panic and send an awkward text.”
“That would not have worked in our situation.”
“Would’ve hurt less.”
The statement is soft. It reaches deeper than anger would have.
“I know.”
She looks at me then.
“I shouldn’t have made a joke out of it either,” she says. “When I told you I booked the room.”
I remain still.
Jules drops her gaze to her hands. For once, the silence does not make her fill it immediately. Fear moves through the bond, small but unmistakable. Not fear of me. Fear of being seen too clearly and having nowhere to hide afterward.
“I like you,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Really like you.”
The words are simple.
She is not.
Her mouth curves, but the smile is fragile. “Which is inconvenient, because you’re objectively my worst nightmare. Hot, terrifying, emotionally unavailable Spreadsheet Barbie with a PR strategy for every human feeling.”
The words are teasing, but the affection beneath them is unmistakable. She is joking, but not retreating. The humor softens the admission without erasing it.
“I am aware,” I say.
“That I like you or that you’re a nightmare?”
“Both.”
A quiet laugh leaves her, though the vulnerability remains.
The others begin another song. Mina waves for Jules to join them, but Jules shakes her head.
“Ribs,” she says before I can intervene.
Mina’s expression softens with relief that Jules has admitted it herself. Kaia takes the second microphone. Remy starts the track. Jules remains beside me.
We watch the others sing.
After several minutes, her head settles lightly against my shoulder.
The contact is tentative enough that I could pretend it happened accidentally.
I do not.
Her affection reaches me through the bond, quieter now. Sleepy. Safe.
I keep my posture still so she does not have to move.
The final song ends in disorder. Mina demands one more. Kaia points out the time. Remy begins organising empty glasses without being asked.
Jules lifts her head reluctantly.
“We should return,” I say.
“I know.”
There is no argument.
That is how I know she is exhausted.