26. Camille #5
The others gather their belongings while I arrange transportation. Jules stands beside me, close but not touching, watching the confirmation appear on my phone.
“You stayed longer than two hours,” she says.
“It was an acceptable deviation.”
She smiles.
Outside, Tokyo remains impossibly bright.
We wait beneath the awning while the car approaches. Mina and Remy debate whether the evening counts as successful if no one received a perfect karaoke score. Kaia is messaging Evie again.
Jules shifts closer to me when a group of pedestrians passes.
Her hand brushes mine.
This time, I turn my palm towards hers.
Our fingers do not interlace. They rest together briefly, hidden between our bodies and the shadows cast by the awning.
No cameras are aimed at us.
No one requires the gesture.
The bond settles.
For the first time since I met her, I do not think about how useful my presence is to Jules or whether proximity improves her stability.
I only know that the car has not arrived yet.
And I am not ready for her to let go.
***
The next morning, Devin and Voss confirm what we already knew.
Tokyo cannot be cancelled.
Jules has been cleared to perform with restrictions. She is not fully healed, but she is stable enough for modified choreography, provided she avoids high-impact movement and reports any increase in pain immediately. The physician delivers those conditions as though Devin will respect them.
He does not.
“The final show represents the largest audience of the tour,” he says over the call. “Cancelling now would create irreversible reputational damage.”
“Jules collapsed onstage less than two weeks ago,” I reply.
“And she has since been medically cleared.”
“For limited performance activity.”
Voss’s pale eyes remain fixed on me from the screen. “The show proceeds.”
There is no meaningful discussion after that.
It does not matter. We were already planning to let the performance continue. Tokyo is the point where the system will be most exposed and the only opportunity we may have to sever the resonance channel from within.
I have a plan to alter the girls’ internal contracts during the performance. In theory, the override should break whatever has latched onto them, close the channel, and prevent another disaster.
In theory.
Knowing that does not make watching Jules return to the stage acceptable.
It only makes it necessary.
By late afternoon, the suite has been overtaken by wardrobe cases, makeup equipment, and enough production staff to remove any illusion that the room belongs to us. Jules disappears into the bathroom with two stylists while I review the final security plan at the desk.
The arena opens in three hours.
Remy has modified the music without altering too many notes. Kaia has memorised three separate extraction routes. Mina will remain close enough to use Heartglass if the Mouthpieces or, worse, the Patron attempts to manifest.
Jules will perform.
That is the part of the plan I cannot examine for too long.
The bathroom door opens.
Everything else pauses.
Jules steps into the room as though she belongs to it.
The thought is imprecise. Jules does not belong to places in the way structures like Eon demand. She occupies them, changes their shape, and leaves them permanently altered.
She fills this one without effort.
Her red hair has been styled into loose waves that will hold beneath the stage lights.
Her makeup is precise, built around sharp liner and gold at the inner corners of her eyes.
The performance outfit is all deliberate angles and fitted black fabric, broken by panels of bright yellow that will catch when she moves.
The short jacket conceals the support wrapped around her ribs without restricting her arms.
Armor.
Performance armor.
I have seen her like this dozens of times. I have analyzed every element, approved photographs, adjusted public response, and measured the impact of each styling decision.
This is different.
I am not looking at her as output.
I am looking at her. Her hair, her eyes, her mouth.
I should not be looking at her mouth.
“You’re staring,” she says, adjusting one of her earrings in the mirror.
“I’m assessing.”
Her eyes meet mine in the reflection. A small smile curves her mouth, not entirely performative. “Uh-huh.”
I do not correct her. I have no correction that would be useful.
The stylists gather their equipment and leave after several final instructions about her hair. When the door closes behind them, Jules turns to face me fully.
For several seconds, neither of us moves.
The bond hums between us, low and steady. Familiar now in a way I am still unprepared to classify.
She feels grounded. Stable.
Beneath that is a current I cannot isolate completely. Anticipation, certainly. Fear, though she is suppressing it. Determination sharp enough to resemble anger.
And pain.
Not significant, but present.
“You are already compensating on your left side,” I say.
Jules huffs. “You know, most people would start with how good I look.”
“You look very good.”
She stills, clearly not expecting compliance.
I continue before she can recover. “You also need to tell me if the pain worsens.”
“I’m not even onstage yet, Cami.”
The nickname still changes something in me.
I set down my tablet. “The modified choreography is not optional.”
“I heard the doctor.”
“You also tried to ignore me during yesterday’s rehearsal,” she accuses me.
“I ignore everyone. It wasn’t personal.”
“That does not improve the situation.”
“No, but it does make it fair.” She grins.
Then, Jules moves towards her bag, slower than she would have before Barcelona. The care is subtle enough that no one unfamiliar with her would notice.
I notice.
Of course I do.
“Okay,” she says, as though shaking off the subject. “Before we go do the whole ‘perfectly stable married couple survives the final show of a cursed world tour in front of a million cameras’ thing…”
I brace automatically.
Jules reaches into her bag, removes a small box, and holds it out to me.
I do not take it immediately.
“What is it?”
“A gift.” She says it as though the answer should be obvious, then adds quickly, “Don’t make it weird.”
“It is already weird.”
“Yeah, well. Welcome to my entire personality.”
I accept the box. It is small and plainly packaged, without a brand displayed across the top or any attempt to make the gesture public. No logo. No statement.
Only intention.
I open it.
Inside is a narrow gold cuff bracelet.
No stones or decoration. Only two clean lines meeting at a precise angle near the opening. Minimal. Structured. Expensive without announcing it. Elegant enough to wear with one of my cream suits, but subtle enough to sit beside the watch I am always adjusting.
It is exactly the kind of thing I would choose for myself.
If I allowed myself to choose things for no practical reason.
I look from the bracelet to Jules.
“I saw it in a boutique in Barcelona… when I was out with Natalia,” she says, suddenly too casual. “It looked like something you’d like.”
She saw something beautiful and thought of me.
The realization moves through the bond before I can contain it.
“This is unnecessary,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” She shrugs. “So is, like, eighty percent of what I do.”
That is not true.
Most of what Jules does is essential. She simply disguises it until the people receiving it believe it cost her nothing.
I should thank her.
That would be the appropriate response.
Instead, I say, “It’s nice. Well constructed.”
She stares at me, then releases a laugh. “Wow. High praise. I’m honoured.”
I slide the cuff onto my wrist beside my watch. The gold rests neatly against my skin, the angled lines precise without feeling severe.
“It’s perfect.” I say.
Jules watches me. Something in her expression softens before she looks away.
“Cool,” she mutters. “Great. I’m glad.”
Silence settles between us. It is not uncomfortable, but it is full of everything neither of us has said.
The bond shifts, not sharply or urgently, but closer.
Jules takes a step towards me.
The movement is slower than usual. There is no performance in it and no joke ready to dilute the moment.
Only choice.
“Camille.”
I look at her. Her face is open in a way I have rarely seen. No deflection. No shield.
“What?”
“I don’t want to pretend right now.”
The words land with greater force than their simplicity should allow.
“That is not an option,” I say, more from habit than conviction.
“I’m not talking about the show.”
She closes the remaining space between us. At this distance, I can see the slight tension in her jaw and the faint interruption in her breathing she is not controlling as well as usual.
“You always have a script,” she says quietly. “For everything.”
“That is how this works.”
“Yeah. I know.” Her hand lifts towards my wrist, then stops.
For one second, I assume she intends to touch the new band. Instead, she touches me. Her fingers close lightly around my wrist, grounding rather than restraining.
My breath catches.
Jules watches my face. She does not tease or push. She simply sees me.
“I’m not usually big on asking before I do something reckless,” she says softly. “But I really don’t want to mess this up again, so… can I kiss you?” A faint smile touches her mouth. “I’m willing to beg, if that improves my chances. But you can say no.”
The bond tightens, not with pressure but clarity.
She means it. I can refuse, and there is no real manipulation or strategy in the request. No attempt to use the bond, the marriage, or the threat waiting beneath the arena to influence my answer.
Only desire.
For once, I do not calculate the likely outcome. I do not restructure the situation into something manageable.
I choose.
“Yes.”
The word is quieter than I expect, but it is enough.
Relief passes across her face, followed by something deeper.
She moves first, not quickly or urgently, but with intention. Her hand slides from my wrist to my jaw, warm against my skin and steadying me in a way that has nothing to do with survival.
When she kisses me, it is nothing like Barcelona.