CHAPTER 298: VELVET AND PAINT

The door felt weightier than I recalled, or perhaps I simply wasn’t prepared to step through it. I remained for a brief moment, knuckles still heated from the rap, the gentle buzz of the apartment enveloping me. Camille’s door was shut, silent, yet I sensed the pressure behind it—like a little universe locked away. I inhaled, extended my hand, and slowly pushed it open.

The interior space was gloomier, a refuge created from the intense glare of the remainder of the apartment. Darkness gathered in the corners among fabric rolls and spools of thread. The air had a subtle scent of solvents, lacquer, and a persistent sweetness from the lavender sachets that Camille always stored away. I walked softly, mindful not to disrupt the neat disorder on her work table: drawings attached like treasured awards, threads sorted by hue and size, fragile tools laid out as though in the midst of crafting.

After that, I spotted her.

Camille sat on her preferred velvet couch—the one that appeared incredibly plush, yielding a bit under her weight. Her sleeves were pushed up, forearms covered with flecks of pink powder. She was removing persistent bits of dried paint from the surface of the coat and the mask lying on her lap. Her forehead creased, lips clenched, eyes darting between the material, the instrument, and the mask as though wishing for the pink powder to disappear..à

I caught the exhaustion behind her gaze, the quiet irritation that wasn’t quite anger. More like frustration with the whole situation, with me. But also, beneath it all, that stubborn pride that always shone through her work. She hated damage because she poured herself into these pieces. Each stitch, each layer was a measure of her soul. And now, it was all marred.

I swallowed hard, moving closer.

The coat she cradled was a masterpiece. I knew that more than anyone. The way the velvet caught light and shadow, the subtle embossing along the collar, the fluidity of the seams that made it look both regal and alive. And the mask—an intricate dance of curves and edges, painted and molded to fit her vision and how she captured the essence of Dusk was revolutionary. This wasn’t just clothing or protection; it was art made real.

And here I was, a walking disaster, who had came back in dry pink powder that looked like some careless graffiti sprayed over her hours of labor. The paint can incident wasn’t just a minor spill—it was a full-on smear of negligence. Dry paint, stubborn and abrasive, stuck to the velvet folds and the mask’s fragile surface.

Camille’s job title drained her too, more than anything I’ve seen before, and she’d spent hours breathing life into that coat and mask. I had ruined it in less than a week. No wonder she looked so tired.

Her head lifted slowly, eyes meeting mine. A single raised brow, voice sharp but not quite sharp enough to hurt.

"What is it, Rey?"

I cleared my throat and sat down carefully beside her, making sure not to brush the paint or jostle the fabric.

"I—" I hesitated, then spoke plainly. "I’m sorry. I should’ve been more careful with the outfit. You put so much into it, and I just... ruined it."

She glanced back at the coat, her fingers tracing the stubborn pink stains, then looked at me again. The humor in her eyes conflicted with the frustration still clinging to her posture.

"You’re apologizing? Now I can’t even be mad." Her tone was teasing, almost exasperated.

I couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped. "Well, I meant it. I really should’ve been more careful."

She let out a dramatic sigh, flipping a small scraper between her fingers like a magician with a wand. "Fine. If you want to help, then grab that brush over there. And don’t break anything."

I nodded, glad for the chance to make it right—even if only a little. Camille handed me the scraper with a sideways glance, warning in her eyes. I took it with care, crouching beside her and mirroring her motions.

Together, we worked through the slow process. The pink powder wasn’t easy to remove—it clung stubbornly, settling into the velvet’s nap and the mask’s crevices like a stubborn ghost. Scraping and brushing, then gently wiping with solvents Camille measured precisely, the scent sharp and intoxicating.

There was an odd rhythm to it. The quiet scratch of the scraper against fabric, the soft brush bristles sweeping away dust, Camille’s steady breaths mingling with my own. Occasionally she muttered complaints, half about the paint, half about her own exhaustion. I caught her yawning once, blinking heavily.

"How do you do this every day?" I asked, glancing over at her.

She shot me a look, eyebrows raised. "You mean be a workaholic who’s too stubborn to stop? Magic, obviously."

I smirked. "I get it now. This is why you get lazy sometimes. Because you burn so much energy on masterpieces."

"Lazy?" she said, mock affronted. "I’ll have you know this is pure dedication. I’m saving energy for my creativity."

We bantered quietly, the tension easing as the paint slowly came off. It was exhausting work—mind-numbing almost—but I found a strange comfort in it. Watching Camille’s concentration, her precise movements, the faint smile when a stubborn patch finally lifted.

By the time the sun was high in the sky, almost 1 pm, we were nearly done. The mask gleamed almost as if new, the coat had only a few faint traces left to tend to. Camille stretched, leaning back with a tired but satisfied sigh.

I laid back fully on the velvet couch, feeling it swallow me in softness. Camille didn’t hesitate—she flopped down atop me, the weight of her small frame grounding me. Her breath was warm against my chest, the velvet cool beneath our bodies.

The texture of the couch beneath my back was a rich contrast to the warmth of Camille resting against me. I could feel the steady rhythm of her breathing, the quiet sighs as she settled in.

For a moment, I wanted to kiss her—properly, softly, like I’d promised myself I would the next time. Our last kiss hadn’t gone well, it wasn’t awkward, but Camille was a little frustrated that it wasn’t romantic. I didn’t want a repeat. Not when she deserved something better.

Instead, I just stayed still. Let the moment stretch, letting her feel safe and calm. My mind wandered to Evelyn, to the promise I’d made her for a date once she recovered from the Cain Protocol. If I was going to do that with Evelyn, then Camille deserved her own moment too. In fact...I should probably invite each girl on a date separately.

I tightened my hold on her gently, careful not to disturb her sleep, and whispered, "I’ll take you on a date soon."

Her breath hitched slightly, and though her eyes were closed, her lips curved into a small, knowing smile. Maybe she heard me.

I ran my fingers through her hair, letting the quiet fill the room, a small warmth amid the weight of everything else I was carrying. Outside Camille’s door, the world kept turning, but in this dim room, on this velvet couch, there was only calm.