[she feels something like vindictive pleasure at being told she's cuter, but then there's something softer and more genuinely touched at being told she's loved.]
[There's too much of a sour bent to the pleasure to not pique her suspicion, but the gratitude thereafter is sweet. She's still worried mostly, but the warmth bleeds through.]
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...Thank you, Camille.
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Don't mention it.
Can you tell me what happened? How is your neck?
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[touching it self-consciously.]
That part doesn't matter. What matters is it was a pageant, and I won.
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[These fucking effects.]
Did you have to fight each other?
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Your neck is...
[She trails off, mortified.]
Do you need help with that?