Better Left Unsaid

She definitely didn't regret sleeping with Cam, so why did she feel so incredibly guilty?

Emma knew the answer. She didn't love him.

You don't have to love someone to have sex with them. She thought. We're two consenting individuals who wanted to have a little fun. No biggie.
Only she was pretty sure Cam was bit by the feels bug, and it felt wrong to go along when she knew she'd never be able to match his level of emotional commitment.

"I love you, Emma," were Cameron's exact words after he pulled away from the kiss. Emma was so startled that she tripped on the last step and caught herself against the front door with her palms. Honestly, not her best moment.

"Thanks," she said, bolting into the Institute and slamming the door in Cam's face.

Thanks? That's what you tell the McDonald's drive thru employee, not the boy you just slept with. In the backseat of his car no less. By the Angel, Emma groaned internally, I'm a cliché.
Emma ached to call Clary to confide in, but wasn't quite ready to have the conversation. She was also fairly confident Clary would tell Jace, and Emma didn't know if he would portal to Los Angeles to high-five her or to hunt down Cameron.

Herondales were both loyal and unpredictable.

That left punching things — Emma's second favorite hobby aside from slicing demons with Cortana.

She set her feet, raised her fists and swung. Again and again and again. At one point she slid a dagger from her boot and flung it across the room, letting it bury itself in Mr. Llamanade's eye. She was tired of his judgemental stares.

A frantic knock at the door stopped her mid punch. She glanced at her hands and winced. The blood was now flowing rather than dripping. She quickly grabbed a towel off the shelf before opening the door, fully expecting to play 20 questions with Livvy.

"I'll tell you all about it later, Liv," Emma began before noticing that it definitely wasn't Livvy standing in front of her.

It was Julian.

He looked panicked. He was out of breath as if he sprinted down every step in the Institute, his eyebrows knit together in worry, his brown mop of curls stuck up in different directions, and his Blackthorn blue eyes scanned over Emma frantically looking for signs of injury.

"Are you OK?" he asked, staring at her towel-covered hands in concern. Blood was soaking through the white fabric. Shit.
"Totally," she said, trying her best to hide the feelings she didn't even understand. She put her hands behind her back. "Just blowing off some steam before bed, ya know. Uh — Why?"

Emma cringed at her own attempt to play it cool. She wasn't good at this.

Julian pulled his own hands from his pockets and lifted them in Emma's direction. His knuckles were red. Not cracked and bleeding like Emma's, but noticeably red.

"You always seem to forget we're connected, Em," his voice was firm but not accusatory — it was never accusatory. "Your pain is my pain."

When Emma didn't say anything, Jules tugged at her arm. She gave up the fruitless act and allowed him to inspect. He held her hands gently as if they were raw adamas, something rare, fragile and sacred. He peeled away the white towel, and Emma bit her lip as it tugged at the areas where the fabric dried into her open wound.

She did a number on herself.

"Sit down," Julian instructed in the no-nonsense tone he used to get Dru and Livvy to stop bickering over who's turn it was to pick the movie. "I need to clean these up before I draw Iratzes."