This Wasn't in the Floor Plan

I spotted Camille near the entrance, a striking column of black against the hotel lobby's gilded chaos. Mask off, she leaned against a ridiculously large vase, a picture of contained energy. Even trying to blend in, she failed. There was an undeniable presence about her, that mix of guardedness and magnetic pull I'd felt on the balcony just before dinner – that moment of quiet intensity before the bell broke the spell. I'd almost gotten a real answer from her then. Almost.

Time for one last try before she vanished. Weaving through departing guests, the faint, distinct scent of her perfume reached me first.

"Escaping into the night, mystery girl?" I asked lightly as I reached her side.

She looked up, those intelligent eyes widening for a fraction of a second before defaulting to wary amusement. "Something like that," she replied, her phone clicking shut as it disappeared into her bag. "Reality beckons. Early start."

"Same." I nodded, glancing towards the valet stand's occasional engine rumble. Ninety-nine percent sure she was solo, judging by her witty defensiveness. Still... "Got a ride?" Casual, polite.

"Yep," she said, a touch too quick. "All arranged. They're on their way."

They. Not 'he'. Interesting. My lips twitched. "Ah." I let the silence stretch, watching her subtly straighten her posture. "Okay then." Another beat. "He's lucky." I held her gaze, waiting for the tell.

Perfect. No correction, just a flicker of tightness around her eyes, quickly masked as she adjusted her bag strap. She wanted me to think there might be someone. Playing games. God, I liked her style.

Challenge accepted. "Well," I began, shifting my tone, pulling out my phone, "since fate—or the Architects' Association—seems intent on throwing us together..." I angled the phone slightly. "Maybe we stop leaving it to chance?" I offered my most harmless smile. "My number? Or are we about to violate your very strict 'no contact info for potential charming psychopaths' policy?"

There it was again – that flicker in her eyes, the silent debate. The air between us hummed.

Then, predictably, the defenses snapped back. A small, polite smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Sorry, Riku." She sounded almost genuine. "Rule number three: Never give your number out at the scene of the second encounter, especially when masks and potential true crime scenarios were involved."

Rule number three. She was sticking to it. My own smile might have wavered for a microsecond before I recalibrated to amused resignation. "Rule number three, huh? Must be a hell of a handbook."

"Something like that. Self-preservation." she replied coolly, but I saw the faint tension in her jaw, the slight flush she tried to ignore. She regretted it. Just enough.

Headlights swept the entrance. A sensible, slightly battered sedan pulled up. "That's me," Camille said, relief palpable in her voice. A quick, formal nod. "It was... interesting running into you again, Architect Riku."

I leaned against a pillar, watching her walk away – head high, radiating confidence that felt ninety percent real, ten percent bluff. The passenger door opened. The interior light revealed the driver: a young guy, maybe student-age, radiating 'annoyed younger brother' energy. Knew it. No boyfriend, no mystery 'he'. And she still turned me down.

A slow grin spread across my face as I headed for the parking elevators. This woman was something else.

Driving through the quiet, late-night streets of Quezon City, Timog Avenue's neons blurring past, my mind refused to switch off. Post-event analysis forgotten, it was all Camille.

My gaze fell to the center console, to the crumpled paper coffee cup from the other day. CAMILLE, in bold Sharpie. And on the rim, the faint, perfect outline of berry-red lipstick. The same damn shade she wore tonight, subtle but present even behind the mask. Meticulously put-together, hinting at complexities beneath. Just like her.

God, she was captivating. Not just the beauty, but the lethal combination: sharp intelligence sparking in her eyes, quicksilver comebacks, vulnerability peeking through the armor. That fierce independence warring with something softer she guarded fiercely. She knew the effect she had, felt the current between us. And still said no. Played the game. Made me work for it.

Frustrating? A little. Intriguing? Absolutely. Respect, even. She wasn't falling for easy charm. She had walls. And I wanted, badly, to see what was on the other side.

She was betting on fate, on our shared profession, to bring us together again. Architects' Association events, project sites, another coffee shop. She was probably right.

But relying purely on chance? No.

I had her name, thanks to a barista. I knew she was an architect here in Metro Manila. Finding her wouldn't be impossible. But where's the fun in that? Maybe I'd let fate have one more roll. Let her think she was setting the pace. It would make the next encounter – and there would be one – sweeter.

I smiled, turning onto my street. The chase was on. Camille, with her rules and her lipstick-stained coffee cup, was the most interesting project I'd taken on in years.

The click of my apartment lock echoed in the pre-dawn silence. Keys clattered into the bowl. My body ached from the event, but my mind was sharp, buzzing with one puzzle: Camille.

Sleep could wait.

Straight to the study. The monitor glowed to life. She wanted to play games, rely on fate? Fine. Fate sometimes appreciates a nudge from meticulous research. Operation: Locate Camille (Discreetly).

Keyboard clicks broke the silence. Cozy Mug on the map... zoom... scan vicinity. "Architecture firms near Elder Ridge, Quezon City." Scroll past the big names. She felt more boutique, design-focused. "Archway Design Studio." Plausible distance from the cafe. Clean website, interesting projects. Possible.

Next: Social media. Instagram: @ArchwayDesignPH. Professional page, project photos... team photos... Following list. Scroll... designers... suppliers... then, a profile picture stopped me. Low-res, angled, but unmistakably her. That hair, that jaw, the hint of an eyebrow quirk. Handle: @camilledraws.

There you are.

Easier than expected. No need for official directories. Just logic and social media savvy. Smug satisfaction washed over me. Profile clicked. Private. Of course.

My finger hovered over 'Follow'. The impulse was strong. Let her know I'd found her despite the refusal.

Wait. Think, Riku. Following her hours after she cited Rule Number Three about suspicious second encounters? It screamed eager, desperate. It revealed my hand instantly, killed the subtlety, steamrolled the game. Where was the finesse?

No. Too soon. Too predictable.

I closed the tab. Knowing was enough. Her name, likely workplace, digital doorstep. Information secured. Power held in reserve.

Let her wonder. Let her think about the architect who noticed her tells and called her bluff. Let her anticipate the next meeting.

Patience. Strategy. Timing.

Knowing I could follow, but choosing not to? That felt right. Let this blueprint develop organically. Or at least, appear to.

Knowing where to find Camille was satisfying enough. For now. The next move could wait. Maybe.