This Wasn't in the Floor Plan

The drive up to Ascent Plaza offered winding roads and more greenery than concrete, the air marginally cleaner as I climbed the hill in Elder Ridge. Locating Archway Design Studio took slightly more effort than finding a numbered tower, but Camille's directions were clear. The building was unassuming, part of a low-slung complex near the hill's crest, commanding a surprisingly wide view. Humble, perhaps, but professional.

Two o'clock sharp. I parked, grabbed my slim leather portfolio — containing nothing but a blank sketchpad and a few irrelevant documents as props for my "potential client" role — and approached the entrance. Took a breath. Smoothed my jacket. Finesse required. Project confidence. Lead Consultant R. K. was here. Riku, already half-obsessed, needed to stay hidden. For now.

Through the glass panel in the simple wooden door, I saw movement. Then her. Camille. My breath hitched. She wore that outfit again.

Charcoal pencil skirt, black stockings tracing long lines, a soft dove-grey silk blouse. The same devastating mix of professional polish and inherent allure. My carefully constructed composure felt instantly fragile. Does she even know the effect she has? My mouth went dry. Dumbfounded. Again.

She pulled the door open, her expression a mask of professional neutrality, though maybe a flicker of challenge flashed in her eyes. Wishful thinking?

"Architect... R. K.?" Cool, steady voice.

"Architect Marquez," I replied, matching her tone, summoning a business smile. "Thank you for accommodating me on short notice."

Stepping inside, I quickly scanned the compact, functional space: blueprint racks, sample-laden shelves, architectural models. Her desk near the window showed active work—sketches, coffee mug. Another larger, neater desk sat empty. The admin desk near the door, also vacant. Silence, but for the AC's low hum and... faint music? A mellow lo-fi beat, strangely intimate.

Just the two of us. Alone. In her workspace.

My heart, already thrumming from just seeing her, kicked harder against my ribs. The air felt thick, charged. Inappropriate thoughts—the closed door, the music, the afternoon light catching the curve of her calf as she turned—threatened to derail me. Get a grip, Riku. That music... she definitely chose it. Setting the stage. Interesting.

I cleared my throat, forcing a polite survey of the room. "It's... peaceful up here," I commented neutrally, turning back to meet her steady gaze. "Are you the only one in this afternoon?"

Her response was instant, accompanied by the slight arch of an eyebrow. "Would you have preferred someone else?"

Direct hit. She suspected. God, she was sharp. Not making this easy. The air crackled.

A controlled smile touched my lips. "Not at all, Architect Marquez," I replied smoothly, letting my eyes hold hers. "My inquiry mentioned seeking someone whose specialization aligns. Given Archway's reputation in contemporary residential design, I trust I'm speaking with exactly the right person."

She gave a curt nod, gesturing towards a small meeting table. "Please, have a seat. Coffee? Water?"

"Water would be great, thank you" I said, sliding into a chair as she went to a small kitchenette counter. My eyes tracked her efficient movements. I placed my portfolio on the table, attempting legitimacy.

She set the glass before me, took the opposite seat, notepad and pen appearing. All business. "So," she began, pen poised. "Your private residential project. Could you elaborate? Location, scale, desired aesthetic?"

Right. The fake project. I leaned forward, adopting my most earnest 'potential client' expression. Showtime. Sell the concept, not the non-existent site.

"Of course," I began, opening the portfolio. "Visuals often communicate more effectively. I sketched some initial ideas over the weekend..." I laid out three clean drawings – a rough site concept, a simple open-plan layout, and an atmospheric perspective sketch. Vague enough, hopefully. "Just rough explorations," I said client-like, "to give you a sense of the intended aesthetic and massing." I briefly indicated each one. "Working with the topography... open, flowing spaces... materiality is key – perhaps concrete, wood, glass. The overall feel? Serene strength. Minimalist form, warm execution."

I leaned back slightly, gauging her reaction. Heart thudding. Presenting fake plans to a real architect—one I was intensely attracted to and who likely suspected I was full of shit—alone in her quiet office... The absurdity, the risk, the sheer tension was exhilarating.

I watched her lean forward, gaze sharp, scanning the drawings. Her brow furrowed. The faint, clean scent of her perfume drifted across the table. The lo-fi looped softly. Was her pen scratching notes, or was it a prop too?

Finally, she leaned back, setting her pen down with a soft click. She looked up, directly at me. A slow, knowing smile played on her lips, sharp with unnerving clarity.

"Wow, architect," she said, her voice dangerously smooth. "Quite the presentation."

Premature relief surged. Maybe she bought it?

"You sound like a fifth-year student defending their final thesis," she continued, eyes holding mine. "Very passionate, very... conceptual."

Backhanded, maybe, but convincing? Relief started washing—

Then the kill shot, smile dropping, gaze laser-focused. "You're quite the facade, aren't you?"

Air punched out of my lungs. Shit. She knew. Saw right through it all. Game over. Panic flared. Abort?

No. Pivot. Distract.

A soft laugh—hopefully amused, not panicked. I leaned forward, dropping the 'architect' pretense in my demeanor. Gaze locked with hers, man-to-this-infuriatingly-perceptive-woman.

"A facade, Architect Marquez?" I echoed, raising an eyebrow, mirroring her earlier skepticism. "Harsh assessment." A wider, more genuine smile. "I thought architects appreciated well-constructed facades. Intricate layers, hidden structures..." My voice dropped, intimate, conspiratorial. "Or perhaps," I tilted my head, studying her, "you just have an exceptionally sharp eye for seeing what's behind the pretty drawings?"

I held her gaze, challenge hanging in the charged air. "Is that another hidden talent, Camille?" Using her first name felt like crossing a line, a deliberate escalation. "Seeing right through... carefully presented exteriors?" I leaned in fractionally. "Tell me," I murmured, the lo-fi fading to a hum, "what else do you see when you look past the surface?"

The question hung between us, heavy, loaded. The professional pretext dissolved. Her move.

She didn't answer immediately, dark eyes holding mine. A flicker—surprise, then calculation. She leaned back slightly, fingers tightening on her pen. The silence stretched.

Then, that knowing, challenging glint returned. A small smirk.

"Maybe the question isn't what I see, architect..." Deliberate pause. "...or should I call you Riku now?"

My own smile widened. She acknowledged the name, accepted the shift, but didn't cede control.

"Maybe the real question," she continued, gaze sharp yet playful, "is about what you're hoping I won't see."

Damn. She didn't just parry; she redirected. Turning my question about surfaces right back onto my motives. A jolt of pure admiration shot through me, mingling with the heat building in the room. This back-and-forth... intoxicating.

"Hoping you won't see?" I chuckled softly. Leaning forward again, closing the distance, forearms on the table. Fake drawings forgotten. "Architect Marquez... Camille..." Her name lingered. "I think, at this point, I'm hoping you'll see exactly what's right here." I gestured subtly between us, the charged air, the undeniable current.

"The more interesting question," I murmured, holding her gaze, the world narrowing to just us, "is what do you want to see?"

Back on her. Her desires, her intentions in this drama we were co-creating. The professional consultation was dead. This was something else entirely. And we both knew it.