This Wasn't in the Floor Plan

The sound of the kettle whistling pulled me out of my thoughts. I was in my kitchen, one hand resting on the counter, the other lazily swirling a teaspoon in my mug. Chamomile, apparently. I didn't even remember choosing it—just grabbed the first packet I saw. My head was still in that office, sitting across from Camille Marquez, watching her expression twist and twitch with every word I said, every look I gave.

I wasn't proud of staging an emergency to leave.

Okay, maybe a little proud.

It wasn't exactly professional, sure. But it was necessary. Tension like that? It needed space to simmer. Besides, I left her with something better than a closing remark: a challenge.

The note had taken me longer to write than I'd ever admit. Not because I didn't know what to say—hell, I had the words long before I touched the paper—but because I knew she'd dissect every single one. Camille's not the type to take things at face value. You couldn't win her over with flowers or flattery — she responded to precision, intention, and just the right amount of provocation. The kind that made her roll her eyes while secretly smiling. That was the game, and God, was I enjoying it.

I sat on the edge of my couch, mug in hand, scrolling aimlessly through a site on my laptop I wasn't really reading, when my phone buzzed beside me. I didn't check it right away. I didn't have to.

I already knew who it was.

I reached for my phone with calm, maybe even smug, anticipation.

+63915** 💬 (6:10 PM): Home na. Don't get used to me texting first.

I let out a breath — more of a short, surprised laugh, honestly. Not a gushing thank you. Not a tentative "Hi, it's Camille." Not even the slightly playful "Well played" I might have half-expected after leaving the note. No question. No emojis. No name. Just Camille, distilled into nine words with enough bite to leave a mark.

My smile was slow and unhurried, stretching across my face like ink in water.

Of course that's how she'd respond.

She got the note, processed it, weighed her pride against her curiosity, and texted anyway — but on her terms. Even the way she phrased it. "Home na" — like it wasn't a big deal — followed by that warning.

"Don't get used to me texting first."

I could practically hear her voice in it — low, cool, a little sharp. But under that edge, there was something else. If she really didn't want to text first, she wouldn't have. But she did. She took the bait. She just refused to acknowledge the hook.

God, she was fascinating. Most women would have responded differently – maybe more eagerly, maybe coyly, maybe even angrily if they felt manipulated. But Camille? She responds by essentially telling me off for making her text first, even as she's doing it. It was contrary, unexpected, and somehow utterly charming in its own way. It told me the game wasn't over; she'd just made her next move, albeit grudgingly.

I set the mug down and leaned back against the couch, phone still in hand, thumbs still.

Not yet.

She'd expect a reply right away. Maybe even hope for it.

But if she thought she was the only one capable of playing this game with precision, she hadn't been paying attention.

A few minutes passed. Then ten.

I opened my camera roll and paused on the photo I snapped without thinking. She'd been leaning back in her seat, one brow raised — skeptical, guarded. I told myself I took it for documentation. But let's be honest: I just liked looking at her. I stared at it for a second, smirking. Then I finally started typing.

Noted. I'll make sure it doesn't become a habit. But I'm flattered that you broke protocol, even once.

I read it once. Then again. Just enough sarcasm to match her tone. Just enough warmth to keep her guessing. And just enough acknowledgment to make sure she knew—I saw her.

Sent.

Now I was the one waiting.

I stood, stretched, wandered to the window. Outside, the city lights flickered like they were in on the tension. Somewhere out there, Camille Marquez was pacing her room, probably overthinking my reply the same way she'd overthought hers.

I could feel it. That pull. That tension she refused to name.

And if I had anything to say about it, this was only the beginning.