This Wasn't in the Floor Plan

My alarm dragged me from restless dreams inevitably starring Riku Villanueva – sharp suits, intense gazes, and his last challenging message hanging unanswered. Tuesday morning. Already? It felt like moments since I'd stared at his reply, felt that confusing flutter, and defiantly closed the app, leaving his words marked clearly as Read.

"I'll wait for you to say what you actually mean next time."

My response? Silence. Last night, leaving him on read felt like a power move, a way to regain control.

My first conscious action was grabbing my phone. Squinting at the screen: digital silence.

No new message notification. No missed calls. Nothing from Riku Villanueva.

He knew I saw his message hours ago. The 'upper hand' evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold knot of anxiety, a wave of regret so strong it soured my stomach. Maybe I should have replied. Even a simple emoji or reaction. Had my stupid pride, my game-playing, finally made him decide I wasn't worth the effort?

I forced myself through the motions – showering, brushing teeth, staring at my tired reflection. Why must I be like this? Downstairs, a quick beso for Mama, mumbled refusal of breakfast, and escape. The commute towards Elder Ridge was torture, my mind replaying everything. He said he'd wait for me to say what I mean. Leaving him on read wasn't exactly meaningful. The ball was still in my court. Texting first again, after telling him not to get used to it? Groan. He wouldn't double text; Riku didn't strike me as desperate. Which left me stuck, wanting to reach out but paralyzed by pride and fear.

Somehow, I made it up the hill to Ascent Plaza. The familiar walk down the quiet corridor to the Archway office felt longer today, Riku's challenging text and subsequent silence deafening in my head. Reaching Unit 5B's frosted glass door, fumbling with keys, shoulders slumped with weariness, the lobby guard hurried towards me.

"Ma'am Camille, good morning po," he greeted politely. "May nag-iwan po nito para sa inyo kaninang umaga lang." (Someone left this for you just this morning.)

He held out a flat, rectangular parcel wrapped in simple brown paper. No sender's address, just my name – "Camille Marquez" – and "Archway Design Studio" written neatly on top in familiar, stylized architect's script.

My breath caught. His handwriting.

"Oh," I managed, taking the parcel, fingers clumsy. "S-Sino daw po nagbigay?" (Who gave it?)

"Hindi ko po nakita, Ma'am," he admitted. "Iniwan lang daw po sa front desk saglit habang nag-CR ako." (I didn't see. Apparently just left at the front desk while I took a quick CR break.)

"Ah, okay. Sige po, thank you, Kuya Guard," I mumbled, mind racing.

Quickly unlocking the door, I stepped into the office solitude, parcel clutched tight. Bags dropped, heart thudding. Who else could it be?

Trembling fingers tore away the brown paper. Inside: a sleek, professional sketchbook, minimalist black cover. The kind architects favored. Substantial in my hands. Why?

Curiosity burning, I opened it.

The first page wasn't blank.

Drawn with confident, precise pencil strokes: an architectural plan. Simple, conceptual. Two distinct, separate rectangular rooms. Connecting them, drawn with lighter, almost secretive lines: a narrow, winding passage. A hidden connection.

My architect brain analyzed the spatial metaphor as my pulse quickened. Separated spaces... hidden connection...

Then the words, handwritten neatly beneath in that same distinctive script:

"Not everything has to follow code."

Riku. No doubt. Still no text. Complete digital silence since last night. But sometime between then and now, he'd arranged this. A physical object. A drawing. A personal gesture disguised as... what? Another riddle?

Knees weak, I sank into my office chair, staring at the drawing. What did it mean? The separate rooms – us? The hidden passage – a secret way to connect, bypassing 'rules' or 'codes'? Building regulations... or my Rule Number Three? His clear preference for making his own rules?

Infuriatingly cryptic. Maddeningly vague. Utterly, devastatingly effective.

Damn him. Damn him for knowing, somehow, I'm a sucker for personal gestures, for handmade things, for genuine thought. He likely didn't realize it; he was likely just being himself, the architect communicating through sketches. But it felt like a targeted strike, bypassing logic, pride, resolve.

He hadn't texted. He'd sent a coded message via sketchbook. Another unexpected move in his game, designed to drive me crazy with speculation.

And it was working. Beautifully. Mind racing, deciphering, while my stomach filled again with those treacherous, fluttering butterflies. What was this man doing to me?