This Wasn't in the Floor Plan

The cursor blinked steadily on the structural calculations – actual work, the kind that paid the bills. But my mind wasn't on load capacities or shear walls; it kept drifting to a humble office on a hill in Elder Ridge and the sleek black sketchbook the courier should have delivered by now.

It wasn't a gift, not really. Just... a thing I'd made and sent first thing this morning after a restless night. Because making things felt fundamentally easier right now than crafting the right words for Camille Marquez's phone. Sketching felt more honest, safer. Lines on paper seemed less likely to make me sound like an idiot compared to the verbal sparring where I felt like I was just digging myself deeper, handing her ammunition. I'd screwed up the talking part enough. Time to let something else speak.

The drawing – two rooms, separate, linked by that unconventional path – wasn't some grand metaphor. More instinctive. A quick sketch capturing the... situation. The line underneath, "Not everything has to follow code," felt true, for architecture and for whatever complicated game this was. It wasn't about impressing her; maybe just getting an idea out because words felt inadequate, too risky. A default mode.

Didn't sign it. Didn't need to. The handwriting, the style, the sheer audacity... she'd know. There was satisfaction in that assumed connection.

Now it was out there. Another variable added, separate from the text thread I was deliberately letting sit cold after her prickly message last night. Let her puzzle over the drawing. Let her wonder about the timing, the meaning. Let that occupy her sharp mind while she also wondered why I hadn't replied yet.

A slow smile touched my lips as I forced my attention back to the screen. Keep her guessing. Keep her off balance. It seemed the only way.

My phone buzzed on the desk beside my coffee mug. Glanced at the screen. Incoming message. An unsaved number. Right. Still hadn't actually secured hers to save. Typical backwards Riku logic. The courier must have been fast – it wasn't even mid-morning yet. A flicker of anticipation, sharp and electric, cut through my focus. Unlocked the phone.

+63915** 💬 (9:32 AM): [Image attached: A photo showing the sleek black sketchbook open slightly on her desk, recognizable lamp beside it, maybe a sliver of her hand visible at the edge holding the phone.]

No words. Just the picture. I stared at it. Okay. Received. Opened. Her response? A silent photo? Cryptic. Ambiguous. Annoyed? Intrigued? Acknowledging receipt? Such a Camille thing to do – communicate without committing, leave me guessing. Frustrating, but I felt a reluctant smile. She was still playing.

Then, maybe thirty seconds later, as I deciphered the photo, it buzzed again. Same number.

+63915** 💬 (9:33 AM): Thank you.

That was it. Two words. I read them again, comparing them to last night's defensive text. This felt... different. No rules, no warnings, no deflection. Just... "Thank you." Straightforward. Clean. Devoid of the usual armor.

It hit me. This. What I'd challenged her on last night – "I'll wait for you to say what you actually mean next time." Maybe this simple, genuine acknowledgement was closer to what she actually meant, underneath the pride and games.

A warmth spread through my chest, deeper, more satisfying than yesterday's smugness. Not just the thrill of the chase, but the thrill of connection. A tiny crack in the facade. A sign the architect valuing "structural integrity" might show her own less-guarded framework.

She hadn't been easy. God, no. Navigating her felt like dealing with a complex site plan full of hidden obstacles. But seeing that simple "Thank you," paired with the silent photo acknowledgment... it felt like uncovering a crucial support beam. Progress. Worth every calculated risk.

A real smile touched my lips now. Okay, Camille. Message received. Loud and clear.