This Wasn't in the Floor Plan

The digital clock on my laptop screen glowed 10:03 PM Tuesday. My eyes burned after hours spent staring at structural calculations. Just a few more annotations, one final check, and this beast of a report would be ready for tomorrow. Freedom felt almost tangible, sweeter than the lukewarm coffee forgotten beside my mousepad. My shoulders ached, my brain felt fuzzy, but the finish line was in sight.

Just as I zoomed in on a tricky connection detail, my phone buzzed against the desk. I ignored it. Probably just a group chat. Focus, Camille. It buzzed again. Direct message. With a sigh, I glanced at the screen. Riku Villanueva. Of course.

Riku Villanueva 💬 (Tue, 10:03 PM): Still up?

My fingers hovered. Part of me wanted to ignore him and finish uninterrupted. But another, traitorous part—still buzzing from the handcuff incident—felt a ridiculous jolt of anticipation.

Me 💬 (Tue, 10:04 PM): Architects don't sleep. Especially when deadlines loom. What's your excuse?

His reply was almost instant.

Riku Villanueva 💬 (Tue, 10:05 PM): Couldn't sleep.

Me 💬 (Tue, 10:05 PM): Insomnia or guilt from your crimes earlier?

I smirked. He probably thought his handcuff stunt was charmingly roguish. Infuriating. And maybe... okay, fine, a tiny bit thrilling.

Riku Villanueva 💬 (Tue, 10:06 PM): What crimes? Being sweet? Being hot? Falling for you a little harder each time you talk back? 😉

I stared, words blurring. My face flushed hot. Falling for you? He couldn't be serious. Just pushing buttons, playing his game. But the casual way he threw it in there... my heart did a stupid, traitorous flutter. Not fair. I shook my head, trying to dispel the image of his infuriatingly handsome face, the memory of his lips on my knuckles.

Me 💬 (Tue, 10:07 PM): Wow. The ego is working overtime tonight. Try counting sheep, Villanueva. Or maybe listing your perceived virtues. Might put you right to sleep.

Riku Villanueva 💬 (Tue, 10:08 PM): You're not denying it though. 😉

I bit my lip, rereading his previous message. Being sweet? Hot? Annoyingly, he wasn't entirely wrong. He had been sweet. And yes, fine, objectively, the man was ridiculously good-looking. Hot. Sweet. Like... Tteokbokki? Spicy, addictive, probably bad for me, but damn if I didn't keep wanting more. The comparison was so absurd I almost snorted.

Me 💬 (Tue, 10:09 PM): Why do I even talk to you?

Riku Villanueva 💬 (Tue, 10:10 PM): Because I make your nights more exciting. Admit it. 😉

I stared at the message, the cursor blinking on my report. He wasn't wrong about that either. My nights usually involved blueprints, not fending off flirty texts from handcuff-wielding developers. I didn't reply this time, forcing my attention back to the screen. Almost done. Focus.

But my focus kept snagging. My gaze drifted to my right wrist near the keyboard. I could almost feel the phantom weight of the cuff, the ghost of his thumb brushing my skin, the shocking warmth of his lips. My breath hitched slightly. Ridiculous how such a small gesture left such a lasting imprint.

Buzz. My phone lit up again.

Riku Villanueva 💬 (Tue, 10:15 PM): You're looking at your wrist, aren't you?

A cold chill ran down my spine. I looked from the phone, to my wrist, then back again. My heart hammered, this time with a different kind of adrenaline. How...? How could he possibly know? Was he psychic? Or just unnervingly observant?