This Wasn't in the Floor Plan

Chapter 93: Intermission

"Yes!" she said, dead serious. Then, softer, almost grumbling, "I stayed because I thought it was still... you know... tonight."

I couldn't help it. I laughed—loud, wrecked, delighted.

"Camille," I said, shaking my head. "You transcend time and logic. I'm impressed."

She groaned, burying her face in my shoulder. "You're the worst."

"Still the reason your legs are wobbly."

"Stop talking."

"Make me."

Camille groaned and flopped back dramatically onto the pillows, face buried in her palms.

"I feel gross," she mumbled into her hands.

"You look adorable." I leaned over and kissed her hair. "Wrecked, yes. But adorable."

"Don't say 'wrecked' like it's a compliment."

"It is when I say it."

She cracked a smile despite herself and sat up, clutching the shirt tighter around her as she swung her legs off the bed. The thigh-high socks clung stubbornly to her legs as she stood.

"I left my skirt and hoodie in the living room, right?"

"Folded them neatly, yes. Would you like me to iron them too, ma'am?"

"No thanks. I don't want to melt your sad little press."

She said it with a smirk, but her blush gave her away. She was glowing. Hair tousled, cheeks pink, voice still thick with sleep. Still wearing my shirt.

I watched as she padded off to the bathroom, legs long and bare beneath the hem, her hips swaying in that stupidly unconscious way that made it very hard not to grab her again.

I gave her two minutes. Three, maybe. Just enough time to splash her face, fix her hair, brush the taste of me out of her mouth—though I had half a mind to ask her not to.

When she came back, she looked more like the girl I picked up from her gate this morning—hoodie zipped up, maxi skirt swishing as she walked, hair gathered in that low-effort, still-somehow-unfair kind of way. Cleaned up, calm... but still carrying the glow of something unspoken."

Still Camille.

Still mine.

"Ready?" I asked, grabbing my keys.

She nodded, slipping on her sandals. "You said dinner, right? I want something oily. Salty. I need to replenish my minerals."

"I love how clinical you make that sound."

"I'm serious." She narrowed her eyes at me. "You drained me."

I grinned, opening the door for her. "That was the goal."

The drive was quiet, in that easy way. Her hand found mine somewhere between Katipunan and C.P. Garcia, fingers laced loosely, her head leaning against the window as we rolled through the amber haze of early evening.

We ended up at a Chinese place tucked near White Plains—one of those old-school, no-frills joints with plastic menus and laminated tables. She lit up at the sight of salt and pepper squid. I ordered double rice just to make her roll her eyes. She stole from my dumplings. I let her.

Somewhere between the stir-fried noodles and the last piece of sweet and sour pork, she looked at me—really looked at me—and said, very softly:

"Thanks for letting me sleep. And not making it weird."