This Wasn't in the Floor Plan

I pulled up to her gate like I hadn't just spent the past hour replaying last night's couch confessionals in my head. I was running on two things: overpriced espresso and the memory of her hands in my hair. And somehow, I still felt more alive than I had all week.

When she came out, she was trying very hard to look normal.

Blouse slightly nicer. Hair brushed to one side like it wasn't calculated. Lipstick subtle, but present. Her gaze flicked to me and away again so fast, I nearly laughed.

I'd wreck her on a couch a hundred more times if it meant she'd look at me like that again.

"Morning baby," I said, watching her slide into the seat beside me.

"Morning," she replied, tone breezy, but she was already smoothing her skirt like her brain hadn't short-circuited at the sight of my rolled-up sleeves.

The drive was easy. Light teasing, some groggy laughter, our usual playlist humming in the background.

I waited until we hit a red light.

"I'm seeing some of the guys tonight, by the way. Haven't caught up in a while."

She looked at me, a little sideways. "Meeting friends on a Tuesday?"

I shrugged, grinning. "Freelancer privilege. Don't be jealous just 'cause your boss thinks weekends are a myth."

She snorted. "You people have all the time in the world, huh?"

"Some of them are bringing their girlfriends. You should come."

Camille raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"They already know your name," I said casually. "Might as well let them put a face to the one who's been keeping me glowing lately."

She rolled her eyes. "You're unbelievable."

"True, but also glowing. So whose fault is that?"

I parked like I always did and walked her up the few steps to the building's side entrance. Routine. Familiar. And somehow still my favorite part of the morning.

She was halfway to the door when I said it.

"Still glowing."

She glared over her shoulder. "Drop it."

"Not a chance."

At the top of the stairs, I caught her hand and kissed her temple, just long enough to feel her soften. Not the lips today. Today was soft-boyfriend energy.

She disappeared into the building, and I sat back in the driver's seat, phone already buzzing.

Group chat:
Lucas 💬 (Tue, 8:07 AM): Dinner's at 8. Riks. You better not bail.
Justin 💬 (Tue, 8:10 AM): Bring the girlfriend, baka she's imaginary.

I smirked and sent a thumbs-up emoji, heart already tapping out a different kind of rhythm.

The rest of the day passed in bursts of productivity and glances at the clock.

I worked through some revisions at my desk—cleaning up a residential set that had been haunting my backlog since last week. My Spotify played softly in the background, the kind of playlist that let my thoughts drift without fully letting go of her.

Camille's voice still echoed in my head. Her snark, her laugh, the way she said, "You're unbelievable," like she meant it and hated how true it was.

By 4:30, I was no longer pretending to work. I showered, changed into something casual but intentional—crisp polo, watch, sneakers that didn't look like I'd sprinted through a job site. I checked my hair once, then again. Looked like I gave just enough of a damn.