Page 34 of Ripple Effect

But that feels like a lifetime ago now.

With a shaky breath, I pull the drawer open, the old photo frame catching the faint light in the room. I toss it into the trash bin beside my desk, and a pang of longing hits me as I slam the drawer shut, the ghost of what we had lingering in the air.

Taking a deep breath, I hoist my bag over my shoulder, forcing myself to focus on the task ahead. This isn’t about me; it’s about Elio. I don’t have room to dwell right now.

I drive back to his place alone in my own car, my mind buzzing. I remember how eerily quiet it was when I left, how defeated Elio seemed. The image of him sitting inside his apartment, so vulnerable and exhausted, has my stomach reeling.

When I make it up to the entryway, it’s dark and silent. I knock a couple of times, but there’s no answer, so I fish the spare key out of my pocket and let myself inside. And there’s Elio, all curled up on the couch, fast asleep, with Bentley tucked snugly against his side.

As I close the door, tiptoeing through the living room, Bentley’s wide brown eyes flicker open, his tail wagging at the sight of me. I pet him for a bit, but my gaze is fixed on his owner. His sleep is fitful, his brows furrowing even in slumber.

Tenderness washes over me, and before I know it, I’m kneeling down beside him, pushing back a few unruly strands of hair from his forehead. His skin is warm under my touch but not quite fevered like it was before.

“Elio,” I whisper, hating to disturb his rest but knowing it’s necessary. “You should really sleep in your bed.”

“Nah,” he mumbles sleepily. “You take it.”

“No way. I’ll take the couch.”

He groans, running a hand over his face before reluctantly sitting up. He looks so adorable, all sleepy and ruffled, and it takes everything in me not to audibly coo at him.

“Yeah, wait,” he rasps. “I need to put fresh sheets on the bed before I let you sleep in it.”

As we make our way to his bedroom, I notice the slight hesitation in his movements, a flash of something that might be embarrassment in his eyes. But he doesn’t say anything, just leads me to a small closet where he keeps his linen.

Together, we strip the bed and replace the sheets. Elio’s so focused on tightening the corners that he doesn’t notice my glances or how I watch the way his muscles flex when he tugs the fitted sheet into place.

It’s an oddly domestic moment, one that’s shared in a quiet, half-lit room. A certain kind of intimacy I hadn’t expected.

“Please take the bed. At least for tonight,” I say, gathering my hair and pulling it behind my shoulder. “You just got out of the hospital, and you need a good night’s rest.”

“Okay.” He scrubs a hand across his forehead. “But I’m only doing this because I’m so fucking tired, and I don’t have the energy to argue with you.” Then, visibly exhausted, he sinks onto the freshly made bed, his eyes already drifting closed. “Just give me a few minutes,” he murmurs.

I chuckle, tucking the blanket around him before retreating to the living room. Of course, Bentley’s still waiting for me there on the couch. I whisper a soft good-night, pat him on the head, and curl up beside him, quickly falling into my own fitful sleep.

* * *

When morning comes,I wake up early, my internal clock set by years of surfing. Honestly, the couch is kind of comfy, especially because my shorter height allows for the perfect fit.

I spend a few minutes freshening up in the guest bathroom. Then, I try my best to keep quiet while maneuvering around Elio’s kitchen. His fridge is nearly empty, his cupboards bare save a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal.

So, I grab my jacket and head out, deciding to pick up breakfast from my new favorite café.

The morning air is crisp and cool as I make the short drive down the street, windows cracked, the quiet coastal streets slowly coming alive. The Seashell is just opening, and I put in an order for an Americano, a London Fog, two strawberry muffins, and a half dozen bagels.

From a flower stand on my way back, I pick up a single, vibrant sunflower—a burst of color to brighten up our morning.

When I return to the apartment, I quietly unlock the door, careful not to make any loud, sudden noises. Instantly, I’m met with Elio’s familiar scent, something warm and spicy that I’ve come to associate with him.

I take my time setting the food out on the table, neatly arranging everything. The bagels and pastries are set out on plates, coffee cups filled, and the tiny tubs of cream cheese opened.

Now, I’m on the hunt for a vase. I rummage through his cabinets but come up empty. Not one to be defeated, I grab a tall drinking glass, fill it with water, and place the sunflower right smack-dab in the center.

Once everything’s set, I step back and survey my handiwork. The small table in Elio’s kitchen is transformed, and I can’t help but smile at the sight. It’s warm and homey—a sweet reception for someone who’s just had one hell of a day.

Smoothing out the wrinkles in my dress, I head down the hallway to knock on Elio’s bedroom door. There’s a faint shuffling sound before it swings open. And then, the man of the hour appears.

His hair is wet and tousled, droplets of water trailing down his neck and disappearing under a towel that’s slung low around his hips. My breath catches as I take in the sight—his toned torso, beads of water accentuating every vein and muscle, and the intricate linework tattoos decorating both arms.

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