Page 35 of Ripple Effect

There’s a lifelike butterfly above his right elbow and a small flock of birds taking flight from his bicep. Both thick arms are intertwined with vines, accentuated by sequences of the number 3. A little broken dog bone lies near his wrist. And on his inner forearm, there’s a detailed drawing of a woman, with a snake that slithers on beside her.

Symbols of luck—a horseshoe and a four-leaf clover—are etched beside a small collection of the sun, moon, and stars. And then, there’s this small buzzing bee near his elbow—it’s tiny and easily overlooked, but somehow, it feels significant.

I could stare at the artwork for hours, lost in every small, intricate detail. I want to know what they mean, where they came from, and how many there are in total. But it’s impossible to see everything, to take it all in, from just one angle.

It’s tempting, though, to grab hold of him—to turn his arms every which way—until I’ve catalogued all the pieces. But instead, I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet his eyes.

“Morning,” I manage to say, the word sounding more like a croak.

He laughs at me, his dark eyes warm and sleepy. “Morning, sunshine,” he says, running a hand through his damp hair. “You’re up early.”

“Yep, as per usual. You feeling any better?”

“Loads.”

“I, uh, went to the Seashell Café.” I gesture behind me with a flick of my wrist. “Got us some breakfast.”

He peeks around the corner, gaze locked on the spread all laid out on the table. “Damn, you didn’t have to do all that.”

“I wanted to,” I say, sheepishly rubbing my arm. “Besides, you need to eat, especially with the day you had yesterday.”

The smile he gives me is one of the most genuine I’ve ever seen. It lights up his face, softening his features and making my stomach flutter. “Thank you, Daisy. You’re quite literally a lifesaver.”

Once Elio’s dressed for the day, we sit down together to eat, and he tears through his muffin like he’s never seen food before. It’s funny, cute, and ridiculous all at once. I can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of me at the sight.

He shoots me a self-conscious look, swallows it down, and then his gaze turns all serious. “So, I’ve been thinking,” he starts, “about us ... cohabitating for the next couple of weeks.”

I raise a brow, leaning back in my chair. “I already told you, there’s no backing out now.”

“No, I just think ... I mean, we probably need to set some ground rules, y’know? Just so we’re not stepping on each other’s toes and all.”

I let out a chuckle. “Ground rules? Like what?”

“Like, first off, you’re sleeping in the bed. No arguments.”

“How about you give me one more night on the couch, just enough for you to recover a little bit. Then I’ll take the bed for the rest of my time here, okay?” I ask, negotiating despite the firmness in his gaze. “What’s next?”

“Fine.” His cheeks turn a subtle shade of pink as he continues. “Also, I work from home, and some of it ... it’s private.” He glances away briefly before his eyes meet mine. “I’ll need a few hours alone in my room throughout the week.”

His request is odd, but I don’t question it. Everyone has their quirks, after all. “That’s fair. I’ll be out for a good chunk of the day anyway—surfing, errands, hanging with some other friends. Just as long as I can get back here to check on you.”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” he says.

And then we spend the next half hour caught up in a playful discussion about the rules of our shared living space. We assign Bentley, who’s been sitting patiently by our feet, the power to choose the TV channel—after all, who can resist those puppy dog eyes and his natural affinity for wildlife documentaries.

The next rules are simpler: first person to wake up brews a full pot of coffee, last to sleep checks the lock on the door, and both of us, of course, are required to provide unlimited snuggles to the dog.

We remain at the kitchen table long after our cups are empty and the dishes have been cleared away. When it’s finally time to part ways to get on with our respective days, I stand, and Elio surprises me by gently brushing his hand across my forearm.

His warmth seeps into me, and I briefly close my eyes, savoring the comforting scent of him—clean soap, a subtle hint of spice, and the faint sweetness from the strawberry muffin.

“Thanks again,” he murmurs, his voice a soft rumble. “For everything.”

His fingertips trail down, then tap against my wrist—just one barely there touch—before he pulls them away. I give him a small, heartfelt smile. “It’s no big deal. That’s what friends do.”

His eyes spark with something I can’t quite decipher, and then he says, “Yeah, Daisy girl, they do.”

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