I think he’s realized he has to adjust to handle little old me. So far, he’s done more than just that.
Old habit or chameleon soul? I’m not sure. But I’m dying to get to know every inch of who he really is.
We turn onto a narrow dirt road, gravel crunching under the tires and dust flying up behind us. This is definitely the backcountry of the island.
“We’re heading to my place now. It’s just down the road,” Yosh says.
Wait, what?
Plot twist. I definitely didn’t see that one coming. We’re going to his place?
I can’t help but wonder what sparked the change. Did something happen that made him feel more comfortable letting me in? Or is it just practical? We do need to pick up the boards, after all. Maybe it has nothing to do with trust.
That seems unlikely. He usually goes out of his way to protect his privacy. The way he answers personal questions, so carefully worded and precise, has been driving me insane.
I’ve never seen deflection handled with such grace, not even by seasoned politicians.
Part of me gets it. I’m the resort guest, he’s my ‘Arcadia mate’. Boundaries make sense, even if I’m clearly not following them.
Still, it feels like we’re getting closer. The rules are starting to blur and there are signs.
The way he just gave me that seductive look—the kind that makes me want to dig a hole in the ground and disappear—was one of them.
From where I’m standing, he’s trying to let me in.
I wonder what his place looks like. I’m guessing it’s minimalist and spotless, like his studio. A boring white space where everything has its place and there’s no room for clutter or stylish chaos.
That would be so him.
“Not what you were expecting, is it?” Yosh catches the shock on my face.
That’s a fucking understatement.
We’re standing in front of what can only be described as a ruin.
The paint is peeling off the walls, the fence is broken, and there’s an actual tree growing out of the roof.
But hey, at least the door is still intact, and only one window is broken.
The rusted gate groans like an iron bedframe at the brutal end of a fuck, the hinges barely holding on. A couple of lizards scurry off as we step through, disappearing into the dry, overgrown scrub by the front porch.
The house was once painted peach, but now the color’s faded, weathered by sun and salt air. It’s seen better days, much better. I finally understand why Yosh lives in Arcadia.
“I bought it six months ago,” he says, as if reading my mind. “Planning to renovate.”
I look up at the tree growing stubbornly out of the roofline.
I can’t help but grin.
“Figured you were the tree-hugging type, but you’re taking that kink to the next level.”
He gives me one of those sideways looks only he can pull off, quick and faux annoyed, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. A smile he doesn’t try too hard to hide.
He unlocks the front door and we step inside.
To my surprise, it’s not as bad as I expected. Sure, the place needs work— cracks spiderweb the walls, a leaky tap in the kitchen dripping in a lazy three quarter waltz—but the place isn’t collapsing. And the tree? It’s growing out of the shed behind the house, not the main structure.
I let out a breath of relief. A jungle in the living room might’ve been pushing it. For him, I mean. I would call it art.
