Arlen looked at her furious, flushed face. He gave a small, apologetic bow of his head, though his body visibly stiffened from the movement.
"I forgot," Arlen explained in his usual calm, deadpan tone. "The car from the manor picked me up, so I did not check my pockets. My pouch, my phone, and the keycard are still on the chair with the biscuits."
Mika’s brow furrowed.
"I took a cab," Arlen said, his voice light and airy. "But when I could not pay him, the driver became very loud and told me to get out. So I walked."
Mika felt all the air leave her lungs. "You... you walked? From where? From the Adelaide estate all the way to downtown?!"
"Only from the bridge," Arlen clarified helpfully, as if that made it significantly better. "It was about six kilometers. And I did not ring the bell because it is half past twelve. The chime is very loud. I did not want to wake you up and make you yell. Your vocal cords are very valuable."
Mika stared at him.
The sheer, monumental absurdity of it crashed over her. He had walked for miles in the freezing night, nursing a severe back injury that *she* had caused, and when he finally reached the door, he chose to stand in the cold hallway to protect *her* singing voice from the strain of yelling at him.
The image of him sitting alone in the dark corner of the gala, the image of Tristan mocking him, the memory of his cousin calling him a "stray dog"—it all rushed back, colliding violently with the sight of him standing before her, shivering in a suit that was too thin for the weather.
Her throat closed up. Her eyes burned with hot, prickling tears of pure, unadulterated remorse. Her fierce, tyrannical pride completely cracked, leaving her chest aching with an unbearable, suffocating weight.
"You absolute idiot," Mika whispered, her voice trembling, cracking down the middle.
Before Arlen could process her words or offer another polite apology, Mika reached out. She grabbed him firmly by the lapels of his charcoal suit jacket and pulled him across the threshold, dragging him out of the cold hallway and into the warmth of the penthouse.
The door slammed shut behind them with a heavy, echoing thud that locked out the biting midnight draft.
The sudden pull knocked Arlen off balance. As his dress shoes caught against the polished foyer floor, his injured back twitched violently. A sharp, ragged hiss of breath escaped his lips, his knees buckling for a brief second before he managed to catch himself against the wall.
Mika felt the tremor run through his frame beneath the fabric of his jacket. Her hands recoiled slightly from his lapels, her chest heaving as she stared at him. Up close, under the warm glow of the foyer lights, his face was alarmingly pale, his lips tinted with a faint, cold blue.
"I am sorry," Arlen murmured, his voice faint and raspy. He leaned heavily against the wall, trying to disguise the fact that his legs were trembling from the grueling walk. "I will go to my room now. I remember the rule about not occupying the common areas."
He pushed off the wall to begin his stiff, guarded march toward the dark hallway, ready to lock himself away on his wooden slats like a good, obedient dog.
"Stop moving!" Mika barked, her voice shaking with an intensity that made him pause mid-step.
Arlen turned his head slowly, his visible left eye wide and glassy with quiet confusion. "Ms. Mika?"
"Don’t ’Ms. Mika’ me!" she cried out, her eyes blazing with a dangerous mix of rage and unshed tears. "You walked six kilometers in the freezing cold with a bruised spine just so you wouldn’t ring my doorbell and ruin my voice?! Are you insane? Do you have a single ounce of self-preservation in that empty head of yours?!"
Arlen blinked. He looked at her furious, flushed face, processing the sheer volume of her panic.
"My back is very sturdy," Arlen stated mildly, his deadpan tone completely clashing with her explosive emotional breakdown. "And you told me that my presence is a nuisance. If I rang the bell, it would have been very inconsiderate."
"Shut up. Just... shut your mouth," Mika choked out, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes for a split second to force back the burning sting of tears. When she dropped her hands, her expression had shifted from tyrannical pride into a desperate, commanding urgency.
She grabbed his wrist—his skin felt like ice—and dragged him away from the hallway, pulling him directly into the spacious living room.
"Ms. Mika," Arlen spoke up softly, his feet dragging slightly behind her. "This is a common area. You said I am forbidden from—"
"I don’t care what I said!" she snapped, cutting him off as she forcefully pushed him down onto the plush, deep Italian leather sofa.
Arlen sank into the impossibly soft cushions. It was the first time in over two weeks he had sat on anything other than hard wood, and the sudden, cloud-like support caused his tense, strained back muscles to involuntarily unclench. A quiet, shuddering exhale left his chest. He looked around the vast living room, his vacant eye wide, looking completely out of place in his dusty, tailored gala suit.
"Take off that jacket," Mika ordered, pointing a trembling finger at his shoulders. "It’s freezing. Take it off."
Arlen complied without a word. Moving with slow, stiff care, he slid his arms out of the charcoal suit jacket. Beneath it, his white dress shirt was slightly crumpled, clinging to his lean, delicate frame.
Mika didn’t wait. She marched into the kitchen, her silk pajamas rustling aggressively. She flicked the electric kettle on and slammed a ceramic mug onto the counter. From the pantry—the very pantry she had forbidden him from even looking at—she pulled out a jar of expensive organic honey and a box of chamomile tea. Her hands shook as she dropped the tea bag into the cup.
*’You’re proud of receiving a blanket like a stray dog thrown a scrap?’*
Tristan’s sneering voice rang in her ears like a curse. Mika gripped the edge of the marble island, her teeth grinding so hard her jaw ached. She thought of Arlen sitting in that dark corner, tracing water droplets, completely abandoned by his own flesh and blood. And then she thought of how she had shoved him into this very counter, how she had thrown blankets at him and called them trash.
The kettle clicked off with a soft hiss.
Mika poured the steaming water, stirred in a generous spoonful of honey, and carried the hot mug back into the living room.
She placed the mug directly into Arlen’s cold hands, wrapping his slender, pale fingers around the warm ceramic.
"Drink it," she commanded, her voice dropping to a low, rough rasp as she stood over him. "All of it. If you leave a single drop, I’ll scream so loud my voice breaks anyway, so don’t test me."
Arlen looked down at the steaming, amber liquid, feeling the soothing heat seep through the ceramic and thaw his frozen fingertips. The sweet aroma of chamomile and honey drifted up, filling the space between them.
He slowly lifted the mug to his lips and took a small, careful sip. The warmth bloomed in his chest, spreading down to his aching core.
He lowered the mug slightly, his dark bangs parting just enough for his left eye to meet hers. There was no mockery in his gaze, no smug satisfaction at having broken her strict rules. There was only that same, quiet, breathtaking stillness.
"It is very sweet," Arlen murmured softly, his androgynous voice carrying a gentle, melodic warmth. "Thank you, Ms. Mika."
Mika looked at him—sitting on her forbidden sofa, drinking her forbidden tea, thanking her with absolute, unearned sincerity—and felt the last remnants of her cruel defenses completely crumble to dust.
Mika had to look away. She turned her back to him, pretending to adjust the throw pillows on the armchair, using the movement to discreetly swipe at the corners of her eyes. Her throat felt tight, clogged with words she was too proud—and too ashamed—to say.
"Don’t get used to it," Mika muttered, her voice rough and unsteady as she stared at the dark city view outside. "It’s just tea. I didn’t want you catching pneumonia and dying in my living room. That would be a PR nightmare."
Arlen held the warm ceramic mug with both hands, his left eye watching her back. "Pneumonia is very dangerous for the lungs," he agreed in a quiet, conversational tone. "If my lungs fail, I cannot breathe. That would indeed make a mess."
Mika let out a choked sound that was half-sob, half-groan. She rubbed her temples, exhausted by his bizarre, unyielding literalism.