"Unbelievable," Mika hissed to the empty room.
She grabbed her phone, her thumb hovering over Liam’s contact. She needed to vent. She needed someone to validate that she wasn’t the crazy one here.
*’He’s good,’* she thought, her eyes narrowing as she stared at the steam rising from her coffee. *’Really? He’s a billionaire’s heir. He’s probably going to an expensive restaurant just to have some fancy toast or whatever. He’s playing the "humble little boy" to make me feel like a bully.’*
She took a jagged sip of the bitter brew. Everything about him felt like a carefully constructed performance designed to erode her resolve.
Her phone buzzed. It was a text from Liam: *"Morning, babe. Is the intruder out of your hair yet? I’m coming over after my shoot. I need to decompress."*
Mika’s expression softened, but only slightly. She typed back quickly: *"He just left for breakfast since I forbade him from my kitchen. He’s even weirder than I expected, Liam. He’s playing some kind of ’brain-dead’ character. It’s pathetic. Just make sure you’re here by five. I need a reminder of what a real man looks like."*
She tossed the phone onto the counter and looked toward the hallway leading to the guest room. Her curiosity, fueled by spite, got the better of her. She wanted to see just how far he was taking this act.
Walking down the hall, she pushed open the door to his room. She expected to find some sign of rebellion-maybe he’d hidden a smuggled pillow or left a mess.
Instead, the room was hauntingly tidy. The wardrobe was closed. The single chair was tucked neatly against the wall. And there, on the bare wooden slats of the bed frame, were the two sweaters he had used as a pillow, folded with such mathematical precision they looked like they hadn’t been touched.
There was no scent of him. No lingering warmth. It was as if he hadn’t been there at all.
Mika felt a shiver of irritation crawl up her spine. "Five months," she whispered to the empty, barren room. "I just have to break him before he breaks my sanity."
She slammed the door shut with authority befitting of the owner of the house, a petty gesture of control that did little to settle the growing unease in her gut. If Arlen Adelaide was a manipulator, he was the most terrifyingly patient one she had ever met. Or, worse-he was exactly what he appeared to be, and that was a reality she wasn’t prepared to handle.
***
The bell above the door chimed with a tinny, cheerful ring as Arlen stepped inside the diner. The air was thick with the heavy, comforting scent of sizzling bacon, burnt coffee, and floor wax. It was a sharp contrast to the sterile, high-end fragrance of Mika’s penthouse.
Arlen stood just inside the entrance, his hands clasped around a small, simple leather money pouch. He remained perfectly still, his left eye scanning the room with a slow, rhythmic movement.
The diner was half-full with early morning commuters and construction workers. As Arlen stood there, a hush gradually rippled through the booths. His presence was jarring; he looked like a porcelain doll dropped into a toolbox. His oversized dark sweater hung off his lean frame, and his breathtakingly beautiful, androgynous face seemed to glow under the harsh fluorescent lights.
A waitress, a middle-aged woman with a tired expression and a name tag that read ’Beth,’ approached him, holding a stack of menus. She stopped a few feet away, momentarily stunned by the sheer, ethereal beauty of the young man standing by the door.
"Uh... table for one, sweetie?" she asked, her voice softening instinctively.
Arlen blinked. He looked at her, then at the empty booths, then back at her. "May I have breakfast?"
Beth chuckled nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Of course you may. Pick any spot you like, honey."
Arlen nodded obediently. "Thank you."
He walked to the smallest, most isolated booth in the corner and sat down. He didn’t slide in comfortably; he sat perfectly upright, his back not even touching the vinyl padding. He placed his money pouch on the table and stared at the laminated menu Beth placed in front of him.
He stared at it for a long time. He didn’t flip the pages. He just stared at the cover, which featured a picture of a smiling sun holding a spatula.
Beth returned with a pot of coffee. "Can I get you started with some Joe? Or maybe some juice?"
Arlen looked up at her. "I would like the eggs, please."
"Sure thing. How do you want ’em?"
Arlen’s expression remained entirely blank. The "brain-dead" fog seemed to settle over him as he processed the options. To him, an egg was an egg. The concept of multiple states of matter for a single food item seemed to cause a temporary system error in his mind.
"I would like them... to be eggs," he said softly, his voice melodic and deadpan.
Beth paused, her pen hovering over her notepad. "Right. But, like... do you want the yellows runny? Or all mixed up?"
Arlen tilted his head, his thick bangs shifting to reveal just a hint of the hidden side of his face before settling back into place. "Mixed up sounds... good. Yes. Mixed up eggs."
"Scrambled it is," Beth said, scribbling it down. "Anything else? Toast? Hash browns?"
"No, thank you," Arlen replied. "Just the mixed eggs. And water, please."
"Coming right up."
As she walked away, Arlen didn’t reach for his phone or look around the room. He simply folded his hands on the table and stared at the salt shaker. He looked perfectly content, a silent, beautiful statue in a dark sweater, waiting for his "mixed eggs" with the same eerie patience he had shown while lying on a bed of bare wooden slats.
To anyone watching, he looked like a man deep in profound thought. In reality, Arlen was currently wondering if the salt shaker felt lonely being so far away from the pepper shaker on the other side of the table. He reached out a slender finger and slowly, carefully, pushed the salt shaker until it was touching its companion.
"There," he whispered to himself, a tiny, almost imperceptible spark of satisfaction in his vacant eye. "Now you are together."
When the plate of scrambled eggs was placed in front of him, Arlen did not eat immediately. He stared at the yellow mound for a moment, then picked up his fork with delicate, precise fingers. He ate in absolute silence, his movements slow and incredibly neat. There was no rush, no noise, and certainly no phone to distract him. He chewed thoroughly, his vacant eye fixed on the wall ahead, entirely content with the simple meal.
Once he finished, he carefully wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. He opened his simple leather pouch, counted out the exact amount for the bill, and added a polite tip, placing the cash neatly under the salt shaker he had reunited with the pepper.
With a soft nod of gratitude to Beth, who watched him leave with a mixture of charm and bewilderment, Arlen stepped back out into the morning air.
Before returning to the penthouse, he had a task to complete. Mika’s rules were absolute: he was not to touch a single crumb of her food. Therefore, he needed his own provisions.
He wandered into a nearby convenience store, the bright fluorescent lights humming overhead. The store was quiet, save for the soft drone of a radio behind the counter. Arlen walked down the narrow aisles, his oversized dark sweater brushing against the shelves.
He stopped in front of the bread section. His left eye blinked slowly as he stared at the rows of plastic-wrapped loaves. He reached out and gently squeezed one. It was soft. He picked a simple, generic loaf of white bread.
Next was the peanut butter. He stood before the jars, his head tilting to the side. There were two main options: *Creamy* and *Crunchy*. He stared at the labels for a full minute, his brain seemingly stalling at the choice.
*’Crunchy has pieces,’* he thought, his mind processing the texture. *’Creamy is smooth. Like the wooden slats.’*
Deciding that smooth was safer, he grabbed a jar of creamy peanut butter. To round out his groceries, he picked up a few cheap, individual packs of salted crackers and a small bottle of water, just in case he wasn’t allowed to use her cups.
At the register, the cashier scanned the items, occasionally glancing up at Arlen’s strikingly beautiful, blank face. Arlen paid with the coins and bills from his pouch, took the plastic bag, and gave a polite, quiet "Thank you" before walking out.
The walk back to the high-rise penthouse was peaceful. Arlen clutched the plastic bag close to his side, his footsteps light on the pavement. When he reached the building, he took the elevator up to the top floor. He swiped his keycard and pushed the heavy door open, stepping into the silent foyer.
He stood still for a moment, listening. The penthouse was quiet, though the faint scent of Mika’s expensive coffee still lingered in the air. Keeping his promise not to loiter in the common areas, Arlen walked directly to the far end of the hallway, his footsteps making no sound.
He opened the door to his barren guest room, stepped inside, and closed it quietly behind him. He set his plastic bag on the single wooden chair, ready to begin his day of waiting.