Arlen was sitting cross-legged in the center of the bare wooden slats, his back perfectly straight. In his slender hands, he held two smooth wooden knitting needles, clicking them together with a slow, rhythmic, and surprisingly practiced motion. A skein of deep, dark blue yarn sat in his lap, trailing up to a thick, beautifully knitted scarf that was nearly finished.
He slowly raised his head, his left eye blinking through his thick bangs as he looked at Mika standing in the doorway, panting slightly from her dramatic entrance.
"Hello, Ms. Mika," Arlen said, his soft, androgynous voice breaking the silence. He didn’t lower the needles. "Did you need me to clean the balcony again?"
Mika stared at him, her "Aha!" dying on her lips. Her eyes darted from his serene, beautiful face down to the wooden needles, and then to the dark blue wool. Her brain struggled to process the sheer domesticity of the scene. She had expected to catch him on a secret phone call, or perhaps snooping through her things. Instead, he was sitting on a mattress-less bed, knitting like a quiet grandmother.
"What... what is that?" Mika demanded, crossing her arms tightly, her fierce eyes narrowing to slits. "What are you doing?"
"I am knitting," Arlen explained, his tone entirely deadpan as if stating that the sky was blue. He held up the needles slightly so she could see. "I brought the yarn in my suitcase. It is a very quiet hobby. It does not make any noise to disturb you."
Mika scoffed, taking a step into the room, her fiery red hair swaying with her aggressive movements. "I can see that you’re knitting, Adelaide. I’m asking *why*. Why are you making a scarf? Is this another one of your pathetic attempts to look like a humble, pure-hearted boy? ’Look at me, I knit my own clothes because I’m so simple and sweet.’ Is that it?"
Arlen looked down at the dark blue fabric draped over his lap. He gently ran a finger over the soft stitches, checking the tension.
"It is not for me," Arlen murmured, looking back up at her. "I am actually making this with you in mind."
Mika froze. Her chest tightened, and her pride instantly flared. "For me? Why on earth would you make something for me? I don’t want your cheap yarn, Adelaide."
"It is good quality wool," Arlen corrected gently, his voice entirely devoid of offense. "And I am making it because you do not wear enough clothes."
Mika’s jaw dropped. "I... what?!"
"You go outside in very thin clothes," Arlen explained, his vacant eye fixed on her with absolute sincerity. "It is the rainy season now. The wind from the penthouse elevator lobby is very cold. Yesterday, when you left for work, you sneezed twice. If you get sick, your throat will hurt, and you are a singer. If you cannot sing, you will be sad. And if you are sad, you will yell at me more."
He tilted his head, his expression completely blank. "I do not mind the yelling, but the scarf is very warm. I thought it would be a practical solution."
Mika stood in the center of the barren room, her mind completely short-circuiting. She searched his face, desperately looking for the smugness, the calculation, the hidden smirk of a man trying to play the doting, caring fiancé to soften her up. But there was nothing. His gaze was as clear and empty as a mountain spring. He had observed her sneezing, processed it with his bizarre, literal brain, and decided to knit her a scarf so she wouldn’t get sick and yell at him.
To anyone else, it would have been an incredibly sweet, thoughtful gesture. But to Mika, whose paranoia was currently running at an all-time high, it felt like a highly sophisticated psychological attack.
*’He’s trying to guilt-trip me,’* she thought, her teeth grinding as her face flushed a deep, angry crimson. *’He’s trying to make me feel like a monster for keeping him in this barren room while he sits here knitting me a scarf out of the goodness of his heart. He wants me to accept it, so he can tell our grandfathers that we’re getting along!’*
"I don’t need your charity, Adelaide!" Mika snapped, her voice echoing off the bare walls of the guest room. She marched up to the bed, pointing a sharp, manicured finger at the dark blue wool. "And I don’t need you monitoring my health or my wardrobe! I have designers who style me in the finest coats in the country. I don’t need a hand-knitted rag from a guy who sleeps on bare wood!"
Arlen looked at her pointed finger, then at the scarf. "It is not a rag. The stitch is very tight. It will block the wind."
"I don’t care!" Mika yelled, her hot-tempered nature completely taking over. "Throw it away! Or keep it for yourself since you’re the one sleeping in a freezer! But do not, under any circumstances, try to give me anything ever again. Do you understand me?"
Arlen stared at her for a few seconds. He didn’t look hurt or upset by her harsh rejection. He simply nodded his head in his usual, obedient manner.
"Okay," Arlen said softly. "I will keep it out of your sight."
He adjusted his wooden needles and quietly slid them back into the stitches, preparing to bind off the edge of the scarf. He seemed completely unfazed by her outburst, returning to his slow, rhythmic clicking as if she hadn’t just screamed at him.
Mika stood there, her chest heaving, feeling an incredibly frustrating sense of defeat. She had stormed in here to catch him in a lie, but instead, she had just yelled at a breathtakingly beautiful, silent man who was trying to keep her from catching a cold. She felt like a tyrant, and she hated him for making her feel that way.
"Just... stay in here," Mika muttered, her voice tight as she spun on her heel. "And don’t let me catch you making some trash for me again."
"I understand," Arlen promised quietly to her retreating back.
Mika slammed the door shut, the loud bang echoing through the penthouse. She leaned her back against the closed door, letting out a long, ragged breath. Her head was pounding. She had four and a half months left of this trial, and she was starting to realize that breaking Arlen Adelaide’s resolve might actually break her sanity first.
In the quiet of the room, the rhythmic click-clack of the wooden needles finally stopped. Arlen calmly finished binding off the last few stitches of the dark blue scarf, securing the end of the yarn with a neat, tight knot.
He held the finished piece up. It was indeed very thick, soft, and beautifully crafted, designed perfectly to block the cold drafts of the high-rise penthouse.
He didn’t look disappointed or hurt that his thoughtful gesture had been met with such explosive anger. Mika had made it clear she doesn’t want it. And Arlen was, if nothing else, exceptionally good at following instructions.
He stood up from the bare wooden slats, the dark blue wool draped over his arm. Walking over to the wardrobe, he opened the door.
With slow, methodical movements, Arlen folded the scarf into a perfect, compact square, smoothing out any wrinkles with the flat of his hand. He knelt down and tucked it away on the very bottom shelf of the wardrobe closet, pushing it into the furthest, darkest corner. Out of sight, out of mind. If Mika doesn’t want it, the scarf can rest here until it can find it’s purpose.
He closed the wardrobe door with a soft, gentle click, sealing away the scarf along with his minimal personal items.
Turning back to the room, his left eye drifted to the single wooden chair, where his small staircase of cheap snacks remained perfectly aligned from tallest to shortest. Satisfied that his small world was in order, Arlen walked back to his mattress-less bed.
He lay down on his back, resting his head on his makeshift sweater-pillow, and neatly folded his hands over his chest. He stared blankly up at the ceiling, entirely at peace. He doesn’t harbor any hard feelings in his heart from Mika’s rejection. Although, he is mentally contemplating about what he wants to eat for dinner tonight.