The usual warnings and notes apply. Shorter than intended but I've been very busy (I'm sooorry). Enjoy.

Reading in front of an audience is a unique kind of exposure.

In fact I'd say standing in front of a group of art students while naked as a newborn had been easier by comparison. All they could see was my body. Reciting for anybody but myself is like being nude and then shedding my skin, too. A glimpse of innermost thought. A baring of the soul.

The poem I'd written had poured out of me from a place where I suspect it had been growing slowly, hiding from me until I stopped being such a wuss and sought it out: My feelings towards Arnold. The same, yet nothing like before. Something that had withered a long time ago but left a seed in its place, circumstance fueling its growth.

Criminy, if the full blown metaphoric thinking isn't proof that I like him I wouldn't know what is.

But it's honest. The things I say are true and as I grip the mic and confess to a crowd of strangers, I can feel the weight of it burning my skin. Imagine his scent and his green as fuck eyes and that smile of his- so subtly, preciously broken- and I'm almost sure that I sway. I already like him so much that I realize I probably never stopped. Crooning it to a tiny slice of the world has made everything clear.

I wanted not to feel this way because I couldn't handle it before. Thing is...

I'm not even certain if I can now.

Last line leaving me in a soft breath- because holy shit, I just admitted in flowery words that I wanna sleep with Arnold- I flee the stage with grace. Phoebe is supposed to be here and I spot her pretty quickly. My best friend tells me that I was amazing. More passionate than usual. And then a devilish smile dashes across her sharp, asian features as she leads me astray and then flees.

I gaze up (and remember that once upon a time I'd had to look down) at the trap Phoebe's set.

"Arnold?"

His name comes out in a rush. A punch to the gut I didn't anticipate. But what's with the look on his face? He stands there in all his unfair tallness, cornflower hair gently tamed, a severe sparkle in his eyes. There's no way-

"Um... Hi."

Arnold says it hesitantly but the grin that grows across his mouth as he looks at me lights up the room and the world and short circuits my bestilled little heart. Pathetic, I tell ya.

"What are you doing here? How did you even know about-?"

"Phoebe asked me to meet her here. I didn't know what to expect. Or that you weren't really expecting me."

"Oh." I blurt stupidly. Still stunned.

"Helga, that was amazing."

"R-really?"

"I couldn't take my eyes off of you. You were reeling everybody in." Arnold looks so damn fond. As if he can't decide whether to be proud or awed. "Are you going to read any more?"

"No," I shake my head, turning to note that they're about to resume letting people onstage. "I was just going to head home after that."

"Can I maybe join you? Make sure you get home safe?"

"If you want to?"

"I want to." It's a firm, silken declaration. Arnold is smiling at me with cheeks that tinge subtly in the dim cafe lighting. I nod. That's how we find ourselves padding along pavement beneath a star speckled sky. At first neither one of us says anything. There's so much churning between us that it makes my hair stand on end. What is he thinking? Does he know it was about him? He has to. Arnold isn't an idiot!

"So, you have any Siren's blood in you?" He asks with a chuckle.

"Well I didn't seem to ensnare any men at sea, so I guess not."

"How about Veela?"

My brow shoots up. "Harry Potter?"

"Oh, like you didn't read it too."

I have to laugh because he's right. I have read all six books. That's hardly the point, though.

"I'm trying to say you're talented without sounding like a wierdo. Not doing a very good job though. Can I... Ask you something?"

"You just did."

"Okay smart mouth. Can I ask you something else?"

"You just-"

"Who was the poem about?"

Somebody please call the fire department and tell them there's a fire on my face. There's no way I'm not red; the heat washing over me isn't much different than when I have too big a swallow of wine. I imagine a pan of powdered blush labeled 'Bashful Pinot.' I should copyright that.

"Why are you assuming it was about someone?"

"Well," he pauses only to cross a street with me, "it was pretty deep. Sounded honest if nothing else. Not like when you write about other people."

Inconveniently observant as hell. Oh, Arnold.

"Was it... To your ex?"

I almost choke. "NO. What the heck Shortman!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry or anything. Well that's bullshit. I am prying."

"Why?"

"Because if you liked someone I'd wanna know."

"I don't need you to baby me." My fists clench habitually.

I stare at Arnold as he quiets, the glow of streetlights casting shimmering lines of goldenrod onto blonde. He looks... disappointed? Frustrated?

"I'm not trying to baby you Helga."

"Look, I get that some of the stuff I've told you is... worrisome. But what are you saying, that you're going to act like a knight and protect me from bad guys or something?"

"That's not even close to what I meant."

I risk sounding like JB as I stop in my tracks, stamping a foot and demanding, "What do you mean?"

The look of Arnold then- a feral edge to his mouth but vulnerable tilt to his brows- forces a wild shiver through me that has nothing to do with the wintry air. He steps closer, eyes darting downwards and then settling on my face.

Arnold takes hold of my hand.

Helga's hand is warm and unbelievably soft.

A dainty wrist and fingers tipped with chipped white nails stiffen as I wrap my own larger hand around them. It's ridiculous how juvenile this feels; holding hands makes my stomach knot as if it were intimate to the highest degree. I wish. I can't even imagine what that would be like, because it crosses lines and draws them all over her in every curve and crease I'd press my lips to. This has to be either the beginning of more... Or more than enough. "This is what I mean." I answer quietly, pulling gently to get her to walk along with me. Helga follows but her hand remains limp.

"T-this isn't much of an answer, Arnoldo." She says in a notably softer tone. Her breath is coiling past painted lips in wisps of white that disappear into the breeze.

"Humor me."

I can feel hesitation bubbling around us, thick and uneasy. Any minute now she'll break away and tell me to get a grip. To my (pleasant) surprise she just grasps my hand and walks onwards without another word. What is it about snow that makes the world feel like it's slowing down? Like the only thing that exists is an isolated bubble of silence and sparkling white… and her.

"My house isn't much farther." Helga reminds me in a puff of white that dissolves into the winter air.

I grin despite myself. "You don't seem too happy."

"Yeah well you brought something up and left it hanging. That's a personal pet peeve of mine. I can't help it."

"Curiosity killed the cat, y'know."

She huffs. Haughty, yet dulled sweet around the edges. "Nymph got stuck in one of my drawers for an entire day. Doubt anything will happen to me just yet. We both might turn out to be immortal with our track records."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. We're here."

And we are, the two of us, staring at the front porch of her building side by side as if pulling apart will break something. That's when I feel it- a tiny squeeze to my hand before she lets go and starts up the wooden steps.

"I'll make you a deal."

"Excuse me?"

"You're not telling me who the poem was about so I'll only tell you part of what I mean."

"Oh come on! This is gonna bother me way more than it will you!"

"What makes you think that?" I wonder aloud as I ascend to Helga's level. Watch her face: those cold-bitten lips and her windswept bun and azure eyes that only look brighter surrounded by snow and shadows. She's something special. I've always known that. But now it's starting to show, and it's even more unbelievable than I could have ever predicted.

"You want to know what I meant?" I ask her again. Shoulders push back defiantly as she nods. No hesitation. Classic Helga.

I seize the moment and her hand and press my lips to it without ever taking my eyes off of hers. The skin there is warm and smells flowery.

"This is what I mean. Goodnight Helga."

I'm about a few feet away when I decide to turn around and ask for one last thing.

"And Helga? You're talent is amazing. No matter who it is that you're writing for, don't ever think of stopping okay?"

I don't look back at her.

But I want to.

Thanks for all of the reviews. They sincerely mean a lot to me! And thanks for bugging me on tumblr, haha.