The framed pink bow caught Arnold's eye again as he set up his laptop. He remembered the rare times Helga had been without it in childhood - how different she'd looked, how vulnerable. Now, here it was, displayed proudly among her achievements like both a battle flag and a confession.

"Your research on emotional expression through creative writing," Arnold began, forcing his focus back to the presentation. "Particularly the case studies where children used storytelling to—"

"Arnold," Helga interrupted, her tone softer than he expected. "Before we start the detailed presentation, I think we should acknowledge what we're both dancing around."

His hands stilled on the laptop keyboard. "What kind of dancing are we talking about?"

Helga inclined back in her chair, looking more like herself and less like Dr. Pataki. "The fact that you've read every paper I've published, but you waited three months after moving back to contact me. "The fact that we're both pretending this is just another consultation like we haven't known each other since we were three. The fact that you keep looking at that bow like it's going to bite you."

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Because This was the Helga he remembered - direct, unflinching, seeing right through him. "I wanted to make sure I understood your work first," he admitted. "Really understood it. Not just because of... our history."

"And?" One eyebrow raised above her glasses.

"And I think I understand a lot more now than I did when we were kids." The words came out before he could filter them through an experienced lens. "About you. About why you..." He trailed off, uncertain how far to push this conversation.

Something shined in Helga's eyes - surprise, maybe recognition. But her clinical mask slipped back into place. "That was a long time ago, Arnold. We were different people."

"Were we?" The question hung between them.

Helga stood abruptly, walking to her window. "Show me the app proposal. That's why we're here, isn't it?"

Arnold nodded, though she couldn't see it with her back turned. He understood what she was doing—creating professional distance, drawing boundaries. Arnold should be grateful for it. Instead, he found himself studying the tension in her shoulders and the way her fingers twisted together behind her back—gestures so familiar they made his chest ache.

"The app integrates creative writing prompts with emotional recognition tools," he began again, pulling up his PowerPoint. But as he walked through the features, he couldn't help noticing how each element seemed to mirror something from their shared past - safe spaces for expression, masks and personas, the power of words to bridge emotional distances.

Had he designed it that way unconsciously? Had her influence on him run that deep?

Helga returned to her seat, taking notes and asking sharp, skilled questions. But occasionally, their eyes would meet over the laptop screen, and Arnold would see a flash of the girl who'd once filled volumes of poetry with his name, now transformed into a woman who'd turned that same passion into helping others.

He'd thought he was prepared for this meeting. He wasn't, not for the way his carefully constructed presentation kept dissolving into moments of startling personal clarity, not for how every question she asked made him want to ask one of his own, none of them related to the app.

"Your framework for emotional expression through creative writing," he said, pulling up one of her diagrams. "It's brilliant. I never knew you had this kind of insight into—" He stopped himself.

"Into what?" Her voice was obviously neutral.

"Into how children protect themselves. How they hide their vulnerabilities behind other behaviors." Like you did, he didn't say. Like I never fully understood until now.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken recognition...

Helga cleared her throat, breaking the silence. "Looking at your wireframes," she said, gesturing to his laptop screen, "you've clearly put thought into making this accessible for different age groups. But what's your plan for privacy protection? These are vulnerable kids sharing personal stories."

Arnold gratefully shifted to the technical aspects. "Each user creates their own private 'story space.' Nothing is shared unless they specifically choose to, and even then, it's anonymized. I was thinking of implementing something like your journal therapy approach—"

"The one from my second paper?" A slight smile tugged at her lips. "You really did read everything."

"I was thorough," he admitted, then added without thinking, "You write differently now. More direct. But I can still hear your voice in it sometimes."

Her fingers tensed on her notepad. "Arnold..."

"Sorry," he said quickly. "boundaries."

"Right." She pushed her glasses up, a gesture so reminiscent of their school days that Arnold had to look away. "Tell me about your timeline for development."

He pulled up his project schedule. "Six months for initial development and testing. I have some savings from my counseling work during grad school, but I'll need to secure additional funding—"

"You were a counselor?"

Something in her tone made him look up. Helga was eyeing him with a face he couldn't quite read.

"Part-time at a youth center," he explained. "It helped inform the app design, seeing how kids—" He stopped as Helga suddenly laughed. "What?"

"Of course, you were a counselor. Arnold Shortman, still helping everyone with their problems." But there was warmth in her voice, not mockery. "Some things don't change, do they?"

"Some things do," he said quietly, looking pointedly at her office, her credentials, the evidence of her success.

Their eyes met again, and for a moment, the veneer cracked. Arnold saw a flash of the vulnerability she'd always hidden, the depth of understanding that had made her such a gifted therapist. He wondered if she could see similar changes in him—the boy who wanted to help everyone had grown into a man who'd found a way to do it systematically.

"I want to help with this," Helga said finally, straightening in her chair. "The app has potential, and your techniques align with my therapeutic framework. But," she held up a hand as Arnold started to smile, "we need to establish clear boundaries. This is a professional collaboration."

"Of course," Arnold agreed quickly. Maybe too quickly.

"I'll have my assistant send over my consulting agreement. We should meet weekly to start, preferably here. And Arnold?" She stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "Try to be less thorough about reading between the lines of my research papers. Focus on the clinical applications."

He gathered his laptop, very aware of her presence as he stood. "Thank you, Dr. Pataki."

"Helga," she corrected, then added with the ghost of her old smirk, "At least until you start missing deadlines."

At the door, he turned back. "It's a good thing you did," he said suddenly. "Turning poetry into therapy. Helping kids find their voice."

For a moment, Helga's mask slipped completely. She looked at him with an expression that took him right back to FTi, to San Lorenzo, to all the moments when she'd accidentally revealed her true self.

"Goodbye, Arnold," she said softly and closed her office door.

In the elevator, Arnold leaned against the wall and let out a long breath. He had his consulting expert, a path forward for the app, and weekly meetings to look forward to.

He also had absolutely no idea how he was going to maintain professional boundaries with someone who still looked at him like that when she thought he wouldn't notice.

His phone chimed—Gerald: "How'd it go?"

Arnold stared at the message for a long moment before typing back: "I'm in trouble."