Arnold's office was starting to look like a proper workspace, albeit one with a slight aroma of meat from the butcher shop below. He'd pinned user flow diagrams next to Helga's research summaries, and his whiteboard was covered in notes from their first official development meeting.
The problem was he couldn't focus on any of it.
"You need to gamify these writing prompts more," Helga had said yesterday, leaning over his shoulder to point at his screen. Her perfume—something subtle and unisex—had momentarily scrambled his thoughts. "Kids won't engage if it feels like homework."
Now he was staring at the same screen, trying to remember her actual suggestions rather than the way she'd absently tucked her hair behind her ear while thinking.
His phone buzzed—a text from Helga:
Just sent you revised prompt frameworks. Changed emotional recognition flow based on age groups. Let me know if the progression makes sense.
Clear. Direct, with no hint of the tension Arnold felt in her office. He opened her email and found a detailed document with carefully structured writing exercises. Each one built on her therapeutic approach while fitting his technical framework perfectly.
The problem wasn't her work—it was excellent—the problem was him.
His cursor blinked in the reply box:
These are perfect. The age-appropriate progression addresses exactly what I was worried about. You really understand how kids—
Delete.
Thank you. The framework looks excellent. I especially liked how you—
Delete.
Got it, thanks. Will implement these today.
Send.
A knock at his door made him jump. Harold's son, Asher, with another sandwich delivery. "Dad says you need to eat something besides coffee."
Arnold accepted the sandwich gratefully. "Tell him thanks."
"Also, Dr. Pataki called the shop earlier. Said she's coming by to review something? Dad got all weird and nostalgic about grade school."
Arnold nearly choked on his first bite. "She's coming here?" and his voice squeaked like an adolescent teen.
"Yeah, said she had a gap between patients." Asher shrugged. "Dad kept laughing about something called 'Old Betsy.'"
After he left, Arnold looked around his office with new eyes. Coffee cups everywhere. Post-its creating a chaotic rainbow on every surface. His tie from yesterday still draped over his chair.
He was straightening his desk when Helga's voice came from the doorway. "Still a neat freak, I see."
She was wearing a dark blue dress under her white doctor's coat, looking every inch the professional except for the slight smile playing at her lips.
"I wasn't expecting—" he started.
"Clearly." She entered, surveying his workspace. "Good lord, Football Head, did a sticky note factory explode in here?"
The old nickname slipped out so naturally that they both froze. Helga recovered first.
"Sorry. 'Dr.' Football Head," she corrected, but her eyes were dancing with suppressed laughter...
Arnold cleared his throat. "I was just implementing your revised prompts. Want to see?"
"That's why I'm here." Helga moved to stand beside his desk, maintaining a careful distance. "Show me what you've done with them."
He pulled up his development environment, aware of her presence at his shoulder. "I've structured it as a journey format. Kids create an avatar that travels through different emotional landscapes—"
"Like a storybook hero," Helga finished, leaning closer to see the screen. "That's... actually perfect. It gives them space to explore feelings safely."
"I got the idea from your paper about therapeutic metaphors," Arnold said, scrolling through the interface. "Each landscape represents a different emotional state—"
"And the writing prompts are like quests," Helga cut in, her unbiased voice forgotten in her excitement. "Arnold, this is exactly how I'd want to—" She caught herself, straightening up. "It's a solid implementation of the therapeutic framework."
But Arnold had seen it—that flash of genuine enthusiasm of the Helga who'd always had a poet's heart beneath her tough exterior. "I have the anger landscape roughed out," he said, pulling up another screen. "I thought maybe you could—"
"The volcano needs to be bigger," she said immediately, then gave him a self-conscious look. "From a therapeutic perspective, of course."
"Of course." He fought back a smile. "Any other relevant opinions on the landscape design?"
Helga pulled up a chair, carefully positioning it with appropriate space between them. "The lava flows should be paths where they can write about what makes them angry. But there should be cool caves too, safe spaces for reflection." Her hand expressively moved as she spoke. "And maybe at the peak—"
"A view of all the other emotional landscapes," Arnold finished. "Showing how anger connects to everything else."
Their eyes met in shared understanding. For a moment, neither spoke.
Helga looked away first. "You've really thought this through."
"I had good source material to work from." Arnold tabbed through his notes. "Your research on how children process complex emotions—"
"Speaking of research," Helga cut him off, her strict tone firmly back in place, "we should discuss the clinical trial phase. I have colleagues who work with age-appropriate test groups—"
A smell wafted up from downstairs. Helga's nose wrinkled. "Is that...?"
"Harold's special Thursday marinade," Arnold confirmed. "You get used to it."
"Some things about this neighborhood never change." Her expression softened with nostalgia before she caught herself. "The testing protocols—"
"Remember when he tried to become a vegetarian in sixth grade?"
"Arnold." But she was fighting a smile. "Focus."
"Right. Testing protocols." He pulled up a new document, then asked casually, "How is Harold's son as a student, by the way?"
"That would be a breach of confidentiality, Dr. Shortman," she said primly, but then added, "Though hypothetically, if I had a patient who happened to be the son of a certain butcher, I might say he's much more emotionally mature than his father was at that age."
They worked through the testing framework for the next hour, falling into an unexpectedly comfortable rhythm. Helga's clinical expertise complemented his technical planning perfectly. When she wasn't being acutely neutral, their old ability to read each other's thoughts seemed to extend to development ideas.
"We should set up regular working sessions," Helga said as she gathered her things to leave. "Your office is... well-located for my lunch breaks."
"I thought you preferred meeting at your office," Arnold said carefully.
"The smell of marinading meat is surprisingly conducive to therapeutic app development." She adjusted her glasses. "Besides, your wifi is better."
At the door, she paused. "The avatar creation feature. Add a bow option."
"A pink one?"
"Any color." But her smile said pink. "For the kids who need a signature look to feel brave."
After she left, Arnold sat looking at his notes from their session. Her handwriting next to his, their ideas flowing together seamlessly. Professional distance was going to be harder than either of them had imagined.
His phone beamed with a text from Gerald:"Saw Dr. Pataki leaving Green Meats. Working lunch?"
Arnold stared at the message, then at his development environment, where a blank avatar creator waited for customization options. After a moment, he added a bow feature to the design tools.
In pink, of course.
