Helga's POV

As I scrolled through my inbox this morning, the subject line "Exciting Opportunity at Gilded Pages" stared back at me, taunting. The editor was interested—still interested—despite how long it had been since I'd pitched them. But thinking about moving to Philly again felt like staring at a door I wasn't sure I wanted to open.

I sat at my kitchen table, the half-empty coffee mug beside me rapidly cooling as I stared at my laptop. Eisenmeower pawed at the edge of my phone as if reminding me that indecision wouldn't keep his breakfast coming. Feeling overwhelmed, I texted Phoebe, figuring she'd at least tell me what I wanted to hear.

Phoebe: That sounds great, Helga!

Phoebe: It is what you've been hoping for, right?

I stared at her text, pondering the question. Was it what I'd been hoping for? When I first reached out to Gilded Pages months ago, it felt like a pipe dream—one last shot at proving I could be more than Bob's "second daughter," the afterthought who could never quite live up to Olga's shine. Back then, I wanted to prove I wasn't just the girl with too much baggage and too sharp a tongue, even if I wasn't sure who I was beyond that.

Helga: It was... I don't know. I'll have to think about it.

Phoebe: Let me know what you decide.

I set my phone down, Eisenmeower's soft purring the only sound in the quiet apartment. They were calling it an opportunity of a lifetime. But did I really want it? Or was it just easier to go toward something new than stay and face the mess I'd left behind?

Some hours forward, a knock at my door comes just as I'm trying to wrangle Eisenmeower into his carrier for his vet appointment. Perfect timing, as always. "Hold on!" I shout, cursing as my cat slips free again.

When I half open the door, expecting Rhonda or, hopefully, Arnold, something in my gut twists before my brain catches up. My fingers tighten on the doorframe as recognition hits.

Simon stands there, transformed in a way that sets off warning bells. His usual rumpled band tees replaced by an ironed shirt that looks too stiff, too perfect - like he's playing dress-up in someone else's life. His face is clean-shaven, almost aggressively so, with a nick under his jaw that he keeps touching unconsciously. His eyes are clear, but there's something performative in their steadiness like he's trying too hard to prove something.

"'Hey, Helga.' His voice is chill like the day I met him, none of that manic edge I remember from our last fight. But his fingers drum against his thigh in that old familiar rhythm - the one that used to signal incoming chaos.

Behind me, Eisenmeower stops his usual escape tactics and goes eerily still. His ears flattened against his head as he stares at Simon with unblinking focus.

"What the actual hell." The words come out flat as I grip the doorframe, blocking his entry. My eyes dart to his hands—no cigarettes, no shaking. "How did you find me?"

"Your sister. She still works at that radio station in Philly.' His casual tone doesn't match the intensity of his gaze as it sweeps over my apartment. A muscle twitches in his jaw - that old tell I used to watch for before storms hit. "You know Olga, always happy to help."

Criminy. Fucking Olga... now, why did I slip up and tell her my business. She could never read the damn room or fully support me through things.

He shifts, hands in his pockets. "Can we just talk for a few minutes?" His eyes stroll over me, reading my body language. Hopefully, it's coming off as well - fuck off. But there's something rehearsed about his patience. "I promise, no drama this time." The words come out too smooth, too practiced.

"Every instinct screams no, but... "Five minutes." I step aside, watching him take in my tiny apartment. His cologne—when did he start wearing cologne?—mingles with the lingering scent of Arnold's leather jacket from last night. The contrast hits like a punch to the gut.

"So this is your place," he says, and I can already hear a hint of annoyance in his voice that usually leads to a temperamental meltdown. His eyes snag on the wine glasses by the sink, the men's jacket draped over my chair, and his jaw tightens - not obviously, but enough that my stomach clenches in remembered anticipation.

"What do you want, Simon?"

"I got help,' he says quietly, pulling something from his back pocket with the careful deliberation of someone who's rehearsed this moment. "Real help this time. Been clean for two months." His fingers slightly tremble as they hold up the plane ticket—first class—like a peace offering or a bargaining chip. I recognize the gesture; Simon always did know how to make even manipulation look like generosity.

"I have a new place in Rittenhouse Square." His voice takes on that smooth, practiced quality I remember from his best sales pitches. "Two bedrooms, so you'd have your own space to write." His eyes flick to my cramped living room, making his point without words. "And that magazine you interviewed with before... I've heard they're still interested."

My phone buzzes—probably Arnold wondering where I am with Eisenmeower. I ignore it, but Simon's eyes track the movement, something darker flickering beneath his polished surface.

"I know I broke your trust, Helga.' The words flow too easily, like he's reciting them from a therapy worksheet. 'And I don't expect you to forget that. But I've been working on myself, for real this time.' He swallows hard, that muscle in his jaw jumping. 'I just... I wanted to give us another shot."

Another notification. This time, I glance down.

Rhonda: EMERGENCY. Curly ambushed me at work. Need wine and friendship stat. Rhonda: Bringing reinforcements. Open your door in 10.

When I don't respond right away, the old Simon surfaces like a shark breaking water. His impatience bleeds through the cracks of his careful reformation.

"Are you working a good job here?" he asks, his tone clipped, therapy-speak forgotten. "Are you dating someone?" His voice drops lower, rougher, but there's no mistaking the edge of frustration that therapy hasn't quite smoothed away.

"Like I'll tell you that," I snap, letting out an exasperated sigh. My fingers tighten on the doorframe as I struggle to keep my tone even. "Okay, you said your peace now, you need to go."

Simon hesitates, his gaze flicking to the jacket draped over my chair. The look in his eyes shifts - something possessive and familiar that makes my skin crawl. But I don't give him time to pry further, shoving him toward the hallway.

Before stepping out, he sets the ticket on my counter like it's some grand gesture. Like we're in a movie and this is his big redemption scene.

'Flight's tomorrow night. Just... think about it?'

I lean against the door after it closes, the ticket catching the dim light like some cursed relic. The heaviness in my chest isn't just Simon—it's the way his sudden return feels too familiar. The way it reminds me of slamming doors and broken promises, of Bob's suitcase by the door and Miriam's hollow, far-off stare.

Back then, I told myself I didn't care. I was too tough to let it break me. But years later, the echoes of people leaving—always leaving—still creep into the cracks I've tried so hard to seal.

I glance at the carrier, still empty, and Eisenmeower perched smugly on the couch. The vet appointment will have to wait. Between Simon's surprise visit and Rhonda's incoming storm, the day's already spiraling into a circus.

For now, the apartment is silent except for Eisenmeower pawing at his toy. Arnold's jacket is still draped over the chair, its known scent lingering in the air. For a moment, I let myself inhale it, grounding myself in the memory of last night—his firm hands, his quiet presence, his maddening ability to make me feel safe. Safe.

But that's the problem, isn't it? Arnold is everything I've never had—not with my father, not with Simon, not even with myself most days. And maybe that's why it terrifies me more than Simon's mess ever did.

I cross the room, pick up the ticket, and sit down at the edge of the couch. My fingers brush over the embossed lettering as my mind drifts back to another time, another version of myself—before Simon's promises turned to powder, before I understood that toxicity could wear cologne and carry first-class tickets.

We'd met at a dive bar—one of those places where the jukebox always seemed broken, and the drinks were just strong enough to make you forget why you came. I was halfway through a whiskey sour, ignoring some guy trying to impress his date with a story about his crypto portfolio, when Simon dropped into the stool next to mine like he owned it. Like he owned the whole damn room.

"You look like you're either about to take over the world," he said, his voice low and teasing, "or burn it to the ground."

I peeked at him, irritated but intrigued. "Maybe both."

He grinned wide and shameless. "Guess that makes me your new problem, then."

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't fight the smirk tugging at my lips. "What makes you think I need another problem?"

He leaned in closer, just enough for me to catch the faint scent of smoke and whiskey on his clothes. "Trust me," he said, his voice dipping into something almost cocky. "I'm the kind you'll have fun fixing."

God, he was so sure of himself, so reckless and bold. And for a while, that was exactly what I loved about him. Simon made everything feel unpredictable and alive. He'd show up at my apartment at midnight with greasy burgers and cheap beer, or he'd drag me to some underground show I didn't even know existed. He had this way of making me believe that life wasn't something you planned—it was something you threw yourself into, headfirst, consequences be damned.

But the cracks were always there, weren't they?

Like the time he forgot my birthday. He showed up a day late, reeking of alcohol and holding a sad little bouquet of daisies he probably snagged from a gas station. 'I know I fucked up,' he'd said, his eyes bloodshot but almost pleading. 'But I swear, I'm gonna make it up to you.'

And for a moment, I let myself believe him. For a moment, the toxicity felt like love.

Now, staring at the ticket in my hand, I wonder if that's what I was chasing all along—the thrill, the unpredictability, the constant high of wondering what came next. Simon was a storm I thought I could handle, his rebellious charm and spontaneity making me feel alive, like I was part of something bigger, something electric. But storms aren't sustainable. They burn bright, then tear everything apart in their wake.

Today, though, he looked like a man who'd finally stepped out of the storm—clean-shaven, sharp-eyed, and put together in a way that made me wonder if I'd been wrong about him all along.

So that's why there's still a pull—a whisper that maybe, this time, would be different. That the version of Simon who laughed with me under streetlights and kissed me like I was the only thing that mattered might finally stay.

And even if he doesn't…

With Simon, I knew what to expect—confusion, disappointment, a cycle that hurt but also made me feel alive. He was unpredictable, rebellious, and magnetic in a way that always drew me in, even when I knew better. When Simon screwed up, it was easy to point at the disaster he created, to let his mistakes overshadow my own.

But Arnold? There's no mess to hide behind. He doesn't just stay—he sees me. All of me. Or at least tries to. And that's the scariest part of all. Because with Arnold, I can't pretend the cracks don't exist. And sometimes, I'm not sure I want anyone to see them at all.

Eisenmeower meows, pulling me from my thoughts and, like always, grounding me to this moment and making me feel that pressure to stabilize my life. I shove the ring back into the drawer like it might burn me if I hold onto it for too long.

But safety? Being seen? That's a risk I'm not sure I'm courageous enough to take.

Then I think of how Simon looked today—better than he did in the good periods. The way he'd laugh like the world didn't stand a chance against him, or the way he'd surprise me with burgers and beer at midnight, making me feel alive and reckless.

The ticket is in my hand, trembling as I hover it over the trash can, but then I see his eyes, sweet and full of playful mischief, as he glided me through the city of brotherly love with a hint of where we were going. Both our electric laughs hit the quiet night.

So instead of dumping it, I grab my phone and finally respond to Rhonda's urgent text.

Me: Door will be open. Bring the expensive stuff.

Twenty minutes later, Rhonda bursts in with two bottles of wine that probably cost more than my rent. Her mascara is slightly smudged—the only sign that something's wrong.

"That absolute lunatic!" She kicks off her heels, already pouring generous glasses. "Showed up at my office with a MARIACHI BAND. Singing about our first kiss!"

I accept the wine, wondering if I should mention Simon's visit. But Rhonda's already pacing, gesturing with her glass.

"And you know what the worst part is? He looked good. Like, really good. All composed in this tailored suit—when did Thad start wearing suits?—talking about his new crypto, whatever..." She downs half her glass. "Did you know he's been secretly investing all these years? Has an actual portfolio now!"

"Sounds familiar," I mutter, thinking of Simon's pressed shirt and clear eyes.

Rhonda stops mid-rant. "What does that mean?"

Three glasses in, I finally tell her about Simon's visit—about the ticket, about the magazine.

"Holy shit. That bastard decides to get his shit together now. And let me guess—he comes back shiny and new, expecting you to fall at his feet. Classic." Rhonda refills our glasses. "Are you going to tell Arnold?"

The wine makes my head spin. "Tell him what? That my ex-fiancé wants me back? That I'm actually considering it because I'm scared of how real things are getting here?"

"Yes!" Rhonda sits up straighter, that dangerous gleam in her eye while she paces. "In fact... you should tell him you're thinking of going back to Philly, first class." She had to add, leaning forward, wine sloshing dangerously. "If he gets upset, you know he's serious about you. If he plays it off or acts cool..." She trails off meaningfully with a small shrug.

"That's…" I start, the wine loosening my tongue, "that's really messed up, Princess."

Rhonda grins like I've just confirmed her brilliance. "Totally messed up. But when have we ever made good decisions about men?" She raises her glass with a wink, all carefree charm. "To bad decisions?"

I clink my glass against hers, but the laughter doesn't come as easily as it should.

"You're really considering traveling to Philly, aren't you?" she presses, her tone softer now. "It's not just about the job, is it? You're scared of what happens if you stay. I've seen how you've lit up talking about it, and Phoebe has, too—when you let yourself talk about it. It could be your way out of... well, all of this."

I glance at my glass, swirling the wine to avoid her gaze. "I hate to admit it, but you're right... it's not just the job, Rhonda. It's Simon, it's Arnold, it's... me. I'm scared, okay? What if I go, and it's just another disaster waiting to happen? Or worse... what if I stay and ruin everything here instead?"

"Helga," she says, her voice uncharacteristically earnest. "You can't make every decision like it's a battle plan. You want the gig? Go for it. You don't want it? Stay. But don't let Simon's sudden 'I'm-a-new-man' act or your weird fear of Arnold seeing the real you be the reason you abandon ship again."

I flinch at the word again. Rhonda has a knack for hitting where it hurts, but she's not wrong. The weight of the Gilded Pages offer presses down harder, tangled up in the mess Simon left behind and the clarity Arnold offers, a clarity I'm terrified of trusting.

The idea of "testing" Arnold lingers in the back of my mind like a splinter I can't ignore—not because I think he'd fail, but because part of me knows I might actually go through with it. And if I did, I'd only be proving my worst fears about myself—that I'd push him away just to see if he'd come back. Because the truth is, I don't want to test him—not really. I want to trust him, but trust doesn't come easy for me.

Rhonda raises her glass again, her lipstick-stained grin full of mischief. "So... are you going to pack your bags or what?"

I shake my head, trying to ignore the unease creeping up my spine. "I don't know, Princess. But if I do, at least you'll help me pack the expensive stuff, right?"

She laughs, but her eyes search mine like she knows the question isn't just about the wine. Neither of us says it out loud, but we both know that I'm not just running toward an opportunity. I'm running away—from Simon, from Arnold, and most of all, from myself.

Later that night, I'm at Arnold's place, trying not to think about the ticket burning a hole in my jacket pocket. We're on his couch, Scout's head in my lap, Arnold's fingers delineating circles on my neck that make it hard to focus.

"You're quiet tonight," he murmurs against my hair.

I shift to face him, and unexpectedly, we're kissing. It's different from our other kisses—more desperate somehow, like I'm trying to memorize the taste of him. His hands slide under my shirt, and for a while, I forget about Simon, about tickets, about everything except Arnold's touch.

"I've been having a good time here... with you." That sounds awkward, but Arnold's hand motions deepen, making this even more difficult.

"Try to leave every customer satisfied." I feel him vibrant with his husky chuckle but also a light tremble. "Sorry, that was corny." He squeezes me. "I feel the same."

Lying here with him now, feeling his deep breathing against my shoulder, it hits me: I've been running from Arnold for years. Every time I saw that look in his eyes - that soft, maddening warmth - I bolted. Because deep down, I knew I couldn't give him what he deserved. He's steady and kind in ways I'll never be. And with me mayhem always follows.

I've loved him for as long as I can remember. But loving someone doesn't mean you won't hurt them. And with Arnold, it feels inevitable. With him, I can't pretend the cracks don't exist. And sometimes, I'm not sure I want anyone to see them at all.

But being seen? That's a risk I'm not sure I'm brave enough to take.

After lying in the dim light of his bedroom in silence, I force the words out. "I might be going back to Philadelphia."

His fingers, which had been drawing circles on my hip, still. "Oh?" His voice is carefully neutral.

"Yeah, there's this potential magazine gig... and some other stuff I need to sort out..."

"Other things you need to sort out." He repeats with a faint sigh at the end, and I hear in his tone that he's not as dense as he used to be. He knows or at least has an idea.

The silence stretches. In the low light, I can't read Arnold's expression, but I feel the slight tension in his body.

"Are you mad?" Finally, ask after the silence becomes painful.

"No," he says softly, resuming those maddening circles but now with some restraint. "I can't tell you what to do, Helga."

But there's something in his voice—a catch, a hesitation—that makes my throat burn.

Getting dressed feels like moving underwater. Arnold acts exactly the same—helps me find my shoe under the bed, hands me my jacket, and holds it open for me—but there's a new distance in his cautious movements. Scout picks up on it, too, letting out a soft whine from his bed in the corner.

As I head for the door, the silence between us feels like a wall I don't know how to climb. Arnold acts exactly the same—helping me with my jacket, finding my missing shoe—but it's the careful way he avoids meeting my eyes that leaves a hollow ache in my chest.

I tell myself this is what I wanted—no argument, no scene, no messy goodbyes. And yet, as he leans in for a goodbye kiss, soft and sweet as always, the quiet acceptance in his gaze feels heavier than any fight would have been.

Why does this hurt more than anger would? I almost want him to grab my arm, tell me not to go, and make me stay. I almost want him to yell, to tell me I'm making a mistake. But Arnold doesn't do that. He would never do that.

Instead, he just lets me go, and somehow, that makes it worse. Instead, he trusts me to decide. And somehow, that trust feels like a weight I'm not ready to carry.

The only real tell is the slight clench of his jaw when I mention my early flight tomorrow. As I start to turn away, I feel a tug on my jacket.

"Text me when you land?" His voice sounds steady, almost too normal, but his eyes betray him—a flicker of insecurity, maybe even frustration.

"Yeah, of course." I step into the hallway, waiting for... something. Some sign that I shouldn't go. But all he gives me is that gentle smile, the one that's always undone me, before closing the door.

My apartment is silent except for Eisenmeower pawing at his carrier. Arnold's jacket is still draped over the chair, its known scent anchoring me to the memory of last night—his steady hands, his quiet presence, his maddening ability to make me feel secure.

But how can either of us trust something when we're both too scared to name it?

Later, I send him my flight details, part of me hoping he'll show up at the airport and say something to make me stay.

He doesn't.

And I don't blame him.

The last text I get from him before boarding is simple: Be safe, Helga.

As the plane takes off, I think about all the times I've run away from this city, from him. The irony doesn't escape me—this time, I'm running back to someone else instead of just running away.

My phone buzzes with a text from Rhonda from her sober mind: Still think this is a good idea?

I stare at the clouds below, thinking about Arnold's painstaking neutrality and the way he didn't fight for me to stay. Maybe Rhonda's test worked too well...

Me: No. But when has that ever stopped me?

The plane starts to climb, and I glance at my phone one last time. His text glows on my screen: 'Be safe, Helga.' Three simple words, no dramatic declarations or demands. Just Arnold, giving me space I haven't earned, understanding me in ways I'm not ready to face. It would be easier if he fought harder if he tried to make me stay. His quiet acceptance feels like a weight in my chest - heavier than Simon's first-class tickets or promises of change. I close my eyes as the plane takes off; I think about all the times I've fled away from this city, from him. The irony doesn't escape me—This time, I'm not just running from Arnold. I'm running from the terrifying possibility that he might actually love me for who I am—cracks and all. And deep down, I know no matter where I go, that fear is coming with me.