Helga's POV
The temp agency's fluorescent lights seem determined to give me a migraine as I stare at another document that needs formatting. My fingers tap against the keyboard in an anxious rhythm, trying to focus on anything except the way my skin still tingles from this morning's memories.
The air reeks of stale coffee and toner, clinging to my clothes like a badge of misery. Overhead, the lights buzz faintly, their hum syncing with the overworked copier in an endless, monotonous loop. Even the walls seem drained of life, painted in a gray that perfectly matches how I feel sitting here.
The manuscript on my screen mocks me with its recycled self-help drivel, but my job is to align margins and ensure consistent fonts.
"Pataki," a voice snaps me out of my thoughts. One of the junior editors, a smug guy with glasses too big for his face, drops a stack of papers on my desk. "Redo these. The spacing's all wrong," he says, his tone sharp enough to cut through my patience.
I clench my jaw, fingers curling around the edge of my desk. "Sure," I mutter, keeping my voice even. One day, I'll tell him exactly where to shove his red pen. But not today.
The chair beneath me is as stiff as the editor's tone, the edges digging into my back every time I shift. My fingers ache from endless clicking and typing, yet my mind is miles away, replaying scenes from the story I actually want to be writing. The characters in my head clamoring for attention, their voices louder than the hum of the copier or the editor's barked orders.
I glance at the clock and exhale in relief—finally, it's time to leave this fluorescent purgatory behind.
"Ready for lunch?" Rhonda's voice cuts through my thoughts, her silhouette in the doorway like a beacon of escape. She looks like she's stepped straight off a runway, her self-made designer outfit turning every head in the room.
"Yeah, I'm actually done for the day. I have nothing left to give." I grab my bag and follow her to where Joel waits with the car. "You didn't have to come get me, Princess. I could've taken the bus."
"Please," she waves her hand dismissively as Joel opens the door. "What kind of gal pal would I be if I let you suffer on public transportation while you're car shopping?"
The leather seats of Rhonda's Mercedes embrace us as Joel pulls into traffic. I pull out my grocery list, adding cat food and some basic apartment supplies.
During the drive, Rhonda's voice withers into the background as she rants about all the drama between her staff and the hired models.
As interesting as her fashion world sounds, I can't focus. All I see is Arnold's hooded eyes burning into mine and his sweet tenor voice in my ear as his lips press against my neck.
She stops talking to reapply her makeup that came off during our quick lunch.
"So," Rhonda starts, tapping my thigh, her perfectly manicured nails making a faint clicking sound. I can feel her studying my profile, her gaze sharp and curious. "You seem... different today."
"What?" I try for neutral, but my voice edges into defensive territory.
Her flawless eyebrows arch as I turn to face her. "Oh honey, I know that glow." She folds her arms, her expression shifting into something almost devious. "Dish."
I busy myself with my phone, pretending to check emails I don't have. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Helga G. Pataki." Her tone is laced with years of friendship and an unnerving ability to see straight through me. "Come on." She nudges me playfully. "You forget I was there for the Simon phase, the Brad phase, and let's not forget that disaster with—"
"Fine!" I snap, though there's no real heat behind it. "If you must know... I might have spent the night with Arnold."
Rhonda's eyes sparkled, her grin widening like she'd uncovered the world's best-kept secret. "I knew it," she said, her voice rich with delight. "The way you two were looking at each other at the club? Sparks everywhere."
She leaned closer, wiggling her eyebrows and lowering her voice. "So... how was it?"
I shot her a look. "Look at you being a perv... Since when do you want details?"
Rhonda smirked but softened, her voice dropping a notch. "Helga," Rhonda said, leaning back in her seat, with her tone softening, "if you're scared, it's okay. But I've seen the way he looks at you. He's been halfway in love with you forever."
I scoffed, shaking my head as if to brush it off. "You're reading too much into this."
"Am I?" she countered, her eyes narrowing playfully but with a touch of sincerity. "You've got that look, Pataki—the one you used to have when we were kids, writing all those secret poems about him. Only now, it's like you're trying not to let yourself feel it."
Her words stayed with me, sticking stubbornly in my chest like a splinter I couldn't quite pull out, even as we drove on in silence.
"You know... " She starts, and I can tell by her tone that the conversation has shifted abruptly. "it's been ages since I've had anything worth discussing," she says while examining her manicure with forced casualness. "The last time I felt anything worth discussing was with..." She trailed off, her voice thinning. I noticed a slight tremor in her hand.
"Curly?" I ventured carefully.
Her shoulders stiffened at his name. "That obvious, huh?"
"Only to someone who's known you since pre-K," I replied, keeping my tone light but curious. "Have you seen him lately?"
Rhonda's laugh was soft, almost wistful. "Maybe... Thad is working as a..." She waved her hand vaguely. "Crypto day trader or something equally absurd. You know how he is."
The fondness in her voice was unmistakable, even as she tried to play it off. "But we're not talking about my entanglement," she said, nudging my arm. "We're talking about you and Arnold."
"How was it?" I sigh. Normally, I would give out the crass details, but this was different. "I mean, it's Arnold..." I stare out the window, watching Hillwood's familiar streets blur past. "And that's exactly why this thing can't be more than that. Too much history, too many expectations."
Rhonda makes a noise that clearly communicates her thoughts on my logic, but she doesn't push. It's why I can handle these conversations with her instead of Phoebe, whose concerned eyes would see right through to the truth I'm trying to ignore.
Joel pulls up to Green Meats, and I freeze at the acquainted storefront. The sign's been updated, but Harold's family name still sits proudly above the door.
"Want me to come in?" Rhonda offers, but I shake my head and clumsily climb out of the car, my mind still whirling from our conversation.
All outside feels like a time capsule, each storefront tugging at memories I've tried to ignore. I grip the doorknob, its cool metal grounding me in this moment. The bell chimes as I step inside, the clang stirring something bittersweet.
Harold's booming laugh carries from behind the counter. He's broader than I remember, but his face lights up with the same boyish enthusiasm.
The last time I saw ole pig boy, we were cheering our asses off at WrestleMania. It feels like a lifetime ago—simpler, easier.
"Helga? Helga G. Pataki?" He comes around the counter, arms wide. "I heard about you being back. What brings you to the old neighborhood?"
The smell of freshly ground beef mingles with the faint chime of the shop's doorbell, but I'm too distracted to notice much else as my phone buzzes.
"Oh, you know, work, life, and whatnot..." I don't know what I'm saying because my screen is blinking with a text.
Arnold: Want to come over tonight? I can cook dinner. Promise not to burn anything.
My hands suddenly feel clumsy as I try to respond, and I nearly drop my list.
Harold's voice seems distant as he talks about his kids and the shop's expansion. My mind is stuck on Arnold's next text, on the simple way he implies there could be more nights like this.
I can't help but wonder—what if it's just the loneliness talking? That thought twists in my chest. Of course, he'd say something like that. The guy's always been about saving people, about filling in gaps. Maybe I'm just another one of those gaps—a convenient cure for his loneliness. It's not the first time I've felt like a placeholder. But this time, it's Arnold, and that makes it harder to ignore the ache in my chest.
"Helga?" Harold waves a hand in front of my face. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"What? Oh, yeah." I shake off those thoughts. "Just... thinking about what to order."
I didn't plan to linger, but something nostalgic about Harold's laugh makes it impossible just to grab my things and leave.
When I finally go to vacate the premises with more meat than I planned to buy, Rhonda takes one look at my face and sighs. "Let me guess, you know who is blowing your phone. Go ahead and say yes, girl."
The streets fade outside the car window, but my thoughts stay fixed on Harold's laugh and Arnold's text, pulling me in two directions I wasn't sure how to reconcile.
Back at my apartment, I feed Eisenmeower and change clothes three times before settling on my original outfit. Changing clothes feels like preparing for battle—only this time, the enemy is my own caution. I remind myself this isn't a date, but my heart doesn't seem to care. You shouldn't look forward to this as much as you do, I think, but the thought doesn't stop me from smoothing down my shirt one last time. "just... having fun."
I debate asking Rhonda for another ride, but my pride won't let me. Miss Lloyd has already chauffeured me around enough today. After a quick check of my makeup—which I immediately scold myself for—I open the rideshare app on my phone.
The driver is chattier than I'd like, filling the car with stories about his kid's baseball games while I stare out the window, watching recognizable streets pass by. Then, the roads begin to obscure into a patchwork of old memories and new uncertainties as the car inches closer to Vine Street. My stomach does that annoying flip thing as we turn onto his street. All these years away, and my body still knows exactly how many blocks until we reach Arnold's.
"You can let me out here," I tell the driver when we're still half a block away. I need those extra steps to get my head straight, to remind myself this isn't some grand reunion. Just two adults hanging out. Maybe if I repeat it enough times, I'll actually believe it.
The boarding house looks different—modernized but still holding onto its character. Arnold meets me at the door, and my careful stillness slips at the sight of him in a simple blue henley, sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
"Welcome to my humble abode," he grins, stepping aside to let me in. A golden retriever bounds up, tail wagging furiously. "Sorry about dinner—emergency surgery ran late at the clinic. I literally just got home myself."
"Don't sweat it," I reply, letting my fingers graze the nose of the handsome dog sniffing at me. "Cool pooch."
"This is Scout," Arnold scratches behind the dog's ears. "He's basically my assistant at the clinic when he's not trying to steal food from the recovery ward." My heart jumps at the sight; Arnold always had such an obvious connection to animals. Pigeons, cats, dogs, they all loved the guy. When he raises back up, my eyes trace his toned physique before meeting his kind gaze. Who can blame them?
I look around, taking in the clean lines and organized space. I snag the eye of a young tenet carrying a laundry basket from the basement. He looks at me and gives me and Arnold a tiny nod before scouting down the hall. "This is... not what I expected."
He blinks, and his features twist into a smirk. "Let me guess—you thought it'd be all pizza boxes and gym socks?"
"Something like that." I run my fingers along his bookshelf, grinning at the mix of veterinary texts, baseball cards, and poetry collections. "Though the Neruda doesn't surprise me anymore."
He moves closer, and I can feel the heat of him even before his hand touches my waist. "I'm full of surprises these days."
Scout weaves between us, breaking the tension. Arnold runs a hand through his still-damp hair, the faint scent of hospital soap lingering in the air. "I was thinking we could cook together. I don't think anyone's using the kitchen. And I've got ingredients for pasta, or we could order in if you prefer."
"Cooking's fine," I say, following him to the kitchen and suppressing the adolescent excitement bubbling up in me. Stepping into Arnold's kitchen feels both familiar and strange, like walking into a memory that's somehow grown up. The faint scent of basil and lemon lingers, and sunlight spills through the window like it's been waiting just for this moment.
"Though if you burn anything," I say, grinning as I tie an apron around my waist, "I reserve the right to mock you forever."
Arnold chuckles, pulling out a recipe book with frayed edges and flipping it open to a page covered in faint smudges. "Fair warning," he says, scanning the recipe. "This is basically an experiment. The last time I tried it, I may have set off the fire alarm."
I raise an eyebrow. "Reassuring."
As we move around the kitchen, dodging Scout's enthusiastic attempts to snag scraps, our conversation shifts to simpler things—work, funny stories from the clinic, and the time I burned a grilled cheese in college because I got distracted writing poetry.
Arnold hands me a plate with an apologetic smile. "A little overcooked, but edible."
"Edible, huh?" I tease, sitting across from him at the small table. "That's some glowing confidence, Football Head."
He twirls his fork, his brow furrowing slightly as he carefully scoops up a bite, his focus almost endearing. "Let me know if I should alert the clinic for food poisoning."
I snort, stealing a piece of garlic bread before Scout can pounce. "I told you I'd get to mock you forever."
His laugh echoes warmly in the small kitchen, chasing away the lingering quiet, and for a moment, I forget the overcooked pasta entirely.
As we finish eating, the sunlight shifts across the table, drawing long shadows. Arnold leans back in his chair, his fork resting forgotten beside his plate. "You ever think about what we'd be doing if life had gone differently?"
The question throws me off guard, and I set my fork down, studying him. There's no teasing in his tone—just a quiet curiosity like he's wondered about this before.
"Sometimes," I admit, my voice softer than I intended. "But I think... things happen the way they're supposed to."
His eyes meet mine, warm and thoughtful. "Yeah. Maybe they do."
"I used to want to be an astronaut," he admits after a pause, leaning back against the counter. "Thought I'd explore the stars, discover new worlds."
I smirk, looking at the last piece of garlic bread. "Let me guess—you built a rocket out of trashcan lids and duct tape."
"Close," he says, grinning. "It was cardboard and aluminum foil. But it was a solid design. I even wore a fishbowl for a helmet."
I laugh, picturing a young Arnold, all wide eyes and impossible dreams. "And how far did this engineering marvel take you?"
"About three feet down the street before I realized I forgot snacks for the mission," he replies with mock solemnity.
Scout whines under the table, clearly displeased at being left out of the garlic bread negotiations.
The pasta ends up slightly overcooked, but neither of us cares as we pile our plates high and argue over who gets the last piece of bread. By the time we're done, the kitchen smells like basil and butter, and I'm pretty sure Scout's plotting a heist for the leftovers.
Arnold leans back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the window where the fading sunlight casts soft patterns on the floor. "You ever feel like we're all just figuring it out as we go? Like that cardboard rocket—half-built, a little messy, but full of hope?"
I pause, caught off guard again by the shift in his tone. "I think... most people don't even try to build the rocket," I say carefully. "At least you gave it a shot."
His smile is quiet this time, more thoughtful. "Maybe. I just hope it doesn't crash this time."
The weight of his words wavers for a beat before I nudge his foot with mine under the table. "Well, for what it's worth, this dinner didn't crash. Barely."
He laughs, the sound easing the tension like a gentle breeze. "High praise, Helga. I'll take it."
Eventually, we end up on his couch, Scout's head in my lap a part of me braces for the moment when the quiet will make it impossible to ignore what's really happening between us.
Arnold's eyes twinkle in a nearly childlike way when he reaches into one of his cabinets and pulls out a box.
I raise an eyebrow when he reveals a worn Scrabble box.
"Really, Football Head? Board games?" I cross my arms, fighting a smile. "What are we, twelve?"
"Come on," he sets it up on the coffee table, that familiar half-lidded gaze making my stomach flip. "Afraid I'll beat you with my expansive veterinary vocabulary?"
"Please," I scoff, but I'm already sitting cross-legged on the floor. "I eat pretentious words for breakfast."
We settle in, Scout curled between us, watching the tiles with suspicious interest. I pull my letters, immediately spotting the potential for "ZEALOT" - if I can just get the right opening.
"No writing-related words," Arnold declares, placing down "PAWS" with deliberate smugness.
"Criminy, way to set the bar low, Arnoldo." I counter with "QUIXOTIC," stretching across half the board and hitting a triple-word score. His impressed whistle makes me grin despite myself.
"Show-off," he mutters, but his eyes sparkle with challenge.
The game becomes a dance of sorts - him playing practical words like "SPLINT" and "FEVER," me responding with "EPHEMERAL" and "YEARNING."
Each round feels loaded with meaning we're both purposefully avoiding. "That's not a word," I protest when he puts down "ZARF."
"Is too," he says childishly and reaches for his phone, but I grab his wrist. "No phones. House rules."
"Since when do you follow rules?" His fingers hook mine, and suddenly, the game feels like a pretense for something else entirely.
"Since..." I trail off as his thumb traces my palm. "What was the question?"
He laughs softly, and I realize we've both leaned in over the board, letters forgotten. Scout takes advantage of our distraction to snag a tile in his mouth.
"Hey!" I reach for it, but Arnold catches my hand again, pulling me closer. "Let him have it," he murmurs, his voice soft but firm. His thumb traces a gentle line over my knuckles as he adds, "You're not as hard to read as you think, you know." I blink at him, my heart catching in my throat. His smile softens, almost as if to say, It's okay—I'm not going anywhere. "Now," he continues, his tone light again, "what's your next move?"
The tension between us hums like a live wire. Arnold's hand brushes mine, his thumb grazing my palm in a way that feels far too intimate for a simple game. My mind flickers to that nagging thought—what if I'm just another gap to fill, another way for him to soothe whatever's missing?
But then his fingers tilt my chin, and his eyes meet mine, enduring and warm. The doubt fades into the background, replaced by something softer that whispers I might be allowed to hold onto this moment. I don't know what it means or where it's going, but for now, it feels like enough.
The board gets knocked askew as his tongue slowly twirls around mine, and I forget all about scoring points. His hand cupped my face, and I thought about all the times I'd convinced myself I was just filling gaps, standing where something—or someone—else belonged. But here, now, it felt like more. His touch wasn't a placeholder; it was a promise, steady and warm like I was someone he didn't want to let go of. I've been here before—or somewhere like it. Trusted too much, too soon. And every time, it slipped through my fingers. Maybe Arnold was different, but wasn't that what I always told myself?
His hand slid up to cradle my cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over my skin as our breaths mingled in the space between us. The world outside felt distant, muted as if it had no claim on us here. His touch was grounding, as my fingers traced the line of his jaw, marveling at the quiet tenderness in his eyes.
This kiss isn't about proving something or distracting ourselves from the cracks in our lives. It feels like an answer to a question I've been too afraid to ask. For now, I let myself get lost in it, hoping the moment will last a little longer before reality catches up. My last coherent thought before losing myself in him is that maybe some risks are worth taking.
The city lights paint patterns on his ceiling as we lie there later, my head on his chest, his fingers outlining patterns on my skin. For a moment, Arnold's gaze shifted like he was searching for words that refused to come. The stillness hung heavier than I wanted to admit, an unanswered question lingering between us.
Scout snored softly in the corner, his legs twitching as if chasing something in his dreams. The golden glow of the city lights filtered through the blinds, casting soft, flickering shapes across the ceiling. My eyes followed the trail of light before settling on Arnold.
His face was peaceful, almost unguarded, as he rested his head back against the couch. One hand lay across his stomach. The other traced gentle patterns on my arm. The warmth of his touch sent shivers along my skin, a quiet contrast to the cool evening air drifting through the cracked window.
For a moment, his fingers paused. He shifted slightly, and his eyes met mine. There was no smile, no teasing glint—just quiet sincerity that left my chest feeling heavy yet full. His thumb brushed over the back of my hand, anchoring me here, steady and sure.
This felt like coming home—a feeling I'd always run from. But now, I stayed. Maybe trusting this, trusting him, wasn't such a risk after all. Or perhaps it was, but right now, I don't care; for now, I'd decided it was one worth taking.