Two Sugars

Arnold arrived early at Patty's counter, measuring sugar with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. The morning team meeting wasn't for another half hour. Still, the coffee run had become his unspoken ritual - Phoebe's sencha green, Rhonda's precisely specified oat milk creation, Gerald's double shot of necessity. And Helga's...

A quiet voice behind him made him jump:

"You know, I can make my own coffee." Helga stood there, early too, amusement playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Force of habit," he managed, though they both knew it was more than that.

Behind the counter, Patty—who'd long since outgrown the cruel nickname of their childhood—watched with knowing eyes as she managed the café she and Harold had opened together.

"You know," she said, wiping down the espresso machine, "Harold used to get that same look when we were kids, and he was trying to pretend he wasn't interested in me. Back when everyone made fun of Harold for liking me." She smiled, the confidence of adulthood having replaced her teenage defensiveness. "Now look at us."

"I'm not—" Arnold started.

"Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that." She adjusted the business degree hanging behind the counter—Patricia Smith-Berman, MBA. "Some of us remember when neither of you wore such careful masks."

The walk back to the office felt charged with unspoken words. Arnold couldn't help noticing that Helga's blazer matched the exact shade of a certain pink bow from their childhood. The morning sun caught in her hair as she carefully maintained the precise distance between them that workplace etiquette demanded.

When they arrived, the team was already gathering. Phoebe's knowing look tracked their simultaneous entrance while Rhonda's perfectly manicured eyebrows rose at their careful dance of handing out drinks.

"These metrics are remarkable," Phoebe began, gesturing to her laptop screen. "User engagement surpasses every benchmark we've set."

"The privacy features made the difference," Helga observed from her customary spot, every inch the polished doctor despite the slight tremor in her hands. "Teenagers need that security."

"Speaking of teenagers," Rhonda cut in, "the interface design is clearly resonating. Though, I still think we could adjust the color palette for emotional expression—"

"No pink," Helga said firmly, just as Arnold said, "The colors are fine."

Gerald raised an eyebrow at their simultaneous response. "Right. The very meaningful color choices."

"The investor meeting is next week," Arnold said quickly, trying to redirect. "We need to focus on—"

"Your obvious chemistry? The way you finish each other's sentences? How about those function names in your code?" Rhonda smiled sweetly.

"The presentation deck," Arnold finished, feeling heat creep up his neck. "We need to prepare the presentation deck."

"Of course," Phoebe adjusted her glasses. "Though the investors might be interested in how well you two work together. From a purely business standpoint, of course."

Helga pointed at something on Phoebe's laptop, her stoic demeanor firmly back in place. "The therapeutic outcomes need to be front and center in the pitch," she said, focusing intently on the screen. "Investors will want hard data."

"The metrics speak for themselves," Phoebe noted, pulling up a new chart. "Particularly during your joint sessions. The therapeutic rapport you two establish seems to create a more conducive environment for emotional expression."

"That's because of our combined expertise in child psychology," Arnold said quickly, though he felt his ears burning.

Rhonda turned to her design slides. "Which is why I've updated the interface to reflect that natural harmony in the color gradients. Notice how certain shades complement each other, creating a subtle but meaningful—"

"The investor deck," Helga cut in firmly. "We need to focus on the investor deck."

"Of course." Phoebe pulled up the presentation outline. "I suggest we lead with the market analysis, then transition into the therapeutic framework, followed by the technical implementation. Arnold and Helga should present those sections together, given their obvious synergy—"

"Professional synergy," Arnold added quickly.

"Is there another kind?" Gerald asked with a grin.

Helga stood, gathering her notes. "I have patient files to review before my afternoon sessions. Send me the deck updates, and we can... formally collaborate on the final version."

"We should practice the presentation," Arnold said before he could stop himself. "To make sure we're in sync."

Something flickered in Helga's eyes—amusement, maybe challenge. "Fine. Tomorrow. Your office."

"Or we could offer our living room," Phoebe suggested. "More corporate-like than the smell of pastrami."

"Your office is fine," Helga told Arnold, ignoring Phoebe's offer. "The pastrami is... tolerable."

After she left, Arnold became very interested in organizing his desk, avoiding his friends' looks.

"The investor preparation—" Arnold started.

"Is clearly going well," Phoebe interjected, tapping something into her tablet. "My analysis shows a 92% increase in productivity when you work together. Though I'm tracking other metrics, too."

"Like what?"

"Like how often you both forget to maintain that careful distance," Rhonda chimed in from her design station.

"There is no otherwise," Arnold insisted, though he was still straightening things that didn't need straightening.

"Sure," Rhonda said, gathering her designs. "That's why you both light up every time you're in the same room."

"Don't you all have work to do?" Arnold asked desperately.

"Don't you have function names to make less revealing?" Gerald countered.

After they finally left, Arnold sat staring at his notes, trying to focus on the investor pitch and not on how the morning sun had caught in her hair or how she'd hidden a smile in her coffee cup when he remembered her order, or how that pink blazer had made him think of childhood poetry and hidden feelings.

His phone buzzed—Helga: The deck needs work. Tomorrow, 9 AM. Bring coffee.

Then immediately: With two sugars.

Arnold found himself smiling at his phone like a teenager. Tomorrow, they'd work on the pitch. Tomorrow, they'd maintain their careful distance. Tomorrow, they'd be completely proper.

But right now, he let himself remember the way she'd looked, saying "tolerable," and how some things were worth tolerating pastrami for.