Continued Arnold's POV
I follow her up the stairs, hyper-aware of our proximity. The confidence from the club hasn't completely faded, but something more tender has taken its place. At her door, I position myself cautiously—close enough to show intent but not so close as to make her uncomfortable. Though after tonight, those discreet calculations feel more like habit than necessity.
Her fingers work the locks, and I'm struck by how different this is from our encounter at The Blue Room just days ago. There's no pretense now, no safe dance of words and glances—just the sound of rain and the electricity between us.
"Nice place," I say, though I'm barely looking at the apartment. I can't take my eyes off Helga as she removes her wet shoes and tiptoes through the space with natural grace. I follow suit, aware that my stance has shifted—there's nothing left of the hesitant boy who used to help her up after she'd deliberately bump into me. Now, I watch her with an intensity I can't hide, remembering how I felt at Gerald and Phoebe's wedding reception when she disappeared into the crowd just as I'd finally found my courage.
"It's nothing fancy," she says, dropping her keys. "Not like your high-rise view of the city."
I shake my head, modestly grinning. "That view is overrated." My eyes track her moments, and I feel my body tensing, "especially when there's no one to share it with."
Helga pauses, her fingers brushing the edge of the counter, now avoiding my gaze. "Guess we've both spent a lot of time alone lately, huh?"
"Too much," I admit, my words out before I can stop them.
She blinks a few times, her shoulders pinned up. "Drink?" There's her typical deflection skills at play.
"Sure," I answer, going along with it for a second, noticing how she turns away, but not before I notice the flush on her cheeks.
While she busies herself with glasses and wine, I move closer, unable to maintain the polite distance any longer. Five years of wanting, of collected poetry books and what-ifs, have led to this moment.
"Helga," I say, taking the glasses from her hands and setting them down. "I know you said the timing was bad."
"It is." But she doesn't step back.
"Then why did you invite me up?"
"Because..." She meets my eyes, and I watch her characteristic sharp wit fade into something more vulnerable. She glances down, gripping her forehead before meeting my gaze again. "Because maybe I'm tired of waiting for perfect timing."
"As I said, timing's never really been our thing, has it?"
"True, but it doesn't have to be perfect, just real." Her voice is barely above a whisper.
"You know," my voice is rough as I cup her face, finally allowing myself this touch, "I used to watch you at those college parties—all that wild energy, all that passion. You were like this force of nature I couldn't look away from." I trace her cheekbone with my thumb, years of restraint dissolving. "But you were always running, and I... I was always too careful, too slow." I frown, guilt creeping in. "But then again, I did my share of running before you did... if you recall."
"And now?" Her whisper sends shivers down my spine.
I want to tell her everything—how much I've thought about this, how much I've thought about her—but the words catch in my throat. I've always been better with gestures than confessions. It's safer that way. Words have weight, and I'm not sure she's ready to carry all of mine.
I've spent so long watching her from a distance, trying to figure her out, waiting for the right moment to say or do the right thing. Always holding back, afraid of scaring her off or of being too much. But standing here now, with her so close, But timing doesn't matter—what matters is her. She's right here, waiting too. If I hold back now, I'll lose her. And I can't let that happen.
If I hold back now, I'll lose this moment. Lose her.
Her eyes meet mine, wide and unguarded, and suddenly it's clear—she's waiting, too. Maybe she always has been.
"Now I'm done being careful with you, Helga."
And then we collide like magnets. When I kiss Helga, it's nothing like I've visualized all these years. It's better—hot, natural, and a little clumsy. Our noses bump, our breaths mingle, and it's amazing, even in its messiness. The heat between us builds slowly, then all at once, spreading through me like wildfire. This is beyond anything I could have dreamed—raw and real and utterly us.
We move toward her bedroom, leaving behind the wine and years of hesitation. Each touch feels like discovering something I've always known but never fully understood. Her fingers in my hair, her heartbeat against my palm, the way she whispers my name—it's everything.
"Helga," I breathe against her neck, trying to pour years of feeling into that single name.
We stumble through her apartment, shedding rain-soaked clothes as we go. The damp fabric clings to my skin before hitting the floor, the cool air brushing against my chest. In the dim light, I meet her eyes, asking without words. Her answer comes in how she pulls me closer, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw, her breath warm and uneven against my cheek, the smile she can't seem to hide even as she kisses me.
This isn't like anything I've experienced before. It's not the rushed passion of youth or the careful consideration I usually pride myself on. It's something deeper—like finding a missing piece of myself I didn't know was lost. Her hair, still damp from the rain, brushes against my skin, carrying the faint scent of lavender.
Time loses meaning, measured only in heartbeats and shared breaths. The rhythmic drumming of rain against the window fades, replaced by the soft rustle of sheets as we move together. Her bare skin feels like satin beneath my fingertips, warm and alive, each touch speaking the words we've both held back for too long. The way we fit together feels inevitable, as though the universe has been quietly leading us to this moment all along.
Morning finds me lying on my back, Helga's wild, silky hair scattered across my chest. Even the wail of passing sirens doesn't disturb her sleep. Her hair spills across the pillow like threads of sunlight, and every soft exhale against my neck sends my pulse into overdrive. She feels and smells so perfect that I want to freeze this moment, capture it like one of her poems. I can't decide if this is a dream or if reality finally caught up to something I've been chasing for years.
When my stomach eventually protests, I delicately extract myself from the bed, hop into my pants, and pad to her kitchen. I find her cat sprawled across the counter. "Hey there," I murmur, gently relocating the cat to his bed in the living room—some habits from the clinic surfacing.
I'm halfway through making breakfast when she emerges, wearing my shirt from last night, her hair perfectly tousled. The sight stops me mid-motion. I can practically hear an 80's sax. All she needs is a wind machine, and I'm done for.
"I see you made your way to the kitchen," she smirks, grabbing an apple. "Typical guy."
I laugh, plating the scrambled eggs and bacon. "Here," I remember how she barely touched the food at Gerald and Phoebe's, too caught up in our dance of glances and almost-touches.
"This is for me?" she asks, her voice soft, almost disbelieving. Her fingers hover over the edge of the plate, hesitant, like she's unsure if it's really hers to take. That familiar flicker of vulnerability flashes across her face, gone as quickly as it came, but I catch it.
It's the same look she used to have when someone offered her a hand instead of a shove—like she didn't trust it, but part of her wanted to. That hint of surprise at basic kindness—I've known it since we were kids.
Her fingers hesitate just above the plate, and it makes my chest tight. It's like she doesn't know what to do with it, as though kindness is a foreign language she's still learning. I've seen that look before, but this time it's different. It hits me then: maybe no one's ever really done this for her before.
That realization is both heartbreaking and perfect. Because Helga G. Pataki shouldn't look so startled by someone wanting to take care of her, but I'm selfishly glad I get to be the first.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes fixed on the plate, and I can't help but wonder what kind of world she's lived in where something as simple as breakfast feels unfamiliar.
"The last time someone made me breakfast…" she starts, then stops, her brow furrowing as if brushing off a memory she doesn't want to share.
Her hesitation wavers between us, and I feel a tug in my chest, like I'm seeing a part of her she doesn't usually let anyone see. I don't press her to finish. Some silences are better left untouched. "Well," I say gently, trying to lighten the moment, "let's make this one a better memory."
She looks at me then, her lips curving into the smallest of smiles. "You're such a sap, Football Head."
"Maybe," I reply, grinning as I take a seat across from her. "But you didn't say no to the eggs."
Her gaze moves from the eggs to my direction, with a sentimental look I rarely see in them. "Thanks," she says so low I almost didn't hear her, her eyes fixed on the plate as she brushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
"Of course," I say, keeping my tone casual as I make my own plate and join her. I've learned that pushing too hard only makes her walls go up faster.
"What's your cat's name?"
"Eisenmeower."
"Nice name," I chuckle, spotting his bowl. "May I?"
When she nods, her eyes smile, and I quickly tend to his breakfast, falling into the comfortable routine of caring for animals.
Silence settles as we eat, just the low sound of utensils clinking, but it's not the awkward kind. My eyes keep finding her, taking in her morning glow, still processing the reality of last night.
"So, um," I start gradually, "what happened between us?" My brows knit together. "I hope that wasn't too fast or that I didn't rush things."
She shakes her head, mouth full, and I feel relief flood through me. After she swallows, she says, "It's not like you were alone in all of that. These things happen..." She immediately bites her bottom lip, causing my brain to momentarily shortcircuit.
I glance out the window, twisting my fork as I'm wrestling with my next question. "Was it... a good thing?"
She nods, color rising in her cheeks. "It was a great thing," she mumbles, covering her mouth.
"Ah, great, I agree." I can't help but grin. "Before I clean up, do you need anything else?"
"I'm not answering that question..." Her voice drips with suggestion.
I turn to her, biting my bottom lip, hyper aware of her eyes traveling down my bare chest. The way her eyes linger sends a spark through me, but I keep my tone casual. "And why is that?"
"Because you can't handle it."
"Hmm," I stroke my chin thoughtfully. "I think I proved that I could last night."
"Don't flatter yourself, Football Head." But her eyes tell a different story, making it increasingly difficult to maintain my gentlemanly composure.
I close the distance between us, hands finding her hips, wanting to say more about how I feel and what last night meant. But the words catch in my throat at the rare look of defenselessness on her face. I'm hoping she can read it all in my eyes anyway—how long I've wanted this, how right it feels, how I don't want it to be just one perfect night. But if I say that, will she view me as the too-nice or safe guy?
I'm not sure... I'm never really sure with Helga.
So I simply say, "Too late," before scooping her into my arms. I can't help but think—if we can keep having moments like this, time will take a pause, and the rest of the world won't matter. I'm learning that sometimes actions speak louder than words. But with her, I hope the words will come too—in time.