Arnold's POV

The beagle on my exam table whimpers as I clean her stitches, her tail wagging despite the discomfort. "Almost done, Maya," I murmur, breathing in the clinic's familiar mix of antiseptic and fur. The fluorescent lights cast a clean, sterile glow over the room while the soft hum of equipment fills the quiet space. "You're being so brave."

Maya came in last week with a nasty gash from hopping a fence—classic beagle mischief. Her owner, Mrs. Chen, stands in the corner, clutching her purse tightly. Her anxious gaze flits between Maya and me, her lips pressing into a thin line every time the pup lets out a soft whimper. Sometimes, I think the owners need more reassurance than their pets.

I offer a calming smile as I gently stroke Maya's head. "She's healing beautifully," I say, finishing up with a treat from my pocket. Maya takes it eagerly, her tail wagging harder, and I notice Mrs. Chen's shoulders relax slightly. "Just keep the cone on for three more days, and we'll see you next week for the final check."

Scout lifts his head from his corner bed as Mrs. Chen and Maya leave, his tail thumping lazily against the floor. He's been extra attentive today, probably picking up on my distraction. Every time my phone buzzes, I glance at it, hoping for Helga's name to appear, even though I know she's knee-deep in her temp job.

My thoughts drift unbidden to the way she moved this morning—graceful, unhurried, her bare legs disappearing into her pants, and her eyes gleaming with that signature glint of mischief. The memory tugs at my focus, a warm distraction that remains longer than it should.

"Dr. Shortman?" Aarika Jenkins, our receptionist, pokes her head in, snapping me out of my haze. I startle slightly, adjusting my stance as if caught doing something I shouldn't. "Your four o'clock canceled. Want me to move up your five?"

I glance at my phone - 3:45. "Actually, I'm meeting Gerald at five. Could you reschedule them for tomorrow?"

Aarika gives me a knowing look. She's worked here long enough to know my Thursday basketball games with Gerald are sacred. "Already done. Your last patient is Mr. Watson's cat for vaccines."

After the cat - who lives up to his name "Demon" - I change into basketball shorts and a worn PS 118 t-shirt in the clinic's bathroom. My reflection catches my eye, and I notice I'm grinning like an idiot. The same grin that's been plastered on my face since Helga left this morning.

When I arrive, Gerald is already at the court, practicing three-pointers. We've been meeting at this same court since high school, though the graffiti has changed, and the chain nets have been replaced with nylon ones.

"Man, you're late," he calls out but tosses me the ball anyway. No "hey" or "what's up" - we don't need those anymore.

I sink a shot from the free-throw line, feeling the familiar rhythm settle into my muscles. "Had a beagle with stitches and a cat that tried to murder me."

"Mmm mmm mmm." Gerald's signature sound carries two decades of friendship and understanding. He steals the ball, driving past me for a layup. "That all that happened today?"

I grab the rebound and dribble back to the three-point line. "What do you mean?"

Gerald just gives me that look—the same one he gave me when I tried to convince him I wasn't upset about my parents staying in San Lorenzo when I pretended I was fine after breaking up with Emma and when I claimed I was over Helga leaving after their wedding without saying goodbye.

"Nothing," he says, but his defensive stance is loose, inviting me to talk. "Just noticed you haven't checked your phone once since you got here."

I fake left and drive right, but he knows my moves too well. He blocks the shot easily.

"Usually, you're checking messages from the clinic between games," he continues, dribbling slowly. "Making sure no one needs you to come back in."

The ball bounces between us, a steady rhythm that matches my heartbeat. "Aarika knows to call if there's an emergency."

"Uh-huh." Gerald sinks another three-pointer. "And that smile you're trying to hide? That from the beagle, too?"

I wipe sweat from my forehead, buying time. But Gerald just waits, patient as always. He's got that same expression he wore when we were kids, and he knew I was about to suggest something crazy - like finding a ghost train or saving a neighborhood.

"Something happened. With Helga." The words come out awkward despite my attempt at casual.

Gerald catches the ball, his face breaking into a genuine smile. "Finally! Man, the way you two were looking at each other at our place..." He spins the ball on his finger. "About time you did something about it."

"After that night, we've been... seeing each other."

"Seeing each other?" The ball stops spinning as Gerald processes this. His smile fades slightly, replaced by something more cautious. "Like, casual seeing each other, or..."

I focus on dribbling, avoiding his gaze. "I don't know. It's... kinda complicated."

"Complicated?" His defense gets more aggressive - not angry, just... protective. The initial excitement in his voice shifts to concern. "Man, with Helga, it's always complicated. Remember how she disappeared after the wedding?"

We play in silence for a few minutes, the ball's bounce and our sneakers squeaking against the concrete, filling the space. Finally, Gerald stops mid-dribble.

"Look," he says, softer now, "I get it. Trust me, I do. And yeah, I was hyped seeing you two connect again the other night. But..." He hesitates, wrestling between being supportive and being protective. "You've been hung up on Helga for years, even when you tried dating other women." Watched you mope for months after she left." He takes the ball from me and spins it on his finger. "I'm not saying don't see her. But you can't go about things like you have with other women. Helga's got a way of dashing when things get sticky. If you're in, you gotta meet her more than halfway." Our eyes meet. "Just... be careful, alright."

I think about Helga in my kitchen last night, flour on her nose as she helped make pasta. About Scout immediately curling up in her lap like he'd known her forever about waking up this morning to find her wearing my t-shirt and reading Pablo Neruda.

"I know what I'm doing," I say, but we both hear the uncertainty in my voice.

Gerald sighs, then suddenly grins. "Sure you do, Arnold. Sure you do." He checks the ball to me, hard. "Now, come on, show me if your jump shots are as rusty as your dating game."

After Gerald's warning about Helga, we play in silence for a few minutes, the sound of the ball echoing off the court. My mind churns with his words, but I push the thoughts aside, focusing on the rhythm of the game. Eventually, Gerald stops mid-dribble, leaning casually against the fence.

"By the way," he says, breaking the quiet, "Lila stopped by the shop yesterday."

I raise an eyebrow. "Yeah? How's she doing?"

He shrugs, but there's a weight behind it. "Says she's fine, but you know Lila. Always smiling, even when she's holding the world on her shoulders."

I nod, recalling the last time I really talked to her. Lila's smile had been bright as ever, but there was something different—something worn and tired like she'd been holding it together for too long.

Helga's voice floats back to me, repeating something Lila once said to her: Hardly perfect these days, Helga. Life has a way of... well, you know.

"She mentioned her family," Gerald continues, pulling me from my thoughts. "Said Arnie's been in and out again, and her dad's health isn't great."

"Arnie," I mutter, shaking my head. "He never could stick around, could he?"

"It's not just him," Gerald says, his voice quieter now. "She hinted at things not working out the way she thought they would—career stuff, life stuff. You know that look people get when they're barely keeping it together?"

I nod again, the image of Lila's weary smile lingering in my mind. She always had a way of making everything seem effortless, but now I wonder how much of that was for show. "Guess we've all got our scars," I murmur, passing the ball back to Gerald.

He catches it with a smirk. "Some of us just hide them better than others."

His words hang in the air as we keep playing under the streetlights, sneakers squeaking against the pavement. Lila's worn smile fades from my mind, replaced by Helga's face—her smirk, sharp and teasing, the way she wields her wit like a shield. But it's in those rare moments when her voice softens, and her eyes betray the truth that I feel like I really see her. Those are the moments I keep coming back for—not because her sharpness pushes me away, but because her honesty, when it comes, pulls me in.

As the game winds down, Gerald's words echo in the steady rhythm of the ball on the pavement. He's not wrong—Helga's always been complicated, and I've made my share of mistakes. But this time feels different.

Driving home, the streetlights blur through the windshield, casting fleeting streaks of light across the dashboard. At a red light, I glance at my phone, half hoping for a message from her. The empty screen stirs a flicker of doubt, but I tell myself she's probably busy or winding down for the night.

By the time I pull into my driveway, my thoughts are still circling. Later, I shower, stretch on my couch with Scout, and stare at my phone. There's a text from Helga: Your dog keeps showing up in my dreams. I'm pretty sure he's plotting something.

I smile, typing back: He's definitely the mastermind between us.

The three dots appear, disappear, and appear again, like they're mimicking the rhythm of my heartbeat. Finally:

Helga: Getting ready for bed. Early meeting tomorrow. Night, Football Head.

I stare at her last message, the faint smile on my face lounging. All that worry—over nothing. She's busy, just like I told myself. But the playful warmth in her words reminds me that I'm not some passing thought to her.

Settling back against the cushions, I'm feeling a little lighter.

Still, I have to stop myself from typing Miss you already and settle for: Sweet dreams, Helga.

The moment lingers, heavy as I stare at the screen, my chest tight. The three dots appear, then disappear, and for a second, I wonder what she almost said, too.

A flashback hits me—other girls pulling back, their words laced with faint apologies about me being "too nice." Suddenly, adding a heart emoji feels bigger than it should, like crossing an unseen line. But then her laugh echoes in my mind, teasing and light, pulling me back to her. I can almost feel the warmth of her fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles on my chest like she's drawing her place there. It makes holding back nearly impossible. Still, I let my thumb hover for a second longer before I finally hit send.

Scout lifts his head to look at me, and I swear he's channeling Gerald's look from earlier—part teasing, part warning.

"I know, I know," I tell him, scratching behind his ears. "I'm in danger."

He wags his tail in agreement, and I let my head fall back against the couch, my thoughts drifting. Gerald's voice lingers in the background, mixing with memories of the way Helga looked this morning—half-asleep and wearing my shirt.

Yeah, I'm in danger. But maybe a little trouble is worth it.

Scout shifts closer, his tail thumping against the cushions like a quiet reminder, and Gerald's comments settle deeper into my mind.

I don't have all the answers, but I know where I stand. Whatever comes next, I'm ready to meet her halfway.