Helga's POV

"Honestly, Gerald, if you mention your new grill one more time..." Phoebe's voice carries that particular blend of exasperation and affection she's perfected over years of marriage.

"But baby, did you see how those grill marks came out?"

I catch Arnold's eye across their new patio table, and we share a silent laugh. He gives me that half-lidded look that means I told you so, referring to our conversation about Gerald's grilling obsession. I respond with a slight eye roll that says, "Yeah, yeah, Football Head."

It's strange how easily we've fallen into this—our own private language of looks and subtle gestures. Like now, when Arnold's eyebrow twitches slightly at Gerald's enthusiasm about marinades, and I have to hide my smirk behind my wine glass.

"More wine, Helga?" Phoebe asks, already reaching for the bottle.

"Thanks, Pheebs." I watch her natural hostess routine with amusement. Some things never change—she's still taking care of everyone, just with more sophistication than our childhood tea parties.

"Man, remember when we used to think Mighty Pete's branches were the height of luxury seating?" Gerald settles back, arm draped casually around Phoebe's chair. I guess having us all together again has put tall-hair guy in a nostalgic mood.

"You mean when you two would make us all watch you practice your 'handshake' for hours?" I make air quotes, and Arnold chokes on his drink.

"Hey, that handshake was legendary!"

"Still is," Arnold adds, and they immediately launch into their routine, muscle memory carrying them through the complex sequence of movements.

"Boys," I mutter to Phoebe, but she's watching Gerald with that soft expression she gets sometimes, like she's still that middle schooler who blushed every time he walked by.

Under the table, Arnold's knee bumps mine. When I glance over, he's got that same dopey look on his face. Criminy, we're all turning into saps.

"Oh!" Phoebe suddenly straightens. "Did we tell you about Rhonda's latest dinner party plan?"

"You mean the molecular gastronomy thing?" Arnold asks. "Helga mentioned it."

"Mentioned what?" Gerald looks concerned. "Please tell me Curly's not cooking."

"Apparently, he's quite talented," Phoebe says diplomatically. "Though perhaps a bit... experimental."

"Translation: we're all going to die of food poisoning," I declare, earning another knee bump from Arnold.

"Be nice," he murmurs, but his lips twitch.

"Make me, Football Head."

Gerald makes gagging noises. "Y'all are worse than we ever were."

"Please," I scoff. "Mr. 'I wrote a rap about my wife's scientific achievements'?"

"That was spoken word!"

"That was tragic."

Arnold's shoulder shakes with silent laughter beside me. His fingers interlace with mine.

When Arnold gets up to help Phoebe bring out dessert, Gerald tilts forward slightly. "So Pataki, we done with surprise cross-country trips?" His tone is light, but his brown eyes are serious.

"Excuse me?" I bristle immediately.

He leans back, a half grin on his face. "Hey, just checking. My man's been walking around like he won the lottery lately. Would hate to see that change." He keeps his voice casual, but there's an edge of big-brother protectiveness there.

"Not that it's any of your business, Geraldo, but—"

Phoebe's return with the pie cuts off my retort, but I catch Gerald's meaning. And maybe, just maybe, I get it. My eyes naturally fly to Arnold grinning at Phoebe as he brings out more dessert, and I sense my scowl loosen. But that doesn't mean I won't spike his next drink with hot sauce, though.

Gerald mumbles something about Rhonda's dinner party, and I can't help myself. "Oh, criminy," I stand up, unable to resist. "Picture it: Rhonda in her designer apron—" I strike her classic pose, one hand on hip, the other gesturing fiercely. "'Thaddeus, darling, what exactly is that smoke? That better not be my new Valentino getting singed!'"

I switch poses, mimicking Curly's intense stare and wild gestures. "'My dear, that's not smoke—it's molecular transformation! The fusion of science and culinary artistry! Watch as I transmute this ordinary carrot." I raise my fork like it's the carrot dramatically. "into... CHAOS!'"

Gerald nearly spits out his drink, and Phoebe giggles behind her hand. But it's Arnold's expression that catches me off-guard—he's laughing, yes, but there's something else there, something soft and intense at once. That look he gets sometimes, like he's seeing something the rest of us don't.

"What?" I drop back into my seat, unexpectedly self-conscious.

"Nothing," he says, but his fingers rub my thigh under the table, squeezing gently.

Later, helping Phoebe with dishes while the guys argue about proper grill maintenance, I catch her watching me.

"What?"

"Nothing." She smiles that knowing smile. "You just seem happy."

"Yeah, well..." I focus intently on drying a plate. "Don't jinx it."

"Helga." Her tone makes me look over. "It's okay to be happy. To let yourself have this."

Before I can respond, arms wrap around my waist from behind. "Have what?" Arnold asks, resting his chin on my shoulder.

"Have the last piece of steak," I cover smoothly, but Phoebe's face says we're not done with this conversation...

The drive home is quiet and comfortable. Arnold hums along to the radio, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my knee. The city lights blur past, and I think about Phoebe's words. About letting myself have this.

"You're thinking too loud," Arnold says softly.

"Just wondering how we got here."

"Here specifically, or here metaphorically?"

"Both. Neither." I watch his profile in the passing streetlights. The way he checks his mirrors, regular as breathing, stable and reliable in a way my childhood never was. "Remember when we couldn't even be in the same room without me throwing something at you?"

His laugh is light, with eyes shutting briefly. "You still throw things at me."

"Yeah, but now I aim to miss."

He lifts our joined hands, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "Progress."

I lean back, letting the moment wash over me. Suppose Phoebe's right. Perhaps it's okay to let myself have this. To trust that sometimes, good things don't have to come with a catch.

My phone buzzes—a text from Rhonda about next week's dinner. Curly's practicing his liquid nitrogen techniques. Bring backup snacks.

I show Arnold the message, and our eyes meet in perfect understanding. Whatever chaos awaits us at Rhonda and Curly's, at least we'll face it together.

"We should bring fire extinguishers as host gifts," I suggest.

"Already ordered two."

And there it is—that language we're building, that understanding that goes beyond words. I catch Arnold's quick grin, returning it with my signature smirk. Maybe this is what growing up looks like: finding someone who gets your jokes and who anticipates your thoughts, which makes even the prospect of molecular gastronomy seem like an adventure worth having.

But I'm keeping that sappy thought to myself for now.