Arnold's POV

Rhonda's new townhouse looks exactly like you'd expect—sleek, modern, and currently filled with what appears to be kitchen-themed science equipment. Helga squeezes my hand as we approach the door, both of us eyeing the mysterious vapor escaping from under it.

"Ready?" I ask.

"Not even close," she grins, that wild spark in her eyes that still makes my heart skip. "But when has that ever stopped us?"

Before we can knock, the door flies open. Curly stands there in a chef's coat and safety goggles, his usually neat undercut slightly singed at the edges. "Welcome to the future of dining!" he announces with characteristic intensity.

"Thaddeus!" Rhonda's voice carries from somewhere inside. "What did we say about appropriate greeting volumes?"

"Inside voices, my love!" He ushers us in with elaborate gestures. "But how can one contain their excitement when science and cuisine collide?"

The kitchen is... something else. What I assume was once Rhonda's pristine cooking space now resembles a cross between a laboratory and a war zone. Various machines whir and bubble, and something in a tall glass cylinder is definitely glowing.

"Don't worry," Curly stage-whispers, noticing our expressions. "The glow is completely non-toxic. Probably. "

"Probably?" Rhonda emerges from another room, looking impeccable despite the chaos. "Thaddeus, we discussed this—no possibly toxic substances!"

Helga grabs my eye, that mischievous glint I know so well. Within seconds, she's between them, somehow simultaneously calming Rhonda and encouraging Curly's enthusiasm. She fills every space she enters and commands attention without trying.

"Arnold, darling." Rhonda pulls me aside while Helga and Curly debate the molecular structure of pasta. "Be a dear and help me open some wine. We're going to need it."

In the relative calm of Rhonda's wine room (because, of course, she has a wine room), she fixes me with that penetrating stare she's perfected since grade school. "You two seem good."

"We are." I select a bottle, wondering what's coming next.

"Good." She pauses meaningfully. "Don't mess it up. My Hellgirl deserves someone that'll be good to her." She shakes her head. "I've seen her go through a lot of wretchedness over the years."

Before I can respond, there's a loud pop from the kitchen, followed by Curly's delighted laughter. We rush back to find some sort of foam experiment has covered half the counter. Helga's actually helping him adjust the mixture while simultaneously keeping Rhonda from having a complete meltdown about her Italian marble surfaces.

Observing her now, trading quips with Curly about molecular gastronomy while somehow keeping Rhonda from having a breakdown about the experimental sauce situation, I'm struck again by how naturally she handles when things fall into shambles.

She burns so brightly sometimes that it almost hurts to look at her. Part of me is still waiting for the moment she realizes she's settled for the Boy Scout, the safe choice. The other part knows that conceivably, for the first time, being the simple guy isn't a weakness—because Helga's never wanted me to be anything else.

She glances over, detecting me eyeing her. For a moment, that same vulnerability I saw at Gerald and Phoebe's traces across her face—like she's waiting for me to realize something, too. Then Curly's latest creation starts smoking, and we're all busy preventing what he calls "a minor culinary revolution" and what Rhonda terms "a potential insurance nightmare."

Dinner itself is... interesting. Each course comes with a scientific explanation from Curly and increasingly elaborate hand gestures. Some dishes fog, others spark, and one actually changes color as we eat it.

"The garnish is flash-frozen using liquid nitrogen," Curly explains, his enthusiasm infectious. "The temperature differential creates a sensation of—"

"Hon," Rhonda interrupts patiently. "Let them eat before it melts. Or explodes. Or whatever this one does."

Under the table, Helga's knee bumps mine. We've developed our own silent language for these moments—slight gestures, shared glances. When she raises an eyebrow at the glowing sauce, I respond with a tiny shrug that says at least nothing's on fire yet .

"Remember when dates meant pizza and movies?" I murmur as Curly prepares what he's calling "dessert fog."

"Boring," she whispers back, but her hand finds my wrist, squeezing gently.

Later, walking home through Hillwood's quiet streets, Helga recreates Curly's most dramatic moments, making me laugh despite myself. She's always been good at impressions, at capturing people's essence.

"Admit it," she bumps my shoulder. "You had fun."

"It was certainly memorable."

"Please, I saw you getting into the science of it all. Once a geek, always a geek."

"Says the girl who spent twenty minutes discussing molecular bonds with Curly."

She stops walking, tugging my arm until I face her. "You know what I realized tonight?"

"That we should upgrade our fire extinguishers?"

"No," Helga snorts. "That they work." At my confused look, she continues. "Rhonda and Curly. They're chaos and order, completely different rhythms, but they work. Because they don't try to change each other."

I study her face, gradually turning red in the streetlight, letting what she's really saying sink in. "Yeah," I say softly. "They do."

She kisses me then, quick and fierce, before pulling me along. "Come on, Football Head." Helga uses her long limbs to jet ahead. "I want ice cream." She turns around, jogging backward to say: "that doesn't need safety goggles to eat."

I pick up my speed to follow, like I always have like I think I always will. Possibly, that's the secret—not trying to keep up with her light but being steady enough to help it shine brighter.