Chapter Text
The lobby of Northstar Creative smelled like expensive roast coffee and high-stakes ambition. It was February 14th, and the air was thick with the performative romance of the corporate world—red roses on reception desks and the frantic clicking of heels as people rushed toward dinner reservations.
Arnold stood by the elevators, nursing a lukewarm latte.
Then she arrived.
Helga Pataki didn’t just enter a room; she shifted it. Today she was in a charcoal-gray power suit that made her look taller than she already was, golden hair pulled into a sleek knot at the nape of her neck. Two guys from Creative flanked her, laughing at something she’d said.
“Helga! You got a second for the quarterly?” someone called from across the lobby.
She lifted a hand without slowing.
As she neared the elevators, her eyes flicked sideways. She caught Arnold looking.
“Morning, Shortman.”
“Morning, Helga.”
The doors slid shut, leaving behind sandalwood and something sharper.
__
By midmorning, the break room buzzed under fluorescent light.
Helga leaned against the stainless steel counter, phone in hand.
Sid from Marketing leaned too close. “Rooftop bar. Skyline view. No paper hearts.”
“Sounds windy,” Helga replied, eyes still on her screen. “I’ve got allergies.”
He lingered. She didn’t look up.
“I’m busy,” she added.
Sid left.
Helga reached for the sugar across the island.
Arnold slid it toward her.
“Saved me a step,” she said, meeting his eyes.
“You looked like you’d had enough for the morning.”
Her gaze held a fraction longer than necessary.
“You’re too observant.”
“It’s a gift.”
A short laugh left her. She took her coffee and walked out.
__
By afternoon, the conference room ran hot.
“If we push to March, we keep accuracy,” Helga said, clicking to the final slide. “I’d rather be late and right than early and unemployed.”
“The numbers are soft,” a director cut in.
“She’s right.”
The room turned.
Arnold stood at the back of the table. “The projections account for the leap year adjustment. March stabilizes Q3.”
Helga looked at him, something steady in her expression.
“As I was saying,” she continued.
__
By six, most of the office had emptied.
Arnold’s monitor cast a pale glow across his desk.
A shadow fell over the keyboard.
“You’re still here.”
Helga stood beside him, blazer gone, silk blouse catching the light.
“Finishing notes,” Arnold said. “You?”
“Escaping pink bears and prix fixe menus.” She tapped a pen against his desk. “You got a date?”
“No.”
She circled his desk slowly, then sat on the edge. Close.
“I overheard Sid,” Arnold said. “About the rooftop.”
Helga tilted her head. “And?”
“If you’re free—”
“Arnold.” Her voice lowered. “Are you going to ask me out, or are we going to keep orbiting each other until we both get promoted out of reach?”
He smiled. “Dinner. Now. Somewhere without paper hearts.”
She slid off the desk.
“Try to keep up, Shortman.”
__
Exposed brick. Bourbon in the air. No tablecloths.
Helga kicked her heels off beneath the booth.
“You don’t strike me as a Valentine’s dive bar guy.”
“I’m not,” Arnold said. “But I figured you’d prefer something that doesn’t come with a violinist.”
She stirred her drink. “Sid thinks the right view changes the equation.”
“I’m not looking for soft.”
Her eyes lifted.
“I’m looking for real.”
Silence settled between them.
She reached across the table, fingers resting against his wrist. Warm. Steady.
“I’ve been watching you too,” she said. “You don’t compete for air. That’s rare.”
__
The night air cut sharp.
They stopped under a streetlamp.
Helga stood close enough that his coat brushed her sleeve.
“You’re very confident for someone who waited two years,” she said.
“You noticed?”
“I notice everything.”
Arnold stepped closer.
“I didn’t want to rush it,” he said. “Not with you.”
Her hand moved to his collar. Fingers sliding down, flattening against his chest.
“You don’t scare easy,” she said. “That’s rare too.”
He reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His hand stayed there.
She leaned in.
The kiss started slow and deepened without hurry—whiskey, night air, and the faint taste of blue cheese. Her hand curved around the back of his neck, drawing him closer. His palm settled at her waist, firm, certain.
When they broke apart, neither stepped back.
“Two years,” she said quietly.
“Worth it.”
She kissed him again, slower this time, pressing him back half a step until his spine met brick.
When she pulled away, her lipstick was faintly smudged.
“Friday,” she said.
“Friday.”
They walked toward the train without space between them.
__
By Monday morning, Northstar Creative looked the same.
Helga stepped through the revolving doors in emerald green.
Arnold stood at the elevator.
She joined him without her usual entourage.
“Morning, Shortman.”
“Morning.”
The doors opened. Arnold placed his hand lightly on her lower back as they stepped inside. She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t move away either.
As the doors slid shut, her fingers brushed his.
“My playlist was better,” she said.
Arnold glanced at her, a private grin forming.
“Seven o’clock Friday,” he said. “And I’m picking the music.”
The elevator chimed at his floor.
He stepped out.
Before the doors closed, Helga caught his tie and straightened it with one precise tug.
“We’ll see,” she said.
The doors slid shut.