Elliot spent the next morning hunched over contracts and projections with Noah at his elbow, the kind of double-checking that left his eyes gritty and his jaw aching from clenching. By one in the afternoon, his focus finally frayed; he sat back, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and tried to remember whether he'd had any sleep at all the night before. The memory was a blur of white lights and the relentless echo of Val's laughter.
Noah was already at the door, sliding on his jacket, tablet tucked under his arm, phone buzzing against his palm. "Alright, I'm heading out," he said, pocketing the device. "Try not to drown in emails while I'm gone."
Elliot gave a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'll manage."
Noah opened the door just as another across the hall clicked. Elliot barely registered it — until a streak of peroxide blonde flashed through the crack before it snapped shut again.
Val. Of course.
Noah muttered a goodbye and disappeared down the hall. Elliot locked the door, turned toward his desk, and then — three polite, maddening raps.
He froze.
"Van Doren?" Val's voice, too bright and perfectly timed, drifted through the woods. "You home?"
Against his better judgment, he opened the door.
Val leaned in the frame in a slouch that was meant to be casual and landed somewhere between coquettish and theatrical. Her oversized T-shirt fell off one shoulder, hair a mess of intentionally tousled waves.
"I just wanted to say," Val drawled, eyes dancing, "your boyfriend's cute."
Elliot blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Tall, dark, kind of nerdy vibe? Very cute." She smirked with the practised arrogance of someone used to applause. "Good for you."
His face heated, but he kept his composure. "Not that it's your business, but —" He stopped. He didn't owe her an explanation. "I have work to do."
He shut the door.
Behind that thin barrier, the afternoon stretched taut. He tried to force focus — figures, clauses, margins — but every burst of laughter from across the hall cut clean through the quiet. Not the raw, bass-heavy roar of the night before, but lighter: girlish giggles, the staccato click of high heels on hardwood floors, an obnoxious, childish cackle from one of Val's friends that grated like a fingernail on glass. It carried the self-satisfied ring of people used to getting attention.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. How did she have the energy to socialise like this every day? Didn't she work? Didn't she do anything besides host parties and irritate him?
The building was supposed to be a refuge. Thick walls, discreet neighbours, a tacit agreement to live adjacent without living in each other's lives. He'd chosen the place because it allowed him to breathe around the edges of his grief. Now every breath seemed invaded.
By evening his stomach blew up a small, empty balloon of ache. He pushed back from his desk, switched on the stove, and set about making dinner. Cooking was mechanical — chopping, stirring — the kinds of small tasks that could be done with your brain off if the hands remembered the steps.
He put on water for pasta and tossed some garlic in olive oil, letting the sizzle occupy him for a moment. The smell pulled a memory forward in a kinder way than the nights: his mother at the counter, music low on the radio, plates being set. He caught himself smiling for the briefest second and then the smile withered because those days were gone in a way that was too permanent.
When the pasta bubbled, he stirred, then drained, then plated with practised indifference. He ate standing at the counter, fork clinking against ceramic, watching his reflection in the dark window — pale face, dark shirt; a uniform of the life he maintained. He tried to catalogue what he had: a company that pulsed from his laptop, an assistant who cared enough to come to him, an apartment that was immaculate and silent.
Loneliness was a thing that collected in the small spaces between daily routines. It sat on the arm of the couch while he worked late, waited by his coffee mug in the morning, and breathed with him in the middle of the night. He'd cultivated solitude as an armour but lately it felt less like armour and more like an isolation chamber. He had people — Noah, his clients, contractors — but no one he let in.
He pushed his plate aside and rinsed it mechanically, hands warm in sudsy water. He could schedule another meeting. He could check another contract, or check a balance sheet. He could, as usual, bury himself. The truth sat under all those options like a pebble in his shoe: the part of him that wanted, briefly and irrationally, for someone to be there.
That thought was dangerous. He chased it down and locked it where it wouldn't get out.
Midnight came and went. Val's door still swung open and closed, voices drifting like bright smoke through the walls. Her friends' laughter rose and fell, punctuated by the same loud, obnoxious guffaw — loud and brittle as glass — that always made his skin prickle. He imagined them collapsing into her living room, tumbling over couches and cushions, their jokes echoing against the walls.
The next morning, he pulled the door open to let Noah in — just as Val's door swung wide.
Of course.
She blinked at him, then noticed Noah standing there with his laptop bag and coffee cup. Her lips curved into a lascivious, theatrical smile. "Morning, neighbours" she said, looking Noah up and down. "So, this is the boyfriend? Even cuter up close."
Noah laughed, caught between amusement and embarrassment. "Uh —"
"Don't," Elliot interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose so hard his teeth hurt. He had meant to simply walk away, to keep to the schedule he'd carved out as protection, but the words spilt out anyway, cold and harder than he intended. "Don't flirt with him, Newman. He's got an actual job. Not that you'd know what that is between your parties."
The smirk dropped from her face. Her cheeks flamed with a real, human hurt for a blink before she slammed the door so hard the hallway seemed to shake. The slam echoed, louder and lonelier than any laugh.
Noah followed him inside, brow furrowed. "What was that?" he asked.
"What was what?" Elliot snapped, pacing toward his desk.
"You were rude to her. I mean, yeah, she teases you, but —man. That was a low blow."
Elliot flopped into his chair and stared at the glow of the monitor until the numbers blurred. He couldn't explain the tight knot in his chest or why her voice had the power to really push him. "She just… gets on my nerves," he muttered.
Noah gave him a long, steady look but kept his mouth shut. The silence afterwards felt heavier than any of Val's noise.
Across the hall, Val paced barefoot, the apartment emptied of company but noisy in memory. "Party girl with no job," she said under her breath, sinking onto the couch and hugging a cushion until her knuckles blanched. The words stung in a way she hadn't anticipated — he didn't know the late nights she spent rehearsing lines alone, the auditions that ran cold, the texts from casting directors that said no, not this time.
She glared at the shared wall. "Thinks he's so superior because he wears suits and hides behind his laptop."
Her jaw set. Fine. If he wanted a war, she'd give him one, and she'd enjoy watching him squirm. — except, when she said it aloud, the bite in her voice tasted metallic and petty.
She swallowed, feeling unexpectedly hollow.