The weeks that followed fell into a kind of rhythm neither of them had planned — one that felt so natural it almost startled them both.
Elliot would work through the day, the hum of his computer and the soft clatter of his keyboard his steady company. Val would come home from the café sometime after six, smelling faintly of coffee and food. There would be a knock, a familiar voice through the door — "Dinner!" — and the evening would begin.
Sometimes she brought food; sometimes he cooked. They watched movies — old comedies, nature documentaries, even a few light dramas when Val could convince him they weren't too sad. Elliot learned to make notes about films he liked, writing down which scenes made him laugh or what moments felt "safe."
And on sunny days, they walked in the park.
He'd grown to love the feel of gravel underfoot, the way the air shifted between the trees, the soft rhythm of Val's chatter beside him. He didn't always answer, but he listened. Really listened. And Val, to her own surprise, had grown comfortable with the silences — the kind that weren't empty, but full of quiet understanding.
It wasn't just friendship anymore, not really. But neither of them dared to name it.
One morning, Noah leaned against Elliot's kitchen counter, coffee in hand, watching him prepare two bowls of oatmeal.
"You're making breakfast for two now?" Noah teased lightly.
Elliot glanced up. "No. Val had to leave early. I said I'd make her some for tomorrow, though."
Noah smiled behind his mug. "You're getting domestic, man."
Elliot didn't respond, just stirred the oats thoughtfully. After a moment, he said, "We've been watching films together. And walking. Most evenings."
"That's great," Noah said, genuinely pleased. "You sound… good."
"I am," Elliot admitted, almost surprised at himself. "I think so."
Noah nodded, his grin softening. "I'd like to meet her properly, you know. You've told me so much about her."
Elliot hesitated. He wasn't sure if Val would like that. She and Noah were so different — her warmth and impulsiveness, his quiet intensity and fierce protectiveness. But after a pause, he said, "You could come for dinner. Tomorrow night."
Noah's brows lifted. "You sure?"
"Yes," Elliot said simply. "You're my friend. She's my friend. It makes sense."
Noah smiled. "Alright. Tomorrow night, then."
When Val found out, she tried to smile.
"That's great," she said, but her stomach twisted.
She liked Noah — or at least the version of him Elliot described. Loyal, kind, steady. But she'd also seen how protective he could be, how watchful. And she wasn't sure she could handle the weight of being evaluated — of having to prove that she was good for Elliot, that she wouldn't break him.
She didn't tell Elliot any of this. He looked too pleased when he'd said, "Noah's coming for dinner." His eyes had brightened in that quiet, rare way of his.
So she smiled and said, "I'll bring dessert."
But that night, as she made tea in her kitchen, her hands wouldn't stay steady.
Elliot noticed the difference in her as soon as she arrived.
"Are you alright?" he asked gently, watching her set down a small box of lemon tarts with more force than necessary.
"I'm fine," she said too quickly. "Just tired."
He nodded, accepting the answer — he always accepted answers at face value — and went back to stirring the rice.
The three of them sat down to eat.
At first, it went smoothly. Noah asked Val polite questions about the café, about films she and Elliot had watched together. She answered them easily enough, though her laugh sounded thinner than usual. Noah was kind, but observant — and she could feel it. His gaze was steady, measuring, not in judgment, but in caution.
Elliot, as always, noticed everything.
He shifted slightly in his chair, watching the space between them tighten.
Val reached for her glass of water, but her hand slipped.
The glass hit the edge of the table, then shattered on the floor. Water splashed across her jeans.
"Oh — damn, I'm so sorry," she blurted, already kneeling to clean it up.
"Val, it's fine," Noah started, but she was already moving too fast, grabbing a napkin, her movements jerky and anxious.
"Careful," Elliot said quietly, standing.
"I've got it," she said — just as a shard cut her finger.
She hissed and pulled her hand back, a thin line of red appearing along her skin.
Before she could react, Elliot was there.
He knelt beside her, movements quick, but sure, his hand closing gently around hers. "You're bleeding."
"It's nothing," she said automatically, but he didn't let go.
He got up, still holding her hand, and guided her to the sink. The room felt very small, very quiet.
Noah watched in silence as Elliot turned on the tap, rinsing the cut carefully, his focus sharp and unflinching.
"Paper towel," Elliot murmured. Noah handed him one without a word.
Elliot dabbed at the blood, slow and deliberate, his hand steady now. Val looked at him — really looked — and saw something she hadn't before. A mix of tenderness and certainty that melted the space between them.
When he finally wrapped her finger in a small bandage, he said softly, "You should be more careful."
She managed a shaky laugh. "You sound like my dad."
He blinked. "Then he must have cared about you a lot."
Something flickered in her chest — warmth, ache, maybe both.
Noah cleared his throat gently, smiling. "You know," he said, "you don't have to worry so much, Val. He's okay with you. Really okay. I haven't seen him like this in… years."
The words hung in the air.
Elliot straightened, a small frown touching his brow. Val's smile faltered. The compliment — meant kindly — suddenly felt like a spotlight.
She looked down, mumbled something about needing to get going, and stood quickly.
"I should go," she said, avoiding their eyes. "Long day tomorrow."
Elliot looked at her, confused. "You don't have to —"
"I know," she interrupted gently, forcing a smile. "Thanks for dinner. It was great."
And before either of them could stop her, she was gone.
The silence she left behind felt sharp-edged.
Noah exhaled slowly. "I didn't mean to upset her."
Elliot's jaw tightened. "You made her uncomfortable."
"I was trying to be kind," Noah said, voice calm, but firm. "She needed to know she doesn't have to prove anything to me. That I trust her with you."
"She doesn't need your permission," Elliot snapped, surprising them both with the sudden sharpness in his tone. "She's my friend. She and I have spent a lot of time together because we enjoy it. You just made it weird."
Noah blinked, then nodded slowly. "You're right," he said after a moment. "I just… I worry about you, Elliot. I don't want you to get hurt or taken advantage of."
"I know," Elliot said, softer now. "But this is different. She's not like that."
Noah studied him. "You care about her."
Elliot hesitated, then said quietly, "Yes. I do."
The admission hung between them, fragile but certain.
Noah nodded, his voice gentler now. "Then I'll keep my mouth shut next time."
Elliot didn't smile, but some of the tension in his shoulders eased. "Thank you."
Noah stood, giving his friend a quiet clap on the shoulder. "You've come a long way, Elliot. Don't let one awkward dinner ruin that."
After he left, the apartment fell quiet again.
Elliot stood by the sink, staring at the faint trace of water on the floor where the glass had shattered.
Then, without quite knowing why, he reached for his journal.
He wrote:
Val cut her hand tonight. I helped her. She left upset. Noah said she has nothing to worry about, but she still left.
I think maybe I should have told her it's okay — that I wanted her to stay.
I don't know how to fix something I don't understand.
He set the pen down and stared at the page until the words blurred.
Across the hall, Val sat in her own quiet apartment, staring at the small bandage on her finger, wondering if she'd done something wrong — or if, somehow, she'd let something good slip through her hands.
Neither of them slept well that night.