Val hadn't slept.
She'd turned over a dozen times in bed, the faint ache in her finger a reminder of how clumsy the evening had been — how she'd managed to shatter not only a glass, but the fragile ease between them.
Why did I rush off like that? she thought, staring at the ceiling. He didn't do anything wrong. Neither did Noah.
But something about Noah's words — He obviously trusts you — had made her chest tighten. It had sounded too big, too heavy, like a promise she wasn't sure she deserved.
By morning, her apartment felt stifling. She made herself coffee, sat on the couch, and tried not to glance at the door every five minutes.
She didn't expect the knock.
It was soft, tentative — the kind of knock that came from someone unsure whether he was welcome.
Her heart jumped. She opened the door slowly.
Elliot stood there, hair slightly messy, a faint crease between his brows.
"Hey," she said, voice small.
He hesitated, then asked quietly, "Are you okay?"
It wasn't an accusation. It wasn't even a question with expectation. It was simple, careful concern.
Her throat tightened. "Yeah," she said. "I just… left too quickly last night. I shouldn't have."
He shook his head slightly. "Noah shouldn't have said that."
"It wasn't his fault," she said softly. "I just… I don't always know how to handle things when they feel too much."
He looked at her for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his expression — empathy, maybe recognition.
Finally, she smiled faintly, needing to bridge the space between them. "Hey, do you want to grab breakfast? The café's quiet in the mornings. We can get something good."
He froze. "Outside?"
"Yeah," she said, her tone gentle, reassuring. "You can bring your headphones. We'll sit near the back. And if it's too much, we'll leave right away. No questions, no guilt, I promise."
Elliot's hand flexed slightly at his side. He looked toward the hallway, toward the safety of his apartment — then back at her.
He nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Okay."
Her smile brightened. "Okay?"
He exhaled. "Okay."
He wore his headphones as he stepped out of the building, fingers brushing the wire every so often as they walked. His shoulders were tense, but his steps steady.
Val kept her pace slow, matching his rhythm without drawing attention to it. The air was crisp, the early morning streets still half-asleep.
When they reached the café, she opened the door first, scanning the room automatically. Only a few customers — a man reading a newspaper, a couple sharing pancakes near the window.
She turned to him. "See? Quiet."
He nodded, his eyes flicking around the space — the hum of the espresso machine, the low chatter, the clink of cutlery. It was all noise, but not the sharp kind. More like background texture.
They sat in a corner booth, half-hidden behind a row of plants.
"Do you want me to order for you?" she asked.
He hesitated, then said, "Yes. Please."
She smiled, grateful for the small trust in those words. "Tomato omelette and sourdough?"
He blinked. "How did you. —"
"You mentioned once you liked sourdough because it doesn't fall apart easily," she said with a small grin.
Something flickered behind his eyes — surprise, then warmth. "You remember that?"
"Of course," she said simply.
When the food arrived, he took small, careful bites, eyes on his plate. The tension in his shoulders began to ease.
"You're doing great," Val said softly.
He looked up. "I haven't been to a café since before my parents died."
Her heart clenched. "Elliot…"
"I used to go with my mother sometimes," he said, almost to himself. "She always ordered too much food. Said breakfast should feel like a celebration."
Val smiled gently. "I like her already."
He nodded, the faintest curve of a smile appearing. "You'd have liked her. She was… loud."
Val laughed quietly. "Oh, then we definitely would have gotten along."
That drew a small, real smile from him — soft, fleeting, but full of something she hadn't seen before: ease.
They ate mostly in silence after that, but it wasn't awkward. It was warm, steady.
When they finished, she leaned back, brushing a crumb from her sweater. "See? We survived breakfast."
He looked at her thoughtfully. "It wasn't as bad as I expected."
"That's high praise," she teased.
He gave a small, amused exhale. "You were right about the headphones."
"I'm glad," she said, smiling.
He studied her then — really studied her — and said quietly, "Thank you."
"For breakfast?"
"For… trying."
Her chest tightened at the sincerity in his voice. "Always."
As they walked back, side by side in the pale morning light, their steps fell into an easy rhythm.
She wanted to reach out — not to hold his hand, but just to brush his sleeve, to let him know she was there. But she didn't. It wasn't the right moment.
Still, when they reached their doors, he lingered.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asked lightly.
He thought about it, then nodded. "Maybe."
That one word made her grin. "I'll take it."
He watched her for a moment longer, something unspoken in his gaze — a soft question neither of them knew how to voice.
Then he said, "I'll see you later," and slipped quietly into his apartment.
Val stood there for a long time, smiling to herself, before finally heading inside.
Elliot closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment as the quiet of his apartment settled around him. He slipped off his headphones, set them neatly on the desk and exhaled a long, unsteady breath.
It wasn't a tired breath. Not overwhelmed. Not panicked.
Just full of emotion.
He crossed the room, sat on his sofa and opened his journal. The pen hovered over the page for a long moment before the words finally came.
I went outside today.
Not because I had to. Not for groceries or qn appointment.
Because she asked.
Breakfast.
At the café.
I thought she was joking at first. I don't go to cafés. Not anymore.
But she looked at me with that kind of confidence she has — the kind that feels like a hand held out, not a push.
I almost said no. My throat closed up twice.
But she said I could bring my headphones.
She said if it was too much, we'd leave.
Like she knew how I'd feel feel.
Walking there was strange — like stepping into old clothes I didn't realize I'd grown out of. The air, the noise, the morning… it all felt familiar and foreign at the same time.
The café wasn't bad. It was soft, the way she promised.
Muted voices, warm light, plants everywhere.
Val ordered for me.
Tomato omelette and sourdough.
She remembered that I like bread that doesn't fall apart.
I didn't think she'd remember things like that, about me.
And then I told her about my mother. I don't know why. The words just… slipped out.
Maybe because the café reminded me of those mornings when my mother would fill the table with too much food and call it a celebration.
Val is nothing like her in some ways —my mother was calmer, patient, quieter in her presence even when she confident.
But there's something similar.
Something in the way she fills the space around her — not loudly, but surely.
Something in how she makes the world feel… approachable.
Not bigger.
Not smaller.
Just… softened.
I didn't realize that until I saw her smile at the story — this warm, bright curve of her mouth that felt so painfully familiar.
It startled me, how much it hurt.
How much it comforted.
I liked her smile.
I liked breakfast.
Maybe I can do it again tomorrow.
Maybe.
He set the pen down, surprised by how steady his hand felt.
For the first time in a long time, the quiet in his apartment didn't feel like a shield.
It felt like a pause between moments.
He closed the journal gently.
And he hoped — cautiously, quietly — that tomorrow would come with something just as impossible, and just as good.
Val curled onto her couch, a blanket around her shoulders and her coffee on the table. She should have been getting ready for work, but her mind kept drifting back to the hallway that morning, to the way Elliot's eyes had softened when he asked:
Are you okay?
It wasn't just the words. She'd heard those from plenty of people.
It was how he said them — like the answer mattered. Like she mattered.
She hadn't expected that from him.
And breakfast… God. When he'd told her his mother was loud, she hadn't meant to grin so widely, but she couldn't help it. It was such a sweet detail, so unexpected and tender coming from him.
The idea of Elliot as a kid in a bustling café with a loud mother — that image warmed something deep inside her.
He'd tried today. Really tried. For her, yes, but also for himself.
And she couldn't stop smiling about that.
About him.
She pulled the blanket closer, still smiling to herself, and whispered into the quiet room:
"Maybe tomorrow."