Morning arrived quietly.
Elliot noticed it by the pale early sunlight that crept into the guest room, sliding across the floor until it touched his socked feet. He blinked, disoriented, his neck stiff from sleeping upright against the wall, his body slow to remember where he was.
For a brief, sharp moment, panic flared. A familiar spike of fear cut through the haze, quick and merciless.
Then he heard Val's breathing.
Slow. Even. Unbroken.
Relief loosened something deep in his chest. He released it in a long, careful exhale, staying perfectly still as if any movement might disturb the fragile proof that she was safe. He counted her breaths without meaning to, letting the rhythm anchor him, the way he sometimes counted steps or seconds when the world felt too big.
She was still asleep. Still here.
He stood slowly, joints protesting, and looked across the room. He had spent the night against the wall near the door, unable to bring himself to leave even for the illusion of comfort. The idea of being too far away, of missing the sound of her breathing changing, had been unbearable. Val lay on her side, blankets pulled to her waist, her hair fanned messily across the pillow.
Even in sleep there was a faint crease between her brows, a quiet echo of pain her body had not yet released, but her face was soft. Unburdened in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.
Something in Elliot's chest eased as he watched her, his own breathing gradually slowing to match hers. For once, his mind did not race ahead to everything that could go wrong. It stayed here, in this small, ordinary miracle.
He stepped out and closed the door with deliberate care. The apartment felt altered in the early morning, quieter than usual but charged, as if it were holding its breath along with him. The familiar order of the space grounded him. Straight lines. Clear surfaces. Things where they belonged.
He washed his face, drank a glass of water, and stood for a moment staring at the counter, palms resting flat against the cool surface. He focused on sensation. Solid. Real. Present.
Breakfast. That was logical. Useful. Something he could do without guessing.
He moved step by step. Kettle on. Bread into the toaster. Fruit washed and sliced with precise movements. He chose what he knew would be gentle, easy to manage, nothing that would overwhelm her senses or his. He avoided loud sounds, sharp smells, anything that might fracture the fragile calm of the morning.
When the tray was ready, he set it carefully on the counter and waited, listening.
Val woke on her own not long after.
He heard the movement first, the faint rustle of fabric, then a soft intake of breath that told him she had moved too quickly. His body responded before his thoughts did. He was at the door almost instantly.
"I'm here," he said, steady, grounding himself as much as her.
Her voice came back warm and sleepy. "Morning."
He stepped inside, stopping a few steps from the bed, giving her space without meaning to.
"How do you feel?"
She considered it, eyes narrowing slightly as she checked in with her body.
"Like I lost a fight with a bulldozer," she said, then softened. "But better than yesterday."
He nodded, cataloguing the information carefully. Better mattered.
"Would you like some breakfast?"
Her smile was genuine, surprised.
"You made breakfast?"
"Yes."
"That wasn't a question," she said lightly, then winced and laughed at herself. "Sorry. Yes, please."
He helped her sit up when she struggled, their movements still slightly awkward, but no longer uncertain. There was a rhythm to it now. A sense of learning each other's limits without having to say them out loud.
She managed the first bite on her own, then sighed when her bandaged fingers failed to grip her cup.
"I've got it," he said quietly.
She searched his face, checking for strain or reluctance.
"Only if you're okay with it."
"I am."
So he held the cup to her lips, then fed her small pieces of fruit one at a time. His attention narrowed completely to the task. Watching the way her breathing shifted. Pausing when she needed to rest. Adjusting without being asked. It felt intimate in a way that made his chest tighten, not with fear, but with focus.
When she laughed softly at a near spill, the sound settled somewhere deep inside him, warm and unexpected.
"You're very serious about this," she murmured.
"I don't want to get it wrong."
She looked at him with a smile.
"You're not."
By late morning she was settled on the couch again, drowsy and heavy-limbed. Elliot hovered nearby, unsure what to do with the restless energy buzzing through him now that she was comfortable.
"Lunch," he announced after a moment, defaulting to practicality.
She opened one eye. "You're very bossy for a quiet man."
"You need nutrition," he replied, deadpan.
He made her a sandwich, cutting it into careful, manageable pieces. When he brought it over, she stared at it in disbelief.
"I've never eaten so many meals in my life," she said. "At this rate I'm going to get fat."
He considered this seriously. "Statistically unlikely over a short recovery period."
She burst out laughing, then immediately winced, clutching her ribs.
"Don't make me laugh," she groaned. "You're dangerous."
"I wasn't trying to be funny."
"That's what makes it funny."
Noah arrived then, taking in the scene with an amused smile. Val tucked under a blanket. Elliot hovering with quiet, purposeful attention.
"Well," Noah said, "this looks domestic."
"He's feeding me constantly," Val said. "I think he's trying to fatten me up."
"That's not true," Elliot said, frowning.
Noah laughed and let it go.
Later, when Noah stepped out to pick up dinner for them all, the apartment settled into a gentle hush. Val shifted, then looked at Elliot, her expression turning more serious.
""Elliot," she asked softly, her voice careful with him, "are you still worried?"
"Yes," he said at once. There was no point pretending otherwise.
"About losing me?"
His throat tightened. He nodded, the motion small but honest.
She reached for his hand slowly, leaving him space to retreat if he needed it. He didn't. Her fingers closed around his, warm and steady.
"Look at me," she said gently.
"I'm right here. And I'll tell you if I'm not okay."
"I know," he murmured. "I just need time… to trust it."
She squeezed his hand, a quiet reassurance rather than a promise.
"You can have all the time you need."
They sat like that as the late afternoon light crept across the floor, the silence between them no longer hollow, but held, shared. For once, Elliot did not feel like he was waiting for something to be taken from him.
He was learning, carefully and imperfectly, how to stay even when fear pressed close.
Because beneath it all was a deeper truth he could no longer ignore.
Losing her frightened him more than anything ever had.