The world felt muted when he woke the next morning.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The soft light filtering through the curtains was too gentle to belong to the night before; and his body ached in strange, unfamiliar places — not from exercise, but from tension.
Then it came back in fragments.
The pounding on the door.
The smell of cold air.
The chaos of voices.
And Val — her voice cutting through it all like a thread of calm in a storm.
He turned onto his side, staring at the edge of his pillow.
He wasn't used to needing people. Or to being seen when he wasn't composed.
Last night, she had seen everything.
His throat tightened at the memory of her hand raised slightly in front of him, keeping the crowd from pressing too close. The way she'd crouched beside him, her tone so steady it had anchored him back into his body.
No one had ever done that for him before.
He sat up slowly, pushing the blanket aside. The apartment was quiet, but not in a way that bothered him.
He went to the kitchen and made coffee, the motions grounding him.
He didn't usually eat sweet things in the morning — or at all — but he found himself opening the box of cupcakes anyway. The smell was comforting, somehow. Familiar now.
He took one, hesitated, then bit into it.
The frosting was light, sweet, the cake still soft.
He smiled faintly, though he wasn't sure why.
When Noah came in at half past nine, Elliot had already been working for an hour — emails, data sheets, the calm repetition of numbers. The rhythm steadied him.
Noah stepped in, still half-asleep, holding a travel mug. "Morning. You look like you've been up since dawn."
"Since six," Elliot said.
"Of course you have." Noah eyed him over the rim of his cup. "I heard about the gas leak. Everyone okay?"
"Yes."
"Were you?"
Elliot hesitated. "Eventually."
Noah studied him for a beat, then smiled softly. "Glad to hear it." His gaze shifted to the cupcakes on the counter. "Mind if I have the last one?"
Elliot shrugged, "I could ask Val to make more,"
Noah grinned. "She's good for you."
Elliot frowned slightly, not looking up from his screen. "She's… kind."
"Same thing," Noah said easily. "Kindness changes people."
He left it at that, mercifully not pushing. When he left an hour later, the apartment felt calm again — but different somehow. Lighter.
Elliot glanced toward the box that had the cupcakes in. Then he went to his desk, opened his notebook, and began to write.
Last night I panicked. I couldn't breathe. The noise and lights — it was too much. I didn't think I could leave.
Then she was there. Calm. Certain. Like she already knew what I needed before I did. She told me to get my headphones. She waited. She didn't rush me. She didn't make me feel bad.
When everything felt impossible, she made it manageable. I don't understand why she does that — why she keeps showing up. But I'm… grateful. I felt safe.
I think that's new.
He stopped, staring at the last line. His handwriting had softened, the loops slower, almost hesitant.
Safe.
It wasn't a word he associated with people.
He underlined it once, then closed the notebook gently, like it held something fragile.
She'd hardly slept.
Even after the firefighters had left and the building was cleared, the adrenaline had taken hours to fade. When she finally did drift off, her dreams were restless — flashes of red lights and the sound of Elliot's voice saying I can't.
Now, standing in her kitchen with a mug of coffee, she stared out the window at the pale morning sky.
She'd never seen him like that.
So vulnerable. So raw.
And yet, she didn't feel pity — only a fierce tenderness; a protectiveness.
She thought about the way he'd followed her voice, the way he'd trusted her without question. She knew what that meant for him. Trust didn't come easily to Elliot. He guarded his world with precision, with rules.
And last night, he'd let her lead.
She smiled faintly, shaking her head. "Cupcakes and panic attacks," she murmured to herself. "What a week."
At six o'clock that evening, she gathered her courage and crossed the hall.
She knocked softly.
There was a pause, then the sound of footsteps. The door opened, then there he was — his hair still damp from a shower, wearing his usual grey T-shirt, looking calm, but a little wary.
"Hey," she said, smiling. "How are you?"
He hesitated, then answered honestly. "Better."
"Good." She held up a bag. "I brought dinner. Thought you might need it after last night."
He blinked, surprised. "You didn't have to."
"I know," she said lightly, stepping past him when he moved aside. "But you need to eat and I like excuses to see people."
She set the bag on the counter and glanced at the open laptop, the notebook beside it.
"Rough night," she said softly. "You handled it, though."
"I didn't," he said, frowning. "You handled it."
She shook her head. "No, Elliot. We handled it. You got out. That's the hardest part."
He didn't respond, but his eyes softened a little.
She leaned against the counter, studying him quietly. "You know, you don't have to thank me for last night."
"I wasn't going to," he said automatically, then winced. "That came out wrong."
Val laughed softly. "I know what you meant."
He gave a small, embarrassed smile. "I was going to say I already did — in my notebook."
That surprised her enough that she blinked. "You wrote about it?"
He nodded. "I write about everything. It helps me… sort things out."
"I'd love to read it someday," she said gently.
He looked at her — really looked — as though weighing whether he could ever let her that far in.
Then he said softly, "Maybe."
It wasn't much. But from him, it was everything.
She smiled. "Well. I'll take maybe."
For a moment, the quiet between them was full, almost tender.
Then she pushed off the counter. "Alright, I'll be off. Just wanted to check you were okay."
"I am," he said. "Because of you. Stay, eat with me. Please?"
She blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. Then she smiled again, softer this time. "Ok."
She slid onto one of the stools at his kitchen counter. He got out two plates and she opened the food she'd brought.
"It's lasagne," she explained, "from the café I work at. The chef is really good and I thought you might appreciate some."
Elliot passed her a fork, careful not to meet her eyes for too long. "Thanks,"
"You're welcome," she said, digging in with her fork. "It's one of my favorites. I can only cook grilled cheese. Real culinary genius over here." She said with a laugh.
The corner of his mouth tugged upward. "It smells good."
"That's half the battle," she said, teasing gently.
They ate in quiet for a few moments, the clink of cutlery filling the silence. For once, it wasn't an uncomfortable quiet. It was steady, like the rhythm of rain against glass.
After a while, Val leaned her chin on her hand. "So, what did you do today?"
Elliot hesitated. He always had to think about questions like that — not because he didn't know the answer, but because he wasn't sure what people wanted to hear. "I worked a bit. Then I read. I did some exercise. Nothing interesting."
"Doesn't have to be interesting," she said. "Sometimes a quiet day is the best kind."
He looked up, meeting her eyes briefly. "You think so?"
"Sure. I used to hate being alone. The silence used to feel… loud, you know? But lately, I kinda like it. Gives me space to think. And breathe."
He nodded slowly. "I used to like silence. It felt safe. But lately, sometimes it feels… heavy. Like it's pressing on me."
Val tilted her head, listening. "Elliot, what happened to make you so scared?"
He froze, his fork stilling on the plate.
"I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me. Forget it."
"No, it's alright. My parents were killed in an accident. Drunk driver. I was in the car with them, but I wasn't hurt. But they didn't die instantly. While we were stuck in the car waiting for help, I kept talking to them until.... "
She covered her face with her hands, "Elliot, I'm so sorry you went through that. That's terrible."
He nodded, then continued "After that… I didn't want to hear anything. I didn't want to feel anything. Noise meant people. People meant questions. And I couldn't answer any of them."
Her voice softened. "You don't have to explain it, Elliot. I get it."
He looked at her, genuinely puzzled. "You do?"
"Yeah." She shrugged, trying to keep her tone light, but not flippant. "When my dad died, I didn't talk to anyone for months. Everyone kept telling me how 'strong' I was, and I just… couldn't stand it. So I started going out all the time. Bars, parties, noise — anything that made it feel like I wasn't alone. I thought if I stayed busy enough, maybe the quiet wouldn't catch up with me."
Elliot frowned, thoughtful. "Did it help?"
She smiled faintly. "For a while. Then it just got exhausting pretending I was fine all the time. So I stopped."
He nodded, as if filing that away somewhere.
"But you're different now."
She laughed softly. "Yeah. I guess I grew up a bit. Or maybe I just got tired of hangovers."
That drew a small laugh from him — rare, but genuine. It warmed her chest.
She grinned. "Hey, was that a laugh I heard?"
He looked mildly alarmed, which only made her grin wider. "Maybe," he admitted as he lowered his eyes.
"You should do that more often," she said, picking up her fork again. "You've got a nice laugh."
He flushed slightly, the tips of his ears pink. "I don't know how to… do it on purpose."
"That's the beauty of it," she said. "You're not supposed to."
They fell into a comfortable quiet again, the kind that didn't need filling. The kind that came with trust.
After a few minutes, Elliot said softly, "I don't usually eat dinner with people. Apart from Noah."
"I figured."
"I don't… know the rules. The social ones. When to talk, when to look up. What to say. It's like trying to follow a song when you don't know the rhythm."
Val smiled, her voice gentle. "You don't need to follow a rhythm. We can make our own rhythm."
He looked at her, uncertain but curious. "Is that allowed?"
"Who's gonna stop us?" she teased, taking another bite.
That earned her another small smile — brief, but enough to make her heart squeeze.
They finished eating slowly, sharing a few small stories — Val about a disastrous attempt at baking when she was fifteen, Elliot about his first (and last) experience camping at twelve years old, which had ended with him hiding in the car from a raccoon.
By the time they set their forks down, the air between them felt easier. Softer.
Val leaned back in her chair, stretching. "Well, that was nice."
"It was," he said quietly. "Thank you. For the food. And for staying."
"Anytime, Elliot."
He hesitated, then added, "I enjoy your company. The only other person I have ever spent this much time with, is Noah."
Her expression softened. "Then I'll just have to bring you dinner more often."
He blinked, as though she'd said something surprising. "You'd do that?"
"Of course." She smiled. "It's no trouble."
He seemed to turn that over, then gave a small nod. "Alright. I'd like that."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world outside hummed faintly, and Val thought about how strange and quiet her life had become — and how, somehow, that felt good.
When she finally stood to leave, Elliot followed her to the door.
"Goodnight, Val."
"Goodnight, Elliot." She smiled, meeting his gaze. "And hey — next time, we'll watch a movie while we eat."
He looked alarmed. "I'll choose the movie."
She laughed as she stepped into the hallway. "Deal."
The door clicked shut softly behind her, both of them smiled to themselves — small, private, and a little bit surprised.
When she left, he walked back to his desk and looked down at the notebook still open — at the word safe underlined once, the ink still fresh.
It felt like a beginning.