Val knocked softly on Elliot's door, balancing the brown paper bag in her hands. The warmth seeped faintly through the paper, carrying with it the comforting scent of garlic and herbs.
After a pause, she heard the faint click of the lock. The door opened just enough for him to peer out — cautious, but not closed off.
"I brought dinner." She said with a smile.
"Oh," he said, voice low. "You didn't have to."
"I wanted to," she replied. "It's from the café — tomato soup and garlic chicken. Thought you might like something homemade besides grilled cheese … or cupcakes."
He hesitated before opening the door wider. "They don't qualify as dinner."
She laughed softly. "Let me in, Elliot."
He didn't argue, just stepped aside and let her in. The apartment smelled faintly of disinfectant and clean linen, everything in its usual place. She set the food on the table, pulling out the containers. Steam curled up into the air, rich and inviting.
Elliot's gaze lingered on the soup. His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly.
"It's tomato," Val said, misreading his silence. "Not too spicy. It's actually really good. The café owner makes it from scratch."
He didn't sit. His eyes stayed fixed on the bowl — the deep red surface, the thin line of steam. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, a small, almost invisible motion.
"Elliot?" she asked gently. "Are you okay?"
He blinked, but didn't answer right away. His voice, when it came, was quiet. "Soup … it scares me."
She tilted her head. "Scares you?"
He nodded once, the words slow, deliberate. "When I was little, I spilled some once. It was really hot. Burned me. I remember the pain, the panic… the smell."
Her expression softened, but before she could say anything, his attention shifted to the second dish — the garlic chicken.
For a moment, something flickered across his face. A pause, a sharp inhale. Then he sat down, almost mechanically, and stared at the food. His eyes had gone glassy.
"Elliot?" she said again, her voice smaller now. "What is it?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't move.
He just sat there, perfectly still, the muscles in his jaw tightening and releasing, tightening again.
"I'm sorry," she whispered instinctively, even though she didn't know what she was apologising for. "I shouldn't have — I didn't think —"
He shook his head slightly, but no words came.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and fragile.
Val's heart twisted. She could feel that she'd touched something raw, something she wasn't meant to. She stood slowly, fumbling for the right words, but none came.
"I'll just — I'll go," she murmured finally, voice soft. "It's fine. I'll see you tomorrow."
She left quickly, the sound of the door closing behind her almost too loud in the stillness.
Elliot didn't move for a long time.
The scent of garlic filled the air — sharp, warm, familiar. It reminded him of his mother's cooking. He could see her hands, chopping, slicing, carving chicken in his childhood home, humming softly to herself. He remembered her reaction when he spilled the soup, how she'd run cold water over his hand and said, "You'll be fine, El. You just have to be careful next time." Her voice kind, not angry.
The memories hurt. They always did. That's why he tried not to remember.
But this time, it wasn't just pain. It was a presence — vivid and whole and so alive that it made his chest ache. He missed his mother. He missed his parents.
He sat there until the food had gone cold, his eyes unfocused, his breathing steady, but uneven.
When he finally reached for his journal, the room felt smaller, the air heavier — and yet writing came easier than speaking ever could.
He wrote:
I didn't expect the smell to affect me.
I thought I could handle it — just soup and chicken. But it wasn't just food. It was everything; the kitchen. The laughter. Everything I've been trying not to remember.
I didn't mean to scare Val. I saw her face when I went quiet. She thought it was her fault. I wanted to tell her it wasn't. But I couldn't. The words wouldn't come.
It's strange. Feeling both pain and gratitude at once. Pain for what's gone. Gratitude that someone cared enough to bring dinner.
He set down the pen and stared at the page for a long time. Then he closed the journal gently.
He couldn't leave it like that — not with her thinking she'd done something wrong.
It took him three tries to stand. His legs felt heavy, uncertain. But he crossed the hallway anyway and knocked on her door. Once. Then again, softer.
Val had been pacing.
Her living room smelled faintly of the food she'd brought home. She couldn't shake the image of him — frozen, silent, his expression unreadable.
She replayed every second in her mind. Maybe it was too much garlic? Maybe he didn't like takeout food? Maybe something reminded him of something bad? He said he spilled soup once.
She sighed and rubbed her temples. "God, Val. You probably just made him miserable."
The knock startled her.
She froze.
It couldn't be —
Another knock, hesitant.
She opened the door carefully. Elliot stood there, his hands tucked in his sleeves, his eyes lowered.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hallway light hummed softly above them, the only sound between their breaths.
Val's chest tightened. "Elliot… I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."
He shook his head quickly. "You didn't." His voice was quiet, but sure. "It was me."
"I shouldn't have brought —"
"It reminded me of my mother," he said, interrupting without force, just truth. "The chicken. She used to make it."
Her lips parted, the apology dying in her throat.
"Oh," she said softly. "I didn't know."
"I know," he murmured. "I just… forgot what that felt like. Remembering her. It was —" He searched for the word, his eyes meeting hers. "Overwhelming."
She nodded slowly, her heart tugging painfully. "I get that."
Silence settled again, but it wasn't sharp this time. It was fragile. Waiting.
Elliot glanced down, his hand brushing against the doorframe, uncertain. "I just didn't want you to think you did something wrong."
Her breath caught — a small, surprised sound. "You came here to tell me that?"
He nodded, shyly almost. "Yes."
The warmth that filled her chest was unexpected and soft. "Thank you," she whispered.
They stood there — close, but not touching.
The air between them seemed to shift.
Something unspoken trembled in that space — not romance, but understanding, quiet and real.
Val's eyes met his, and for a heartbeat, neither of them looked away.
"Do you… want to come in?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
He hesitated, then — almost imperceptibly — he nodded.
She stepped back, holding the door open as he crossed the threshold, their shoulders brushing for the briefest moment.
The contact was small, but it sent a pulse through both of them — fragile, electric, human.
And when the door closed softly behind them, the air between them was charged with something neither could name, but both could feel.
Something new.
Something fragile.
Something warm.