Elliot closed his door and stood for a moment, breathing in the stillness of his apartment. His pulse fluttered — not from panic, but from anticipation. The kind that came with something new.
He crossed to his kitchen counter, where a small notepad lay open beside his laptop. The heading, written in careful block letters, read Dinner for Val — 7:00 PM.
Below it, he'd listed:
Vegetables (simple, roasted)
Fish
Salad
Movie?
He looked at the list again, assessing.
He didn't want the evening to be complicated. He just wanted it to feel kind.
For years, meals had been routines — fuel and order. His mother had been the one who turned them into warmth. Her cooking had always been gentle, comforting, filled with a sort of quiet love that needed no words.
He hadn't realised how much he missed that until Val showed up at his door with food.
He reached for a pen and added one more note to the list: Try to enjoy it.
Then he smiled faintly.
Meanwhile, at the café, Val found herself distracted between orders. Her coworkers teased her for humming, for smiling at nothing. She didn't even try to deny it.
It wasn't romantic — but it was something. Something fragile and rare. She'd watched Elliot inch toward the world again, and in some quiet way, he was pulling her back toward something too — steadiness, patience, care.
As she wiped down a table, she thought of his voice that morning — how he'd said I hope you have agood day. How he'd looked her in the eye when he said it.
It shouldn't have felt so special. But it did.
She caught herself grinning and shook her head. "Get it together, Val," she muttered under her breath, but the smile wouldn't fade.
When her shift ended that evening, she grabbed her bag, checked her reflection in the café's glass door, and laughed softly at herself. There was no need for lipstick or curls — he wouldn't care. He'd notice the details, the effort, but not the gloss.
She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and whispered, "Okay, time for dinner."
Back in his apartment, Elliot set the table with quiet precision — two plates, two glasses, a folded napkin by each.
He adjusted the placement three times before deciding it was just right.
The smell of tomato and basil filled the air. The sauce simmered gently on the stove, and though his hands trembled slightly as he stirred, there was no panic — only focus.
He thought about what Dr. Harper had said — build the life that makes you feel at peace.
This, he thought, could be the beginning of that.
He turned down the heat, glanced at the clock — 6:59 — and smiled to himself.
Right on time.
Then, as if on cue, there was a soft knock at the door.
Elliot took a slow breath, straightened his shoulders, and opened it.
Val stood there, hair wind-tossed, eyes warm, carrying a small box. "Dessert," she said with a grin. "In case your list didn't include it."
He blinked. "How did you—?"
"Because you a lists person," she teased gently, stepping inside. "And you never have dessert."
He couldn't help it — he smiled.
And just like that, the air between them felt easy again.
Elliot had set the food out carefully, the roasted vegetables and fish laid out with the kind of exactness that had always brought him comfort. The salad sat in a shallow bowl, leaves neatly arranged, cherry tomatoes halved and placed in orderly rows.
Val slid into the chair across from him, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Wow," she said softly, glancing at the table. "You really do take presentation seriously, don't you?"
"I… like order," he said, voice quiet. "It helps me know what to expect."
She nodded, smiling gently. "I get that." She took a bite of the roasted vegetables, savouring the simplicity. "This is really good, Elliot."
"Thank you," he said, looking down at his plate. He noticed the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, and it made his chest feel… lighter, calmer than it had in a long time.
Conversation flowed slowly at first, cautious. She asked about his work, and he answered in his measured way, explaining his projects without digressing too much. She listened, genuinely interested, and occasionally teased him lightly when he got too focused, like when he described the precise technique he had for roasting the carrots.
"I think I might need to write a how-to guide for vegetables," she said with a grin, "so I don't ruin them when I try to cook."
"You can… try," he said carefully, "but it may not come out as… well."
"That's fine," she said. "I can keep practicing. Maybe it'll teach me patience."
He blinked, surprised at how easy it felt to laugh with her, how his usual anxiety in social situations seemed muted.
This is probably the first time I haven't felt anxious talking to her, he thought.
When they finished the meal, Val opened the box she'd brought.
"Dessert!" she announced with a flourish, revealing chocolate fudge brownies. "I couldn't resist. You need a little reward after all that precision."
He looked at them hesitantly. "I… can make coffee if you like."
"I'd like that," she said.
He measured out the grounds, added the water, and carefully watched the drip, hands steady. She leaned back in her chair, watching him.
"You know," she said, "I didn't expect this. Us, sitting here like this, eating and… talking. It's… nice."
He nodded, his lips twitching into a small smile. "It is."
They shared a brownie, careful bites at first, then slightly larger ones once the comfort settled in.
"You really know your coffee," she said, eyes bright. "Perfect strength."
"I've… had lots of practice," he said, his voice low but steady.
She laughed softly, the sound easy and warm. "I'm glad. I like it when things taste right."
The brownies were sweet, warm, and comforting. They ate them slowly, talking about little things — the way the sun had hit the café that morning, a customer who'd gotten a bit flustered at the register, a stray dog she'd seen on the way home.
They watched a lighthearted family-friendly movie together, laughing at the small jokes and silly moments. Elliot's laughs were quiet, careful, but genuine, and she found herself grinning every time he looked at the screen with that soft concentration.
For Elliot, the feeling was unfamiliar: the ease of conversation without panic, without the need to retreat into patterns or lists. He noticed it, letting it settle in, letting himself enjoy the simple pleasure of shared presence.
Halfway through, Elliot reached over to adjust the cushions beside him. "I… I like this," he said quietly, almost to himself.
Val glanced at him, surprised at the admission. "You like the movie?"
He shook his head, then smiled faintly. "I like… spending time like this. With you. It's… easy."
Her chest warmed at the words. "That's good," she said softly.
When the credits rolled, she stretched and grabbed the last brownie from the plate. "Okay, I'm having this," she said, biting into it.
He brewed another cup of coffee for both of them, hands precise, movements calm. "I… I'm glad you came for dinner," he said, words careful but certain.
"Me too," she admitted.
When the last of the brownies were gone, Val sighed and leaned back. "You know," she said, "I tried being healthy before. Didn't work. Not when chocolate is this good."
He smiled faintly, sipping his coffee. "I… think chocolate is acceptable."
Eventually, Val stood, brushing off her sweater. "I should go," she said softly. "Early shift tomorrow."
He followed her to the door, hesitating. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For dinner, the movie… the company. "
She smiled softly, eyes catching his in a glance that felt like quiet understanding. "Always," she said.
He closed the door behind her and leaned against it, taking a deep breath. The apartment was silent again, but now it felt full — not empty, not lonely.
He walked to his desk and opened his journal. The pen hovered over the page for a moment before he began to write:
Dinner was… easy. I didn't feel anxious when talking to her. I think that's the first time in a long time. The brownies and coffee were… nice. She's… nice. I'm glad she stayed. I want to remember this.
He paused, letting the words sink in. Then added:
Maybe I can have more evenings like this. Quiet, warm, simple. Not perfect. But good.
He closed the journal gently and set it aside, feeling something light, almost fragile, but promising, in his chest. For the first time in years, Elliot felt like he could look forward to tomorrow — not with fear, but with something close to hope.