Morning crept in gently a few days later, as if it had learned the rhythm of the apartment and adjusted itself accordingly.
Val woke before Elliot, pale light slipping through the narrow gap in the curtains and settling across the guest room floor. She lay still for a moment, listening to her body the way she had learned to do over the past days. The sharp pain was gone now. Her ribs ached only faintly, more memory than warning. Her hands were free of bandages, her fingers stiff but obedient. She flexed them slowly, quietly pleased when they responded without protest.
She stayed where she was a moment longer, listening.
The apartment was quiet. Elliot was still asleep.
Careful not to disturb that quiet, she slipped from the bed and padded down the hallway, her steps instinctively light. The kitchen greeted her with its familiar order. Each cupboard and surface felt mapped now, learned through observation rather than instruction. Everything was exactly where she expected it to be, and the thought stirred something warm and unexpectedly tender in her chest.
He had been looking after her with such care. Feeding her. Checking in without hovering. Stepping back when he sensed things were getting too close, stepping in immediately when she needed him. Always gentle. Always steady.
She wanted to give something back. Nothing grand. Just something small and useful.
She filled the kettle slowly, mindful of the sound, and set it to boil. The toaster clicked softly. She sliced fruit with deliberate attention, lining the pieces neatly on a plate without quite knowing why it mattered that it looked right. When she finished, she stood back and looked at the small table. Two places set. Coffee poured. Toast buttered.
Her stomach fluttered with a strange nervousness as she turned around.
Elliot stood in the doorway.
He had already showered. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at the edges, his sleeves pushed up as though he had dressed on autopilot. He did not move. He simply stood there, his eyes fixed on the table, then on her, as if trying to orient himself to a scene he had not prepared for.
She startled when she noticed him.
"You frightened me," she said lightly. "Why are you just standing there?"
He did not answer. His gaze moved slowly between the plates and her face, his expression unreadable.
"I hope this is okay," she added, gesturing toward the table. "I'm not very good at cooking."
He shook his head once. Still silent.
The shift in the air was subtle, but unmistakable. Her smile faded a little.
"What's wrong?"
He swallowed, his fingers curling loosely at his sides.
"Why did you make breakfast?"
The question caught her off guard.
"Because you've been looking after me," she said simply, her voice softer now. "I wanted to do something for you."
His gaze dropped to the floor.
"You're feeling better."
"Yes," she said, then added gently, trying to lighten the tension between them, "My ribs only hurt when you make me laugh."
The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed serious.
"So," he said quietly, "this means you'll go back to your apartment."
The words landed heavier than she expected.
She looked down, guilt blooming sharp and sudden in her chest. Of course. She had stayed too long. She had disrupted his routines, his carefully balanced world.
"I suppose I should," she said slowly. "You need to work. And see Dr Harper without me here. I've stayed longer than I needed to."
She stepped past him toward the hallway.
As she moved past him his hand closed around hers.
She gasped, the sound sharp with surprise. He had never done that before. Never reached for her first. His grip was careful, but certain, as if letting go was not an option he was prepared to consider.
"Stay," he said. Then, almost under his breath, "Please."
She turned back to him. His face was flushed, his eyes wide and earnest, stripped of every defence. The vulnerability there was unmistakable. Something in her softened completely.
She smiled and nodded.
They sat together at the table. Elliot focused on his coffee, his plate, the safety of small, familiar movements. The tension had eased from his shoulders, though he still could not quite meet her eyes. Embarrassment clung to him, but beneath it was unmistakable relief.
She filled the silence gently, talking about calling the café, about shifts and schedules and small, ordinary plans that did not demand too much of either of them. He listened. He ate. He stayed.
And neither of them mentioned her apartment.
Later, Noah arrived with his laptop, greeted by the quiet domestic scene without comment. Val sat on the sofa, scrolling through her phone. Elliot worked at his desk. Noah sensed something had shifted and, wisely, let it be.
As afternoon edged toward evening, Val set her phone aside and glanced toward Elliot.
"You know," she said softly, "I've been thinking about what comes next."
He looked up.
"I don't think I want the life I was chasing before," she admitted. "I don't know what I want yet. But I want it to be steadier. More real."
He considered this carefully.
"I've been thinking about my future too," he said at last. "I don't know what it looks like. But I know I don't want it to be empty."
"It doesn't have to be," she replied, gentle and certain.
This time, he held her gaze.
"No," he said quietly. "I don't think it does anymore."
He stood with the excuse of preparing dinner, grateful for something practical to focus on. Val picked up the remote and began scrolling through shows, the familiar comfort of shared silence settling between them.
Later, they sat side by side on the couch, watching a quiz show they had stumbled upon and inexplicably grown fond of. Their shoulders did not touch, but they were close enough to feel the warmth of each other's presence.
The unknown no longer felt like something to brace against. It felt, cautiously, like something they might one day choose.