A week passed in slow, easy days.
They settled into a rhythm that felt neither accidental nor planned. Mornings were quiet, afternoons gentler, evenings stretched soft and unhurried.
Val healed steadily, her movements less cautious now, her laughter no longer followed immediately by a wince. Elliot returned to work in longer stretches, his focus improving, his body no longer constantly braced as though waiting for something to break.
They did not talk about how long she would stay. She went back to her apartment for clothes and toiletries. Then she brought over a blanket to use on the sofa when watching television. Then her favourite mug. Then a candle she liked. Each small addition folded itself into the space without comment.
One grey morning, Noah arrived in high spirits, smiling and humming under his breath. Val noticed immediately.
"You seem happy today," Val said, smiling.
"Yeah. How are you feeling?" He avoided her gaze as he said it.
"I'm good. But back to you. What's got you in such a good mood?"
"Hm? Nothing. Just feeling good." He turned toward Elliot. "Here are those files you asked for."
Elliot and Noah slipped easily into work, their familiar rhythm resuming while Val watched from the sofa. She didn't push, but she had a sense she knew why Noah had been lighter lately. He had been that way for days now.
Later that afternoon, Val sat curled into the corner of the couch with her legs tucked beneath her, a notebook resting in her lap. The pen hovered over the page, unmoving. She had written a single line at the top, then stopped. Now she stared at the blank space below it, turning the pen slowly between her fingers.
Elliot sat at his desk by the window, his laptop open. Lines of text waited patiently on the screen. Every few minutes, his attention drifted, pulled toward the quiet presence behind him. He caught her reflection in the darkened glass, the slight crease between her brows, the sigh that left her without frustration, only uncertainty.
Eventually, she spoke.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she said quietly.
The words were simple. Unadorned. They did not reach for reassurance.
Elliot's fingers stilled. He did not turn right away. He needed a moment to process what she had said without rushing to fill it. Then he closed the laptop and rotated his chair to face her.
"With what?" he asked.
She tipped her head back against the couch, eyes tracing the ceiling.
"With everything, I think. I always knew what I was chasing. Even when I was failing at it. Even when I was miserable." She let out a small breath.
"Now I've let it go and there's just space."
He nodded slowly. He knew that space well. He lived inside it.
"That can be overwhelming," he said.
She glanced at him, surprised. "People always say it's freeing. But I just feel lost."
"It can be both," he replied. "Freedom without structure can feel like falling."
That landed. She sat up a little straighter.
"I don't know who I am without it," she admitted. "I feel like I'm waiting for instructions that aren't coming."
Elliot thought of Dr. Harper, of the careful question about imagining a future, of the way his chest had tightened at the idea.
"I try not to think about the future much," he said, surprised by how easily the truth came. "It feels dangerous."
Her gaze softened. "Because you know there are no guarantees."
"Yes."
The word stayed between them, fragile and unguarded.
"I understand that," she said quietly.
Silence followed, but it wasn't heavy. It felt chosen, like a shared pause rather than an absence.
"What do you imagine instead?" she asked gently. "If you don't think about the future."
He considered it. "I focus on the present. On tasks. On making things stable." He gestured loosely around the apartment. "Predictable. Safe."
Her lips curved faintly. "You've made this place feel stable. You've made me feel safe."
His ears warmed and he looked down. "That was intentional."
"I know."
Later that afternoon, Elliot sat at his desk by the window with his journal open in front of him.
The apartment was quiet in the way he liked best. Not empty. Just settled. Val was in the guest room, humming softly to herself as she folded laundry. The sound drifted down the hallway, unguarded and carefree and it made the tightness in his chest loosen.
He rested his pen against the page for a long moment before he wrote.
I'm noticing things.
The words looked tentative, but true.
I notice when she's tired before she says anything. I notice how she slows her steps when she needs support. I notice that the quiet feels different when she's here.
He paused, listening to the faint clink of hangers, the soft rhythm of her moving around his space as if it belonged to her too. As if she belonged there.
I didn't expect this, he wrote next. I didn't expect someone to fit into my life so easily without disturbing my routines. Or to change them without making them feel unsafe.
His pen slowed.
I'm afraid of losing her.
That one sentence took longer to write down. He stared at it, his heart thudding, then forced himself to keep going.
Not in the way I used to be afraid of loss. Not constantly bracing. It feels quieter than that. Like something precious I want to protect rather than something inevitable I'm preparing for.
He swallowed and continued.
She's still staying here. After I asked her to stay. She hasn't tried to leave again. I think we both know what it means. I'm relieved every morning when I hear her moving around. I feel calmer when I know she's nearby. I don't feel trapped by it. That surprises me.
The pen hesitated, then pressed on.
I like holding her hand. I like how she looks at me when she waits for me to decide. I like that she gives me space without losing patience.
He exhaled slowly.
I don't know what this will become. I'm not ready to name it. But I know this: when she's here, life feels less dangerous. The present feels like somewhere I can stay.
He closed the journal gently, as if sealing something fragile, but real and set the pen beside it.
Down the hall, he heard Val laugh at something, probably something on her phone.
Elliot smiled to himself, a small, yet happy smile and for once he didn't question his feelings.
That evening, they cooked together. Elliot moved with his usual careful precision. Val followed his instructions without teasing him, noticing how his shoulders relaxed when she did. When they both reached for the salt at the same time, their fingers brushed. They froze, then she smiled easily and he let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.
After dinner, the apartment felt warmer. They sat together on the sofa. Val spread her blanket over both their laps and leaned back.
"I'm glad you're still here," Elliot said quietly.
"So am I," she replied.
They watched the familiar quiz show, trading answers and quiet observations, comfortable in the shared space. The closeness between them was no longer accidental. It was chosen. Careful. Steady.
Neither of them named it.
Neither of them needed to.
For now, it was enough to sit together in the quiet, learning how to exist beside someone without fear of losing them.
Learning, slowly, how not to let go.