The apartment was dark except for the faint blue glow of the city through the blinds. Elliot sat at his desk, the remains of dinner pushed aside, his notebook closed. He couldn't focus. Couldn't read. Couldn't write.
The image of Val leaving — the way she'd smiled at that man — replayed in his mind like a loop he couldn't switch off. He told himself it was irrational, none of his business, but the thought pressed against his ribs until he felt short of breath.
Outside, the city breathed its restless rhythm: cars passing, distant laughter, the occasional rumble of the subway beneath. Inside, the quiet was heavier.
He'd tried going to bed around midnight. Tried lying still, breathing evenly, pretending to be calm. But his mind was an electric wire, too tense to settle. Every sound from the hallway pulled him back to alertness — the hum of the elevator, a door shutting somewhere above, faint footsteps.
Then, at 1:07 a.m., the soft rumble of the elevator again.
He got up before he even realised he'd moved. His bare feet met the cold floor as he crossed to the door, pressing his hand on the door. He looked through the peephole.
Val and the man stood there in the hallway, laughing quietly. Her coat was draped over her arm, her cheeks flushed, her hair slightly mussed by the wind. The man leaned closer, said something that made her laugh again. Then she unlocked her door and let him in.
The door closed behind them with a soft click.
Elliot stood frozen, heat rising in his chest — confusion first, then something sharper, harder. Anger, maybe. Or something close enough to it that it burned.
He told himself it was fear. Concern. That she didn't know this man well, that anything could happen. That it wasn't safe.
But underneath that, in the quiet he didn't want to name, was something else. The feeling of being left outside. Forgotten. Watching a world he didn't understand continue without him.
He didn't sleep that night.
He sat on the couch with the lights off, the city's glow washing faintly across the room, every sound from across the hall keeping him awake — muffled laughter, footsteps, silence, then more laughter. His hands were clenched so tightly that his knuckles ached.
By dawn, he was exhausted, the kind of tired that made his thoughts jagged. He showered, dressed, made coffee he didn't drink, and waited.
At 7:15, her door opened.
Val stepped out in her work clothes, hair tied back, bag over her shoulder. Her lipstick was smudged slightly, her eyes rimmed with tiredness, but she was smiling — until she saw him.
Elliot stood by his door, rigid, arms folded.
"Morning," she said warily.
"Val," he said, tone flat. "We need to talk."
She frowned. "About what?"
He hesitated, trying to keep his voice even. "About last night. You shouldn't let someone you barely know into your apartment like that. It's reckless — it's dangerous."
Her expression froze, the tiredness in her eyes replaced by disbelief. "Excuse me?"
"You don't know what people are capable of," he said, words tumbling out too quickly now. "You don't think — you just —"
"Wow," she cut in sharply, her voice rising. "Were you watching me?"
"I wasn't — I heard —" He faltered. "It's not like that."
"No, it's exactly like that!" she snapped. "You were spying on me, Elliot!"
"I was worried!" he shot back, his own voice breaking from its usual quiet restraint. "You don't think! You just bring strangers into your home —"
"Strangers? He's my date!" she shouted, incredulous. "You think you get to tell me who I can or can't bring into my apartment?"
Elliot's breath came faster now, his words tumbling over one another. "You barely know him! You don't know if he's safe! You live alone, Val, it's — it's careless!"
"Careless?" Her laughter was harsh, shaking with anger. "I'm a grown woman, Elliot! You don't get to police what I do just because you're —" She stopped herself, the last word catching in her throat. "Just because you're… you."
Something in his expression flickered — pain, brief and sharp — before it hardened. "Forget it," he said quietly. "You never listen anyway."
"Maybe because it's none of your damn business!"
The sound of the elevator doors opening down the hall cut through their voices. Noah stepped out, carrying a grocery bag, eyes wide as he took in the scene.
"What's going on?" he asked cautiously, moving toward them.
Val exhaled shakily, pressing her hands to her temples. "Ask him. He's apparently decided he's my security guard now."
Noah turned to Elliot, who looked pale and drained, his jaw tight. "El —"
"She shouldn't —" Elliot began, but his voice cracked mid-sentence.
"Enough," Noah said gently but firmly, stepping between them. "Val, you should go. You'll be late for work."
Val hesitated, breathing hard. Then she glanced at Elliot — one quick, sharp look — and shook her head. "Unbelievable." She turned on her heel and stalked down the corridor toward the elevator, her footsteps echoing hard against the floor.
When the doors closed behind her, the silence left in her wake was thick and raw.
Elliot stood there, chest heaving, unable to meet Noah's eyes.
"She's reckless," he muttered finally, half to himself. "She doesn't think."
Noah's voice softened. "Maybe she doesn't have to think like you do. Not everyone lives afraid, El."
Elliot flinched, his anger collapsing into exhaustion. "I'm not afraid," he said, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.
Noah sighed and set the grocery bag down. "Come on. Let's go inside."
Elliot didn't move at first, his hand still resting on the doorframe, eyes fixed on the empty hall.
Finally, he nodded once, wordless, and followed Noah in.
The door closed quietly behind them.
Inside, the air was heavy — coffee cooling on the counter, sunlight creeping across the floor. Elliot stood there for a long time, feeling the hollow thud of his pulse, the echo of Val's voice still ringing in his head.
She was wrong, he told himself. He was just trying to protect her. That's all.
But the thought didn't settle. It twisted inside him, uncomfortable and uncertain, as though even he didn't fully believe it.
He sat down at his desk, staring at the blank page in his journal.
The pen hovered, then dropped.
He didn't write that morning.
He just sat there, angry at her. Angry at himself. Angry that the world outside his walls still refused to make sense.