Thursday evening was quiet. The kind of quiet Elliot had come to think of as his — not the suffocating kind anymore, but something softer, familiar. The hum of the fridge. The faint tick of the clock. A book open in his hands.
He'd been reading the same paragraph for ten minutes, eyes drifting toward the window every few seconds. Outside, the city glowed — golden streaks across glass and steel. Somewhere below, a siren wailed, distant enough not to hurt.
He was halfway through a sentence when a knock startled him. Three quick taps, then silence.
For a moment, he froze — his heart giving that sharp, old flutter of panic before reason caught up. It was evening, but not late. The sound wasn't threatening.
He stood, book still open in one hand, and crossed to the door. Through the peephole, he saw Val.
She looked casual — hair loose, a soft sweater, leggings, no glitter tonight. Just her.
He hesitated a beat before opening the door.
"Hey," she said, her voice bright, but careful, like she wasn't sure how welcome she'd be. "You busy?"
"Reading," he said, holding up the book as evidence.
She smiled faintly. "You always read something serious?"
He blinked, uncertain if that was teasing. "It's non-fiction."
"That explains a lot," she said under her breath, but the grin softened it. Then, after a pause, she added, "I was wondering if you wanted to watch a movie. At my place. Just —" she gestured vaguely "— as friends. Nothing weird."
Elliot looked at her like she'd just suggested jumping out of an airplane.
"A movie?"
"Yes, a movie," she said, laughing. "You know — screen, sound, people pretending to be other people?"
He didn't smile. "I know what movies are."
"Good," she said. "So? You in?"
He hesitated, thumb pressed between the pages of his book. "I don't usually…"
"Do things?" she supplied gently.
"Watch things," he corrected. "Not… loud things. I only like quiet films. I don't like action, or… people dying."
She started laughing, but stopped when she saw his expression. "Wait. You're serious."
He nodded.
"Oh." She shifted, suddenly unsure how to stand. "Okay, no action, no dying. Got it." She thought for a second, lips pursed. "How about a comedy? Something old-school. Funny, but not too loud. The Nutty Professor?"
"I've never seen it."
Her eyes widened. "You're kidding."
He shook his head.
"Elliot," she said, almost scandalised, "you are in for a treat." Then, quickly, before he could change his mind, "If you don't like it, we can switch to something else. Promise."
He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at his quiet apartment — his safe space, his routine. The thought of crossing that short hallway felt bigger than it should have.
But Val was watching him with that look — open, hopeful, not pushy.
"Alright," he said at last. "I'll come for one movie."
"Deal," she said, beaming.
Her apartment smelled like butter and vanilla. Popcorn was already in a big glass bowl on the coffee table, and a stack of DVDs sat beside it like a promise.
Elliot paused just inside the doorway. The place was warm, lived-in — with mismatched cushions, fairy lights strung along the window and a faint trace of perfume in the air.
"You can sit anywhere," she said, picking up the remote. "I mean, it's just the couch, but, you know. Options."
He sat at one end, posture too proper for comfort. His hands rested on his knees like he was waiting for an interview.
Val laughed softly. "You look like you're about to defend a thesis, not watch Eddie Murphy."
"I'm just… not used to this," he admitted.
"I figured." She tossed him a small throw pillow. "Here. For emotional support."
He caught it clumsily, startled into a faint smile. "Thanks."
She dimmed the lights and settled in beside him, not too close, leaving a careful gap between them. The movie started, the bright MGM logo flickering across the screen.
Elliot tensed at the sudden swell of sound.
"Too loud?" she asked.
He hesitated. "A little."
She turned it down without a word.
They watched in silence for a while — the kind of silence that wasn't awkward, just tentative, learning its rhythm. Elliot's focus shifted slowly from the sound to the movement, from tension to curiosity.
The first time Val laughed — really laughed — he looked at her instead of the screen. There was something easy about it, the way her eyes lit up, the unguarded joy in her face. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen someone laugh like that.
When she noticed him looking, she grinned. "You're allowed to laugh, you know."
"I'm… processing the humour," he said, deadpan.
Val snorted. "Processing the humour? God, you sound like a robot."
"I don't find slapstick logical," he admitted. "It's just… noise and chaos. Someone falls, people laugh. I don't understand the appeal."
She bit back another laugh. "You're impossible."
"Statistically unlikely," he corrected.
That made her laugh harder.
Somewhere in the middle of the film, he relaxed. His shoulders sank a little. He even smiled, briefly, when the professor's experiment went wrong. It wasn't the joke itself that amused him — it was Val's reaction. She threw popcorn at the screen when a line was too stupid, muttered commentary under her breath, laughed until she snorted.
It was impossible not to catch some of her carefreeness.
When the credits rolled, she stretched with a groan and said, "Well? Verdict?"
He considered. "Less illogical than expected."
"That's your review?"
"I liked the house," he said seriously.
Val chuckled, shaking her head. "You're something else."
He looked down, unsure if that was good or bad. "I hope that's… not a criticism."
She smiled softly. "No. It's not."
For a few seconds, neither moved. The credits music filled the quiet. Val picked at a stray kernel of popcorn and said, "I'm glad you came over."
He glanced at her. "Me too."
The words came out quieter than he meant them to.
It wasn't just about the movie — it was about being there, about having survived an hour and a half in someone else's space without wanting to flee. About remembering that life could feel light, even for a moment.
When he stood to leave, Val walked him to the door.
"Thanks for the movie," he said.
"Thanks for not hating it," she replied with a grin. "Next time, you pick."
"Next time?"
"Yeah. I'm making you watch something again."
He almost said no — the reflex was there, but something in her tone stopped him. It wasn't pressure, just warmth.
"Alright," he said. "But no musicals."
She gasped. "Oh, you have no idea what you've just started, Van Doren."
He smiled, actually smiled, before retreating to the safety of his own apartment.
Back inside, the silence felt different — not lonely, not heavy. Just quiet again. He stood for a long moment, just inside his door, letting the calm settle.
Then, almost on impulse, he opened his notebook.
"Val invited me to watch a movie. I went."
"I thought I'd panic. I didn't."
"She laughed a lot. I didn't understand half of it, but it made sense somehow."
"Maybe the world isn't as sharp at the edges as I remember."
He closed the journal and leaned back in his chair. From across the hall came a faint sound — Val humming something off-key as she cleaned up.
Elliot smiled to himself, then turned off the light.
For the first time in years, the silence didn't feel like hiding.
It felt like rest.