A few weeks later, Val came home later than usual, her cheeks pink from the cold, her scarf half-unwound around her neck. She kicked off her shoes with a tired sigh and leaned back against the door, closing her eyes for a second before smiling.
"You won't believe today," she said, shrugging out of her coat.
Elliot looked up from the sofa. He had been waiting for her. Dinner was ready in the kitchen, plated and cool now, he had prepared it for when he thought she would walk through the door.
"Long day?" he asked.
"Long," she nodded. "But really good."
She drifted into the kitchen as she spoke, energy carrying her despite the fatigue. She talked about the community centre, about a child who had finally nailed a move they'd been practising all week, about an older woman who stayed behind just to say thank you.
"I completely lost track of time," Val said, laughing softly. "I should've texted. I didn't even realise how late it was until I put my coat on."
Elliot nodded, but something inside him was wound up tight. It wasn't anger. It was an unsettling feeling of his internal order shifting, of something unexpected knocking him off balance.
"It's fine," he said quietly.
Val paused, turning to look at him properly. "Is it?"
"Yes," he replied, without looking at het. "Of course."
She studied him for a moment, searching his face. Then she nodded, accepting the answer, even though something about it didn't sit right. She came over and sat beside him on the sofa and reached for his hand.
He let her take it, but his fingers were stiff, unresponsive.
"You're quiet," she said.
"I'm tired."
It was true, but incomplete.
The rest of the evening felt slightly misaligned. They ate together, watched their quiz show, but the ease they'd grown used to wasn't quite there. The air felt dry, like a room that was starved of air.
Val noticed.
When the credits rolled, she muted the television and turned toward him fully.
"Okay," she said. "What's wrong?"
Elliot stared at the blank screen for a long moment, the reflection showing his own tension back at him.
"I didn't know you were going to be so late," he said finally.
She frowned. "I told you I'd be a few hours."
"I know," he said. "I just—"
"And things ran over," she continued, a sharper edge creeping into her voice. "That happens. I wasn't late on purpose."
"I'm not saying you were," he said, too quickly.
"But you're upset," she said, irritation flickering now. "And I don't understand why."
He rubbed a hand over his face, breathing out slowly. "I think I got anxious."
She leaned back slightly, arms folding loosely across her chest. "Anxious about what?"
He hesitated. The real answer felt too big, too raw.
"Of things changing," he said instead. "Of not knowing what to expect."
Her jaw tightened. "Things are changing, Elliot. They have been."
"Yes," he said. "And I like it. I just… I didn't realise how much I'd started organising my day around you."
The words landed heavier than he'd intended.
Val absorbed them, then let out a small, frustrated sigh. "So when I was late, it felt like something was wrong."
"Yes."
She shook her head, standing abruptly. "I can't promise I'll always be on time. I can't promise predictability. That's not who I am."
"I don't want you to change," he said immediately.
"It sounds like you do," she replied, the irritation now unmistakable.
He flinched. "That's not what I mean."
"But it's what it feels like," she said. "Like I did something wrong just by living my life."
Silence fell, heavier now.
Elliot stood too, then hesitated, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. His instinct was immediate and familiar.
"I need a minute," he said quietly.
Before she could respond, he stepped away, retreating down the hallway and closing the bedroom door behind him with careful restraint.
Val stood alone in the living room, exhaling sharply. She pressed her hands to her face, frustration mixing with guilt.
In the bedroom, Elliot sat on the edge of the bed, his heart racing. He hated himself for pulling away, for reverting to old habits, but he also knew he needed to in order to steady himself. He breathed slowly, grounding himself, reminding himself that retreat didn't have to mean escape forever.
After several minutes, he stood and returned to the living room.
Val was sitting on the sofa, knees drawn up, staring at nothing.
"I'm sorry," he said softly.
She looked up, the edge gone from her expression, replaced by something tired, but open. "I don't want to fight," she said. "I just don't want to feel like I have to shrink."
"You don't," he said. "I promise, you don't."
He sat beside her, leaving space, not assuming.
"I don't want to lose you," he added quietly.
She looked at him then, really looked. "You won't. But you have to let me be me."
"I'm trying," he said. "I really am."
She reached for his hand again, this time squeezing it. "I know."
The tension didn't disappear all at once. It softened gradually, like a knot worked loose with patience.
Later that night, Elliot lay awake, listening to her breathing beside him. He understood then that the fear wasn't of her leaving.
It was of needing her to be near.
The next morning, he wrote in his journal while the apartment was still quiet.
I don't want to become someone who cages her.
And I don't want to disappear when things feel hard.
This is new ground. I have to learn how to be patient.
When Val woke and found him in the kitchen making coffee, she wrapped her arms around him without a word.
"We're okay," she murmured.
"Yes," he said, meaning it this time.
That afternoon, they went for a walk. Not far. Just enough. And when they stepped back inside together, Elliot realised something quietly reassuring.
They could falter.
They could retreat.
And they could still find their way back.
That felt like something possible.
That night, as they cooked together, bumping elbows, laughing quietly over her techniques, Elliot felt something unfamiliar settle into his chest.
Not certainty.
But confidence.
The kind that came not from knowing what would happen next, but from believing they could face it together awkward pauses, uncertainty and all.
That felt like something worth wanting to keep.