Val stormed out of the building with her heart hammering against her ribs, the echo of Elliot's voice still ringing in her ears.
"You're careless. You shouldn't let a man stay over. It's dangerous."
She replayed the words over and over as she strode down the street toward the bus stop, her cheeks burning — from anger, from embarrassment, from something she didn't want to name.
Who did he think he was?
Her father? Her keeper?
The nerve of that man — standing there in his pressed shirt and that perpetual frown, judging her like she was a child who'd done something shameful.
She gripped her bag tighter, muttering under her breath as the city passed by in a blur of movement. "Unbelievable. He actually watched me. What kind of creep watches their neighbour?"
But even as she said it, the image of him standing there, eyes wide with some kind of genuine fear — not anger — flickered behind her eyelids. He hadn't looked cruel. He'd looked… frightened.
Still, she told herself, that didn't excuse it.
By the time she reached the café where she worked, the rush of morning customers had already begun. The air smelled of roasted beans and sugar, milk steaming in bursts behind the counter. She tied on her apron with jerky movements, plastered on a smile, and threw herself into the rhythm of it — order, pour, serve, repeat.
The noise was grounding, a blur of voices and clinking cups that left no space for thoughts to linger. But every now and then, when she handed over a coffee or wiped down a table, her mind drifted back to him.
To the way his voice had shaken when he said, "It's dangerous."
It hadn't sounded like a lecture. It had sounded like someone who'd lived through something and never recovered from it.
She sighed and tried to shake it off.
"Rough morning?" her coworker Maya asked, grinning over the espresso machine.
"You could say that," Val muttered.
"Bad date?"
Val laughed without humour. "No, worse. Neighbour drama."
"Ooh." Maya waggled her brows. "Hot neighbour drama?"
Val rolled her eyes. "Not even close. He's — he's impossible. Always so stiff and quiet, like he's allergic to people. And today he decided to tell me I shouldn't let a man stay over."
Maya blinked. "He said that? Wow. Kinda possessive for a neighbour, huh?"
"It's not like that," Val said quickly. "He just — he's… weird."
"Mm-hm." Maya grinned knowingly. "Weird, but you're thinking about him all day?"
"Shut up," Val said, but she was smiling despite herself.
Still, the conversation left her restless.
By afternoon, when the lunch rush eased, Val found herself at the sink, absently washing cups that didn't need washing. Her anger had cooled into something murkier — confusion, maybe. Or reluctant understanding.
She thought about how he rarely left his apartment, how Noah always came by with groceries, how tired he looked even when he was freshly showered. There was something fragile about him — not weak, just… breakable. Like someone who'd been holding their breath for years.
Maybe he hadn't meant to scold her. Maybe he'd just panicked.
Her father used to get like that sometimes — worried so hard it came out sounding angry. He'd always say it was because the world wasn't kind, especially to girls who thought they could handle it alone.
She sighed. Maybe Elliot wasn't judging her. Maybe he was just afraid for her in the only language he knew — control, caution, warning.
Still, he'd watched her. That part still made her skin prickle.
But then a quiet thought crept in, uninvited:
If it had been him — someone coming to his door late at night — wouldn't you have watched too?
She paused, hands still in the warm dishwater.
Yes. She would have.
She would have looked through the peephole, wondering who he was with, if he was safe, if he was… lonely.
Val shook her head, but the admission lingered. The truth was she did care, and that confused her more than anything.
By the time her shift ended, the day had worn the sharp edges off her anger. She was tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixed, but the kind that came from feeling too much.
As she walked home through the cool evening air, she found herself glancing up at the windows of her building. Elliot's apartment light was on.
For a moment, she almost wished she could knock on his door, tell him she understood, that she wasn't angry anymore — not really.
But she wasn't ready. And maybe he wasn't either.
So instead, she went into her apartment quietly, placed her keys on the counter, and leaned against the door, breathing out a long sigh.
It had been a long day — too long — and yet she couldn't quite shake the image of his face, the panic in his eyes.
She whispered into the still air, "You're an idiot, Elliot."
Then, softer:
"So am I."