Friday morning started the same way most of Elliot's mornings did — coffee, emails, the steady rhythm of his keyboard.
But there was something lighter about the quiet today. A small shift he couldn't quite define.
Noah arrived at half past ten with his usual armful of groceries and a paper bag that smelled suspiciously like bakery muffins.
"Morning," Noah said, dropping the bag on the counter. "You look… different."
"Different how?"
"I don't know. Less like a ghost."
Elliot frowned. "I don't recall being spectral."
"Maybe not," Noah said, grinning, "but you've got that post-human-contact glow."
Elliot blinked. "That's not a real phrase."
"It is now. So, tell me — what happened?"
Elliot hesitated, then said, "Val invited me over last night. We watched a movie."
Noah's brows shot up. "You went to her apartment?"
"Yes."
"And you stayed? The whole time?"
"Yes."
Noah leaned on the counter, shaking his head in disbelief. "That's… that's huge, El."
"It was only a film," Elliot said quickly, though a faint smile tugged at his mouth. "She made popcorn."
"You actually ate popcorn?"
"A few pieces. It was… fine." He paused. "The film was… not logical, but amusing in parts."
"Now I have to know what you watched."
"The Nutty Professor."
Noah burst out laughing. "Oh, man. Val picked that, didn't she?"
"Yes."
"That tracks." He grinned. "So what now? You two going to make this a regular thing?"
Elliot hesitated. "I was thinking… perhaps I could return the gesture. Invite her over to watch something."
"That's a great idea," Noah said, clearly delighted. "What kind of movie are you thinking?"
"That's the problem," Elliot said, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know any. I haven't… watched much in recent years. Nothing modern. Or even moderately recent."
"Alright, no problem. We'll fix that." Noah took out his phone. "Let's start with easy ones. Comfort movies. Light-hearted stuff. Maybe something like Road Trip, Superbad…"
Elliot typed the titles into his laptop, lips moving silently as he spelled each one.
"Something with calm pacing," he murmured, "and no… explosions."
"Right," Noah said, suppressing a smile. "And maybe one that makes you feel good by the end."
Elliot nodded thoughtfully. "Moneyball sounds suitable. No killing."
"That one's perfect. You'll like it."
Elliot spent the rest of the afternoon preparing — an act that, for him, bordered on ceremonial. He chose the film carefully, arranged his living room so the couch faced the screen, and even practiced making popcorn so it wouldn't burn.
When he texted Val (something he still did with cautious deliberation), his message was brief and formal:
I thought perhaps you might like to watch a film here tonight. I have prepared snacks.
She replied two minutes later:
You've "prepared snacks"? How could I say no? See you at seven, Professor.
He wasn't sure why she called him that, but the message made him smile.
When she arrived, she looked pleasantly surprised — the bowl of popcorn, two mugs of hot chocolate, even a small tray with napkins neatly folded beside them.
"Wow," she said, stepping in. "You really went all out. Are you sure you don't secretly host dinner parties when no one's looking?"
"I find dinner parties inefficient," he said seriously. "But snacks are simple."
She laughed, setting her bag down. "You're adorable, you know that?"
Elliot froze, unsure what to do with that word. He settled for pretending he hadn't heard it.
"Tonight's film is Moneyball," he said, gesturing toward the television. "No death. I checked."
"Good to know," Val said, grinning as she sat down. "You've done your research."
They started the film. The opening credits played softly — a smooth jazz tune that filled the room without crowding it.
For once, Elliot didn't feel out of place. He even laughed — genuinely — at a few moments, and Val's delight seemed to double whenever he did.
Halfway through, she nudged the popcorn bowl toward him. "You've eaten, like, four pieces."
"I'm conserving resources."
"It's popcorn, not rations," she teased. "Live a little."
He took a small handful, chewing slowly. "I prefer the quiet parts of the film," he admitted. "Where people simply… exist."
"Yeah," she said softly, watching the screen. "Those are my favourite bits too."
When the credits rolled, neither moved for a while. The film's final song lingered like a heartbeat.
"That was…" Elliot searched for the word. "Good."
"You know what I liked about it?" Val said, smiling. "He stopped waiting for permission. He just decided to believe in his own way of seeing things. That's kind of brave, isn't it?"
He nodded slowly, thoughtful. "I like that."
She smiled, stretching her legs out. "You did good, Van Doren. Excellent snack presentation, great film choice."
"Thank you," he said simply.
It struck him how ordinary this felt — two people sharing a film, a bowl of popcorn, a quiet evening. For most, nothing special. But for him, it was a victory measured in heartbeats.
When Val stood to leave, she said, "Next time, we'll do something even quieter — maybe paint or cook or something. You pick."
He nodded. "Alright."
And as the door closed behind her, he found himself already thinking about what they might watch next time.
Saturday passed easily. He worked through emails, listened to music, cooked lunch — small things that made the apartment feel less like a refuge and more like a home.
By evening, the sky turned violet, the building humming with weekend energy — people coming and going, laughter echoing faintly down the hall.
Elliot was reading when he heard movement outside. Voices. A low, unfamiliar male tone.
Curious, he went to the door and looked through the peephole.
Val stood there — hair loose and curled, makeup subtle but striking. A red dress that shimmered slightly when she moved. The man from last weekend beside her, he smiled, leaning in to say something that made her laugh.
Elliot felt the sound like a tug in his chest.
She stepped out, locked her door, and the man took her hand. They walked down the hallway together, talking quietly, the click of her heels fading with each step.
Elliot stayed by the door long after they were gone.
He told himself it wasn't jealousy. It was… concern. She barely knew that man. Anything could happen. He was just worried, that was all.
And yet, the thought didn't sit right. It burned somewhere deep — a feeling he couldn't name, something that didn't belong in the tidy world he'd built for himself.
He sat down at his desk, tried to read again, but the words blurred.
Outside, the gentle hum of the city echoed faintly from the street below.
He closed the book, exhaled slowly, and whispered into the quiet,
"I don't understand people."
And the silence that followed seemed to agree.