Wednesday passed quietly.
Elliot moved through it with precision — morning routine, work calls, lunch at exactly twelve, another hour on spreadsheets. His body followed its usual rhythm, but his mind lagged half a step behind, wandering back to the faint sound of laughter from across the hall the night before.
He hadn't slept much. Not because of Val — at least, not directly — but because he couldn't stop thinking about what Dr. Harper had said: Pause. Don't solve. Just feel.
He'd done that.
And he'd survived it.
The world hadn't ended.
He supposed that counted as progress.
Still, when morning came, he'd felt a low hum of unease beneath everything — the kind that made him double-check his calendar twice and straighten the already-straight pens on his desk.
He'd heard Val's door open early — soft footsteps, a quiet click as she left for work — and he'd felt something like relief. He wasn't ready to see her yet. Not after naming what he'd felt. Not after realizing how fragile it still was inside him.
So he worked. All day. Efficiently. Predictably.
By evening, the apartment was spotless again and dinner was finished, dishes drying neatly by the sink. He'd just sat down with his notebook when there was a knock at the door.
Three light taps.
He looked up, heartbeat skipping once. Only one person knocked like that.
For a moment, he considered pretending not to be home. But he was already halfway to the door before he could talk himself out of it.
When he opened it, Val was there — loose hair falling over her shoulders, cheeks a little flushed. She smiled, bright and easy.
"Hey," she said. "Busy?"
He hesitated. "Not really."
"Good." She pushed a mixing bowl towards him — a metal one, light catching on its rim. "I'm making cupcakes. Want to help?"
He blinked. "Cupcakes?"
"Yeah. You know — flour, sugar, tiny paper cups, joy of humanity?" Her mouth curved into a grin. "You strike me as a man who hasn't baked one in his life."
"I haven't," he admitted.
"Even better." She nodded toward her door across the hall. "Come on. I've got everything set up. It'll be fun."
He frowned slightly. "I don't eat cake."
"That's fine. You don't have to eat it," she said, amused. "You just have to help make it."
"I can't think of a situation where I'd ever need to make one."
Val laughed softly. "You don't make cupcakes because you need to. You make them because it's Wednesday and you survived the day. Because it's fun."
Her smile held that easy warmth that always disarmed him. He hesitated for another moment, then sighed, shoulders loosening just slightly. "Alright."
"Good," she said brightly. "Aprons await."
Her kitchen smelled faintly of vanilla and sugar, the countertops covered with bowls, spoons, and neatly lined ingredients. There was flour on the edge of the counter already — a white fingerprint on polished stone.
Elliot stopped just inside the doorway, taking in the organized chaos. "You've… made quite the mess."
She grinned. "It's creative order. You'll get used to it."
He doubted that, but he didn't say so. She handed him an apron, a pale blue one that said Bake It Till You Make It.
He stared at it for a beat. "That's… optimistic."
"It's called having faith in the process," she teased, tying her own apron behind her. "You handle the measuring. You're precise. I'll handle the chaos."
That seemed fair enough.
He measured out flour, sugar, baking powder with exacting care, leveling each scoop with the back of a knife. She watched him with quiet amusement.
"You'd make a great scientist," she said.
"I considered it," he replied, pouring the milk slowly into a measuring cup. "But I don't like experiments with unpredictable results."
"Then you picked the wrong baking partner."
She whisked the eggs too fast; a bit splattered onto the counter. He reached automatically for a cloth, wiping it before it could dry. She rolled her eyes, smiling. "You can't clean while we're still baking."
"I can," he said mildly. "It's more efficient."
They fell into an easy rhythm — her mixing, him measuring, soft music playing from her phone. The air smelled warm and sweet, the oven humming quietly behind them.
He found himself enjoying it — not the baking itself, exactly, but the smallness of it, the closeness. The way Val hummed under her breath when she stirred. The way her sleeve brushed his arm when she reached for the sugar.
He liked the way her hair caught the light when she laughed.
He tried not to think about that too hard.
When the batter was finally poured and the trays slid into the oven, Val leaned against the counter, wiping flour from her hands.
"Not bad, Elliot. You didn't even flinch when I dropped the spoon."
"You dropped three spoons," he corrected.
"Details." She waved a hand dramatically.
He allowed a faint smile. "You said this was fun?"
"Admit it," she said, nudging his elbow lightly. "You had fun."
He hesitated. Then, quietly, "Maybe."
She laughed. "That's practically a love sonnet, coming from you."
He wasn't sure how to respond, so he didn't. Instead, he watched the timer on the oven count down. The silence between them was easy — not the brittle kind that made him uneasy. Just quiet. Comfortable. She readied some frosting and a cooling rack.
When the timer finally beeped, she opened the oven and a wave of warm, sweet air filled the kitchen. She pulled the trays out, the cupcakes golden and puffed.
"They're perfect," she said, pleased.
"They're symmetrical," he corrected, studying them. "That's probably why I don't mind them."
Val laughed again, and something in his chest loosened — that strange, tentative ache softening into something gentler.
They cleaned the kitchen while they waited for the cakes to cool. Then decorated the cupcakes together at the table — Val swirling frosting in messy, colorful loops, Elliot carefully spreading his with a butter knife like he was painting fine detail on porcelain. She added sprinkles to his when he wasn't looking.
When they were done, she slid one toward him. "Try it."
He shook his head. "I told you, I don't eat —"
"Elliot," she interrupted softly. "You made this one. Just one bite."
He stared at it — the swirl of pale frosting, the neatness of it. Then, slowly, he picked it up. Peeled off the paper and took a small bite.
It was sweeter than he expected — soft, a little messy. He blinked, surprised. "It's… good."
Val smiled, a small, quiet one this time. "Told you."
She handed him a box in which she put a few cupcakes. "Take a few to share with Noah tomorrow. Everyone loves cupcakes."
He hesitated. "I've never seen him eat one."
"Then you'll start a new trend."
He looked down at the box, then back at her. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For an enjoyable evening."
Her smile widened. "You're welcome, Elliot."
He left soon after, careful with the box in his hands.
Back in his apartment, the air felt calmer somehow — like the walls had loosened their grip.
He placed the cupcakes on the counter, washed his hands, and sat at his desk. The notebook sat waiting, he opened to a blank page and wrote:
I helped make cupcakes tonight.
I didn't want to, but I did it.
I like the sound of her laugh. I liked that she asked me to help her.
I liked being there.
Maybe emotions aren't problems to fix.
Maybe they're moments to live.
He closed the notebook, exhaled slowly, and for once didn't feel the need to tidy anything.
When Elliot left, her apartment felt a little too quiet.
She put the rest of the cakes in a box, smiling at the faint smudges of frosting landing on her hands.
He'd surprised her tonight. The way he'd focused on every detail, careful and patient, as if the cupcakes' success mattered more than it should have.
The way he'd smiled — just barely — when he'd taken that first bite.
She'd felt something tug at her chest then. Soft and certain.
She sank onto the couch with her journal. She opened to a blank page and began to write:
Elliot came over tonight. We made cupcakes. He said he doesn't eat them, but he tried one anyway. I think he liked it.
He's different now. Softer. Not less him — just more open somehow. I see the effort, even when he doesn't say anything.
I keep wondering if I'm helping him, or if he's helping me.
Maybe it's both.
She paused, pen hovering.
Sometimes I think about what it would be like if this was more than friendship. Then I remind myself that I can't risk losing what we have now. But God, sometimes he looks at me like he's trying to understand something he's never felt before. And it makes me want to hold still and let him.
She set the pen down, smiling faintly. The apartment smelled like sugar and vanilla.
She didn't know what would happen next — only that she wanted to find out.