A few weeks slipped by almost unnoticed.
The days had settled into a reassuring shape. Elliot worked in the mornings with Noah, went to the writing group on Tuesdays, walked Val home from the café the two evenings she worked every week. They cooked together. They argued mildly over the television. They laughed easily, without effort. Their routines carried no strain; they had eased into each other's lives simply by being together.
One morning as they worked in Elliot's apartment, laptops open, reports and files spread across the desk in front of them, Noah leaned back in his chair and stretched.
"So," he said casually. "Valentine's Day is next week."
Elliot's fingers paused over the keyboard. Val had already left for the community centre, her goodbye kiss still lingering faintly in Elliot's awareness.
"Yes," he said. "I'm aware."
Noah smiled, recognising the tone immediately.
"Have you thought about a gift?"
Elliot turned to look at him. "She said she doesn't want anything."
Noah nodded, sympathetic. "Yeah. Holly told me apparently they usually say that, but expect something anyway."
"That doesn't make sense," Elliot said. "If she doesn't want anything, then..."
"It means she doesn't want anything extravagant or expensive," Noah interrupted gently. "Not that she doesn't want to feel special, thought of."
Elliot frowned, absorbing that. "So… something small?"
"Something meaningful," Noah corrected. "Again, I'm learning all this. Good job Holly is so easy going and doesn't get worked up when she realises how bad I am at this stuff. Apparently, there's a difference."
Elliot sat back in his chair, tension creeping into his shoulders. "I don't know how to do this."
"That's why I brought it up, I know she's important to you," Noah said gently. "Most people do chocolate and flowers. That's the basics. But with someone special?" He shrugged. "You should do something personal. Something that says you actually see her."
Elliot looked down at his hands. "What does that mean? I do see her, every day."
"It means you see the small things that mean a lot to her," Noah answered.
Then, at Elliot's expression, he softened.
"Things she might mention made her really happy. Like if there's something she's been thinking about doing, but keeps putting it off. Or if she really wants to see a film, but thinks you won't like it. But that's not the point. She's not with you because you're perfect at this stuff. She'll appreciate the effort as long as you make it personal to her."
Elliot thought of Val's laughter when he misread situations. Of the way she had held his hands and told him he didn't need to be anything else.
"What holds meaning for her? What makes her smile?" Noah prompted.
Elliot didn't answer right away. His mind moved carefully through moments instead. The community centre. The kids dancing with her. The art group. The way she lit up when someone found confidence they didn't know they had, or really enjoyed a session just because she'd helped them.
"She likes things that matter, she likes helping people," he said slowly. "Not things that are on show."
Noah grinned. "There you go."
Elliot nodded, but his chest felt tight. Valentine's Day wasn't just about a gift. It was a declaration. A visible marker of something he was still learning how to hold without fear.
That evening, after Val had fallen asleep curled against him, her face warm, her breathing steady, Elliot reached for his journal.
He didn't write right away. He sat with the pen poised, listening to the quiet, grounding himself in her warmth and the slow rhythm of her breath.
I don't know how to do grand gestures, he wrote finally.
But I know how to pay attention.
He thought about what Valentine's Day meant to him now. Not obligation. Not expectation. But care. Appreciation of her patience and her heart.
He closed the journal and stared at the ceiling, ideas forming slowly, deliberately. Not roses. Not just chocolate. Something that spoke her language. Something only for her, that no one else could give her.
The next morning, as they walked to the café together, Val chatted easily about a new project at the centre, unaware of the careful planning unfolding inside his head.
Elliot listened, memorising details without commenting. The way she mentioned certain things. Other things she dismissed. What she lingered on.
When she squeezed his hand at the café door and disappeared inside, Elliot stood for a moment longer than usual, watching through the window as she went behind the counter, confident and alive.
Valentine's Day was a week away.
For the first time, Elliot didn't feel dread at the thought of it.
The idea arrived in pieces, quietly, the way he gathered data for his most important reports for work. He took it just as seriously. Over several days, he assembled it from small observations he had been learning without realising it.
He noticed how Val kept lists everywhere. Notes on her phone. Scraps of paper tucked into books. Half written ideas in the margins of her notebook. He noticed how she lit up when someone else found their voice, how she stayed late at the community centre not because she had to, but because someone needed her. How she talked about creativity not as performance, but as breathing life into something.
And he noticed other things too.
She still liked to dance, at home, when no one was watching.
Sometimes in the kitchen while she cooked. Sometimes in the living room when she thought he was absorbed in his work. Nothing rehearsed. Nothing staged. Just movement, loose and honest, like her body could hear the music and just moved.
That was where the idea finally settled.
He didn't tell Noah. He didn't tell Dr Harper. He didn't even write it down at first, afraid that naming it too early would lessen it's life while it was still fragile. Instead, he began preparing. Methodically. Thoughtfully. One small step at a time.
One quiet afternoon while Val was at the community centre, Elliot walked to the stationery shop two streets over. He had been inside once before and had memorised the layout. Still, his chest tightened as he pushed the door open. The bell chimed. He paused, adjusted his headphones, then went in.
He chose a notebook first. Not flashy. Soft cream pages. A cover in muted blue that reminded him vaguely of the early morning light. He ran his thumb along the spine, grounding himself, then moved on to find the other items.
Next came coloured tabs. Fine tipped pens. A small pack of stickers shaped like stars and flowers. He almost put them back, then thinking about how Val decorated everything she owned, he kept them.
The last thing he chose was simple. A card. Blank inside. Heavy paper. No glitter. No declarations mass produced with a generic greeting. It had to be special. Because she was special.
When he got home, he laid everything out on the table with almost reverent care.
That night, while Val slept, he opened the notebook and stared at the first page for a long time.
Writing for himself had been difficult enough. Writing something for someone else felt terrifying. But he reminded himself of what Noah had said.
Something that shows you see her.
He began slowly.
On the first page, he wrote a dedication. Just one sentence, neat and deliberate.
For the moments you don't need an audience.
He flipped the page and wrote again.
Ideas for creating without pressure.
What followed took him a couple of days. He filled the notebook with gentle prompts.
Suggestions rather than instructions. Small invitations rather than goals.
Things like:
Move to a song no one else can hear.
Write something you will never show anyone.
Teach someone else something you once thought didn't matter.
Create something badly on purpose.
Between pages, he added notes in the margins. Observations he had made about her without ever saying them out loud.
You listen better than you think.
You make people brave.
You don't need to be watched to feel good.
Then he wrote in the card
My dear Val,
Every day with you feels like a little miracle I didn't know I needed. Your laugh, your presence, the way you make every day feel extraordinary,
I'm grateful for all of it and I'm grateful for you.
Happy Valentine's Day to the one who makes my world brighter just by being in it.
He didn't sign any of it. He didn't label it love. He didn't explain himself. He trusted that she would understand.
When the notebook was finished, he wrapped it carefully in brown paper and tied it with blue string.
He added the card and, after some thought, went to the florist a day before Valentine's Day.
He chose flowers that were understated. Soft colours. Nothing dramatic. He bought a box of chocolates too, because Noah had been right. Some things mattered simply because they were expected.
On Valentine's morning, Elliot woke earlier than usual.
Val was still asleep, her hair loose across the pillow, one hand curled toward him as if she had reached for him in the night without waking. He lay there for a while, breathing, steadying himself.
This was new territory. Not frightening exactly. Just vulnerable.
He got up quietly and made coffee. When she emerged a little later, sleepy and warm and smiling, he handed her a mug and tried not to look like he was nervous.
"You're up early," she said, leaning into him.
"Yes," he replied. "I had… something planned."
Her eyebrow lifted, amused. "Oh? Should I be worried?"
"No," he said immediately. Then, after a beat, "I don't think so."
They ate breakfast together as usual, but the air between them was charged with something unspoken. When they finished, Elliot cleared his throat.
"Val?"
She looked up, attentive.
"I know you said you didn't want anything," he began carefully. "But I wanted to do something anyway. If that's okay."
Her expression softened instantly as she smiled.
"Of course it's okay."
He disappeared into the guest bedroom and returned with the flowers, the chocolates, and the wrapped notebook in his hands.
She laughed softly. "You didn't have to get me all this."
"I wanted to," he said. "The flowers and chocolate are… traditional. The other thing is more personal."
She took the flowers first, inhaled, smiling. Then the chocolates. Then the notebook with the card attached. She opened the card and read what he'd written.
"Elliot, that's beautiful, thank you, " her voice was thick with emotion. Next, she turned the brown parcel over in her hands slowly before untying the string.
As she opened it, Elliot watched her face with a focus that bordered on fear.
She read the first page. Then the second. Then the third.
Her expression changed gradually. Surprise. Recognition. Something that shimmered dangerously close to tears.
"Elliot," she whispered.
He shifted on his feet and scratched the back of his head, uncertain. "You don't have to like it."
She looked up sharply. "Elliot, I love it."
She flipped through the pages again, slower this time, tracing the words with her finger. When she reached the end, she closed the notebook and pressed it to her chest.
"No one has ever given me something like this," she said. "You see me."
The words landed deep and sure.
He nodded, throat tight.
"I do."
She stood then and wrapped her arms around him, careful, but firm, her cheek against his shoulder. He held her, breathing her in, grounding himself in the reality of her.
"This is perfect," she murmured. "All of it."
They stayed like that for a long moment, the world narrowed to the quiet of the apartment and the warmth between them.
Val pulled back just enough to look at him. "Happy Valentine's Day," she said.
He smiled. Not tentative. Not rehearsed.
"Happy Valentine's Day," he replied.
And he finally understood what it meant to see someone and to make them feel special.