The next morning, Elliot sat at the kitchen table, elbows resting on the surface, hands tangled in his hair. The apartment smelled faintly of last night's wine and stale air. Outside, the city was bright and bustling, but he couldn't summon the energy to notice it.
A knock on the door startled him.
"Noah," he muttered under his breath, almost wishing he hadn't come.
Noah pushed the door open without waiting for an invitation, carrying the reassuring weight of presence Elliot didn't know how to refuse. "Hey," he said softly. "How are you holding up?"
Elliot didn't answer. He just shook his head and turned to stare at the table, as if the scratches in the wood held all the world's meaning.
Noah stepped closer, hesitant, measuring his approach. "Elliot… talk to me. What's going on?"
Finally, the words came, a dry, ragged whisper. "I can't… I can't be normal."
Noah knelt beside him. "What do you mean?"
"I don't… I don't understand people," Elliot admitted, voice breaking. "I never have. As a kid... I always struggled to make friends. I… I didn't know what I was doing. And now… now it feels like I never will."
Noah's chest tightened. He had seen Elliot guarded, stoic, careful, but never like this — raw, crumbling at the edges. He reached out, letting his hand rest lightly on Elliot's shoulder. "Hey," he said gently. "It's okay. You're not alone. I'm here."
Elliot flinched, as though the touch burned, then slumped further into himself. "I don't… I can't do this," he whispered. "I can't handle being… normal. I can't handle anyone. I can't… I don't know why I even try. Maybe I shouldn't."
Noah's stomach twisted. He was at a loss, wanting to fix it, but knowing some walls weren't built overnight — and Elliot's walls were massive. "You're not failing," he said carefully. "You've made so much progress. We'll get through this. I promise you."
Elliot shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping. "Progress… you think this is progress? I fall back just as fast. Maybe faster."
Noah hesitated, then made a decision. "Alright. Listen… I'll stay this weekend. I'll be here. I don't think it's safe for you to be alone right now. Dr. Harper's coming on Monday, but until then, you're not doing this alone."
Elliot stiffened. "Noah… I don't need—"
"I know you don't," Noah interrupted gently. "But I'm not leaving. You can push, fight, yell, whatever — I'm not going anywhere."
For a long moment, Elliot glared at him, wild and vulnerable. Then, slowly, reluctantly, the tension in his shoulders eased. He slumped, silent, letting Noah stay.
The weekend passed in quiet companionship. Noah gave Elliot space, but remained close, ready for any breakdown. He bought groceries, cooked meals, and watched without judgment as Elliot drifted between silence and fragmented confessions about his childhood: how lonely he had always been, how conversations had always felt like equations he couldn't solve, how the effort always seemed to collapse under its own weight.
Elliot was aware of Noah's presence, felt it pressing against his resistance. At first, he tried to push him away — sniping, giving short answers, retreating into corners of his apartment like a scared animal. But Noah's patience was relentless. By Saturday night, Elliot had surrendered in tiny, quiet ways: letting Noah sit beside him and watch TV without comment.
Sunday morning brought a different kind of intrusion.
Val appeared at the door with a bag of pastries, the scent of fresh sugar and butter spilling into the apartment like sunlight. "I… I thought maybe…" she started, hesitating under Elliot's averted gaze.
Elliot couldn't look at her. He felt his throat tighten and his stomach twist. Every instinct told him to reach out, to say something — anything — but the words wouldn't come.
Noah stepped forward, gentle but firm. "Val, maybe… just let him have a few more days," he said quietly.
Val's eyes flicked to Elliot, then to Noah. She nodded reluctantly, leaving the pastries on the counter. "Okay." she whispered.
The door closed behind her, and the silence fell heavier than ever. Elliot's chest tightened, and a flush of guilt, shame, and helplessness washed over him. He couldn't face her. He couldn't say thank you. He hadn't even looked at her.
Noah, watching him, said nothing at first. Then, softly, "It's okay to feel terrible about that. You're allowed to."
Elliot didn't answer. He just curled a little tighter into the armchair, the pastries untouched, and let himself feel the sharp, empty ache of failure.
Noah sat beside him, keeping the space warm and steady. He didn't try to fill it with words, didn't try to force Elliot to speak. He just stayed, and that was enough — for now.
Because sometimes, surviving wasn't about fixing everything. Sometimes, it was just about letting someone sit with you until the storm passed.