A/N: Welp, this is it, folks. The end. I'm so very sad to let this story go, but felt it had to end and this felt like a great place to do so. I can't thank you enough for coming on this journey with me and reading my story. It's been an absolute privilege.

"I love you."

Elliot's voice is hoarse. Tired. Defeated. Stretched far too thin but still, Olivia picks up on the urgency—the need—in his tone.

"I love you, too." She quietly reassures him with a small, tight-lipped smile.

He's perched on the edge of her bed, exposed in every sense of the word. He turns to study her, soaking in each detail. Her hair spilling over her eyes, a soft curl only at the ends. His t-shirt on her body, clinging loosely to her frame where it's snug on his.

"You're staring." She interjects.

"I know." He keeps his focus on her.

"Do you want something to eat, maybe?" She offers politely. "Some water?"

Liv.

The only one who makes him feel safe. Kathy tried. God knows, she tried. It wasn't her fault that she didn't understand him in the way he needed to be understood. That she couldn't vividly imagine the things he'd see day in and day out at SVU. He never expected her to find a way inside his brain. How could she? She didn't intuitively know his demons in the same way that Olivia did. She wasn't living a parallel life; implicitly able to recognize his trauma because it was so deeply, deeply entwined with her own. It wasn't Kathy's fault that she couldn't be Liv—his Liv.

"No." Elliot mutters, finding the pity in her eyes. "Just need a shower."

He isn't one to break. Not when there are so many who rely on him to be strong. His kids, his team, Liv. Especially Liv, because the minute she spots a crack in his armor she turns into the caretaker he needs but often refuses to accept. She's doing it now—offering him food and water, looking at him like he's broken and only she can fix him. Maybe she's right. Maybe he is broken. Maybe he's beyond repair, but that doesn't make it her responsibility. The consequences of his actions are his cross to bear, not hers.

"El," she calls after him, deflating when he responds only with a dismissive wave and a click of the bathroom door.

She can appreciate his embarrassment. His bitterness too because, in so many ways, it mirrors her own. She's been there: lost in the moments when anxiety and panic trump logic and all she can do—all she wants to do—is lean on Elliot and feel the heat of his skin on hers. It's a difficult thing to crave comfort while still valuing her own tenacity and resolve. She's adapting, but it may never come naturally.

Alone for a moment, Olivia gets out of bed and sifts through her drawer, finding a pajama set to change into. She's wearing Elliot's shirt, but it's a bit scratchy and she hates to think of the last time he washed it.

She catches her reflection—her bare chest on display. Hesitant at first, she inches closer to the mirror, taking a moment to study her scars. She takes her time, carefully running her fingers over each one, feeling their ups and downs. Their grooves and dips. She reminds herself to breathe. To stay centered and to allow for breaks when she needs them.

Elliot likes to say her scars serve as a reminder of her survival, as if he's one to flip the narrative. As if he wouldn't give his life if it meant saving her from those four days of hell. Pragmatically, he's right. Her scars are a reminder of her survival and she's grateful, in that respect, to have them. Problem is, they're also a permanent record of her trauma; an inescapable map of her past etched into her body.

Grief is isolating and Olivia has spent far too long buried within its trenches. Sometimes, on a particularly dark day, she misses the woman she once was. Back when she barely noticed the sound of duct tape or the smell of cigarette smoke. When vodka was nothing more than a cocktail ingredient and her keys held no significance but to unlock her door. Sometimes, she wishes she could go back. Sometimes, she would give anything to go back.

Then, she looks at Noah. Her saving grace. Her lifeline. To her, he's perfect. He's everything she's ever hoped for, but there's only so much weight one little boy can carry.

Few are aware of the full extent of her trauma and how deep it really goes. Her squad needed facts. Barba, in particular, learned far too many details. The press was relentless and, at the time, seemed never ending. Her story was hardly a secret, but what people didn't know—what they couldn't know—is how she felt. The fear. The desperation. The terror. They couldn't see the emptiness in William Lewis' eyes when he looked at her, or smell his stale, smokey breath after he burned her. People empathized, but they couldn't understand. Thank God, she thinks, they couldn't understand.

With Elliot, she finally controlled the narrative. He allowed her space and for the first time, Olivia's story was hers to tell. Before, she had no choice. Her life was unraveling but police reports still needed to be filed and evidence collected. She prepped for trial, spilling details over and over and over again until her words were no longer her own. It was excruciating and terribly lonely, but she did it because she had to. She did it because she's a survivor.

She blinks and is transported back to the present; reminding herself that it's eight years later and she's safe in her bedroom. Her gaze narrows, focused on her reflection. Tonight, her scars seem less daunting. Faded—a clear marker of the time that's passed. What she expected to feel, she isn't sure, but she's surprisingly numb. She isn't detached, though she knows the feeling well. The bizarre trancelike state she experienced during parts of her trial when everything felt impossibly heavy. What she's experiencing now is entirely different. This, she muses, feels like acceptance.

Satisfied with her discovery, Liv gets dressed, slips on her glasses, and moves to the living room.

She settles on the couch, thinking about Elliot and the way he clung to her, his emotion so desperate and raw; gasping for air as the panic surged. How strange to comfort him for the one thing she may never forgive. So very unusual to hold him because of her own abandonment, but she was glad to do it. To be strong and steady, and to reassure him that he isn't—that he will never be—alone.

"Hey." He emerges from the bedroom wearing boxers and a t-shirt. "I ever tell you how sexy you look in those?" He wags his finger at her glasses.

"You have." She smirks, glancing at the empty spot next to her. "Quite a few times, actually."

"Yeah, well." He sits, his palm grazing over his head. "You do."

"I'd rather be able to see." She quips. "But thank you." She turns to face him. "Elliot—"

"I'm okay." He interrupts, cutting her off because he's too damn tired to talk. "Embarrassed as hell." He admits, dropping his gaze. "But okay."

"I...figured as much." She continues. "Would it help if I said you have no reason to be? That I'm glad you let some of that out, and that I'm so relieved you trust me enough to…" she treads carefully, deliberate with her choice of words. "To be there for you? Like you've been for me."

"Not when you needed me, I wasn't."

Ten years of guilt will take more than one night to heal. This, they can both understand.

"You're right." Olivia shrugs. "You weren't there. But the truth is, Elliot. Even if you were? I'm not so sure I would have let you in. I didn't—I couldn't—let anyone in."

"I get that." He nods, because he does. This time, he does.

"I know you do." She traces small circles along his forearm. "Which is why you need to let people in. Your kids. Your team. You need more...than just me."

"Seems like a tall order." He manages a smile. "But I'll try, okay? I promise you I'll try."

"Okay." Olivia gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

"Liv." He sinks deeper into the couch.

"Mm?" She removes her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose and closing her eyes.

"Don't think I didn't notice." He adds casually.

"Didn't notice, what?" Her brows knit.

"You called me baby." It's triumphant, the way he says it.

"Oh, fuck off." She swats his chest. "I felt sorry for you."

"Nah. Don't think that's it."

"Don't get used to it." She rolls her eyes, shaking her head.

He grins, and they relish in silence for a few moments. The air feels lighter than it has in a while. Some of the tension, broken. Their chests rise and fall in rhythm, slow and controlled. Calm.

"El." She starts.

"You alright?" He senses her trepidation; the thickness in her tone that wasn't there before.

"When you were in the shower," she glances toward the bathroom. "While I was changing? I—well, I looked at myself in the mirror." She runs her fingers gingerly across her chest. "I mean, really looked. I haven't—I usually try not to, you know?"

He nods wordlessly because he knows. Of course, he knows. He's seen the way she purposefully turns away from her own reflection. It breaks his heart, but he's seen it.

"I don't know how to explain this to you." She combs her fingers through her hair. "Not in any logical terms, anyway. But I felt…" she pauses, searching for the word but never quite finding it. "Less."

"Less?" Elliot cocks his brow.

"The pain, it's still here." She reasons. "The hurt. The shame. All of it, still here." She purses her lips. "But tonight, it felt like—it felt like maybe there was a little bit less of it."

"So, less is good?"

"Yeah, El." She smiles, playing with a few loose threads by the hem of his t-shirt. "Less is really fucking good."