I couldn't get it out of my head so for the very first time I'm introducing an OC that's a person of color, which makes me nervous because there's so much that can go wrong here. I hope I'll do him justice. I introduce to you - Chapter 1.

...

It's a quiet night at the bar, at least for a Friday. Usually this place is packed, he knows because he frequents it at least once a week. In his booth he leans back, sips from his drink. There are few female patrons in the bar and except for one they are all much younger than him. It's a shame he thinks, because his heart is longing for company. Not for the physical kind, he isn't necessarily looking for sex. The one-night stands are in the past. Well, mostly. He's only human after all. Sometimes the occasion arises and he spends the night sinking into bed with a woman, just to take the edge off. But he's long grown tired of meaningless sex between practical strangers. The thing is - even if he'd be here to get laid, none of the twenty-somethings would catch his interest. He has never seen the appeal in sleeping with women much younger than him. Maybe because they remind him of his daughter. He has never been intimate with anyone much younger than himself but just the thought puts him off. He likes women not girls. As he's grown into a man his preferences changed. Crinkles in a woman's face draw him in like a good book. He loves how age leaves marks that tell a story, how with age comes life experience and wisdom.

It should be much easier to date at this stage of his life. He knows for sure what he wants in a partner. He is good looking. The rather lanky kid with a stutter had grown into a handsome guy and his parents apparently have passed on some very good genes because there is hardly a gray hair on his head. His daughter always says that it's a shame he wears a buzz cut but he thinks it suits him and it's easy enough to maintain along with the three-day stubble beard.

He draws attention to himself easily without trying, unfortunately it can be unwelcome. It had been rather shocking to learn that his daughter's friends had found him hot despite his age - or well, because of his age. And he imagines it has been very uncomfortable for Amelia, too. Jeez, half of her friends have grown up right before his eyes, from first graders into young women ready to go to uni. He made them cereal for breakfast, put in the Disney DVDs for slumber parties and took them on weekend trips to the beach in Brighton. There is no scenario whatsoever in which he could have pictured himself starting something with any of those girl or anyone their age, period.

He's been on plenty of dates within the past twelve years. Half of that time he had wanted to find someone but ultimately realized his heart hadn't been ready. It had been too soon to fully commit to someone. Too great had the fears been to lose that person. Now, many years later, with a mended heart it is tricky to find the right woman. Or maybe he's too picky, those shoes of Claire are hard to fill after all. Part of him has given up hope to find that special someone again. He is 45 with an adult daughter. They have only moved to New York two years ago for Amelia's college education. Being back in New York City might be a fresh start for him his daughter had said. Far away from the city and the house they had loved and lost in. The funny thing is that New York isn't so different from London after all. It's just as anonymous when it comes to meeting people - people translating to women. Of course there are females everywhere, it's just damned hard to find someone who

is single wants to date he finds remotely attractive beneath the surface of what meets the eye who doesn't see he's well off first and foremost - which is why he usually doesn't broadcast it to the world.

He isn't rich-rich, just well off. And he doesn't care about get rich quick schemes which is why he has left business behind and relocated. Sure, he's still working from here, but nowhere as many hours as he used to back in London. He takes the occasional trip across the Atlantic for important meetings but for the most part he's left things in his sister-in-law's hands. Life has quieted down for him. He takes his time now, has created oases where his focus is life itself, not work. Since his move he has read more books than in the last decade in the UK. He takes walks now, takes in the trees, the people. He's learning to cook and is doing a decent job of it, too. Not that he hasn't cooked in London, he has. But it had been simple dinners for Amelia, things that he could prepare and freeze so it would serve them several evenings.

One of the younger things is looking over at him. She's probably between twenty-five and thirty and while she's pretty, blonde, petite, easy on the eyes, he's not at all interested. He holds her gaze for a few seconds then lets his eyes sink back into the dark golden liquid inside his glass. When the door opens and someone steps in a chill runs through the entire place. It's October and although it's only nine-something in the evening it's freaking cold outside. He only gets a short glimpse at the new customer as she wiggles out of her coat and sits down on a stool right at the bar. Instantly he is a lot less bored.

…

Olivia is headed straight to the bar without even scanning her surroundings. It's been one hell of a night and she isn't in the mood for anything but a stiff drink right now. Doffing her black coat she reveals a sleeveless black dress with a round neckline. The asymmetric hem ends a few inches below the knee. The little black number accentuates all the right parts of her body and while she loves the dress she could kick herself for spending a fortune on it for someone as undeserving as Clint Hannigan.

„Bad night?" The bartender asks. Her face is probably all the telltale he needs. Also, in Olivia's experience, they are excellent at reading their customers.

Scoffing Olivia takes her place at the bar, closest to the drinks she could possibly be - which is exactly where she wants to be. „That obvious, hm?"

The guy smirks at her and shrugs. „What will it be?"

„Gin and Tonic," she decides, folding her arms on the bar top. „Make it strong."

„You got a preference?"

Her gaze wanders and she sees the wide range of spirits behind the bar but she's indecisive tonight. „Surprise me." He's probably going to serve her the priciest gin and she really doesn't care.

The guy turns and seems to mull over what to serve her before he reaches for the bottle of Gin Mare. Olivia watches him fix her drink. Three ice cubes, a healthy dash of gin, tonic water. He tops it off with bitters and fresh rosemary before he slides the drink towards her.

„Thanks," she mutters and instantly takes a sip, reveling in the taste. She really needs it to take the edge off because she still feels like an idiot.

Olivia is a walking cliché tonight. She knows this and God, it's pitiful. Third supposed date, dressed to the nines. If anybody would care to take a glimpse at what's beneath the dress they'd find silken underwear and a cleanly shaven private area that wouldn't have been all that private tonight. She had very much anticipated to get laid. Only the guy had stood her up.

For forty minutes she was sat at a fancy restaurant in the West Village. Alone. At a table for two. At first Olivia had figured that Clint was late. Traffic had been a nightmare on her way to the sushi restaurant, it wouldn't have been any wonder if her date hadn't made it on time. But ten minutes turned to twenty, twenty to thirty and Olivia had been looking and feeling more pathetic with that very expensive bottle of red wine she had ordered, wishing she wouldn't have told the waiter she was still waiting for someone as he brought over the menu. Eventually she had stopped scanning her phone every two minutes and dialed Clint who had picked up on the fifth ring, seemingly surprised to hear from her only to ‚Ahhh shit, that was today?' her and coming up with excuses of a last minute meeting he had been called into and apologizing that dinner had totally slipped his mind.

Olivia knows something coming up all too well. But she has never once not canceled, even if it had been a last minute thing. Clint had been nice enough. Forty-nine, successful, well-mannered. His ego is two sizes too big but Olivia had figured that there is probably more to him than that, so she had given things a chance. They hadn't been a perfect match, not by far, but if she wants to find love she needs to compromise, she had told herself when it came to deciding if she wanted to see him again. And she had compromised. But Olivia Benson refuses to be someone forgettable.

Screw him. He hadn't been worth all the effort and the expensive dress. He should have been there to woe her, make her feel sexy and desirable in that black number and those take-me-heels. Instead she sits here drowning in self-pity, once again doubting that she'll ever find a man. Not that she necessarily needs one. She's doing just fine by herself, right? Right. She is successful in her own right, holds her own in a world dominated by men. Screw Clint and screw men in general. She'll just stay single for now and enjoy life without looking for real love around every corner. Maybe happy endings aren't made for her.

Frustratedly she takes a nip of her drink again. Don't Stop Believing fades out and suddenly Olivia feels incredibly tired.

…

There are two options here. Either the brunette at the bar is looking for a hook-up dressed like this - which he doubts because she doesn't have a wandering eye; she keeps to herself, seemingly very invested in her drink - or she's having a very bad night.

Although he had only gotten a rather short glance at the woman from across the room he can tell she is good looking and most likely in her forties, which instantly makes her a lot more interesting than all the other women in this place combined. From the back he sees how her hair ends are lightly curled, dancing around her shoulders. For a short while he tries to estimate how likely the stranger with the see-through drink is going to brush him off, but honestly, while he might not have anything to win, he sure has nothing to lose either by going over and talk to her. Also he wants another drink, it makes perfect sense to go over there.

As he reaches the bar he makes sure to leave a free barstool between himself and the woman. She doesn't pay him any attention as he orders Whiskey neat, only sips from her drink that she's three-quarters into. As he wants to speak up he realizes that there are no words that won't come across like a cheap pick-up line. Glancing over he sees the woman's profile and he's right, she is clearly beautiful and even more clearly not interested in any hook-ups because she isn't so much as looking at him. Well, good for him that he isn't looking to hook up, either.

As the bearded man behind the bar is fixing his drink he realizes that by the time he'll be served his window of opportunity will close. Pursing his lips he leans a little more towards the brunette. „May I ask what you're having?" He knows it's most likely a Gin & Tonic but he can't very well ask if she cares for company without sounding like a creep.

„This the part where you're gonna ask if you can buy me a drink?" The brunette cocks her head and he allows himself to take her in despite the challenge in her voice. She's tall. Slim with the right amount of curves in all the places he likes them. Her make-up seems heavy in the light but he bets she's just as beautiful underneath the layers of foundation and powder. Her eyes are a dark brown and defiant. They seem oddly familiar.

„I guess you wouldn't believe it if I told you I have no intention to pick you up, eh?"

This seems to throw her off because her brows knit in what he thinks is confusion and her nose crinkles a little. Then she recovers, gives him a once-over and scoffs. „Does that usually work? You pretend to be the perfect gentleman who isn't looking for an easy lay but a few drinks in and at the end of the night you still manage to charm some naive woman's pants off of her?"

„Wow, you're really in a sour mood," he notices. Other men would probably walk away and consider her a bitch. He on the other hand truly has no hidden motives so her accusation doesn't hurt one bit. „Quite honestly, I'm sure I'd find takers if that was my intention. Seriously, though…," he takes her in once more. „I'm not looking for more than a conversation."

„Right," she drawls incredulously, making him wonder what her experiences with men are if she can't even trust that someone doesn't talk to her without trying to get into her pants.

„I don't even wanna buy you a drink. Promise."

Now she almost looks amused as she shakes her head and takes a drink before her eyes find him once more. „So you're cheap?"

He laughs and slides onto the barstool as the bartender puts his drink in front of him. „Now, I can't win, can I?"

The brunette bites her bottom lip for just a moment and rolls those deep, earthy browns. There is something hauntingly beautiful in her eyes and for some reason he can't shake that they remind him of something or someone. „Not really," she admits and he likes that she's at least honest.

…

Olivia doesn't need to look up to feel that the guy's eyes are on her even though he's not trying to be obvious. She is hyper aware of these things, especially in this kind of setting. She's really not in the mood for any games tonight.

He orders a drink, Whisky neat, and thankfully he leaves a decent amount of space between them. Although he glances over at her from time to time she deems the situation safe. The guy is most likely harmless but still she refuses to look at him, not wanting to give him any ideas. She's definitely not available for a night with him or anyone, no matter how ready she had been as she left her apartment.

„May I ask what you're having?" The british accent isn't thick but it's definitely there. Olivia senses how he leans in before she sees it and even that little makes her defensive. When she casts her eyes up at the guy she sees dark, kind eyes trained at her, not at all what she had expected. But she wouldn't be Olivia Benson if her guard wouldn't be up anyway.

„This the part where you're gonna ask if you can buy me a drink?" The guy shows perfect teeth as he speaks. His skin is a warm brown with red-orange undertones. As he moves ever so subtly the overhead light dances in golden hues on his face, reminding Olivia of richly colored leaves in the fall. Although he's not Olivia's type she has got to admit that the person looking back at her is a handsome man, probably in his mid- to late forties.

„I guess you wouldn't believe it if I told you I have no intention to pick you up, eh?"

Although he sounds sincere and his words give her a brief pause, Olivia isn't dense. Her eyes rake over the guy once, trying to figure him out before her mouth is quick with an answer. „Does that usually work? You pretend to be the perfect gentleman who isn't looking for an easy lay but a few drinks in and at the end of the night you still manage to charm some naive woman's pants off of her?" Yes, she sounds bitter. But isn't this exactly what his game his? Being super smooth and charming? Everything comes at a cost, Olivia knows that much. Not even that accent makes up for this little fact.

„Wow, you're really in a sour mood. Quite honestly, I'm sure I'd find takers if that was my what I had in mind. Seriously, though…" He pauses and the corners of his mouth lift. The smile Olivia sees is dazzling, drawing her in. „I'm not looking for more than a conversation."

The stranger sounds genuine and she finds it alarming that she can't shake the feeling that he's not looking for something she's not willing to give tonight. But she's not going to show him that and acts like she doesn't buy it.

„Right."

„I don't even wanna buy you a drink. Promise." There's that smile again and Olivia almost blushes at his intense gaze. She needs to focus on something else so she shakes her head and distracts herself with her drink for moment.

The wall she's built around her crumbles a little and she offers a small smile. „So you're cheap?" She knows that this might count as flirting - which is definitely as far as this is going to go.

The laugh he responds with is a deep rumble that melts Olivia's insides a little. „Now, I can't win, can I?"

„Not really." There's nothing to win with her, no matter how charming he is, no matter how hard he'll try in the course of the evening.

„Well, may I at least ask for you name?" She wants to tell him no but decides that it can't hurt if he knows it.

„It's Olivia," she offers and the second it's out the guy looks like he was just struck by lightening.

….

„It's Olivia."

The scales fall from his eyes as her name scatters between them. It's like a puzzle is put together right in front of him. Suddenly he sees a young girl, olive complexion, sprawled out on a brown sofa, a bottle of cheep beer in her hand. He sees her outside on a playground, sitting on a swing with one of her closest friends, taking a pull from a spliff he's rolled. He sees her dancing drunk, letting loose, laughing hard with a bottle of tequila hugged to her chest the night after their finals. He sees her standing proud to accept her diploma from the end of the line because she's a B and he's a W.

„Olivia Benson?"

„What? How… do I know you?" She stares at him like she has seen a ghost and clearly he isn't recognizing him the way he hadn't recognized her. It's been over twenty years after all.

„It's Ambrose. Ambrose Williams?" Suddenly recognition is washing over her face.

„No!"

He laughs, unable to quite believe it. All these years and he meets someone he went to Sienna with in this big city that's still so foreign to him after two years of living in it. Without even looking he has finally found something familiar. „In the flesh," he offers and widens his arms to present himself on a silver platter.

„How… oh my God, is that really you? Stop kidding." She's clapping both hands over her mouth and nose, shaking her head, all the while staring at his face.

Ambrose wonders how he could not recognize her the moment she had stepped into the bar. He can see it so clearly now, all the features, the way she crinkled her nose earlier, the shape of her eyes, her voice with those golden undertones that remind him of thick honey. Olivia looks completely different and yet so much like her twenty-year old self.

„So now can I buy you a drink?"

…