CW: briefly mentions kidnapping (case-related)
Olivia dips her toe into the water.
She's standing at the edge of the wave pool, one foot planted on the wet concrete, the other pointed and raised, tracing the surface.
In a sea of inner tubes and bobbing heads, it's easy to spot them—Noah and Elliot, leaning forward, shoulders turned, anticipating every surge.
They've settled into a dance of sorts, a synchronized routine.
Each time the water swells, they count to three, knees bent, arms extended.
Elliot shouts, "Go!"
They catch the wave.
And Noah yells, "Again!"
Olivia recalls Mother's Day, a chance meeting on a sidewalk, a tentative introduction. She hadn't been able to absorb it completely, the paradox of its weight and its simplicity, every moment that had brought them there captured in the clasp of two shaking hands.
It had been all too brief. The call of duty, as always, had found its way of interrupting, stalling, pulling them off course. Still, she had held onto that moment, the picture of it.
She had saved it for a rainy day.
• • •
The clouds had rolled in a few hours after Elliot received the Combat Cross; he had texted her a picture as she paced around her office, fielding calls from McGrath as Fin and Rollins interrogated a suspect on the other side of the glass. Five missing kids in the span of forty-eight hours. A string of untraceable ransom notes sent to a local copy center. No concrete evidence other than a single eyewitness who saw a dark green Range Rover speeding away from a field at dusk, a soccer ball and a school ID left sitting in the weeds.
Olivia had taken just a second to pause, allowing herself a scrap of joy as she opened the message and studied the image—Elliot, wearing a suit and the Cross and a humble smile, surrounded by his children, his mother, Cragen, love.
And yet, something else in his eyes, a familiar look, a longing she had known herself. A search for a face in the crowd.
She had responded quickly with a note and a heart, but as soon as she had hit send, Rollins had burst through the door.
"We got a location."
"He confess? Are they alive?" Olivia had responded, desperate for good news.
"We're hoping. No confession, but TARU accessed the Fitbit app for one of the kids. Got coordinates off of it," Rollins had replied before continuing, softly, "And a heart rate."
Velasco and the search team had found them shortly after, locked inside an abandoned warehouse in Queens, confused and scared but physically unharmed.
There had been hours of interviews, hours of paperwork, a news conference in the middle of the pouring rain, an umbrella over her head.
At the end of it, she had stayed longer than she usually would, voices and sounds melding, fading. She had watched the reporters disperse, watched the crews pack their cameras and tripods, watched the umbrella close as she let herself stand in the rain, washing the day away.
On the slow trek back to her office, hair dripping, boots soaked, she had looked at her phone and noticed the unread message from Elliot.
Pressing the button, she had scanned the exchange again—his picture, her note, her heart.
So proud of you. Wish I could have been there. ❤️
And below it, his response.
You were. You always are.
A flood of memories had surrounded his words—the inseparable union of his presence and her past.
Then, taking a breath, she had considered her tomorrow. In the narrowest sense, the day after her midnight; beyond that, everything she wanted. Needed. Deserved.
Him.
She had craved him, in that moment, more than sleep, more than a day off without a plan. She had wanted him in any capacity, with any label. Her partner. Her mirror. Her best friend. She had wanted to draw from the well of their deepest understandings, the source of her own forgiveness. She had wanted the silent, shared language that spoke of traumas and lost nights, the pieces of themselves that had tumbled and climbed and tumbled over and over again—Sisyphus in two bodies, ascending as one, rolling their rocks, accepting their fates.
That night, Olivia had wanted nothing more than to share their curses and hatch a plan to defy them, look to the summit and never turn back.
She had sat down at her desk, her pen circling nervously on the back of a blank DD5 as she called him, pulling him from his own restless sleep.
"Liv?"
She hadn't wasted time with perfunctory greetings, cutting to the chase—
"I'm tired of us missing things, Elliot."
"You talking about today?" he had asked. She had heard the creak of his bed and she imagined him sitting up; a fleeting thought had crossed her mind, a desire to crawl into it, settle in his arms, and rest. "Liv, you know I understand why—"
"Not just today," she had interjected, releasing a sigh. "We've missed a lot, El. Christmas parties, birthdays. Watching each other's kids grow up and—"
"And that's on me, Olivia. Not you. I'm the one who needs to make up for lost time."
"And now that you're back…and I mean that in every way possible…I need to let you," she had replied before adding, "I want you to get to know my son. I want you to know each other."
They had gone to lunch the next day, marking their first as a trio. It had been so surprisingly easy , the conversation, the playfulness—Elliot and Noah making structures out of salt shakers and sugar packets, pillars and fortresses on a grease-soaked placemat.
Olivia had remembered the boy in the carrot costume, the little architect, as she had eventually learned. That boy had emerged at the table, chuckling softly as he placed a ketchup bottle tower in the center, sliding extra utensils around it to make a moat.
"You know what else we need?" Elliot had chimed, holding the end of an uneaten pepperoncini between his fingers.
"What?" Noah had asked, looking up at him, glowing.
Elliot had flown the pickled vegetable over their plates, making circles and dips in the air until he had finally revealed, "DRAGONS!" to Noah's amusement, zooming the creature to its landing at the entrance of the castle.
Olivia had used many words to describe Elliot over the years.
Loyal. Stubborn. Trustworthy. Safe.
Complex. Protective. Sensitive. Strong.
Passionate. Funny. Broken. Brave.
That day, sitting across from him at a diner, watching him mesmerize her son with straw wrappers and tablespoons, she had discovered yet another.
Magical.
Olivia's mind had drifted to a memory, a conversation at an elevator door, Elliot staring at her intently— they're wrong —as if his eyes alone could have willed her wishes into being.
But perhaps, she had thought, after all this time—
Perhaps, they had indeed.
• • •
Olivia hears a loud slurp directly behind her—Michelle Ripley, of course, gracelessly finishing off the tail end of her homemade kombucha.
"I met your friend," the woman starts.
Olivia's only been at the pool for a minute, having slipped away from the group to change (rather clumsily) in a cramped bathroom decorated with sunglasses and surf boards. She had tried, in vain, to check her email for Elliot's message, refreshing over and over until finally accepting that Splash Time had everything to offer except cell service.
She can feel Michelle examining her now, looking her up and down, peering through her sheer black cover-up at the outline of her tankini. Michelle, with her loose curls and coordinated colors, oiled up and preening, a fresh magenta pedicure with lip gloss to match.
Olivia's not usually self-conscious, but she's suddenly aware of everything, the blisters on her feet from racing to the bus that morning, that spot behind her knee that she missed shaving, the handful of dimples on her thigh.
"Yes, Elliot," she replies with a cautious smile. "We've, uh, known each other quite a while."
Olivia narrows her eyes, trying to see through Michelle's ombre aviators, searching for her intentions.
"So…is he your…boyfriend?" Michelle chirps, cocking her head.
It catches Olivia off guard; she searches for her answer, heat rising to her cheeks as she falls into a rapid spiral of thought. She realizes, instantly, that she wants to say yes —even though she's outgrown the word, boyfriend , even though they haven't discussed it, named it, whatever this is , even though their lips have only graced each other's cheeks— God , she wants to say yes but all she can do is shake her head slowly and reply—
"Uh…no."
Michelle takes a final slurp.
"He single?"
Shit , Olivia thinks. She never gets any gossip from the other moms, but she remembers that Noah heard from Tommy who heard from Willow that Michelle had left her husband for a short-lived romance with one of the living statues from Central Park.
Her heart's ready for war but her mind chooses diplomacy.
"Technically," she responds, recalling the morning bus ride, their hands intertwined, falling asleep on his shoulder, waking up in his embrace. "Technically…yes."
Olivia hears happy shrieks from the water; she spies Noah swimming over to the rest of the fourth grade to join them in an impromptu game of "splash Ms. Edwards."
"Technically's good enough for me," Michelle laughs as she eyes Elliot making his way out of the pool, water dripping down every muscle line, catching in the small patch of hair on his chest, tracing Jesus on his arm.
He makes his way toward Olivia but, in a blink, Michelle has popped up from her lounge chair, cutting in between them like a mediocre prom queen begging for a dance.
"You look like you need to dry off," she flirts, draping a white terry cloth around Elliot's neck, holding on tightly to the ends. "Need any help?"
As Olivia marvels at the audacity, Elliot jumps back, bewildered but collected; Michelle takes his cue, releasing her grip. Olivia wonders what's going to come out of his mouth—hoping silently for a strong rebuke, a snarky retort—but suddenly he's grinning, moving toward his partner with a hint of swagger, slinging the towel onto an empty chair.
"Actually," he replies in a low voice, smoothly taking her hand in his, "I was wondering if my friend, Olivia, would like to join me for a swim."
With a squeeze to his fingers, she tries to keep her smile in check, simultaneously thrilled and overwhelmed by the gesture; she finds herself scanning the crowd, feeling like all eyes are on them, but quickly realizes that no one seems to notice or care (except, perhaps, Michelle ).
Her focus settles on Noah as he turns toward them, waving excitedly from the other side of the pool. She panics for a moment, wondering if a public handhold is too much, too soon, but all he does is yell, "Mom! El! Look at me!" and launches himself into an underwater somersault.
Elliot and Olivia break contact to give him a round of applause as Noah emerges triumphantly from the water and returns to his friends.
She finally replies, "I'd love that, El," before untying the drawstring that closes her cover-up.
If she had known better, she would have thought that this was an undercover gig from another time, the two of them cast as poolside lovers, putting on a show. But this , she realizes, as she lets the black fabric slide off of her shoulders and pool at her hips before tossing it behind her — this is real .
This is Elliot, respectfully soaking in her frame, her curves, the freckles on her chest.
This is his arm, linking with hers, as they meander toward the water, walking together until they're deep enough to swim.
"What's her deal?" Elliot asks quietly. He glances up at Michelle who's returned to her chair, poorly disguising her unmistakable glare with the latest copy of InTouch Weekly .
"She wants to know if you're single," Olivia says with a smirk as she drifts around to face him.
A noise sounds over the loudspeaker, a buzzer of sorts and then a voice, "Turbo Time." She hears people cheer, then a faraway churning, but she can't bother to look. She's caught in his gaze, a change in his expression, as if he's contemplating something serious. A question.
"Well," he begins, treading closer, reaching for her hands. "Am I?"
The water's rushing faster and faster but, for Olivia, everything stops, the reality of the present cascading around her, twenty-four years of boundaries and understandings falling out from underneath.
She realizes, suddenly, that she can't touch the ground.
She turns away to collect herself—he shouts, "Liv!" —but it's too late.
A giant wave leaps toward her, whacking her in the face before consuming her completely.
In an instant, Elliot's behind her, grounded and steady, bringing her to the surface. The swell quickly subsides and she twists around into his arms, spitting out water as she catches her breath.
He's concerned, of course, but the humor of the situation lands; she giggles and then she laughs and then she bellows. Elliot joins her, losing himself in her joy. She closes her eyes and he leans his head back to look at her, etching this into his memory.
In all the time they've known each other, he's never seen her quite so free.
They hear the buzzer again; the waves settle, everything calms.
"You okay?" he gently urges, holding her tightly with one arm as his other hand emerges from the water, his fingers delicately tucking a wet strand of hair behind her ear.
"I'm okay," she replies, wiping a drop of water from his lips before resting her head on his shoulder. "More than okay."
"That was a big one, huh," he whispers.
She can read between the lines. "The wave? Or the question?"
"Both."
They silently agree that they don't need an answer right away, taking their time to get used to the water.
They anchor each other, as they always have, learning to float before they can swim.
• • •
From the patio, Michelle's transfixed as she groans, rather audibly—
"Single, my ass."