Olivia hasn't been keeping an eye on the weather.

She never does during cases like this, the ones that keep her at the precinct for days on end. A keen-eyed docent at the Met had thwarted an abduction but lost track of the suspect. Luckily, CSU had found clear prints on a display of 16th century Milanese armor, linking the offender to multiple recent crimes in the tri-state area.

She had gotten the call during dinner with Elliot, a meal between friends on an unseasonably warm October night. They had settled into their old rhythms over the summer with the Sirenko case calling them to their dance, and when the forces around them knocked at their heels and threatened their balance, they had found a way of steadying each other. After Vincent's death, she had been his barricade and his salve, taking the reins as his pain boiled over, tending to wounds, invisible and familiar. Likewise, he had stood by her at Rollins' bedside, slightly befuddled as the womens' tears had given way to laughter after Amanda's quip, "So how 'bout that hotel room, Captain?"

In reality, Olivia and Elliot had found themselves in bed together more than once in recent months, clothed and exhausted, taking shelter from the day. They had never discussed it, the handful of nights they had drifted sleepily into each other's sheets, the last words of quiet conversations landing on pillows as their hands lazily intertwined. It had been enough for her, in those moments, the gentle intimacy of it all, that she had begun to question the ache for more—a reflex born from muscle memory. She had learned long ago to hold tight to glimpses of contentment, afraid that joy was too much of an ask.

September had brought more than its usual share of change. Noah, of course, had returned to school and his schedule of activities, but with Bernie moving to Kathleen's and Eli headed to boarding school on a soccer scholarship in California, Elliot and Olivia had fallen into their own routine. Work permitting, they had been sticking to coffee on Mondays, lunch on Wednesdays, and dinner on Thursdays while Noah had back-to-back tap and ballet classes.

Their most recent dinner had brought them to a waterfront cafe in the Seaport; they had taken advantage of the comfortable temperatures, asking for a table for two on the patio. She had decided on a simple burgundy dress with cap sleeves, hoping to get one more wearing out of it before the season took its final turn toward winter. He had opted for a light button-down (with more than a few of the buttons down). Olivia had found herself smirking, at times, at his fashion evolution, recalling the detective she had met twenty-four years before, his baggy beige shirts and pressed ties, the dark suit jackets tossed on his chair.

"Remember the time," she had started as they began their meals, "I grabbed your jacket instead of mine on the way to testify in court?"

"Sure do," he had chuckled, twisting his fork in the center of her bucatini dish as she reached over for a handful of his fries. "And I didn't realize it until I tried to squeeze into your blazer and ripped the shoulder."

"Had to bring it to the tailor. If I remember correctly, you never did offer to pay for it."

"My apologies," Elliot had replied with a smirk before hesitating. His fingers had continued to twirl the pasta on her plate, his words stalling on the tip of his tongue. Finally, he had continued, taking the risk. "How about I pay for our…date tonight and we'll call it even?"

Olivia had paused, fries still in hand. A date, she had thought, an innocuous word that people used, friends used, but she had looked up, locking in with his gaze, and immediately understood. Even though they had only been at the restaurant for twenty minutes or so, the evening had felt different. It had carried a certain weight to it, something more than she had felt at their usual takeout nights in his garden, or during their Mondays at the cafe, downing lattes on the way to work. The past had still been percolating between them, but something new had started to surface—his hand finding hers on the way to their table before pulling out her chair, losing himself for a moment in the reflection of the sunset in her eyes. She, too, had been testing the waters, moving her seat to the same side as his. "For the view," she had said, her fingers grazing his knee, their focus shifting from the East River to each other.

Her mind had flashed back to that period over fifteen years ago when the possibility of them had rested on the table, untouched and burning hot. In different ways, they both had turned away from it, letting it cool until it had petrified, frozen in time. But this, she had realized, at the edge of the water, was the end of a great thaw, the recognition of heat. This was the moment they could finally choose more.

"Is that what this is, El?" she had smiled, dropping her fries and reaching toward him, a few grains of salt brushing his skin. "A date?"

"What do you want it to be, Liv?"

Then, her phone had buzzed, a call from Fin.

Elliot had nodded, "It's okay," and she had shaken her head—an unnecessary apology—as he watched Captain Benson rush from her chair, leaving Olivia's answer behind.