Most mornings, Elliot runs.
Sometimes, it's an escape, just like the time he crawled out of the beach house window as a boy and raced onto the sand, his bare feet carrying him for miles until he was sure the crashing waves were louder than the voices he had left behind.
Sometimes, it's a release. He tosses for the last time after another restless sleep, throws on his sweats and sneakers, and lets his body unravel what his mind could not. It's a temporary, but welcome fix as his legs surge and his thoughts fall away, barnacles losing their grip.
Today, though, he feels the change. He wakes with Olivia on his mind and steps outside, still dreaming. He starts down the street, eyes on the future as his run finds its essence—the act of moving forward.
Near the end of a three-mile loop, Elliot's a few blocks from home when he hears a car approaching behind him. He drifts over to the sidewalk but is surprised when the black SUV slows, then stops.
"Liv…"
The window's already down and Elliot drinks in the sight of her—Olivia staring back at him from the driver's seat, her brown eyes, his blue sweater, a touch of mischief gracing her lips.
"What are you…"
"I was in the neighborhood," she answers, recalling another day two decades ago, her partner at her door. Years later, after he'd left, her heart had tried to hate him but she had found herself remembering that morning, taking refuge in the reminder of the man he had been. She had poured her orange juice and finished only half, clinging to the small hope that Elliot would eventually return, not only to her, but to himself.
There, parked in the middle of a street in Long Island City, she has no doubt that he has.
"I see you got my sweater," he starts as he approaches the car. Olivia doesn't know what to make of the look he's giving her, a strange mix of confidence and awe. Then, it clicks. This is Elliot longing without hesitation, sure of his feelings and her own. She sighs deeply, sinking into his gaze. She never wants to leave.
"I did…" she responds, her fingers absentmindedly skimming over the cashmere sleeve rolled at her wrist. "Thank you. Very cozy."
"I'm glad." He's about to rest his arms on the passenger side door when he quickly decides that the distance is too much, pivoting to cross in front of the car and taking his place next to Olivia's closed window. He presses his hand against it, the sweat from his palm fogging the glass.
"You're leaving a print," she teases loudly, but her hand makes its own mark a moment later as she places it flush against the barrier between them. Even through the thick pane, he seems to envelop her and she feels the sudden ache to cocoon herself in his grasp.
It's happening, she thinks.
She had figured, after leaving the precinct and intercepting Martha in front of her building, hugging her son and driving him to school, that she'd let the rest of the day unfold organically. She had driven toward Elliot's without a clear intention, sleep-deprived and punchy, riding solely on instinct. But she feels it coming, something more, and for the first time, she knows they're ready to welcome it. She urges it on, sliding her hand down the window and pressing the button; it starts to open and he releases his palm, stepping back just in time to hear her say, "Race you home."
Then, after a quick smirk in his direction, she's off, her car throttling ahead as his body catches up to his brain and he starts to run.
He feels like he's never moved faster, a whirlwind passing the backs of warehouses, chain link fences, brick walls and weeds. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees something purple growing from a crack in the pavement, an unexpected flower rising from the gray, severed earth.
His breath heaves and he chokes back a tear, believing again that good things can blossom.
In the near distance, he watches Olivia jump from her car and slam her door before racing toward the entrance to his garden. She's playing, he can tell, trying to remember the last time he had really seen her like this. It comes to him. Autumn, about a year after he and Kathy had separated, at an NYPD and FDNY charity event. The 16th precinct team had just finished (and lost) a game of tug-o-war against a particularly sturdy group of Manhattan firefighters. Elliot had been the anchor, Olivia in front of him, and they both had fallen at the end of the match. She had unfortunately borne the brunt of it, her back landing directly in a mud puddle. Elliot had fared much better with a few grass strains and a streak of dirt across his chin. He had been quick to try to help her, stifling his laughter as she rolled out of the dirty water, the saturated fabric sticking to her shoulder blades. But as he reached toward her, she had surprised him by dragging a finger through the earth, swiping it across her own chin before gripping his shoulders and rolling him backward into the puddle, too, cackling the entire time.
"Now we match," she had laughed, catching her breath as she clasped her muddy hand around his. "Partners, for better or worse, right?"
"For better or worse," he had replied. It occurs to him, now, that before they had stood, her eyes had glanced ever-so-briefly toward his mouth. He had wondered, at the time, if the puddle had splashed him there, as well.
Oh.
Elliot picks up his pace as he hears a creak and then a clang. His heart drums inside his chest as he takes his last few strides, practically leaping to the front of the closed gate, Olivia waiting behind it. She stands at the edge of the garden, her fingers gripping the iron pickets above her head. From the other side, he covers her hands with his own, resting his forehead against the metal as she looks up, their eyes locked, faces close, lingering at the final palisade.
He feels her whisper before he hears it—
"Kiss me, El."
And the gate swings open.