Her eyes are already stinging when she gets the call.
She can tell that something's wrong as soon as she answers, hearing the stillness in his breath. There's a weight to his silence, a burden that he seems unwilling to place on her. Not again.
He holds onto it until she forces his hand.
"Tell me."
Olivia puts the knife on the counter and brushes the small pieces of onion to the center of the cutting board, readying herself.
"They ordered a hit on me, Liv."
The news finds a way of striking her instead; she feels it as if it has already happened, a bullet slicing through his body and into her soul.
She inhales quickly, gripping the phone.
Oil pops and sizzles in the pan next to her, heat rising.
Everything blurs.
The images start—
Elliot, somewhere, bloodied, cold.
Face scraping the pavement.
Fingers twitching, seeking warmth.
Eyes searching the dimming light for a face that won't arrive in time.
Olivia's impulses surge and twist, her unconscious taking charge. She wants, suddenly, to pull him through the line—wrap him up, hold him, keep him home.
She finds herself imagining softness.
Late mornings.
Messy sheets.
Pillows under their heads.
But these things are not in her vocabulary.
All she can ask is—
"Eli? Bernie? Where are—"
"They're safe. Kathleen's. Got a detail on them. They'll be okay."
"And you?"
She hears him exhale as they sink into the possibility of it—the prospect of exchanging their last words.
"Liv. I've gotta tell you—"
"Don't."
This, Olivia resolves, will not be a goodbye, a declaration of love, brand new and final.
She grits her teeth and wills their tomorrow.
"The thing you want to say right now?" she begins, holding back the sounds that want to pour from her body. "Keep it for me. For the next time we see each other."
He doesn't say a word but she can picture his promise.
"And El?" she continues, her voice falling to a hush.
"I'll keep mine for you."