Slow Burn

by Writer Unblocked

Rafael puts his tongue to good use, among other things.

A/N: Takes place in the Season 17ish area. Noah is a baby and my boo Amaro is still around.

Like the title says, it's a slow burn, but they do get there eventually (aka, the smut does come)!

---

You weren't sure when it happened. One day you were Rafael Barba, the charismatic and quick-witted state prosecutor, and she was Olivia Benson, the brilliant and passionate SVU sergeant. Then another day, you were still the charismatic and quick-witted state prosecutor and she was still the brilliant and passionate sergeant, but somehow now she was also a...a woman. A beautiful, magnificent, smoldering flame of a woman. And you were a moth, drawn to her light every time, secretly infatuated with every move she made and every word that came out of her mouth.

You couldn't figure out what it was about her, why no woman had ever made your spine tingle quite like this one. Maybe it was the way you worked so well together, the way she'd move heaven and earth to give you what you needed to prosecute each offender, the way she was endlessly, tirelessly determined to deliver justice to each and every victim. Maybe it was the way she pushed you, the way you'd say things like "I can't prosecute this," and she'd argue, she'd always fight back at first, and then if she still couldn't convince you that the evidence was enough she would accept your words like they were a challenge. She'd storm out of your office, but she'd almost always be back a few days later with an evidentiary smoking gun in her pocket and a determined gleam in her eye. And there was no limit to the lengths she'd go to get it. If you didn't know any better, you'd almost say she was fearless. But you did, you did know better, because you'd been there in the aftermath of William Lewis and you'd watched her tears fall as you prepared her to testify and you'd seen her tense up, seen her eyes close and her fingers clench into fists as she mentally fought against a flashback in the middle of the workday. No, she wasn't fearless, but maybe she was unstoppable. Maybe that was it.

You'd never been attracted to the mousy, doormat, housewife type of woman. You were attracted to the type of woman who kept you on your toes, the kind of woman who was a force to be reckoned with. But still, you'd probably never been attracted to a woman in quite the same way that you were deeply, hopelessly attracted to this one.

Maybe it was because she was all height. She could literally stand eye to eye with you, with those sultry curves and brown eyes like velvet and that silky, soft hair that would feel so nice pressed against your cheek, draped across your chest while her legs tangled with yours. There was the subtle scent of her perfume that always lingered in your office after she left, the flash of a smile when someone said something clever - and, if you were lucky, maybe a little laugh to go along with it. There was even the way she doted on Noah, the way she wholeheartedly loved that baby boy like he was the end of her world. Motherhood has made you sweet, you'd told her once, your heart skipping a few beats as you listened to her coo to Noah over the phone.

It certainly wasn't the only thing about her that made your heart skip. Nor, you imagined, was it the only thing sweet.

You were close, the two of you, in a way that you weren't with other coworkers. Maybe that was it.

You hadn't always been this close, but somehow, as months blended into years and working dinners of take-out blended into celebratory - or, sometimes, anti-celebratory - drinks at the close of a trial, you'd become friends. It was a friendship born out of mutual respect, two people with similar values and work ethics. Work hard. Catch the bad guy. Put him away. By any means necessary. You toiled together during early mornings and late nights. You even had similar personal lives - maybe a steady partner for a few months or a year, but ultimately perpetually single, more dedicated to the job than you'd ever been to anyone else. Until she got Noah, that is. But even then, you were still similar. The few times you'd gone to her apartment in the evening for a work-related issue, she'd let you hold Noah and he snuggled against you as you breathed in the sweet smell of a chubby, happy baby and secretly thought to yourself that you could love him as much as she did, picturing some sort of alternate universe where the three of you were a family. You would never, never even begin to comprehend how Cassidy had just walked away.

He didn't walk away, she told you once, we came to a mutual agreement that our moment has passed.

Anyway, you were close. You knew things about her, things about her childhood and her personal life that she'd murmur softly to you - and to you only - toward the end of a night of drinks. She never dwelled, never elaborated too much, but you knew enough. And she knew things about you too, about how the other kids tormented you when you were growing up, the small, nerdy boy thrown in with bigger, tougher kids in an even tougher neighborhood. She knew about your family's immigration from Cuba and how they relied on you, your aunts, uncles, cousins, all of them, you were their shining star, their pride and joy, el juez as your abuelita proudly called you even though you told her time and time again that you were not actually a judge.

---

You weren't sure when you developed feelings for the talented detective, weren't sure when she somehow became so radiant in your eyes, but as soon as you became consciously aware of your feelings, you were very, very careful to make sure that she never found out about them.

You weren't stupid. She'd made it very clear that she didn't date people from work, or shit where she ate, so to speak. Not to mention that it was against the rules and, while you were certain that any affair you could have with Olivia Benson would be very, very good, it would also be very, very bad. There was no good ending to a forbidden romance in real life. Only in fairy tales.

So she didn't know. Or at least, you were pretty sure she didn't know. And if she did know, it wasn't because of anything you'd done. You were nothing if not smooth. It was one of your strengths. If she knew, it was because of some cosmic fate, some divine interference, because you were so, so careful not to make it outwardly apparent that she was a flame licking the center of your belly.

And sometimes, you could swear...she did know.

"Where are you going to be when you're eighty-five?"

"Squabbling with you."

"...That'd be nice."

You meant it, of course. You didn't think she did, at first. But then you sat there, the two of you, on opposite sides of her desk, and her gaze held yours for an amount of time that was too long to be considered professional and no words were being spoken but somehow you could hear her, or maybe you could see her thoughts in those deep, soulful eyes of hers. They were full of maybe and what if and yes, that would be very nice. And your heart beat just a little bit faster and your breathing felt just a little bit shallower and you couldn't look away from her even though you wanted to and in that moment you suddenly knew that somehow, some way...she knew.

And it wasn't because of you. You hadn't slipped up. You'd been perfect at masking your feelings for her. She knew, and it wasn't because of you.

Maybe it was because she felt it too.

You hadn't slipped up yet, but you came close in that moment. Her hands rested on her desk in front of her and yours twitched in your lap, itching to envelop her slender fingers within yours and give them a gentle squeeze. You didn't, of course. That would have crossed a line. But in that moment, all you could think of was crossing lines as flashes of cozy dinners and late night kisses and her body curled up against yours as the two of you made your way to eighty-five together sprinted through your mind.

You didn't reach for her hand. Instead, you did the only thing you felt you safely could do. You stood up, flashed a small, crooked smile at her, and walked out of her office.

---

You dreamed about her that night.

Not that that was anything unusual.

Supple skin; gentle caresses; deep, lingering kisses. She was always so warm, so wet, and, when you touched her, her back would arch and her eyes would flutter shut and a soft, sweet sound would escape kiss-bitten lips, something like a blend of a moan and a purr. You wondered what sounds she would make if you touched her in real life, if you could spend a good part of the path to eighty-five getting her to make them.

You dreamed of her often.

---

"She's pretty," your mother said, turning to you, an expression on her face that you knew all too well. Sure, you were her abogado, her greatest accomplishment, but you were also her only son and, to her great dismay, still single. It was no secret that your mother wanted a beautiful daughter-in-law, one who would sit with her and entertain gossip about the neighbors while learning the family recipe for croquetas and, most important of all, growing her nothing less than three healthy grandchildren.

You frowned, your mother's sudden comment coming from seemingly out of the blue. The two of you were in a room with all seven of her siblings, their spouses, dozens of your cousins, and their children, and their cousins...many of your father's family members were here, too, as your parents' families had been close since way back in Cuba. Then there were the miscellaneous attendees, all family friends of some kind, people who had had some presence in your life going back to your childhood. The solemn Catholic funeral for your abuelita had ended hours ago and had since been replaced by a celebration of life that she would have been proud of, complete with liquor flowing and uncles dancing and aunts reminiscing with no real end in sight.

In a room packed to the brim with tios, tias, and primos, you had no idea who your mother was talking about.

"Who's pretty?" you asked, even though you knew where this would lead. But the only thing worse than listening to your mother lament about her lack of grandchildren was listening to your mother yell at you for ignoring her lament about her lack of grandchildren.

"That girl, the detective you're always talking about…" your mother paused for a moment like she was racking her brain even though you were fairly certain that your mother would never forget the name of a woman she considered to be a potential match for her son, "...Benson."

You nearly choked on a sip of Malbec.

"What?" you asked, carefully setting down your wine glass in favor of a napkin. It was a statement of surprise more than a question. You'd heard perfectly clear. But Olivia Benson was nowhere near the room, hadn't been mentioned by anyone all day, and you just didn't know that your mother, who had met Olivia for the first time a little over two weeks ago in the hallway of the courthouse, was still thinking anything about her.

He talks about you. You drive him a little crazy.

At the time, you'd been annoyed with her for saying that. Mostly because it was true, but neither your mother nor Olivia could possibly have any inkling about just how she drove you crazy. Nor did either of them have any business knowing. Now, you supposed you should be grateful that your mother didn't say anything more.

"I said, that girl Benson is pretty," your mother repeated, turning to you with accusing brown eyes, "How come you never told me that she was so pretty?"

"What Sergeant Benson looks like has nothing to do with my job."

"You don't think she's pretty?"

"Mami, I…" you sighed, knowing that pretty didn't even begin to scratch the surface of what you thought about Olivia. You also knew that, now that your mother had started, she was going to be very difficult to stop.

"I thought you liked brown hair! You told me you didn't like the blondes. And she's got such beautiful eyes. What is she, Italian? Maybe you don't have to marry a Cuban girl - "

"Mami!" you interrupted, a little more firmly this time, "Yes, I know that Sergeant Benson is pretty - "

"Well then what are you waiting for? You're both single!"

"How do you know?" You were one thousand percent positive that Olivia's dating status had never, ever come up in a conversation with your mother.

"I'm a mother. I know."

"You're not her mother."

"Mothers know the way the single girls look at their handsome sons."

"She doesn't look at me like anything, Mami."

"You should take her on a date."

"I work with her. She's the sergeant, Mami."

"So? You're el juez - "

"I'm not el juez."

" - and the two of you would go well together. El juez y la sargenta."

You didn't say anything. Partially because you didn't disagree - you suspected that you and Olivia had the potential to go very, very well together - and partially because you knew the best way to get your mother to choose a new topic was not to argue with her.

"...I'm going to ask her for you, the next time that I see her in the courthouse."

"Mami, no!" you said, unable to stop your voice from raising slightly with alarm. Your mother had no sense of how to stay out of your business and you knew that she wasn't kidding, "We work together. Don't make her uncomfortable. And also, you shouldn't come to the courthouse. I'm busy there."

And with that, your mother tsked disapprovingly and turned to one of your tias, no doubt preparing to enlist her help in commiserating over her lack of a beautiful daughter-in-law.

You groaned softly and took a big gulp of wine.

You drive him a little crazy.

Yes, you were definitely grateful that that was all your mother had said.

---

You scored a conviction on a serial rapist and went out for drinks with her a week later. Well, it wasn't only with her. Her squad was there, too - Amaro, Rollins, Carisi, even Fin had managed to drag himself away from whatever it was that he did after work. You'd all begun going out together as a team with increasing frequency over the last few years. You enjoyed it, and not just because Olivia was there. Fin was a good guy, Rollins was smart as a whip, Amaro had a Latino family almost as intense as yours, even Carisi, who was green as anything, was growing on you.

But they all fell away as the evening wore on. Rollins and Amaro always left within minutes of each other. If Olivia noticed - and you were sure that she did - she never commented on it. Fin excused himself after a few rounds, and Carisi mumbled something about a girlfriend in the Bronx. Some nights, she went away too, hurrying home to spend time with Noah before bed. But other nights, like this one, she lingered. On these nights, the two of you were always the last of your coworkers to leave. You enjoyed these nights with her the most.

The night of that serial rapist conviction, her eyes tracked Carisi until he was out the door before she turned to you, her third glass of bourbon in her hand and a rosy glow on her cheeks.

"So how are you doing?" she asked as though she'd just run into you, even though you'd been sitting together for hours. Side-by-side, no less, at the far end of the bar. She was close enough for her perfume to waft over you when she moved, close enough that, if you wanted, you could let your fingers brush or your shoulders touch or your hand settle on the plush curve of her thigh. You could watch her eyes carefully to see them darken when you squeezed her there.

Temptation. She was pure temptation. You grit your teeth and didn't let it show.

There must have been something in your expression though, because after a moment she added:

"I mean, really, how are you? How was…" she hesitated for a second before seemingly deciding that it was okay for her to bring up what she was about to say next, that your level of friendship allowed for it when nobody else was around. And she was right. It did. "How was your grandmother's funeral?"

"It was…" you shrugged, "...it was okay, for a funeral. There were a lot of people. Cousins I haven't seen in forever. It was nice to catch up, despite the circumstances. To see their families. Abuelita would have liked that. I should probably do it more often."

She smiled and nodded in agreement, a faraway look in her eye that reminded you that you were speaking to a woman with no close family, to a woman who'd never had the joys nor the absolute headaches that came with grandparents or aunts or uncles or cousins. If you could, you'd take her into your family in a heartbeat. If your mother was any indication, they would all love her.

You scoffed into your drink at the unattainable thought. When had that become something you thought about?

"How's your mother doing?" she asked then, as if she could sense that you were thinking about her. You let your eyes drift over Olivia's form and remembered Mami's words from the day of the funeral.

How come you never told me she was so pretty?

"She's taking it hard," you responded, because it was true. She was taking it hard, notwithstanding her momentary matchmaking attempt, and you were worried about her, "She blames herself. She thinks we pushed too hard to get abuelita out of her apartment. But it was too much for her. I know she would have done anything for my grandmother, but it wasn't sustainable for her to work all day and be her primary caretaker at the same time. She's worked hard her whole life. She doesn't like to admit it, but she's getting older. She deserves time to rest."

When you finished talking, Olivia didn't say anything for a moment. She just looked at you sideways out of the corner of her eye, a small smile on her face.

Mothers know the way the single girls look at their sons.

"What?" you asked, your heart beating just a little bit faster because you loved it when Olivia Benson smiled at you.

"Nothing. Just…" she reached over and laid a hand gently, briefly, on your forearm, "You're a good son."

You stared at her hand on your arm for a moment, your skin tingling where she touched you even through your dress shirt. It would be so easy to turn your hand over, capture those delicate fingers in yours, and bring them to your mouth for a kiss. You wanted to. Badly. Her eyes followed yours to her hand, and she hesitated before letting her fingers drag across the fabric of your shirt as she removed them.

"Nah," you chased down your disagreement with a sip of your bourbon, mentally reminding yourself that this woman was a friend and there was no way she would be pleased if you turned what was probably a strictly platonic gesture of reassurance into anything more than that, "I don't call enough."

"Oh please," Olivia rolled her eyes, "I'll be lucky if Noah worries about me half as much as you worry about your mother."

You should take her on a date.

"How is Noah, anyway?" you asked, eager for a change of subject, if for no other reason than to stop your mother's words from ringing in your ears.

A big, genuine smile spread across Olivia's face and a sparkle of love glimmered in her eyes at the mention of her little boy. She got that expression every time. You didn't even think she was aware of it, but it was one more item on your long list of enamoring things about her.

"He's walking so much! He goes everywhere. And he calls me 'muh-muh,' now," she said proudly, "But that's his only word so far. We've been trying for 'Lu-cy,' but that's a lot harder."

"Lu-cy? What about Ra-fa-el?" you asked jokingly. She shook her head.

"That's definitely too hard. Maybe Bar-ba."

"We need to get him working on that before the next time I come over."

"I'll get right on it."

You smiled and didn't say anything else. She smiled, too, and your eyes met and held. There was a hazy, bourbon-infused gleam of contentment in hers, her cheeks flushed, and it occurred to you that there was nothing you'd rather do in that moment than lean in and kiss her.

You didn't. And she broke the spell when she raised her glass and finished off the rest of her drink.

"Want another?" you asked, even though you knew the answer. Three was her maximum.

"No," she said, setting her glass on the counter and signaling for the check. She eyed what was left of the drink in your hand, "Finish that and walk me home?"

You raised your eyebrows in surprise. You drank at this bar often and Olivia lived only a few blocks away, but you'd never escorted her home before.

"You don't want to Uber?"

"No," she shrugged, "It's a nice night."

---

She was right. It was a nice night. One of those beautiful summer evenings when the sun was just strong enough during the day to keep it warm without being unbearable at night. It wasn't long before you found yourself strolling side-by-side with her, slowly, neither one of you in a rush to get anywhere.

She walked close to you. You'd tried to keep a little distance, but she kept drifting diagonally and gravitating toward you until finally you gave up - you didn't really want to fight it, anyway - and let her walk so close to you that your shoulders, sometimes arms brushed with every few steps. So close that the breeze blew her hair dangerously close to your face, the smell of her shampoo just one more thing that made her nearly irresistible. You shoved your hands in your pockets and balled them into fists so you wouldn't reach for her and tuck her against your side.

You were less than halfway to her house when she slipped her arm through yours, clasping her own fingers together and leaning a little weight on you while you walked. You exhaled sharply and looked over to find her looking back at you with brown eyes full of sweetness and trust and a just hint of exhaustion.

That was it. She was just tired. Tired and pleasantly full of bourbon, which eliminated her sense of personal space. You let her lay her head on your shoulder without a word. To an observer, you would have seemed like very close friends.

Or lovers.

You walked like that, slowly, in a calm, amicable silence, all the way to the door of her building. She had to let go then to dig around in her purse for her keys, and you watched as her hair fell in waves around her face while she searched.

She found the keys, stuck them in the door, and turned to you before she opened it.

"Thanks for walking me home," she said softly, a small, tired smile gracing her lips.

"Anytime, Olivia."

She didn't go inside yet. Instead, she stood just there, her hazy brown eyes locked with yours for what was certainly not the first time that evening, but this time hers glowed with some kind of stormy emotion and you could almost hear your own heart beating as she took a small, imperceptible step closer to you. Your faces were mere inches apart.

She exhaled a quiet, almost inaudible sigh, and she was close enough that you could smell the bourbon on her breath, and for a moment you could have sworn she was going to…

It would be so easy to lean in and...

But she didn't.

You didn't.

"Goodnight, Rafael," she finally said, her eyes never leaving yours. You knew it was dangerous, but you brought your right hand up to cup her cheek. You'd never touched her face before. The flesh beneath your palm was like heated silk. She broke eye contact to close her eyes and lean into your touch.

"Goodnight, Olivia," you whispered, letting your thumb get away with one, single caress.

She hesitated for a moment, then took a step back. She smiled at you, unlocked the door, and disappeared silently into her building, leaving you behind on her stoop with skittering thoughts, feverish skin, and a racing heart.

When you finally turned to walk toward your building, it was with the same thought that had struck you when you left her office after her declaration that she would still be squabbling with you at the age of eighty-five. Only this time, it was stronger. You believed it a little bit more.

She knew how you felt. And she felt it, too.

---

Still, you kept your distance from her. Or at least, you tried to.

You stayed at least an arm's length away whenever possible. Sometimes, like when she burst into your office all fire and tenacity first thing in the morning and you'd woken up only an hour before hard and yearning after dreaming of her face down and...well, after those dreams, you kept to opposite sides of the room if you could. You didn't touch her. You didn't move into her personal space. But that didn't stop her from touching you - a hand on your arm, shoulders brushing as she pulled her chair too close. That didn't stop her from invading your personal space.

The more she did it, the more certain you became that she had to feel...something...between you. Still, you behaved yourself. Even if she did feel an inkling of what you felt, you knew that was no invitation to act on it.

Maybe she'd let her guard down a little with three drinks in her system, but how many times had she made it clear that she didn't date at work? Not to mention the monumental, catastrophic conflicts of interest a personal relationship between the two of you would posit.

You valued her as a colleague, but more than that, you valued her friendship. And you wouldn't risk ruining it all.

But walking her home from the bar became your new routine. And every time, she'd lace her arm through yours and lay her head on your shoulder. You'd walk silently, and each time you arrived at her door it became harder and harder not to kiss her.

---

The case was horrific.

It started with the body of a young girl, raped, beaten, tortured for what the medical examiner deemed a prolonged period of time - at least one year, maybe two. It got worse from there, like that was even possible. Clues led Olivia and her team to an abandoned building in Queens just a few hours too late, where they found the brutally murdered bodies of four teenage girls and a male infant, all of whom appeared to have been held there for months and all still in the early stages of rigor. There was evidence that more girls had been recently moved. There were cages, dirty mattresses, sex toys…the place had been a harem of enslaved girls.

It was a tough case for everyone involved. One of those slow moving, heinous cases that ate a little bit more of your soul each day. Olivia wasn't sleeping. You knew that. She'd go home and spend time with Noah each night, then spend hours pouring over the case files in her living room after she put him to bed. She wanted those girls, and she wanted the men who had taken them. But for weeks it seemed hopeless.

Until one day, it wasn't. Pieces of the puzzle clicked into place, and her team found three girls - abused, but alive - and arrested the two men who'd taken them. There was a third man out there, and potentially more girls, and there wasn't a whole lot of forensic evidence so the trial would be hard as hell, but progress had been made and everyone could breathe at least a little sigh of relief.

Seeing those girls - raped, tortured, but alive - was difficult for her, a woman who had been in a not-too-dissimilar situation herself only a little over a year ago. She went for a drink to calm her frazzled nerves before going home that night. Amaro went with her. You took care of some paperwork and joined later, just as Amaro was excusing himself. You bid him goodnight and sat down next to her at the bar.

The anxiety poured off of her in waves as she gently rocked the drink back and forth in her hand, ice clinking against the glass as she did. You wondered if maybe she'd been having flashbacks, but you didn't dare ask.

You resisted the urge to reassure her, to tell her that she'd done all she could and they were slowly getting there and that you had faith - all of the faith in the world - that her team would eventually locate the third suspect and whoever else might be with him. It was all true, but Olivia didn't like to be coddled. She liked to be validated.

So instead, you did what felt natural in that moment. You slid your stool closer and linked your arm through hers, much like the way she did to yours when you were walking her home. Instead of leaning your head on her shoulder, however, you slid your fingers down her forearm until they reached hers and laced them together. She blinked at you in momentary surprise before she exhaled loudly and visibly relaxed, each of you facing the bar with a drink in one hand and your other hands linked beneath the counter, hovering together in the space between your stools.

You let out a long breath and felt yourself relax as well. The case had been a bitch for you, too.

You drank in silence, each of you relishing the proximity of the other, your thumbs occasionally playing with one another.

"Refill?" the bartender asked as she neared the end of her glass. You glanced at her, unsure of how many she'd had before your arrival. She hesitated, then checked her watch and shook her head.

"I told Lucy I wouldn't be too late," she explained to you as the bartender brought her the check instead, "Her boyfriend is taking her to a midnight poetry slam."

She linked her arm through yours and laid her head on your shoulder like usual on the walk home, but this time she held onto you a little bit tighter.

"Come up for another drink?" she asked as you approached her building, "Noah'll be asleep soon if he isn't already. And I could use another."

You were powerless to deny her. And besides, you could use another drink as well. You weren't excited to get home to your empty apartment and be alone with your thoughts.

Lucy was waiting for Olivia in the living room, Noah having just fallen asleep in her arms. She eyed you curiously, but said nothing about you as Olivia carefully took the sleeping baby and cooed softly to him. He stirred and let out a disgruntled cry.

"I know, you were probably so comfy with Lucy. I'm so sorry to disturb you, but we've gotta get you to bed…" Olivia glanced at you and dropped the sweet baby voice, "I'll just be a minute. He'll fall right back to sleep."

You nodded. Lucy left, and you waited patiently in the living room for Olivia's return.

When she came back, it was without Noah and also without the black blazer she'd been wearing. You ran your eyes over the newly revealed thin blouse, admiring the way it clung to her every curve as she procured a bottle of scotch and two tumblers.

She poured silently and, when she handed you your glass, your eyes met and the air felt still, heavy. She hesitated for a moment, then picked up her glass.

"Cheers," she said softly, and you clinked glasses. You took a sip of your own scotch, but were far more interested in watching her take a healthy swig of hers. Her head tilted back and her eyes closed as she relished the burning sensation.

"God, I am so tired," she said, opening her eyes to meet yours once again. You could see it - the shadows in her eyes, the weariness on her face. You smiled weakly at her.

"I won't stay long, then," you promised.

"No, no...I didn't say that to rush you out. I won't sleep right now either way. It's...nice...to have your company."

She gestured for you to take a seat on the couch. You did, and she followed, bringing the bottle along with her. You eyed it as she sat down and wished there was something you could do to change the fact that she wasn't sleeping well. Visions of her clad in nothing but a tank top and sleep shorts, limbs all entangled with yours, sleeping peacefully on your chest while you stroked her shoulders, her hair, flashed through your mind accompanied by a deep feeling of want.

She'd chosen to sit next to you - not as close as possible, but not all the way on the other end of the couch, either. It would be so easy to take her hand in yours again.

You shook your head to clear it.

"You okay?" you asked instead, noticing a faraway look in her eye.

"Yeah, I just…" she hesitated and swished the liquid around in her tumbler, ice clinking against the glass again, like she'd been doing back at the bar. Something was still making her deeply anxious. You could see it before she even spoke her next words, "When we found those girls today, one of them was tied to a chair and there were cigarettes...empty vodka bottles. It just reminded me of when I…"

She drifted off, and you didn't need her to finish, anyway. You were aware that she'd made incredible gains over the last year, but maybe some cases would always set her back a little. You were also aware that she didn't discuss William Lewis with just anyone, that she considered this - you - to be a sacred, safe space.

She shivered and pinched her own arm, then downed the rest of her glass.

"It's okay, you're here now," you reassured her as she poured another drink, having seen enough of her flashbacks during trial prep to know when she was having one, that pinching was one way she tried to stave them off.

"I know," she whispered.

"How can I help?" you asked gently, thinking to yourself that there was probably nothing that you wouldn't do for this woman.

She turned, tucking one leg under her body and angling herself so that she was facing you on the couch, eyes glimmering in the soft glow of the nearby lamp.

"Distract me," she said, "Make me laugh."

You arched an eyebrow. Sure, you were charismatic, but you weren't sure if even you possessed the level of charisma needed to bring a woman from the verge of flashback to giggles.

"Oh come on, Rafael," she said, like she was reading your mind "You make me laugh all the time."

You smirked. Challenge accepted.

"Did you know that I once got my finger stuck in a vending machine?"

"You what?"

"Yeah. It got caught in the coin return. Firefighters ended up having to destroy the machine with the jaws of life to get me out."

She didn't giggle, but the corners of her lips turned up. She was smiling.

"How old were you, five?"

"Eighteen, actually. It was freshman year of college."

"What'd you, have the munchies or something?"

"Something like that."

She did laugh then, and you didn't even know your heart had been weighed down until it suddenly felt ten times lighter.

And so, for the next hour, you distracted her with stories from your undergraduate years - back when you were in your glory days of post-wimpy high school nerd and pre-ambitious workaholic lawyer. You prodded and got her to confess to a few of her own worst college moments, including the time she'd drunkenly thrown up all over the subway ("Please, Liv," you commented, "Who hasn't done that?") and the time that she and a friend had hidden in the bushes outside of a frat house for hours, high and paranoid that they'd be arrested when they came out even though the police were nowhere near ("This is why I couldn't smoke anymore, even if it were legal."). The conversation shifted and you talked about other things - about her early days as an NYPD beat cop, about whether or not you could actually cook (you insisted that you could make a mean paella; she didn't believe you; you refrained from offering to both cook and feed it to her), about whether she and Fin could pull off Kim Kardashian and Kanye West for Halloween (it was Rollins' idea; she insisted they try).

The bottle of scotch grew emptier and emptier as you talked, the shadows were effectively chased from her eyes, replaced by mirth and light. Her lips tinged with a smile and she seemed...happier. Meanwhile, you were pleasantly buzzed and warm from something that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with the sound of her laughter.

It was almost midnight when she shifted and stretched, having sat in the same position on the couch for a long time. She stretched her arms out in front of her in what began as an innocent wiggle but, in her semi-tipsy state, ended with her accidentally hitting you in the chest.

You don't know what made you do it. You caught her hand and held it in place before you were even aware of what you were doing. It was an instinct.

"Sorry," she apologized immediately, attempting to withdraw her hand. Her eyes widened when you held tight and she realized that you weren't going to let it go. You looked into them for a moment, brown orbs shimmering with content from your conversation and a little bit of surprise at your actions. Instead of letting go, you tugged gently, bringing her closer, and watched her eyes darken and flicker with...something else.

And that's when you did it. You slid your hand up her arm, towards her shoulder, pulling her closer until her eyelids fluttered shut and her hands braced themselves on your shoulders and her breath hitched on an inhale just before…

...you kissed her.

...she kissed you.

Soft. Sweet. Just lips brushing, tentatively tasting.

Until her fingers curled into your shirt and her mouth opened with a breathy moan and you immediately accepted her invitation, sliding your fingers up to tangle in her hair as you plunged your tongue into her mouth.

It was like being thrown underwater. She was the ocean, dragging you under with waves of silky hair and soft skin and lips that were so perfectly pliant and supple they molded to yours with every move. The embers that smoldered in the pit of your stomach whenever you were near her became a full on blaze, heating your skin and constricting your lungs as you drowned in the way she smelled, the way she tasted. You couldn't think, you couldn't breathe, you could only kiss this woman like she held your dying breath as the hand that wasn't buried in her hair roamed her torso, freely skimming over her breasts, her stomach, her waist…

When she tore her lips away from yours, desperate for air, you hardly had a second to be disappointed before she rose up on her knees to give herself better leverage and began dragging those amazing lips of hers across your jaw, down the column of your neck, pressing her tongue against your skin and nibbling here and there as she pleased.

Holy shit.

You think you said it out loud. You wrapped both hands around her waist now, holding on tight but resisting the deep urge to just drag her into her lap, to let her legs fall on either side of yours, to let her feel how very fucking hard she'd instantaneously made you the moment she'd opened her mouth. She worked her way toward your collarbone and made a sound of displeasure when she encountered the barrier of your suit. She inched her fingers upward and you were tempted to let her begin unbuttoning you but you needed to taste her again, so you caught her chin with one hand and dragged her lips back to yours, swallowing the little noise of surprise she made.

You had no idea how long the two of you carried on like that, making out like teenagers (except not...the thick curves you felt under your fingertips certainly, absolutely belonged to a fully mature woman) on her couch. The next time your lips separated, you got the opportunity to taste the patch of skin just beneath her ear, to hear the throaty noises she made and feel her fingers tighten their grip on your biceps as you nipped her right there and soothed the spot with your tongue. You know that her lips went back to yours sometime after that, that her hands left your arms and began a more thorough exploration of your chest. You sensed her frustration with your clothing as her fingers drifted again toward the buttons of your vest, and you were going to let her undo them this time (because you wouldn't mind undoing a few of her buttons, as well) but you were interrupted by a sudden, sharp cry.

Noah.

A small, dissatisfied moan escaped her lips as you both stilled. You opened your eyes to find that hers were still closed and she was taking deep, steadying breaths, her lips just millimeters from yours.

"Liv - "

"Shh...Maybe he's not all the way awake."

You held your breath for a few moments, listening, waiting.

Another cry.

You weren't so lucky.

She opened her eyes and you saw the exact moment when reality hit her, when she realized that she was having a semi-drunken and very inappropriate make out session with the ADA on her couch while her infant son slept in the next room.

"Oh," she whispered, not making any move to disentangle herself from you yet.

"Yeah," you murmured.

She took another second.

"I should get him," she finally said. You ignored the acute sense of loss that you felt when she moved away from you. She stood up and straightened her clothes. You sat still and watched her, unable to make your limbs work just yet.

"I should go," you finally said. Reality was seeping back in for you too, and the reality of it was that you'd let the combination of alcohol and her sweet brown eyes talk you into doing the one thing that you'd sworn never to do, the one thing that could wreak havoc on both your career and your treasured friendship with the most important woman in your life.

And it was amazing.

Better than any fantasy.

"You should…" she looked at you for a long moment, and you could see her teetering on the brink of go and stay.

"I should go, Olivia," you said more firmly. Even if she wanted you to stay now, there was no way you wanted to risk her waking up in the morning to the more sober realization that this was a very, very bad idea.

She allowed a fleeting second of disappointment to cross her features before she schooled it away and nodded. But that microsecond felt like it could kill you.

"You should go," she repeated. She stood in front of you for a long moment, not moving, until Noah cried out again, louder this time, and she began to turn away.

"Olivia, wait," you surprised even yourself when you reached out and encircled her wrist with your fingers, effectively stopping her from going anywhere.

She looked at you, not saying anything, while you struggled to find the words you wanted. This might have been a first for you, Rafael Barba, struggling with words.

"Tell me you're going to let me kiss you again," you said suddenly, urgently. At her raised eyebrow, you continued, "Not tonight, but...I don't want to pretend this never happened. And now that I've finally kissed you, I don't think I can go the rest of my life without doing it again."

"Finally?" she repeated, stuck on that one word.

"I've wanted you for a long time, Olivia," you admitted shamelessly, "And I think you...I think recently you've known that."

She nodded, not interested in pretending otherwise.

"Tell me you'll let me kiss you again," you repeated.

"We...shouldn't."

She said it like she was trying to convince herself more than you.

"I know."

"With work...it'll get complicated."

"I know."

"I don't date people I work with. Or...sleep with them."

"I know."

She lowered her gaze, breaking eye contact with you for the first time since you'd grabbed her wrist.

"I'm...a lot...to deal with. I have Noah, the PTSD, I don't trust anyone -"

"I know that, too, Olivia."

Noah cried again. This time, he didn't stop.

"Olivia," you pressed.

She met your eyes again.

"I'm...not saying no. I'm saying, we have to be careful. And I need some time to think."

You nodded, satisfied with that answer, and brought her fingertips to your mouth for a gentle kiss.

"Goodnight, Olivia."

"Goodnight, Rafael."

---

You took your time getting home.

You walked the long way, wandering along the streets of Manhattan past bars and restaurants that buzzed with life even as midnight melted into one a.m. melted into two a.m. Your body still hummed in every single place she had touched it with her lips, her tongue, her hands. Her scent still lingered on your clothing. The ache that came with wanting but not having her heated your veins and made your blood simmer.

You were too wired for sleep right now.

You considered ducking into a bar for another drink, but decided against it. You didn't want the distraction of other voices, of other music pulling you away from the memory of the way she sounded when you dragged your teeth along the expanse of skin beneath her ear. What you really wanted to do was run back to her apartment and coax her into making that noise a little more.

But you didn't do that, either.

You just walked, your mind half rooted in memory and half rooted in the fantasy of what could have happened if you'd had more time before reality hit, wondering just how many layers of clothing you could have peeled her out of and what it would look like beneath each one. You wondered if the flesh of her abdomen was as soft as the flesh of her neck, whether it tasted as sweet, whether she'd only get sweeter as you sampled her lower and lower. You wondered how wet she would be when you plunged your tongue inside of her, how long it would take before you made her come and whether she would shake and shudder and moan when she did.

You bet her climax would take time. Olivia Benson wasn't the kind of woman who would just come right away. She would need to be touched and teased until she couldn't take anymore, until she forgot who she was and what she did and everything else except for the pressure of your tongue on her clit. She would make you work for it, but then she'd explode. And it would be worth every second.

If you thought your fantasies about her were intense before, now they were almost mind blowing.

But still, there was the niggling feeling in the back of your mind reminding you that, much as you wanted her, you'd done the right thing by leaving. Six hours ago, you'd been steeled in your resolve not to act on your desire, resigned to forever craving this woman, because you knew it would be messy. It would be complicated. And your work was messy and complicated enough without...this.

It was still wise to stay away from her, and you knew that. Maybe she'd wake up in the morning and remember that she didn't kiss colleagues, that she didn't want anything above a working relationship with you, anyway. But you'd meant what you said when you told her that, now that you knew what it was like to kiss her, you didn't know if you could live without it.

You went home, eventually, but only because it started to rain. You could have walked around Manhattan for a few more hours, fueled by thoughts of her.

By the time you traded your suit for a pair of sweatpants, brushed your teeth, and climbed into bed, it was past three a.m. More than three hours had gone by since you left Olivia's apartment.

It was another twenty minutes before your mind began shutting down and you finally, finally felt yourself drifting off to sleep.

That was when she texted you.

You picked up the phone right away, afraid it was going to be a work thing.

It wasn't.

I know it's late, but I just wanted to make sure you got home safely. Text me in the morning if you're asleep.

Got home safely. Right. She'd never texted to make sure you got home safely before. And certainly not three hours after you left.

You unlocked your phone and pressed 'call,' before you could really think through what you were doing.

"Hello?"

"Go to bed, Olivia."

A pause. Even though she was silent, you could hear Olivia choosing her words.

"...I am in bed, Rafael."

You closed your eyes. You'd never been in her bedroom, but you were envisioning her snuggled deep into a thick comforter and fluffy pillows.

"Go to sleep, then."

"I...I can't."

"What's wrong?"

"I - Nothing. You didn't have to call. I just wanted to make sure you were home safe."

"Bullshit," you declared.

She didn't say anything.

"Have you slept at all since I left?" you asked, softening your tone.

"A little. I dozed off for a few minutes, I think, but I…" she inhaled sharply, "...I woke back up."

"Bad dream?"

"Something like that."

"Want me to distract you?"

"No. I shouldn't have texted you. You didn't need to call."

"Will you fall asleep if I hang up?"

"...Probably not."

"Let's talk, then."

"No," she protested, and you knew that she was telling herself as much as she was telling you, trying to convince herself that she was Olivia Benson and she didn't need anyone for anything and she especially didn't need you to talk to her until she fell asleep at three in the morning, "Go to bed. I'm sorry I bothered you. I don't need anything."

"You think this is about you? I've been waiting to hear you whisper sweet nothings to me while I fall asleep for years," you quipped. She'd feel less self-conscious if you made this about you.

And also, that wasn't a lie.

She snickered softly.

"Sweet nothings?"

"Yeah. Lay it on me, Benson."

"What exactly would you like me to say?"

You hesitated, wondering whether the question needed an honest answer, then figured to hell with it. You'd already blown past dozens of boundaries with Olivia tonight. What was one more?

"Tell me what you're wearing."

She laughed.

"I'm serious, Olivia, I've been waiting for this moment."

"You tell me what you're wearing."

"I asked first."

She hesitated.

"Come on, Liv," you crooned, lowering your voice an octave. You swore you could hear her shiver.

"Don't use that voice on me," she admonished.

"What voice?"

"That one."

"Then answer the question."

"It's nothing special...a tank top. A pair of yoga pants."

You exhaled. You'd seen her in yoga pants once, when you'd stopped by for something work related while she was home with a sick Noah. The way they'd hugged her ass was nothing short of marvelous. You wished you could see it now.

"What color tank top?" you murmured.

"Black."

You swallowed.

"Bra?" you dared to ask.

"Do you want me to be wearing a bra?"

"No."

"Okay then. No."

Shit. This woman was breathing sex appeal.

You could see it. Her in a tight tank top, no bra, curled up to be your little spoon. You'd drape a protective arm around her waist, let a hand settle on her breast. Your legs would tangle with hers. And you'd both sleep. Soundly.

"Roll onto your side," you told her.

"Why?"

"Just do it."

"Okay."

"You did it?"

"Uh huh."

"Pretend I have my arm around you."

"Okay."

"That gonna help you sleep?"

"Uh huh."

"Bien," you closed your eyes and settled into your pillow.

Neither of you said anything for a few moments, each listening to the slow breathing of the other.

"You never told me what you're wearing," she said, then. You smiled.

"Why? You thinking about me?" you teased.

"You told me to pretend you're holding me!" she exclaimed indignantly.

"And what does that have to do with what I'm wearing?"

"You're an ass," she said, but her tone suggested that she didn't think you were an ass at all.

"Fine. Gray sweatpants."

"No shirt?"

"Do you want me to be wearing a shirt?" you asked, throwing her own words back at her.

"No."

"Okay, then. No shirt."

"Good," her voice was a purr.

"Now go to sleep, Olivia. Estas cansada."

"I am tired," she mumbled agreeably, and you thought maybe she would actually fall asleep.

"Dream of me this time," you advised, "Then tell me about it when you wake up."

"You wish I would."

"I do. Absolutely."

"Mmm…" she murmured, "Keep talking to me."

You did, but you didn't have to say much, because not two minutes later you heard her sigh.

"Olivia?" you whispered.

She didn't respond, and you knew for sure that she was fast asleep.

You stayed on the line anyway, letting the sound of her deep, even breaths lull you to sleep, too.

---

You both agreed that you shouldn't let it happen.

It was against all the rules - the official NYPD ones, Olivia's personal ones, your personal ones...although each day you inched a little closer to saying to hell with your own rules.

It would complicate your work. Neither one of you had a shining track record when it came to commitment and relationships. You each valued personal space and she especially valued privacy. Maybe any relationship that you could have was doomed from the start. And then what would happen?

It was too risky, and you both agreed.

But that didn't stop you from falling into a routine. Dedicated professionals by day, determined to send every rapist and pedophile that you could find to Rikers. There was never any impropriety between you, never a hint that anything was going on beneath the surface. Once or twice a week, you would get drinks. Maybe you'd sit close at the bar, but never enough to arouse suspicion from the others.

But each time, you'd walk her home. Sometimes you'd hold hands, other times she'd let you tuck her under your arm, her side fully pressed against yours and your fingers grazing whatever they could reach of her midsection, albeit through layers of clothing.

You'd kiss her goodnight. Every time. Sometimes, it was a gentle kiss. Other times, it was a little more passionate. But it was always in her doorway. Never in her apartment. Because, you both agreed, you needed to stop doing this.

You'd call her when you got home, stay on the line with her until you both fell asleep.

And the next day, you'd both pretend it never happened.

By the end of the month, the cycle was killing you.

It was killing her too, you suspected, because one night at the end of your walk home she invited you up again. You made out frantically in her kitchen as soon as she came back from putting Noah to bed. You hoisted her onto the counter and she eagerly wrapped her legs around your waist, moans of delight and relief bubbling from her throat as you pressed your hardened length into her center and slipped your hands under her blouse, stroking all of the soft skin you could get. You hadn't made out with someone fully clothed for so long since you were a teenager, but neither one of you dared to take it any further.

Because you shouldn't.

But that night, when you called, you encouraged her to touch herself. You whispered dirty things to her in two languages until she came with a soft, breathless cry.

She fell asleep quickly, but not before you promised her that, the next time you made her come with your tongue, it would be buried between her thighs.

---

Rollins and Carisi sat in your office the next day, emphatically filling you in on their most recent case. The victim and key witness had suddenly announced that she would refuse to testify. They went back and forth about what the cause of her sudden reluctance could be. They wondered out loud whether previous victims existed, whether they could do some digging and locate someone else who would be willing to testify. They unequivocally agreed that their case would be dead in the water if they didn't figure out a new plan soon.

You did your best to listen. You made contributions to the discussion as needed. You pressed them to either get the victim back on board or find someone else. A rapist would walk free if they didn't. To the outsider, it might not have been obvious that you were distracted.

But you were distracted.

Because Olivia was there too.

She lurked on one side of the room, choosing to stand rather than sit at the table like Rollins and Carisi. She spoke less often than what was probably typical for her, seemingly content to let the two younger detectives carry the majority of the conversation, but she listened attentively and you just knew that wheels were turning in her mind.

You couldn't look at her without hearing the sound of her coming apart over the phone; without envisioning what she might have looked like as she rubbed slick fingers across what you could only imagine was a juicy, throbbing clit; without remembering that she followed every direction that your murmured in her ear, that she had responded with an ecstatic yessss when you asked her if she was enjoying herself.

So you didn't look at her. You kept your eyes focused on Rollins and Carisi instead.

But, damn, you could smell her. The scent of that perfume or shampoo or whatever it was wafted in your direction every time she moved.

By the end of the conversation, her mere presence had you wound up so tightly that you felt like a loaded spring. You would jump her like a crazed man if given the opportunity.

The conversation ended when she sent Rollins to persuade the current victim back into testifying and Carisi to track down potential prior victims. They both left, and you expected Olivia to leave too. You said goodbye but didn't really look at her, afraid that whatever you saw would shatter your carefully crafted semblance of control.

It took a moment for you to realize that she wasn't leaving.

"Olivia?" you asked, pausing your movements behind your desk to finally just look at her. She was still standing on her side of the room, shifting uncomfortably like there was something that she wanted to say but she wasn't quite sure how to say it.

Your eyes met, and you had enough time to register that hers were dark and burning the way they always seemed to when the two of you were alone, a hint of what you were pretty sure could only be lust or want swimming in their depths. But she looked away quickly, focusing her gaze on a spot on the wall instead.

And you knew, right then, exactly what she was about to say.

Still, you needed to hear her say it.

"What's wrong, Olivia?" you prodded gently.

"I - we - I…" she started and stopped a few times, thinking very carefully about her words.

You waited patiently.

"We went too far," she finally said softly, and just because you'd been expecting those words didn't make them any easier to hear. Your chest constricted, like someone had suddenly wrapped an ice cold vise around your heart.

She was right, of course. You'd each acknowledged a dozen times before that you needed to stop this...whatever your routine of strolling and kissing could be called. You'd gone over the reasons a million times in your head. It was the logical thing to do. But instead of stopping, you'd blown past several dozen new boundaries with her last night. It was unacceptable.

"I know," you said.

"We shouldn't have…" her voice trailed off, and you knew she was remembering the words of encouragement you whispered to her as she made herself come.

Go ahead, Olivia, just like that. Stop biting your lip. I want to hear you come for me...

"I'm sorry, Olivia, I shouldn't have - "

She shook her head, and you stopped speaking.

"Don't apologize," she said, "I, um, I wanted that. I still want that, but we…" she took a deep breath and met your eye, "...we have to stop. For real, this time."

I still want that.

You nodded, but those four words would play themselves on a loop in your head for weeks.

"There's too much at risk. We have too much to lose," she said, looking at you like she could read your mind.

"I know we do, Olivia. That's why I...I've wanted you for so long but I waited years to kiss you. And I should apologize. This is my fault. I slipped up - "

"We slipped up," she interrupted, "I'm as much guilty in this as you are."

You shrugged, not entirely sure if she was correct. You'd made the first move, after all.

"I used to...touch you, get close to you. Maybe I didn't kiss you first but...I knew what I was doing," she was reading your mind again.

"I like you close to me, Olivia."

"I know you do. I do, too. But Rafael...we can't."

"Maybe we can. Maybe I could transfer out of sex crimes. I could put in for warrants or drug trafficking or...anything else."

"I don't want to be the reason you do that," she said softly, shaking her head, "You love this job."

And I love you.

Your eyes widened as the thought floated unexpectedly through your mind, tempted to roll off the tip of your tongue. You'd never thought about it before but...it made sense, didn't it? There was a reason why every fiber of your being was preoccupied with this one woman and this one woman only.

I love you.

"Rafael?" she asked when you didn't say anything. You smiled weakly at her.

"Okay, Liv. You're right. We'll stop. For real this time."

"No more walking me home."

"Okay."

"No more kissing."

"Okay."

"No more...phone calls."

"Is this really what you want, Olivia?" you asked. You knew for a fact that she slept better when you talked her to sleep, orgasm involved or not.

She hesitated.

"No," she admitted, "But it's what has to happen."

You sighed and ran a hand through your hair.

"Olivia Benson," you said heavily, about to say the one thing that you feared would always be true, no matter what, "I'll do whatever you tell me to do."

---

She wasn't sleeping well. It was obvious.

Well, maybe it wasn't obvious to everyone, but you could see through the layers of makeup to the dark circles under her eyes. You saw the number of times she refilled her coffee mug in a single meeting. You sensed her short temper and tried like hell to avoid bearing the brunt of it, although it seemed like nobody was lucky enough to avoid bearing the brunt of it from time to time. When she chewed you out in your office after you accepted a deal from that rapist whose victim was refusing to testify - a deal that she argued was too generous, in spite of the fact that you knew there was a very good chance he could walk if you let the case go to trial - you wanted so badly to cut her off with a hard, bruising kiss to the mouth, then to make her lay down on the couch for a nap. You were certain that if she slept, she'd wake up in a better mood. Or at least, a quieter one.

Of course you didn't do that. In fact, you didn't comment on her lack of sleep at all. You behaved yourself. She did too. That wasn't to say that you didn't still see a glimmer of longing in her eye when she looked at you over a glass of cabernet, that she didn't linger like she wanted something more before she went home for the night, that you weren't tempted to follow her every single time, to catch up to her in her doorway and kiss her until her body was soft and compliant against yours and she let you know exactly how much she enjoyed it with those breathy little moans of pleasure in your ear.

You just didn't act on it. Neither of you did.

She even kept her distance from you. She didn't sit too close to you. She didn't lay an innocent hand on your arm or your shoulder while you talked.

She'd said that the two of you needed to stop for real this time, and by all appearances she meant it.

Weeks passed this way. Your mother called several times to bother you about her daughter-in-law, but your interest in any other woman was nonexistent. You began to wonder if you were going to be stuck dreaming about Olivia Benson for the rest of your life.

And then one night, a little after midnight, she called you.

You thought it was work related. She'd never called you for...personal reasons...before. You were always the one who called her. Always. And besides, you were both on your best behavior now.

"Hello, Liv. What can't wait until morning?"

Silence.

"Liv?"

Nothing.

"Liv?" you ran a tired hand over your face and sat up in bed, "You need a warrant or something?"

"I...um...No."

The very first syllable was a dead giveaway. The softness of her tone, the hesitant way she spoke...you knew instantly that she wasn't calling for work. You paused.

"...I thought we weren't doing this anymore, Olivia."

"We shouldn't."

"Then hang up," you said, even though you hoped that she wouldn't.

She didn't.

"You want this?" you asked after a moment, even though you knew the answer. You just needed it to be clear to you both. You needed to be sure that there would be no confusion about it in the morning.

She hesitated.

"Olivia?"

"It was never that I didn't want this," she said finally.

"I know."

"But we don't - shouldn't - mix work with pleasure."

"Then, once again, you should hang up."

And, once again, she didn't.

"...But I can't sleep," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. You sighed.

"Yeah, I know," you said, not interested in pretending like you hadn't noticed that she looked like she'd been running on fumes for weeks, "Why haven't you been taking your sleeping pills?"

"You know I hate them."

You did know. She worried that they would make her too groggy, that Noah would need her in the middle of the night and she wouldn't wake up or hear him. It was a valid concern.

"Did you drink some tea? Listen to calming sounds on that app I told you about?" you asked.

"I tried all that stuff."

You paused.

"You want me to talk to you until you fall asleep?"

"Yes - I mean, no."

"You don't?" you raised a dubious eyebrow, "We can just talk, Olivia. It doesn't have to be...like the last time."

Just thinking about the last time made the back of your neck flush and the tips of your ears tingle.

"I don't want just talking," she quickly clarified. You blew out a breath.

"Then tell me what you do want, Olivia."

"I want you, Rafael," she confessed.

You raised your eyebrows, certain that those four words in that tone would play on a loop in your brain later, just like the I still want that from several weeks ago in your office.

"You want what from me?" you asked carefully.

You weren't trying to push her, you just needed it to be absolutely clear that, if you were going to go back to crossing the line, it was because both of you wanted to cross it.

"Come here."

"What?" you couldn't stop the surprised exclamation from slipping out. You were expecting her to say that she wanted you to murmur filthy things in her ear until she orgasmed herself to sleep, that she wanted you to stay on the line so that when she inevitably woke up in the middle of the night she could let the sound of your breathing lull her back down before she was fully awake. You'd hang up in the morning and get ready for work and later on you'd see her and not say a single word about what you did. That was what you were expecting her to say.

You were certainly not expecting come here.

"I want you to come here," she repeated, more confidently this time.

You hesitated. You almost couldn't believe the next words out of your mouth.

"Is that a good idea, Olivia?"

"Probably not," she admitted.

"Then I probably shouldn't."

"You're right," she agreed.

"So?"

"So I want you to come, anyway. I miss…"

...kissing.

...touching.

...tasting.

...holding.

She didn't say it, but you heard everything anyway.

"...I miss you."

And you didn't need to hear it again.

---

You texted her on the way over.

What exactly do you want me to do over there?

Again, you needed it to be absolutely clear. Because you were sure that the wild visions running through your head - mainly of her naked underneath you, moaning and writhing while you conducted a more hands-on approach to making her come - were probably not exactly what she had in mind. And she was the boss.

We don't have to cross the line. Just hold me while I sleep. For real, this time.

You took a deep breath. Hold her. Right. It would be torture, but you could do that. You could probably figure out a way to keep her upper half snug in your arms while your middle parts stayed separate. You could keep her from feeling the raging erection you would absolutely have. If it made her happy, you could do anything.

But still, you had to ask…

You think making out on your kitchen counter is crossing the line but sleeping in the same bed together isn't?

She didn't respond.

---

You weren't sure who initiated contact, but you had her pinned to the wall in the entryway of her apartment within seconds of your arrival, her legs wrapped tightly around your hips, her arms slung around your neck, her mouth fused to yours as you made out with all the voracity of two people who'd been denying themselves the absolute pleasure of doing so for weeks.

You don't know why either of you expected anything else.

Maybe it was a mutual initiation. It happened so fast, you'd barely had time to register that she was - for only the second time ever in your presence - dressed in black yoga pants that hugged her curves like they were painted on.

"...Fuck, he estado pensando en esto por semanas," you cursed into her mouth, the words muffling themselves around her lips. You were fairly certain that she didn't understand, but she made a small sound of agreement before her tongue was back in your mouth, her fingers raking through the edge of your hair near your neck, her spectacular breasts heaving against you as she fought to hold on to her breath.

She was fucking amazing.

When she ground her center down onto your very stiff erection, you actually saw stars. You tore your lips away from hers and buried your face in her neck to muffle the loud groan you couldn't help but make. You weren't going to come in your pants like a teenager during his first time, but you'd probably never been closer to doing that, either.

She did it again, obviously pleased with your reaction, and you had to grab her hips with both hands in order to hold her still, unleashing a string of Spanish curses against the junction of her neck and shoulder. Her own hands tightened against the back of your head.

"You're playing with fire, Olivia," you warned her in English.

"Then burn me, Rafael."

Shit.

---

She set her feet on the ground some time later, not to end things but, if the words she'd been whispering seconds earlier were any indication, to lead you to her living room at the very least, if not her bedroom. You grunted displeasure at the loss of her legs wrapped around you, did it again when she tried to step away from you - putting an end, if only temporary, to the intense focus you'd been giving to the tops of her breasts; the licking, sucking, and nibbling of every inch of delicate skin the hemline of her tiny, spaghetti-strap tank top revealed.

She wasn't wearing a bra under there. You'd slipped your fingers up, allowing them to gently squeeze handfuls of perfect flesh. You'd been moments away from removing the stupid tank top altogether.

You'd never laid eyes on her bare breasts before and you really, really wanted to.

But she stepped away, causing your hands to fall to your sides as your mouth suddenly found itself unoccupied. She looked at you with dark, lascivious eyes as she reached for your hand and turned, intent on leading you somewhere more comfortable.

You didn't appreciate space, however small, between you at the moment. She gasped in surprise when you tugged her backward, maybe a little more roughly than you should have, but the sound quickly melted into a husky moan when the length of her back pressed flush against your front, your arms wrapping around her so that your hands could settle against the soft skin of her abdomen, brushing that damn tank top out of the way as your lips wasted no time in reattaching themselves to the spot just beneath her ear.

Her knees buckled. The full weight of her settled against you. You grinned against the shell of her ear before taking it into your mouth. You let one hand wander up towards her breasts again, fingers repeatedly bothering hard nipples. That damn tank top was still keeping you from seeing them.

"This what you wanted, Olivia?"

Her response was a nonverbal coo of approval. You wanted more.

"Dime," you pushed, knowing that was a word she knew.

"Yesss…" she murmured, "Please. Yes. This is what I wanted."

"What about the line?" you asked. Because she was grinding her ass back against your crotch and you had to know how far she was going to take this. She was still the boss. You would still do whatever she wanted. But if she was going to suddenly decide that you were taking this too far and that she'd like you to just hold me instead, that was information you would like to know now.

Her answer was the best one you could have hoped for.

"Fuck the line."

"Oh?" you asked, nipping her earlobe, "Somebody's had a change of heart."

"I told you I've always wanted this," she said, then tensed in your arms, "Unless - if you don't-"

"Oh no, Olivia. You know that I want this," you interrupted, not even willing to entertain the thought of her doubting you. Sure, you had carried a secret torch for her for years, worried about the personal and professional ramifications of crossing that line with this woman who you cared for so deeply at every level. But that had been before you'd ever kissed her, before not crossing the line meant that you would have to live with the memory of what she tastedsmelledsounded like without ever getting to experience it again.

Before, abstaining from Olivia left you with just a moderate sense of longing. Now, it was agony. And you would do it if she asked, but you certainly didn't want to live in agony.

You busied yourself with the curve of her neck, unsure if you would ever get enough of the way she tasted.

"Maybe we could..." she began, "..Just this once."

"You think once will be enough?"

"It might be."

"Olivia Benson," you stopped kissing her neck and tightened your arms around her sides, pressing the side of your face against the side of hers instead, "Maybe you should know this by now, but I will do anything you want. However, I have to tell you right now, that there's nothing about you that I want only once."

"Twice, then," she said, and you could hear the teasing lilt in her tone.

"Olivia…"

"Fine," she began taking steps further into her apartment, and you moved with her, your bodies still sealed together back to front, "Maybe we don't make decisions right now. Maybe we just, um…" she faltered when you let your fingers begin playing with her nipples again, "...Maybe we see where this goes…"

---

It went to her bedroom.

It took some time to get there, neither of you willing to completely detach from the other, words having come more or less to an end in favor of more kissing, more touching, more...everything.

But when you did get there, you let go of her long enough to watch her crawl onto the bed. She lay on her back, settled comfortably against the pillows, and you took a moment to let your eyes wander slowly down the full length of her body. Soft hair fanned out around her face, brown eyes dark and glittery with arousal, lips swollen and the exposed skin of her neck and chest slightly reddened from your kisses. Then there were the clothing-clad curves of her breasts, her hips, her thighs - places you ached to see and taste for yourself.

She tolerated your appraisal for a moment, then beckoned you with her finger.

"Come here, Rafael," the command tinged with just a hint of impatience.

You didn't need telling twice. You climbed into bed with her, straddled her hips with your weight settling on her thighs, intent on fully covering her body with yours. Soon.

But first…

"Take this off," you ordered, fingers sliding under the hem of that damn tank top. She smirked.

"You don't like it?" she teased.

"Not at the moment."

She obeyed, sitting up just enough to slip the piece of clothing over her head and toss it to the side before laying back against the pillows.

Topless.

You exhaled, hard. She was the incarnation of years of fantasies. And she didn't disappoint.

You took your time again, letting your eyes drink in the sight of her soft, rounded breasts. Her nipples were pert, hard, begging for your attention. And you would give it, just as soon as you finished taking in the toned planes of her stomach, your eyes drifting all the way down to where skin disappeared beneath the waistline of her yoga pants. You would take those off too, eventually, but right now…

You raised your eyes to meet hers. She was watching you carefully, waiting for your reaction.

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on either side of her head, effectively on your hands and knees above the length of her body. Her eyes fell shut as you leaned closer, closer, until your lips were close enough to brush hers when you spoke.

"Olivia," you murmured reverently, "You are so fucking gorgeous."

She expected a kiss on the lips. You knew it, and you didn't give it to her. Instead, you dipped your head, gathered the soft, delicate flesh of her breasts gently in your hands, and placed a hard, suckling kiss to her left nipple.

She cried out, not anticipating your sudden relocation, and you smiled against her skin when her back arched and her legs kicked and her hands flew to the back of your head, a nonverbal request for you to stay in place and continue what you were doing. You obeyed, of course, enthusiastically laving both her nipple and the soft skin around it with your tongue, sucking and nibbling wherever and whenever you pleased.

There were two patches of pink, puckered flesh on the curve of her left breast, and another on the underside of her right breast. From William Lewis, you knew. You made sure to press your lips against each one as you made your way from her left nipple to her right.

She was making noises, not words, encouraging you, and you knew - maybe you'd always known - that making this woman come was going to be the greatest turn on of your life.

With that in mind, you spent a moment attending to her right breast before you began making your way down, placing soft, butterfly kisses to the skin of her navel, pausing once to nip and suck the spot just beneath her belly button.

She cursed.

Pleased with her reaction, you took a break from your journey southward to trail kisses across the line of flesh just above the hem of her pants. You let your hands fall to her thighs and squeezed, wondering how it was possible that every part of this woman's body was just the perfect amount of thick.

"Rafael," she breathed, hands restlessly drifting across your shoulders and upper back.

"Yes, beautiful?" you nibbled at the skin over her hipbone while you waited for her answer.

"Please…"

"Please, what?"

"I need you."

"You need me to...what?"

"I...um...I…"

"Tell me what you want, Olivia."

"I want you inside of me."

You smirked, fingers beginning to pull gently on the waistband of her pants. She certainly wasn't shy.

"Not yet," you said. Of course, you had every intention of fulfilling her wish tonight, but there was something else you wanted to do first.

"What?" she asked in disbelief.

"I said, not yet," you repeated, pulling harder on her yoga pants now. She raised her hips and allowed you to slide them down, revealing a simple pair of black cotton underwear with a cute, lacy trim. You swallowed hard and began working on getting each leg out of the pants, "I believe I made you a promise."

"A...you what?"

"Do you remember?" you asked, knowing that her mind was not quite functioning at full capacity right now.

"Remember what?"

"The last time we were on the phone…" The yoga pants were fully off. You threw them over your shoulder and ran your hands slowly up the length of her long, perfect legs, "...I told you to play with this…" you slid her underwear down now, pausing to view her soaking wet center for the first time, "...this beautiful pussy. And you did what I said and I told you how much I wanted to touch you and I told you exactly what I would do to you and you came...and I promised you…"

You got rid of her underwear and stopped for a moment to fully appreciate her completely naked form.

Flawless.

"I remember," Olivia whispered, dark eyes watching you watch her.

"What did I promise you?"

"You want to…" she faltered when you, feeling hot, began removing your shirt. You needed to be comfortable for what you were about to do.

"Olivia," you murmured, smirking when you realized that her eyes were raking up and down your bare chest hungrily. You settled flat on your stomach, hooked your arms under her knees, planted your hands on her hips and gave her a single, firm tug down the mattress toward you.

She gasped in anticipation, raising up on her elbows to watch as you came face-to-face with her glistening wet pussy. You inhaled deeply and shivered. She smelled fucking delicious. You bet she tasted even better.

You licked your lips and looked her directly in the eye.

"What did I promise you?"

Her breasts rose and fell, her breathing heavy with anticipation. She was your every wet dream.

"You promised to make me come with your tongue."

"Exactly."

You dove in, fingers gripping her hips to hold her in place as you licked a slow, tortuous path up her slit, savoring your very first taste of her before you took her tender bundle of nerves between your lips and sucked hard.

Fuck. She was a delicacy.

Her entire body jerked as though you touched it with a live wire. The high-pitched sound that bubbled from her throat was wordless and strangled, like she was trying to withhold a scream. You watched, tongue working over her clit, as her head dropped back and her back arched but she stayed up on her elbows.

"Lay down," you commanded her after a moment, releasing her with a loud, satisfying 'pop.'

She obeyed, letting her elbows out from under her and collapsing unceremoniously back down onto the bed.

"Comfortable?" you asked, wanting to make sure. You intended to keep her in this position for a while.

She mumbled incoherently.

"Olivia," you pushed, your lips millimeters from her pussy, intentionally letting your warm breath fan over her as you spoke. If you were going to make her come the way that you wanted to, she was going to need to communicate.

"Yes, fuck, do that again."

You smiled.

"Sucia," you murmured before you complied, taking another slow lick that ended with a nibble, "You're delicious. I'm going to enjoy this."

"Rafael, please…"

"Please, what?"

"Stop talking so much."

You laughed.

---

Some men only went down on a woman out of courtesy; as some kind of misguided, two-minute attempt at foreplay; because they wanted something else in return.

Not you. Not with this woman.

You ate this woman out con gusto, with pleasure, enjoying every moment of it - as you'd always known you would - as much as she did.

You didn't rush. You had all the time in the night, and you would take what she needed.

You spent a long time experimenting - slow, fast, gentle, rough, mostly lips, more tongue, maybe a little teeth - your body fully attuned to her reactions. You learned the sounds she made, the way she breathed, the way her fingers clenched and her thighs quivered and her back arched. You learned what she liked, and then you learned what she really liked.

You took your time. Maybe you could do this forever.

What really brought her to the edge, you eventually discovered, was pressure. If you spread her lips apart with your fingers and locked your mouth around her clit and rubbed the tip of your tongue firmly, rapidly, back and forth against it...she loved that. She'd clamp a hand over her mouth to stop herself from being too loud and her whole body would tighten, shake, vibrate...like she was seconds away from coming completely unraveled.

You didn't let her right away. You coaxed her right up to the edge, to the tip of the iceberg, before you slowed your movements and walked her back down again.

"Not yet," you whispered against her labia the first time, so that she would know for sure that you were doing it on purpose.

The third time you did it, she hit you - hard - on the side of the head.

"Ow," you grumbled.

She cursed at you.

"You have a filthy mouth for such a beautiful woman."

"What are you doing to me?" she asked.

"Making sure you..." long lick, "...explode."

She cursed again.

"What's wrong? Want to come, Liv?" you asked innocently.

"Yes!" she all but screamed in frustration.

"Say it."

"I want to come, Rafael," the words tripped from her lips without even a second of hesitation.

You smiled at the distress, the desperation in her tone.

"In time," you promised leisurely.

She hit you again and squirmed beneath you, groaning and kicking her legs in frustration. Sharp fingernails clawed at your ears, your head, the back of your neck, attempting to force you into giving her what she needed.

"No," you growled when one hand attempted to find its way between your tongue and her pussy, swatting it away before she could touch herself, "That's mine. Now hold still."

And you didn't keep her waiting long after that, partly because you didn't want her to hit you again but mostly because this was probably the most riled up you'd ever gotten any woman and you really, really wanted to see what it was like when she came.

It was spectacular.

You brought her right up to the edge again, your tongue working fervently against her clit, and this time you didn't back down.

You felt her freeze, her body going completely rigid. Even the frustrated noises she was making stopped for one...two...three glorious seconds before she…

...popped.

It seemed like every muscle in her body contracted, then expanded - abdominals, biceps, fingers, thighs, toes, all of them clenched and unclenched rhythmically along with her pulsing, throbbing pussy as her orgasm seized control of her body. A loud, sharp scream quickly melted into incomprehensible babble as she writhed, her fingernails finding your shoulders and digging in. You gripped her hips hard, refusing to let go of her clit or let your tongue cease its ministrations, even as she gushed and coated your lips and face with a fresh surge of juices. You lapped it all up, your eyes fixed on her face, watching her expression as wave after wave of ecstasy hit her.

You didn't release her until her moans quieted to soft whimpers to uneven breaths and her muscle contractions subsided to tremors to quivers. You flattened your tongue and licked one last time - determined not to waste a single drop of her essence - before you sat up on your knees.

She lay motionless, spent, eyes closed, breasts rising and falling as she breathed deeply, her entire body glistening with sweat.

Spectacular.

"Fucking beautiful," you mumbled, crawling up the bed to lay on your side next to her. You faced her and brushed sweaty tendrils of hair away from her forehead.

"Oh my God," she breathed. A smile graced her lips but she remained otherwise still, "I can't believe I just came like that."

"I can't believe you just squirt all over my face."

Her eyes flew open then and she turned her head to look at you.

"I don't squirt," she said, her tone suggesting that she believed such a thing to be a myth. You quirked an eyebrow at her.

"You do squirt," you informed her, leaning in to capture her lips. You quickly pushed your tongue into her mouth before pulling away, "And it's hot."

"Mmm," she murmured, too exhausted to argue, her eyes drifting shut again.

"You gonna sleep better now?"

"God, yes - I mean, no - " she opened her eyes again and glanced pointedly down at your obvious erection, still covered by your pants, "Not yet."

"Don't worry about that, Olivia," you assured her, "We have all night. Sleep first."

"At least take your pants off. I can't even believe you're still wearing those."

You chuckled and obeyed, getting out of bed for just long enough to quickly shed your pants. She watched you with an approving eye but held up a hand as you were about to get back in bed.

"Uh uh. Briefs, too."

"Liv - "

"Off," she commanded.

You rolled your eyes and did what she said, mumbling mandona under your breath.

"Oh," she said softly as you straightened up, fully nude before her, your erection straining upward. Appreciative eyes flicked up and down your body, taking in every detail.

"You like it?" you asked her teasingly after a moment passed and she was still ogling you.

"I do," she said. She propped herself up on one elbow, "Come here."

You had barely settled in bed next to her before she leaned over, still propped on the one elbow, and gripped your erection with her other hand.

"Shit, Olivia," you cursed, sitting back up a little, your cock throbbing at her unexpected touch.

"Ah-ah. Lay back down," she admonished, rising to her knees now. She angled her body towards yours and pushed you back flat onto the mattress with a single hand on your chest, her other hand beginning to drift lazily up and down your cock.

Fuck.

She was going to make you come and she wasn't even trying.

"I thought you were tired," you breathed between gritted teeth, focusing all of your effort into remaining a gentleman and not thrusting up into her hand or, even better, flipping her onto her back and pushing into her.

"Not anymore," she said, taking her brown eyes off of your cock to meet your blue ones, "Can you make me come as hard with this as you did with your tongue?"

"Absolutely," you promised her.

She smirked and swung a leg across your body, positioning her opening over you in one fluid move. Before you could react, she sank slowly onto you. You growled and kept your eyes focused on hers, watching as her mouth dropped open and her eyebrows furrowed as you stretched and filled her completely.

"Fuck, yes," she hissed, her fingernails curling into your chest, "Show me."

---

It was still dark when the sound of your alarm woke you the next morning. You'd been asleep for all of two hours.

You hit snooze quickly, hoping it wouldn't wake the peacefully sleeping woman on top of you. She had a leg wedged between yours, an arm thrown across your body, her face buried in your chest, strands of hair tickling your chin. She was completely naked. You both were.

The chime of the alarm didn't seem to have disturbed her at all. Which was good. She definitely needed her sleep.

You lay awake, savoring the present moment along with memories of the night before. The image of Olivia Benson riding you would be forever etched in your brain, her head thrown back and her breasts bouncing in your hands as you found a rhythm together that made you both cry out. So would the image of her on her back when you finally took control and flipped her, her surprised expression quickly melting into ecstasy as you pounded her relentlessly into the mattress the way you'd always wanted to do. Of course, you'd kept your promise and made her come again, hard, biting her own hand to keep from screaming. And by the time she'd come back down again you were coming too, your face buried in her neck as you exploded deep inside of her.

Your orgasm was hot, intense...better than any fantasy. As was this, waking up in the dark with her whole body entwined with yours.

You'd been longing for this exact moment for years.

Your only regret was that it was a weekday.

Your alarm went off again. If you were going to go home, shower, put on a fresh suit, gel your hair, grab breakfast, and make it to work on time, you should probably leave now.

But you didn't move.

Not until your alarm went off for the third time and she groaned discontentedly into your skin.

"Shut it off."

You did as she asked and placed your lips to the top of her head in a gentle kiss.

"I have to get up, Liv."

She grumbled and tightened her arm around you.

"No."

"Liv - "

"No."

You smiled at her petulance. You knew she wasn't a morning person. She was notorious for it.

"Olivia, I have to - "

"No. You don't have to get up."

"I do if I'm going to make it to court on time."

She was quiet for a moment, then:

"Arghhh," she sat up and glanced around the room sleepily before setting an accusing gaze on you, like it was your fault that morning had inevitably arrived, "What time is it?"

"Five forty-five."

She glanced at the baby monitor on the nightstand, which displayed a clear image of Noah still sleeping soundly. He hadn't woken once during the night, which was a miracle considering the amount of noise the two of you had been making.

Olivia sighed and ran a hand over her face.

"He'll be up soon," she said tiredly, "I was sleeping so well."

You sat up and captured her lips briefly.

"Go back to sleep," you said, sliding out of bed and turning to face her, "You have a little bit of time."

She shook her head ruefully.

"It won't be the same," she said, "How long did we sleep for?"

"Two hours, I think," you found your shirt and pulled it back on.

"Ugh," she flopped back down on the bed and stared at the ceiling in frustration.

"We could have slept longer if you hadn't forced me to make you come so many times," you teased.

She smirked.

"Maybe if you hadn't teased me so much…" she said, referring to the number of times you'd almost let her come, but didn't, via oral.

"You fucking loved it," you said, stepping into your pants.

"Oh, I did," she agreed.

You smiled and, now fully clothed, got back on the bed. You climbed over her on your hands and knees and bent down for another gentle kiss.

"Mmm…" she murmured, closing her eyes, "Just stay."

"I can't. Court," you cupped her cheek and let your thumb stroke the skin there lazily, "But...tonight?"

You held your breath as she opened her eyes, praying to God that she wouldn't try and stick to her words from last night:

Maybe...Just this once.

"Tonight?" she repeated, looking conflicted. You could practically see the internal war going on in her head.

"Yeah," you said, "We're both off tomorrow. I could come over. You put Noah to sleep, and then," you wiggled your eyebrows suggestively, "I put you to sleep. And no alarms in the morning. You can sleep 'til whatever time Noah wakes."

She sighed.

"...This was never going to be a one-time thing, was it?" she said after a moment, asking herself as much as she was asking you.

Olivia Benson, there is nothing about you that I want only once.

"Absolutely not," you answered immediately.

"I knew that," she murmured, "But...what about..."

"Don't worry about work right now," you assured her. It was clear that you were each long past the personal rule of not dating coworkers. You should probably disclose to your respective bosses at some point, but you weren't going to think about that right now, "We're already good at pretending nothing's going on when we see each other. And we don't have to disclose to anyone right away. We can just...take things one day at a time, focus on working things out between the two of us. When we decide that this is serious, we'll figure out what to do."

Olivia raised her eyebrows.

"When we decide?" she repeated. You smiled and kissed her.

"Yeah, when. Trust me, Liv, it'll work out."

"Okay," she agreed, "Okay. We'll work out."

---

A/N: I don't really know how this got so long (lol). Let me know what you think!