I think we should settle this tomorrow and call it a night.

Olivia tucked an arm under her pillow and felt the mattress dip under her as she slid beneath the covers, her back to Rafael but his piercing eyes still boring a hole through her. She swallowed heavily, the faint burn of the final remnants of the Macallan on her tongue silently taunting her.

I think we should settle this tomorrow and call it a night.

Rafael shifted uncomfortably on his side of the bed, and Olivia could feel a pillow pressed against her back, its breadth a seemingly colossal gulf between them as their exchange continued to hang heavy in the air. The metallic lamp switch glinted under the moonlight, almost an invitation for her to reach out and press it so they could put this to rest before what seemed like a restless night ahead, but Olivia was frozen in her position, forcing her breathing to slow as Rafael yanked on his side of the covers, every movement taking her a second further from drifting into slumber.

The taste refused to leave her tongue. He'd been drinking.

This wasn't anything out of the ordinary; in fact, she'd shared many a drink with him in the privacy of his office or at the Forlini's bar under Anthony's watchful eye. She'd kissed him many times - countless, in fact - while inhaling that scent, feeling it linger on her breath all through the silent Uber ride back to the Upper West Side. Except tonight one whiff was all it took for her to stop dead in her tracks, even the feeling of his cock twitching against her core not powerful enough a spell for her to press her lips to his once more.

His look of disappointment was the only thing she saw when she shut her eyes.

I'm worried about you, you know.

It was getting increasingly difficult to bury that thought, even under the easy intimacy of the afternoons they still enjoyed (albeit in decreasing frequency). The pile of Nordstrom and J Crew bags in the corner formed an especially imposing mass in the darkness of the room, another reminder of the quiet yet telling ways Rafael had started unravelling over the last few days, a riot of emotion seemingly trapped underneath his uncomfortable smiles and tense body language. When she raised her eyes to look at him from across the table or room she never knew what sight she'd be greeted by - contented peace or an agitated frown, sometimes within seconds of the other.

And then this night had taken a hard left: the testy why are you so interested; that evasive I don't think right now is the right time to talk about that, Liv - and then the bitter sarcasm of his cutting you've made that very clear that was the death sentence to that conversation.

Had she taken things a step too far?

I'm worried about you, you know.

Surely it was her prerogative to be concerned for him. Surely he understood that her intentions were good; that all she wanted was for him to open his mouth and tell her the whole truth, instead of getting it in bits and pieces of anger and resentment. Now every half-sentence begged to be continued, Rafael deftly evading every look of worry from her until they were forced to drop the subject and made do with a clammy, brooding silence until they found a distraction. Every look at him and she found herself wondering whether the next thing she said was going to send him down a melancholic spiral, that familiar troubled look he'd been wearing of late (and that he never could explain away) casting a cloud over them both.

The dance she was performing around his emotions was necessary, she told herself repeatedly. But she couldn't lie to herself either - it was getting wearisome.

Surely they were close enough that he could open up to her about anything. Wasn't that the very reason that they'd wanted to be relocated together in the first place - to have at least one person with unfettered access to each other's pasts? So why was she starting to feel like the distance between them was only increasing; that every second step concealed a landmine waiting to explode?

What was he hiding from her?

Olivia grimaced again as Rafael tossed and turned on the other side of the bed, his defeated sigh seemingly a million miles away. No, she wasn't going to reach over and turn on that lamp and open a can of worms while they both were this agitated. No, not now: she was going to wait until the morning sun brought this room, and their thoughts, into clarity.

Where was this vulnerability coming from, and was she ever going to find out before he sank too deep for her to rescue him?

I'm worried about you, you know.

Why was he hiding from her?

As she slipped into slumber, she wondered if Rafael would reach over and tear down the invisible wall forming between them.

She couldn't say that she wasn't surprised when he didn't.


When Olivia's eyes fluttered open a few hours later, golden fingers of sunlight were dancing across the ceiling, and the tree-lined street outside the window sparkled invitingly.

God, this was a view impossible to find in her old neighbourhood, where the only views she had were of her neighbour's kitchen and a filthy alley, and no number of plants or diffusers would ever make the air feel as fresh or crisp as the breeze that flowed through the window here. Gone were the 7 am mornings she dragged herself out of bed and got dressed for work in front of a dresser that left her with barely enough floor space to stretch her aching back, before emerging onto a crowded city street littered with beer bottles and boarding a packed downtown train car. She thought she'd miss that frenetic energy; that intoxicating rush that came with being just a face in a crowd of thousands, but here she finally had space to breathe - and she could find no fault with that.

There was almost a script; an intricate and well-rehearsed choreography to the mornings she spent in this room. Her fingers would find Rafael's first, and then their lips, and in a split-second their hands would be wandering all over each other's bare skin before the rest of the room came into clarity, breaths falling in time as he brushed her hair out of her face to kiss her. And so Olivia languidly turned on her side, her arm instinctively wandering towards the other side of the bed and fingers in search of Rafael's - and then she felt the pillow sandwiched between them and any early morning contentment fled her system immediately.

I think we should settle this tomorrow and call it a night.

Tomorrow had arrived.

She froze when she felt Rafael tug on the covers from the other side of the bed, every dip of the mattress bringing them a second closer to the conversation that awaited them, until both their eyes were peeled to the ceiling in an awkward, tense silence, that pillow their de facto Berlin Wall that neither of them dared to knock down first.

Olivia didn't know how much time had passed before she finally swallowed the lump in her throat and shattered the silence, her voice still hoarse and bearing her final traces of exhaustion.

"We should talk."

It felt like slow hours before he responded.

"We should."

The way his voice quickly trailed off made it clear that he was putting the ball in her court, and so she picked up right where they'd left off the night before.

"When did you start drinking again?"

Olivia tore her eyes from the ceiling and turned to face him, one arm propped against the pillow neither seemed particularly keen on removing - now an emblem of the emotional distance that only seemed to grow with every passing second. She scrutinised his green eyes, typically blazing with emotion so intense that it sometimes physically hurt to look at him, only to be met with blankness - the only thing more terrifying.

"I just opened that bottle a week ago," he replied flatly, averting her gaze. "It's in the kitchen cabinet."

Three months ago they wouldn't be having an exchange even remotely close to the one that they were having now - heck, she'd be the one asking him to pour her a drink. Of all the topics she'd previously thought they'd disagree on, a part of her couldn't believe this, of all things, had become the topic of contention.

Maybe she was making a mountain out of a molehill. Sure, Rafael probably drank more than the average person in New York, but there was nothing to suggest that it would ever become a problem (and growing up with the mother she had made her an expert at seeing the signs). Surely there was nothing wrong with him heading to the liquor store and choosing to spend his allowance on a bottle of Macallan; choosing to have a glass while he was facing probably the most difficult trial of his life.

He hadn't even been drunk; not even close. She had no good reason to pursue this line of questioning, and he didn't owe her an explanation. And Rafael's stony silence was telling enough.

It took her finally kicking the pillow sandwiched between them to the foot of the bed for him to turn and make eye contact with her, inscrutable emotion - nonetheless, emotion - finally shattering that haunting hollowness.

"Rafael… you know you can tell me what's on your mind, right?"

It was half-statement, half-plea, and the menacing tick of the clock on the wall punctuated the oppressive silence. Olivia studied his face, watching pain and doubt and vulnerability flash through his green eyes, almost all at once, and almost didn't expect the way her stomach clenched looking at him - the weight of weeks of carrying this burden around finally finding some release. He sat up in the bed and she followed suit, their bodies inching closer but the residual tension between them holding together the last of the invisible touch barrier, and it was only then that she realised she was holding her breath.

"I'm sorry, Liv."

The sadness - and guilt - in those three words cut her like a knife. Her tongue felt like lead as she took in the quiet, but crushing, defeat in his expression and the subtle slump of his shoulders, the idyllic view out the window almost mockingly cruel against the sombre mood in the room.

Rafael sighed deeply. "I know I haven't been myself, and you deserve to know why."

She tucked her legs to her chest and silently motioned for him to continue.

"Seeing you… charge forward has been difficult for me," he admitted, wincing a little between words. "Applying for jobs, getting along with Nguyen, actually enjoying life here - you make it look easy," his tongue lingering cuttingly on the final word.

"I-" Olivia wanted to interject, only to be silenced.

"I can't be a lawyer ever again, and that's a part of my life I never wanted to leave behind. I've lost my mother, my abuelita, my friends in New York. I don't have anything that made me the person I was," Rafael spat out frustratedly. "And I don't know what the fuck to do with myself... or when I look at you and all I get reminded of is just how much I don't want any of this. I don't want to be Rafael Marquez; I don't want to end up in some bumfuck office staring at Excel spreadsheets all day, you know?"

The anger and sadness that crept into his tone were clear as day, but Olivia could just make out the undercurrent of resentment peeking through - resentment at not only the plight he was in, but also her.

And she didn't know what to say in response to that.

Olivia felt her cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and perhaps sheer awkwardness as she struggled to process her thoughts. It was one thing to suspect that her ambition had inadvertently rubbed Rafael the wrong way, but to hear it this plainly from him was another, and all she could focus on was tracing the hem of the covers as she frantically racked her brains for something - anything - to say to defuse the tension.

She'd seen the signs: the nervous way he averted her gaze the first night she declared that she was going to start looking for a job, the astonished and nonplussed look he'd given her the afternoon she emerged from the salon sporting her new haircut, the riot of emotion she could almost see bubble to the surface with each passing day. She'd detected the almost imperceptible way his voice seemed to crack whenever the subject came up; even felt it in the way he gripped her hand nowadays, an ounce more tentative than usual. Something had been eating away at him, and she'd had a nagging suspicion that things weren't as straightforward as he claimed they are - now she knew that for sure.

And I don't know what the fuck to do with myself... or when I look at you and all I get reminded of is just how much I don't want any of this.

She couldn't stop replaying that sentence on loop, fixating on the bitterness with which he'd lingered on that word. It was an outpouring of emotion, certainly - but felt strangely like an accusation.

"You know I'm not deliberately trying to make you feel this way, right?" she finally asked, unsure if she was seeking his reassurance or feeling her defences rise - or maybe both.

You make it look easy.

What even could she say to that? Do in response to that? Stop working on her job applications? Fixate on every roadblock she encountered in a desperate attempt to make him feel better? Not share what was becoming an increasingly important part of her new life in Bethesda, for the sole purpose of avoiding hurting his feelings inadvertently?

She realised with a sinking feeling that she already was starting to do the latter, and the mood in the room only continued to sour.

"Of course you're not, Liv," he replied. "I'm the problem here, okay?"

"Don't say that about yourself," she retorted, almost on reflex.

"Not when it's true," he interrupted brusquely.

Olivia could feel her heart thumping in her chest - God, when was the last time she and Rafael had clashed like this? When had she ever heard him admit weakness this plainly and painfully?

Maybe she hadn't, which was precisely the reason she didn't know what the hell she was going to do about it.

"What do you want me to do to help?" she offered immediately, in the absence of other reassuring words. Nearly two years working together and she still was tongue-tied, her confidence shaken by just how unfamiliar this situation felt. Rafael and vulnerability - those were two words that didn't often pair.

He stared down at his lap evasively, his tone acidic and chilly. "You don't always have to help me, Liv."

She bristled at his tone. "You know I don't mean it that way."

"I need to get myself - these feelings - under control. Look, I don't want you to change anything for my sake, okay?" He visibly softened. "I don't want things between us to stay like this - I want things to go back to normal. I want you to be successful; I want to be happy for you. I just need time."

Olivia stopped herself from raising an eyebrow, her heart struck by the earnestness in Rafael's tone but mind refusing to let go of the residual caution that'd crept into it over the last couple of weeks. Almost three weeks and things hadn't seemed to improve - heck, they looked like they'd only deteriorated further - was it just her impatience, or a sign that what he'd been doing simply wasn't working?

What even was the "normal" they both wanted to return to, and did it even exist anymore?

But she nodded and willed herself to smile - and to believe him - because she wasn't about to strike him down at his most vulnerable.

He wanted her to be successful; to be happy for her, just the way things had been when they were huddled over a case file in one of their old offices. Why was she doubting that, even now, when it was precisely that quiet, steadfast faith in her that'd drawn her to him in the first place?

There was, however, one thing that she absolutely needed to hear from him.

"Promise me something, alright?" she implored, to which Rafael's eyes finally met hers with the most conviction they'd had all morning.

"What?"

"Talk to me, Rafael. Bottling things up, running away from all these emotions - it's not good for you."

And it's not good for me, but she bit her tongue before that slipped out. This was about him - his emotions, his insecurities, his mental state. She could afford to put her own feelings aside for just a while longer, at least until she could look up at him and see the light in his eyes return.

"I will."

She wanted so badly to hang on to those two words and close the book on this conversation before her heart thumped right out of her chest, but couldn't resist taking his hand in hers, finally breaking the last of the invisible barrier between them. "I'm serious. If there's anything I can do for you to make all of this better, I'll do it."

She prayed it would be enough, because she didn't know what else to do if it wasn't.

"I'll be fine," he managed with a slight smile. "I'll get this under control."

The traces of determination in his voice brought far more relief than she'd expected, and Olivia finally felt some tension flee her body as Rafael squeezed her hand affectionately - a wordless promise far more powerful than any of the words that'd just escaped both their mouths. She couldn't resist breaking out into a smile when Rafael leaned over to press his lips to her forehead, perhaps a much-needed reminder that she could trust him; that she was going to take his word for it and they were going to gradually recover the tranquil normalcy they'd enjoyed until a fortnight ago.

"I'm going to brew us some coffee," he remarked casually as he climbed out of her bed, retrieving the fallen pillow she'd kicked to the floor and smoothing the sheets on his side until they bore no trace of the tense exchange they'd just had.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the unused condom in her half-opened nightstand drawer, the sun just hitting the metallic foil wrapper - yet another reminder of the way their night had veered sharply off-course. Perhaps a part of her wished that she hadn't stopped them mid-kiss and that they'd collapsed into bed with a wave of ecstasy washing over them instead of the stilted awkwardness that'd plagued their slumber, but one look at his now-empty side of the bed immediately put that thought to rest.

Sex wasn't what they needed right now - what they needed was a frank conversation without the convenience of retreating into the familiarity of each other's bodies, or that post-coital haze that could promptly paint over just about any cracks in their relationship.

They needed this, and she'd ripped that Band-Aid. It was a victory she'd desperately sought in the face of Rafael's rapidly spiralling emotional state, and she was going to hang onto it as tightly as she could.

I'll be fine.

She knew that she'd be thinking about that sentence for hours - maybe days - to come. She desperately wanted it to prove true.

The coffee machine whirred to life, signalling that it was time for her to put this behind her and throw herself into the day ahead. "Hot or iced?" she called out to him playfully.

This was the normalcy they both needed to keep them anchored; the shared life that was going to hold them together. Surely it'd be enough for them.

"You know which kind I'm partial to," he chuckled. "I pretend to like iced coffee only for your sake, Liv."

Olivia laughed for a couple of seconds, but then abruptly stopped, sending the room back into an uncomfortable silence.

I pretend to like iced coffee only for your sake, Liv.

Of course it was a joke, but why was the subtext of that innocuous sentence getting to her?

No, she was overthinking this. She wasn't going to let Rafael's recent dejection get to her, because the onus was on her to be his pillar of support where he so desperately needed one. He was hurting so much more than she was; she could put aside her feelings to keep him afloat.

Still, her stomach lurched when she found two glasses of iced coffee waiting for them on the counter when she walked into the kitchen.


Dear Olivia,

Thank you for your interest in the position.

We enjoyed reading your application, and would like to invite you to interview

It was a word she'd been completely consumed by for weeks, but today it leapt off the screen, and Olivia's lips curled into a triumphant grin.

Finally.

This was the email she'd been eagerly awaiting; the much-awaited rain in the desert of her job search after closed doors and cold shoulders.

Two months into life in Bethesda and she was almost surprised at how quickly the days started to bleed into one another. Or perhaps she was more surprised at just how easily she'd taken to this brand new life - one that she once thought was impenetrably foreign. She'd forgotten - or maybe never even learnt - what it was like for time to slow to a languid, unhurried crawl, each minute no longer a countdown to an impending crisis somewhere in the city. She was learning what it was like to wake up well-rested; to slip into slumber without the crushing weight of the day's work on her chest. William Lewis was dead; expelled from this reality - and she felt the last of the paralysing anxiety that rippled through her when he came to mind disappear into obscurity. So was the pit of sadness that formed when she drove by the Hudson University quadrangle where she'd spent many an afternoon waiting for her mother to finish her last lecture, or the devastating memories of the day a sobbing Calvin Arliss had been ripped from her arms in full view of the rest of the squad.

Maybe I actually like the idea of hanging on to some parts of myself and freeing myself of the others. There are lots of things in my life that have weighed too heavily on me, and I'm thinking that I actually don't mind... letting some of them go.

The conversation she'd had with Rafael that evening in the clearinghouse, canned mushroom soup on the stove and minds still heavy with the enormity of the seismic change that awaited them, returned to her every once in a while, and her realisation that it'd proven true was enough to soothe the wounds left behind by the parts of New York that she did miss. She was Olivia Benson and Olivia Davis at once, the two disparate parts of her being converging even more with each passing day, and she lingered on her reflection in the mirror, her bangs framing her brown eyes with a freshness she hadn't felt in months (or maybe even years). She'd started calling this apartment home without a twinge of guilt or hesitance, the space looking more and more like hers each day.

She was letting things go, and every footstep; every breath felt lighter. She was starting anew.

Olivia had felt numerous pockets of joy since arriving in D.C., many of them from the quiet, placid afternoons she spent with Rafael - they could be sharing a large pizza at Matchbox or admiring the palatial mansions on the winding road to Great Falls and the combination of their mirthful laughter and the warmth bubbling in her chest would overwhelm her with a quiet, tender ecstasy that only replenished with every glimpse of Rafael's crooked smile that she caught. Or she could be lying in bed, enveloped by a tranquil silence she'd come to relish and Rafael's arm around her, and she'd drift off into slumber with a contented smile and silent gratitude percolating in the air.

And the joy that only continued to pour in as she stared at that email, the we'd like to invite you to interview a gratifying reward for the hours she'd spent staring at her resume and cover letter, and an emblem of the future that she was just starting to grasp in her palms. This was the final step: the one thing keeping her from feeling fully settled in Bethesda, and it finally was becoming real.

Olivia had felt numerous pockets of joy since arriving here, but this looked to feel like her biggest victory yet, and her delight was close to bursting out of her chest.

"Raf-" she started on instinct, but quickly stopped herself when she looked up from her laptop screen and laid eyes on him.

He was sitting right there, just across the room from her and twirling a pencil in his palm, engrossed with completing the Washington Post crossword and green eyes blazing with concentration, a much-welcome sight after weeks adrift and unmoored.

And that was all it took for the weight of the last fortnight to sink over them - or maybe just her - again, turning that seemingly easy decision into a pressing dilemma.

What reason did she have to hesitate sharing this with him? He was the one who'd assured her that he didn't want her to change a thing for him. It was a step in the direction of the normalcy they both wanted - a normalcy that Olivia's job search was going to have to be a part of, because there was no U-turning on that now that she was staring at interview invitations in her email inbox.

He'd looked her in the eye and told her that he wanted her to be successful. He'd promised that he would feel happy for her.

They'd gone a couple of days without talking about it. Maybe he was ready for her to bring the topic up again. Maybe they both were ready to stop dancing around the elephant in the room.

Still, she hesitated mid-syllable, her tongue increasingly paralysed with doubt the more she looked at him. What if she did tell him and she'd have to confront the withering look that seemed to flash through his eyes whenever she did as much as say the word "job", or face the hurt that'd quietly stab him as he realised for the umpteenth time that Olivia was making strides in her new career that he simply wasn't?

No, she couldn't risk hurting his feelings again. She could afford to keep this to herself - after all, she was the one who'd taken better to this transition, and he had enough on his plate. The last thing she needed to do was to rub her success in his face. This could wait.

"Liv?"

She looked up, startled. "Sorry, what?"

He shot her an amused grin. "I should be asking you that. You looked like you were going to say something to me," he laughed.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, grateful for the shield that was the kitchen counter. "Oh, it's nothing," she shrugged. "How's the crossword?"

"Beat yesterday's time by a minute, so I'd say it was pretty good," he smirked, pencil still in hand.

"That's great," she beamed genuinely.

Perhaps it was enough that both of them were feeling joy in some form. Did it matter that she hadn't put hers in the open? Maybe it didn't - not when his sun-lit grin made her breath catch. Maybe this was something she could keep to herself - why mar it when the news was this fresh?

It didn't stop her from wishing that she could share her joy with him, but she decided to let him have his small victory, because he needed it much more than she did.


"So… how's the job search going?"

Olivia didn't want to admit that she froze at the sound of that question from across the room.

She lifted her eyes from her laptop screen and laid eyes on him, his legs propped up on the glass coffee table and opened copy of Chronicle of a Death Foretold resting on his lap, green eyes scanning the page but devoid of the usual intensity with which he tackled his daily crossword puzzle or perused the headline news.

For the last couple of days, even a mention of both the interview invitation emails she'd received hadn't slipped out of her mouth, and Olivia was thinking that she'd successfully talked herself into believing that her silence was a minute price to pay for the peaceful state they'd settled back into. And so she bit back her absent-minded smiles and successfully stopped herself from glancing at her email inbox every few hours to replenish that joy, because she wasn't about to throw a spanner into the works all over again.

It wasn't as though she planned on hiding this indefinitely - she was going to tell him when she was more sure that he was ready to hear the news. She technically still was doing what he'd asked of her that morning, wasn't she? She wasn't changing anything; she was merely delaying the news until she felt it was right.

But here he was, directly asking her to share her news with him - and so that secrecy officially came to an end.

"It's… going well," she replied cautiously as she carefully studied his body language. Surely him throwing the question out unprompted was enough of a sign in itself? He wanted to be a part of it; perhaps this was the conversation that would finally tear down the last of the invisible walls between them. "I've received two interview invitations in the last couple of days."

Olivia instantly realised that she'd made a mistake when Rafael shifted uncomfortably - almost imperceptibly so - in his seat. Last couple of days. That was one detail that completely changed the colour of that conversation.

She'd expended so much energy and time fretting about whether or not to tell him, but had forgotten to consider how she was going to break the news, and the irony wasn't lost on her.

"I'm sorry for not telling you earlier, Rafael," she quickly added apologetically. "I wasn't sure how you'd feel about it."

"It's fine, Liv," he shrugged, almost suspiciously quickly. "I'm happy for you. That's great news."

"Thanks," she muttered back, although the why didn't you tell me earlier subtext buried behind those innocuous statements persisted - along with the undercurrent of discomfort in his voice and body language, which quickly became all that she saw.

Hurt. That was what was running through his mind. Along with a massive dose of insincerity that didn't take a genius to see through, but was especially wounding to her.

She wasn't sure if the next thing that came out of her mouth was a much-needed wake-up call or downright foolish.

"You know you don't have to pretend you're happy for me if you don't actually feel that way, right?"

(Maybe it was both.)

It was intended as a genuine question, but only as the words hung in the air did she realise that they were far more cutting than she'd wanted, and her eyes instantly darted back to her laptop screen, her cheeks flushing with uneasiness. The uncomfortable stare she received in return was both his scathing indictment of her question and unfortunate confirmation that she'd hit the nail on the head.

At least that was one thing they both were clear on.

However, it took Rafael only three seconds to straighten in his seat and change his tone, his cheeks also turning a beet red. "Sorry about that. I guess things aren't getting better as quickly as I'd hoped."

It was a perfectly reasonable apology - one that she'd typically be more than happy to take at face value, because she knew better than most people that crawling out of an emotional pit wasn't a linear process, and that rushing him wasn't going to help either of them. Barely three days had passed since that awkward morning in her bedroom, so why was her reaction the precise opposite of reasonable?

"Do you want me to be honest with you or not?"

Barely three days had passed since that awkward morning in her bedroom, but the trapped tension of the past three weeks was finally seeing the light, and she could feel Rafael's shock hearing the iciness in her tone - an iciness that she let linger as frustration bloomed in her chest.

She couldn't win, could she? Tell him and she'd receive the exact half-hearted, reluctant happiness she'd just seen, no amount of forced smiles enough to cover the insincerity in his voice. Not tell him to protect his feelings and it didn't stop hurt from flashing through his eyes learning that she hadn't come straight to him with the news.

Neither option was ideal. Olivia felt caught between a rock and hard place. She couldn't win.

The sense of accomplishment that once filled her whenever she scrolled through her email inbox or filled calendar now felt dull and hollow, and she suppressed a sigh as Rafael's silence became excruciatingly long.

She was tired. Tired of watering down every emotion for him; tired of being stoic out of fear of sending him back down the spiral he'd only just climbed out of, only to sink back into within minutes. Tired of convincing herself that being upfront with him was only going to reopen some emotional wound they'd both thought healed and gone.

She was tired of his lack of sensitivity to her emotions - how they'd forced her into the suspended state she seemed to be trapped in, her bubbly joy losing its lustre and allure the more she looked at him and felt the tension in the room rise, or the latent anxiety and insecurity he continued to radiate. How she always seemed to be the one making compromises and giving in to whatever mood consumed him at that moment.

Rafael sighed deeply and frustratedly buried his head in his hands. "Of course I want you to be honest with me, Liv. You know that I don't want you to feel like you're beholden to my emotions."

Except that it was too late - she already did.

But was that something they needed to talk about now? Did she want to drag herself through that?

No - she couldn't be selfish. She couldn't give in to impulsivity now; not when emotions were heightened enough as they were.

"I'm sorry, too," she finally mumbled after a long pause. "I should have been more upfront with you."

There - apologies had been exchanged. Both of them would marinate in their shared guilt for a few minutes and normalcy would creep into the room again, and they'd finally break the silence to decide what to make for lunch and act like nothing had ever happened. That was normalcy in itself, the way their wounds healed when they remained untouched, Olivia and Rafael deftly dancing around them until they could settle back into their easy intimacy. They were better than some petty grudge or drawn-out feud - not when the only people they had for company were each other, and especially not when they'd already had more than enough peaceful days to have a taste of just how simple things between them could be when neither was frantically overthinking what to do next.

Still, that knowledge didn't stop dissatisfaction from creeping into her mind all through the rest of the morning, especially when she took another glance at the interview emails and realised that her exuberant happiness had been replaced by sheer weariness.

There was little stopping her from getting up from her seat to look him in the eye and tell him everything that'd just coursed through her mind - her exhaustion, her uncertainty, her defeat. But they'd exchanged enough stupid, thoughtless words that day, and she wasn't about to add even further to the thick tension with yet another casually cutting statement, especially when the look of guilt that he'd worn since that exchange never quite seemed to disappear.

She was going to choose peace. She was going to remind herself yet again that Rafael was hurting far more than she was and that the best thing she could do for him was to be understanding; to be patient and help him ride through these tumultuous few weeks.

(At least, she hoped that they'd be a tumultuous few weeks, not months.)

She was going to choose peace, even if the price she had to pay looked to be increasingly taxing.

All she hoped was for her patience not to wear thin.


It was a good sign, Fin and Nick sitting at this table in the corner of Forlini's, just across from the booth they used to occupy with Olivia and Barba after a trial or between cases. The light renovation Anthony had done to the space over the past month had resulted in the expulsion of the worn linen and dated chairs, and along with them the cloud of sadness that'd once prevented the detectives from venturing in for a relaxed nightcap. With Amanda nursing a migraine at home, Fin and Nick lingered in the bar and nursed their pints of beer, Anthony's wordless and almost endless supply of peanuts and pretzels almost enough of a distraction from the question that'd lingered on the tip of Fin's tongue all night.

He hadn't meant to eavesdrop. He'd just happened to be strolling past the closed door of Cragen's office with a mug of coffee in hand, only to overhear a mention of Olivia's name in what seemed like a heated exchange between Nick and the captain - you need to be spending your time working on the open cases we DO have, not looking into wild theories about Olivia, to which an indignant Nick had retorted that I have a feeling about this; she's alive, the signs are all there.

Just what exactly was Nick Amaro up to?

Two months of keeping this colossal secret from the rest of the squad had trained Fin well to look at Nick with a straight face when he returned to his desk in a huff minutes later, but the hot-headed detective was getting dangerously close to the truth, and Fin wasn't sure if it was time to bring it into the open lest he attempt something rash or downright foolish. Unfortunately, Fin's concern only intensified when he caught sight of a familiar-looking figure emerging through the door of the bar.

Even more so when Nick waved him over to their table with a friendliness Fin wasn't sure ever possible given their tense history.

"Brian!"

Brian, and not Cassidy, now?

Fin lifted his glass to his lips in a half-hearted attempt to hide his surprise. The IAB detective greeted Fin with a polite nod, which he promptly reciprocated, but he couldn't resist staring quizzically as Brian took a seat across from him.

Then Fin recalled that there was one thing that could bring Brian Cassidy and Nick Amaro together… and that he was going to be caught in the middle of it if he didn't leave now.

"Is this my cue to head home and leave you two to talk?" Fin leaned over to whisper to Nick when Brian was occupied ordering his drink, hoping that there was time to make a quick exit before he heard too much.

"No, stay. Brian and I are discussing something that you might want to hear."

Oh, shit, Fin cursed under his breath as Nick motioned for Brian to fill him in.

"We think that Liv's alive."

He didn't waste a moment. The statement left Brian's lips with such confidence that Fin could have sworn for a second that he'd been the one with the secret, not Fin.

Fin immediately made a show of frowning in confusion. "Are you kidding me?"

He just had to channel the raw shock and disbelief he'd felt when he'd received that call from the marshals and walked into that hospital ward two months ago - the way his knees almost gave way when he laid eyes on Olivia and Barba in those hospital beds, injured but very much alive. He could do that, couldn't he?

"We're not kidding, Fin," Nick insisted. "There are signs…"

"Her apartment was completely cleared out. Her phone line was cut suddenly. We never saw her body - not even Melinda did, Fin," Brian interjected, his fist drumming against the table for emphasis. "And Homicide and Vice didn't have anything to say because the Feds took the case."

Fin unconsciously ran a hand over his wallet in his pocket, where he'd stashed the marshals' name cards between his debit card and a bunch of old bodega receipts. He made a mental note to leave those cards at home from this point onwards.

"Don't you think it's suspicious?" Nick added.

"Are you sure you want to dig around like this? What if your hunches aren't true?" Fin challenged them.

They were true, but Fin wasn't about to prove them right and send them on an actual wild goose chase - not when the blazing determination and hope in Cassidy's eyes only proved that he clearly wasn't over Olivia yet, matched by the almost uncharacteristic emphatic nods of agreement that Nick was giving to everything Brian was suggesting. Not when Olivia and Barba could be in one of 48 states, where something reckless could get them relocated a second time.

Nick leaned in, his words urgent and tone impassioned. "Come on Fin, you can't tell me that you didn't find Liv's murder even just a little suspicious. We owe it to her - and Barba - to get to the truth."

"I'm not saying that it's wrong to have these suspicions, but I don't think chasing these leads is good for any of us. Even if Liv and Barba are in witness protection, it's not like we can track them down and bring them back, can we?" Fin pointed out.

For a couple of seconds Fin interpreted Nick and Brian's silence as comprehension, but only after going over what he'd just said did he realise that he'd made a mistake. Witness protection. Those two words hadn't come up once during their conversation - had he inadvertently given them the clue that was going to fan the flames of their quest?

"Witness protection?" Brian raised an eyebrow. "That could be exactly it."

Shit.

Fin frantically tapped his foot under the table as a reminder to keep a straight face until they hopefully moved on to another conversation topic, but didn't miss the suspicious look Nick was casting from beside him - one that was directed at him.

He ran over that sentence in his head - even if Liv and Barba are in witness protection, it's not like we can track them down and bring them back, can we? - once more, wondering if it was the specificity or perhaps his tone that had piqued Nick's suspicions; but in any case, he'd definitely said too much.

"Witness protection, huh?" Nick echoed, his eyes never once leaving Fin. "International sex trafficking ring, threats on their lives… I can see it."

"I know someone in the US Marshals' office here. Maybe we should pay him a visit," Brian suggested, seemingly oblivious to the brewing tension on the other side of the table.

"Definitely. Want to join us, Fin?"

Both men looked expectantly to him for his response, although the hint of scepticism in Nick's expression made Fin's pulse accelerate unconsciously.

He wasn't sure how much worse this was going to get, but it looked like he would find out very soon.


It was a feeling she never thought would come to mind all through her life in New York, but Olivia was starting to find unexpected joy and solace in her trips to the North Bethesda Whole Foods.

Going to the supermarket in New York was a monster in itself - lines to get into the store, aisles too small for two people with carts to pass through without the risk of rolling over someone's ankle, more lines for the check-out, dragging two paper bags home on the subway and praying that sudden rain wouldn't lead to their untimely disintegration on the sidewalk… This, on the other hand, was almost utopic in comparison.

Olivia lingered in front of the seafood counter with her phone in one hand and a smoothie in the other (when did she ever willingly pay $6 for a smoothie? The kiosk at the entrance at the store certainly had its way of enticing her - and anyway, she probably deserved it for all the progress she'd made in her job applications), deliberating between sea bass and salmon for that night's dinner. She'd probably been in the store for at least half an hour by this point, but did it really matter when she didn't have a crowd of ruthlessly efficient New Yorkers pushing to get past her, and still had a free afternoon ahead?

Maybe she ought to cherish these afternoons more, she realised as she scanned the produce section for something to both her and Rafael's liking (she'd learned the hard way that he hated cauliflower almost as much as she detested artichokes). Job interviews were impending, which meant that she'd be back in an office somewhere in weeks to come, these slow hours once again becoming a luxury.

Then again, she wasn't complaining. Two months of unhurried mornings and laid-back afternoons and she was starting to think that she was ready to settle back into a routine that involved more than movie marathons, two-hour dinners and leisurely drives around town. Perhaps she was looking forward to a new challenge; something fresh to sink her teeth into, so she could finally say that she was gainfully employed and actually doing something that took her out of this domestic, almost parochial Bethesda bubble. She'd taken enough time off work in the last couple of years: now all she wanted was to get right back into the swing of things.

Then she stared down into her half-filled cart, now stocked with almost everything that she and Rafael needed for dinner that night, and wondered if he was ready for that.

Olivia didn't know why she'd spent an undue amount of time fretting over this over the past couple of days. It wasn't like there was any solution to the inevitable: both of them probably knew that the colour of their relationship was going to transform once more when they eventually ventured back into the workforce, and that the endless, uninterrupted days they spent in each other's company were soon going to be replaced by the daily grind. Still, she had a distinct feeling that her apprehension had little to do with the prospect of walking into a new office as Olivia Davis, and much more to do with how Rafael was going to take to yet another seismic change in their routine.

Maybe she was the one at fault - for erroneously assuming that he was going to assimilate into their new hometown as seamlessly as she did; for charging ahead with her own career and new life without realising that it would wreak havoc on his already-fragile emotional state. But Rafael wasn't a child, and she certainly wasn't going to start treating him like one; she was going to have to rip the Band-Aid sooner than later, and surely she couldn't be expected to base every decision on how he was going to react to it.

Olivia reached for the last pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream in the freezer - Rafael's favourite flavour - and dropped it into her cart, not caring that it wasn't on her grocery list.

You know that I don't want you to feel like you're beholden to my emotions.

That sentence had lingered in her mind since that tense morning three days ago, and no number of reminders to herself that she and Rafael were now doing fine made it go away. Sure, it'd taken a couple of hours longer than usual for the tension to settle that afternoon, after a lunch of take-out from Cava consumed in silence and Rafael dipping out of the apartment for a mid-afternoon walk around the neighbourhood. Then he'd returned an hour later, red-faced and sweat soaking through the thin fabric of his polo shirt, and she'd wordlessly handed him a towel and glass of water that marked the end of their small tiff.

They were fine. It'd been a small tiff, after all.

(Even if "fine" was becoming an increasingly contested, uncomfortable state, and the "small tiff" looked like it was concealing a much bigger one.)

Of course I want you to be honest with me, Liv.

Just because that was what he wanted didn't mean that it was what was best for him - or them - now, and Olivia was realising with increasing clarity that the intimacy between them wasn't as seamless as it'd been just a few weeks ago.

Be gentle with him, she'd begun to remind herself whenever she lifted her eyes from her laptop and had to actively resist the temptation to reopen that discussion - and the fresh wound that came with it. He had a mother and abuelita and plenty of friends in New York he obviously couldn't just stop thinking about; he'd just reached new highs in his legal career that this change had violently ripped from his arms. He had far more to miss in New York than she did - and the last thing she wanted to do was rip even more familiarity and stability out of his grip.

Be gentle with him. Sadly, it was becoming easier said than done.

Do you want me to be honest with you or not?

That'd been the first - but unmistakable - sign of her growing frustration, and she feared that it'd opened the floodgates.

Olivia hastily packed the groceries into her reusable shopping bags and lingered in the parking lot for a few minutes, deliberating between two destinations. It was 3.30pm and probably too early for her to drive to his apartment; she might as well head home and start thinking more seriously about those job interviews while she had a pocket of time. But if being gentle with him meant putting that aside to spend a couple of extra hours with him before her inevitable return to a 9-5 schedule…

The fish and ice cream in the trunk needed to go into a freezer somewhere; the vegetables needed to be washed and chopped eventually. And so she turned in the direction of Rafael's apartment complex before she could go back on that decision.

Maybe a part of her was going to miss this part of her routine - hopping into her car and driving over at her leisure, perhaps stopping by the coffee shop to say hi to Allison and pick up a croissant on the way. The recent tension didn't detract from the fact that a part of her was always going to be apprehensive about stepping out into the world as Olivia Davis, or leaving Rafael's safe, reassuring familiarity behind.

If only that could be her main issue of concern, and not Rafael's precarious emotional state, because she was running out of ideas on how to fix the latter.

She'd expected to feel a gamut of emotion when she moved here; maybe even prepared herself to shed a few tears whenever she thought about the life she'd left behind. She certainly hadn't expected that this would be the issue drawing a wedge between her and Rafael - or that a wedge of this magnitude would form in the first place. Nothing was certain anymore, and especially not when this complete upheaval had proven challenging in entirely unexpected ways.

3.35pm, and she was more exhausted than she'd been in weeks. Maybe she ought to call it a night and head home for a nap and evening in front of her laptop reading up on the non-profit landscape without the feeling of Rafael watching her from across the room. But she was less than a mile away from his apartment complex now, and the groceries were calling her name. Those convenient excuses would suffice - and so she pulled up to the parking lot and retrieved the bags from her trunk.

"Rafael?" she called out when she found his front door unlocked (another thing they'd never be able to do back in New York), receiving no response. His car was in its lot outside; perhaps he'd gone on one of his afternoon walks or made a quick trip to CVS - in any case, she had an array of groceries to unpack, and she busied herself filling his refrigerator and pouring herself a glass of water to wash down the last of the smoothie she'd chugged before getting into the car.

The fish went into a bowl to defrost, the ice cream into the freezer, Olivia's bags to a corner to dry before she folded them back up, and still the apartment was eerily empty. She twirled her phone in her palm, deliberating whether or not to call him to let him know that she'd arrived, until she heard the creak of a door in the next room and realised that he probably hadn't heard her the first time.

"Rafael?" she asked as she pushed his bedroom door open. "It's me. The front door was unlocked…"

The smell hit her first.

Macallan, mixed with the pungent, acrid smell of smoke.

She looked up and found Rafael leaning against the railing of his balcony with a faraway look in his eyes, cigarette dangling between his fingers and a wisp of smoke escaping into the air, and stopped dead in her tracks.

"Rafael," she called out, this time more firmly, and the look of astonishment - and guilt - that crossed his face as he turned around and realised that she was standing in the doorway was unmistakable.

It was as though they'd reached an impasse, unspoken words lingering on the tips of their tongues and eyes locking painfully, that cigarette still smouldering in his palm until he stamped it out with the heel of his shoe. The half-finished glass of Macallan on the nightstand remained untouched; the gentle breeze flowing through the open window couldn't seem to expunge the traces of that hazy, ashen scent in the air. Fifteen feet separated them, but neither took a step in the other's direction, the carpet like quicksand ready to engulf them both.

"You're here early," he finally remarked flatly, as the cigarette crunched under his heel.

"When did you start smoking?"

It was an eerie parallel to the exchange they'd had less than a week ago, but this time, the question escaped her lips with far less self-consciousness than it did the first time, concern and anger now converging in her tone. Rafael, smoking - how had things come to this? Was he planning to hide this from her?

She wasn't surprised when he didn't dignify her question with a response.

"I'm worried about you," she asserted, feet still rooted to her spot in the doorway. "Didn't we agree that we'd talk about things?"

"Wow, Liv," he rolled his eyes. "I know you were a cop, but I don't remember smoking being a crime," he spat out venomously.

"It's not about that," Olivia asserted, although they both knew that it absolutely was. "Seeing you like this… it hurts. I don't like seeing you like this, Rafael. I know you're not taking well to all these changes… but believe me, this is the last thing I want for you," she added, her tone softening.

"You playing moral police isn't going to help," he fired back.

She held a hand up in surrender. "And I'm not trying to do that."

"Doesn't mean that you don't make me feel that way, though. I don't need you silently judging my choices." His eyes met the floor beneath him, as though it physically pained him to say those words.

"I'm not silently judging your choices," she insisted. "I just want you to get settled here. To be content. Don't you want that too?"

She was relieved when the hardened resentment in his eyes dissolved with that question. "Of course I do. But when you look at me like that… it really doesn't help at all."

Then what the hell do you want me to do? she almost retaliated, but stopped herself before she could let her frustration consume her.

Be gentle with him. Aggression and anger would get them nowhere; she had to make the choice to be gentle with him.

And so she sighed deeply, unballed her tense, clenched fists, and forced her laboured breathing to slow.

"I'm sorry, Rafael. I know I reacted badly, and I shouldn't have."

It was one thing to say it, but another to believe it herself, and the nagging discomfort that was pricking at her refused to dissipate, even as Rafael closed the distance between them and took a seat next to her on the bed.

Moral police. Was that how he saw her? Surely her concern for his well-being was justified, given how quickly and silently he'd slid back into drinking - and now smoking, too?

It wasn't as though she had anything against smoking. Rafael had mentioned off-handedly a couple of times that he was fond of a few sticks a day in college; even she had succumbed to the temptation in her first year as a uni. Maybe she was overreacting, just like she had with the drinking - she couldn't possibly stop Rafael from making decisions for himself, even if she thought that said decisions were questionable at best and destructive at worst.

But was she really overreacting to what felt like Rafael spiralling even further into misery?

She didn't know what was going to run through her mind when she eventually started her new job and he'd be left to his own devices all day. Whiling away afternoons on this balcony with a cigarette and scotch in hand? Spending far too much at the Nordstrom in the mall? Wallowing in self-pity on his couch?

No, she couldn't think that way; this patronising distrust. That was the last thing Rafael wanted - or needed. Denying him his agency would have been unfathomable three months ago; she couldn't risk digging an even bigger pit for him now.

Be gentle with him. Olivia played that line back in her head.

Be gentle with him. She took a deep breath and tried to purge those thoughts from her head.

However, she knew very well that cracks in that gentle facade were starting to show - and that he was seeing them too.

They were perched on the edge of his bed, the half a foot of distance that separated them an increasingly common feature of late, and Olivia found herself hesitating to do the simplest thing she could to start remedying the tension - reach out for his hand.

Why was she hesitating?

"Liv... " he added tentatively, his words punctuated by resigned sighs. "I know you're worried, but you don't have to be."

She wished that she could agree wholeheartedly with that statement.

"Look, how about we get started on dinner and put a movie on? I think we both need it," Rafael suggested as he flicked the last of the cigarette ash off his shirt and headed in the direction of the kitchen, clearly eager to put that exchange behind them.

And she agreed in a heartbeat, because it was an option far more enticing than dragging out this conversation. She didn't want to fight with him. She could put her concern aside to grill the fish they'd been looking forward to having all week.

(Even though she knew that the only reason they'd been looking forward to it was that it was a distraction from virtually everything else going on.)

Olivia watched Rafael prepare the fish as she rinsed the vegetables in the sink, his brows furrowed in concentration, although she couldn't help but notice the cup of coffee he'd been furtively taking large sips from, perhaps to mask the smell of the tobacco on his breath. And perhaps it worked - he'd teased her for taking an inordinately long time to dice the onions, his lips gently brushing against her ear without the smell of cigarette smoke assaulting her senses.

They were fine. They were treading carefully around each other, cautious not to let that disagreement ruin their evening. It was the tried-and-tested method to heal any residual conflict and soothe their bruised egos (Rafael's, mainly), and the fact that it worked just fine under the circumstances meant that there wasn't cause for alarm. Neither had walked out the door; clearly they both still wanted to be here, soaking in each other's company.

But what about when they both let their guards down and weren't so deliberately dancing around each other's feelings? They were starting to get a taste of the way bitter hurt could so easily seep into the crevices of their relationship - and quickly learning that those little disagreements weren't as easy to bounce back from.

But neither talked about that as they polished off the rest of their food, because they would eagerly grasp any elusive peace they got. It was the easiest option.

And it was just as easy for them to slip back into complacency - and that was precisely how they ended up skin-to-skin in his bed two hours later, hands wandering over the curves so well-memorised that every touch was instinctive. Olivia pulled him on top of her with more vigour than usual, the pent-up tension of the day seeping into every touch; Rafael matched that with a newfound fervour in his kisses, his lips scorching hot against her skin. It was heated, fevered, effortless.

Effortlessly mechanical.

When they collapsed into his bed, chests heaving and sweat beading their foreheads, Olivia waited for the post-coital high that never came.

Sex once was comfort; a healing balm for the wounds of displacement, envy and anxiety, the warm familiarity of each other's skin enough to smooth over any residual tension from the day. Now sex was mere release when everything else felt like too much, their bodies doing all the talking where words hurt and scarred.

Sex was a distraction from the enormous weight of everything else that they'd failed to talk about.

This wasn't the escape to New York that she wanted, and she wondered if Rafael felt the same way as she listened to his breaths slow to a crawl. Surely they were better than slipping back into that impersonal, almost clinical way they'd first fallen into bed together after that first night in Forlini's, when their bodies were nothing more than vessels for each other's frustration and hurt.

Surely they hadn't fallen so far that they'd never be able to recover the normalcy they'd been enjoying barely a month ago?

Maybe they'd already bid farewell to it permanently.

One thing she did know for sure, however: that they weren't going to talk about this when the sun rose in the morning, because continuing that dance was easier than confronting it.


When Rafael had texted one morning telling Olivia that he'd scored a last-minute ticket to a matinee at the Kennedy Centre, she'd been surprised, and thankfully pleasantly so.

Maybe it was a promising sign that he'd bothered to seek something better than aimlessly wandering through the mall or browsing Barnes & Noble; that he'd willingly left their Bethesda bubble in pursuit of something that wasn't just a cheap knock-off of the life he'd led in New York. This was good for him - it was exactly the kind of thing that people on sabbaticals did, and surely it beat wallowing in self-pity on one of their couches while she refreshed her email inbox and browsed the Ann Taylor catalogue for interview-appropriate clothes.

She'd been idly browsing through one of the websites of the non-profits that'd invited her to interview the following week when the email caught her off-guard - one that made her heart stop for a second from glancing at the sender alone.

Dear Olivia,

Thank you so much for your interest in the coordinator position. We were impressed by your application, and think that you'd be an excellent fit for the work we do here. Will you be available for an interview...

Olivia had applied for numerous positions, heeding Nguyen's sage advice to cast her net as wide as possible, but this position with a local women's non-profit had leapt off the page when she first scrolled through listings all those weeks ago. And so it'd become just one of the entries on her growing list, although she'd spent far more effort on this cover letter than she did with any of the others.

She could imagine herself doing this. It was close enough to the kind of work at SVU that she lived for, minus being woken from bed at 3am to deal with a crisis across town or the need to wander into gruesome crime scenes - some of which felt too close to the darkest moments she'd experienced in the past year. Doing good for vulnerable women and children, without the sometimes gut-wrenching routines she'd taught herself to grit her teeth and tolerate as a cop - she definitely could imagine herself doing this, and the determination that flooded her as she re-read the email only confirmed it.

It didn't even matter that the interview was on such short notice - two days from now, as the HR manager explained apologetically ("we're trying to see everyone before the 4th of July vacation"). As Olivia grabbed a pencil and scrawled a reminder on the calendar on her fridge in bold print, she couldn't help the excitement that was pooling in her chest - a feeling that the still-unresolved tension with Rafael had a way of dampening over the last few days.

July 2nd 2014. It felt like a promisingly fresh start, and Olivia took a minute to put aside thoughts of interview prep to stare at the calendar, still largely blank but soon looked to be filled. Finally, something to do - something exciting, at that.

July 2nd 2014.

Her breath caught. Why was something about that date making her so uncomfortable?

She'd pencilled in the other interview dates in the rows that followed - 9th July, 11th July… There couldn't possibly be a clash. There was nothing else special about the 2nd of July.

Olivia's eyes darted to the row directly above it - 30th June 2014. Today's date.

Within seconds she was kneeling in front of her bedroom closet, her knees weak and heart racing, and before she knew it she'd grabbed her car keys and purse from the kitchen counter and was heading out the door, her mind in a daze as she pulled out of the parking lot.

At first she avoided the aisle she'd gone to CVS in search of, instead scouring the snack section for sour candy and Cheez-Its and whatever junk food she typically wouldn't even take the time to glance at, perhaps to forget the real reason she'd sped off from her apartment complex with an iron grip on the steering wheel. Only when her basket was half-filled with an assortment of items did she make her way down that aisle with shaking legs, skipping past the section she'd made a habit of stopping at over the past few months, and flung the blue rectangular box into her basket, burying it under a family-sized pack of Golden Oreos.

Olivia could barely sift through her wallet for her debit card as she struggled to scan her items at the self-checkout, the blue box falling into her bag after that menacing beep. The mile-long receipt that the printer spat out bore countless neat rows of text, but all she could see was one line, buried between Twizzlers and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups: Clearblue Plus Pregnancy Test.

She wasn't sure how she made the 5-minute drive home, her entire body buzzing with anxiety each time she stepped on the gas. Her breath was laboured, her vision hazy.

It can't be. She and Rafael had taken precautions; they'd never once slept together without a condom. But she knew better than anyone that even that wasn't a guarantee.

She could feel their bodies pressed; her lips on his neck, his cock twitching violently under her. Her mind wandered from the tender seduction of the night they first returned from D.C. to the torrid, vigorous way their lips connected just two nights ago, the restless heat that usually pooled between her legs now replaced by crippling dread. There was no lying to herself - the sex had gotten increasingly reckless of late, and she feared that this was the price they were paying for it.

She couldn't be pregnant. Not when she had a brand new life - career - ahead of her. Not when they were just two months into life in a new suburb where they didn't know fuck about schools or childcare or heck, how to live their own lives even without a child in the picture. Not when the bad blood brewing between her and the only person who truly knew her was starting to boil over.

And especially not when Rafael was at the most vulnerable she'd ever seen him.

That thought alone prevented her from whipping out her cell phone immediately. He was probably mid-way through that Kennedy Centre concert, where suddenly, even the prospect of listening to 2 hours of classical music was far more enticing than the whirlpool of panic threatening to engulf her whole.

No, she couldn't call him yet. Not when he was this fragile; this volatile - and not when she barely had the mental capacity to deal with her own panic, let alone someone else's.

She couldn't be pregnant. She absolutely couldn't be.

Olivia stood in front of her bathroom mirror with trembling hands, the Clearblue box heavy in her clammy palms.