The Clearblue box remained untouched in Olivia's bathroom cabinet all day.

5 minutes. That was what the box touted; that was all the time it would take for her to banish this uncertainty. She'd buried it at the back of the cabinet, in between a packet of toilet paper and an unopened box of tampons, and slammed the door shut with a resonant clang.

She never got around to disposing of the leftover iced coffee in her fridge, its aroma suddenly pungent and stomach-churning. She could bury that blue box, but she couldn't bury the word that kept taunting her as she paced around her empty apartment.

Pregnant. She couldn't be pregnant. Not now.

Pregnant. She didn't know why she couldn't just rip open that box and find out.

Pregnant. How even was she going to tell Rafael about this?

Right on cue, her phone lit up with a text from him, and she wasn't sure if the way her stomach lurched was from anxiety or nausea - or both.

Concert was great - going to grab dinner and head home after.

That's great; glad you enjoyed it!

She stared at the blinking cursor, a silent invitation to add a follow-up hey, I think we should talk or more foreboding can you come over later, but hesitated as her fingers lingered over the screen.

Concert was great - going to grab dinner and head home after.

Olivia stared at that message for an inordinate amount of time, fixating on the word great and feeling words for a follow-up message elude her by the second. Here he was, finally telling her he'd actually enjoyed something after weeks of swimming in an abyss of self-doubt and confusion, and she was going to decimate that scrap of joy.

What if she wasn't pregnant and she got him riled up for nothing?

What if she was?

If only she had the courage to take that stupid test.

Concert was great - going to grab dinner and head home after.

No, she couldn't have this discussion with him right now. She closed the app and tossed her phone onto the kitchen counter, where it remained for the rest of the evening - and where it lay silent until the sun rose the next morning.

The blue box was all she could think about as she brushed her teeth, her eyes red and bleary after a sleepless night tossing and turning and conspicuously not lying flat on her stomach, discomfort creeping into her body and beads of sweat coating her forehead. Still no sign of her period, she cursed - and still no sign of the courage she so desperately needed to muster to take the damned test.

Morning is the best time to take a pregnancy test, she'd read countless times in those brochures she perused in hospital waiting rooms in the middle of the night while eagerly waiting for an update from the doctor on the status of the victim she was looking out for. She could feel some of that same frenetic, feverish anxiety creep up her spine as she eyed the bathroom cabinet handle, nerves pooling in her stomach and knees weak, and immediately slammed the bathroom door shut behind her.

Olivia's phone was lying on the kitchen counter when she emerged, but the calendar on the fridge was the first thing she saw.

1st July 2014.

Just 3 days late - surely she could put the test off for a day more? Perhaps even a few days more, when she finally found the strength to retrieve that box; maybe even talk to Rafael? Maybe her period would mysteriously show up in the next couple of days to put an end to this, and she'd be able to toss the box into the trash? Every excuse was a tenuous lifeline; a sliver of denial in a rapidly spiralling situation, and Olivia chewed nervously on her lower lip as the squares on the sheet started to blur into one another.

Then she caught sight of the "Interview, 10am" she'd scrawled in all-caps in the box marked 2nd July, and it was as though she'd been doused in ice-cold water.

Interview, 10am. 2nd July 2014.

Tomorrow.

God damn it, she needed to get her head straight. She'd been so consumed by this that she'd forgotten that she was fighting for her dream job.

And that was exactly the lifeline she needed.

It was time for her to stop fretting about Rafael and that test and everything else she couldn't control, and throw herself into this - her future, her goals, her life. With a renewed vigour and the first modicum of clarity she'd had all morning, Olivia grabbed her phone and fired off a quick email to confirm that she'd be there tomorrow morning, because that was exactly what she was going to do.

She was going to put this aside - that Clearblue box, Rafael's radio silence since the message she'd sent him the evening before. She could shove aside her lingering concern about his mental state; the residual hurt from the barbs they'd traded that afternoon she found him smoking on the balcony, because there was one thing she could control and she wasn't about to let it slip out of her grip.

She was going to focus on herself today, and exile that test from her consciousness.

Out of sight, out of mind. She'd tackle everything one at a time, and for today, she was going to choose herself first.

The Clearblue box remained untouched in Olivia's bathroom cabinet all day.


Concert was great - going to grab dinner and head home after.

Rafael had lied to Olivia too many times in the last few weeks - but this was the first one that wasn't simply a lie of omission. This was a lie, plain and simple.

How could he possibly tell her that he'd never made it to that concert?

It'd sounded like a perfectly reasonable - even exciting - idea when he first spotted the ad in that morning's edition of the Washington Post. After all, he'd been a frequent donor and avid supporter of the New York Philharmonic in his previous life, and it wasn't rare that he'd sprint off from 60 Centre Street after court to catch an Uber to the Lincoln Centre to lose himself for a couple of hours before re-emerging invigorated the next day. And that was exactly what he needed now - invigoration - so he'd added a ticket to his cart and whipped out his Visa before he could give the idea a second thought.

But it didn't sound like such a reasonable or exciting idea when he pulled up in front of the imposing building a few hours later, joining a snaking line of cars bound for the parking lot, and caught sight of the crowds filing into the venue. Sure, he and Olivia had driven into D.C. many times; they'd jostled with the crowds of schoolchildren that seemed to file into one of the many Smithsonian museums non-stop, even strolled through Chinatown at dusk as restaurant-goers thronged the streets. But there was one marked difference now - he didn't have the quiet security of her presence next to him as he headed into the sold-out concert hall, a sitting duck in a crowd of strangers for two hours. Rafael imagined himself standing in the middle of the packed foyer, surrounded by pretentious conversation and well-dressed classical musicsnobs - a group he once would begrudgingly admit he was a part of, but now felt completely removed from - and felt his palms grow clammy and skin flush with anxiety.

And so he promptly exited the line of cars and made a U-turn, crushing the print-out of his ticket into a ball in his left fist with a note of finality.

The sensible thing would have been to throw that away, but it remained stubbornly wedged in his cup-holder the following morning when he sped down the tree-lined winding road in search of respite from the rush hour traffic along Rockville Pike.

Concert was great - going to grab dinner and head home after.

How could he possibly tell her that he'd spent the rest of yesterday afternoon driving aimlessly around downtown D.C. because he'd been too fucking scared to actually do the one thing that would help him recover a modicum of his humanity?

That's great; glad you enjoyed it!

He could just make out the relief in that cheerful reply, and knew instantly that it was too late for him to make this U-turn and change his story. She had no reason to assume that he was lying, but he'd stared at that message all morning like Olivia could see right through his insincerity, the blinking cursor silently taunting him for words unspoken. Thank God he hadn't been forced to tell her this in person, because she'd instantly see right through him - the sheer transparency of his facade when he was with her was starting to terrify him, because he was running out of places to hide.

Hiding from Olivia. He never imagined that this desire would ever cross his mind, but it was becoming an increasingly necessary option.

Minutes later he found himself parked in the lot at Great Falls, cigarette in hand and cicadas whining ceaselessly in the sizzling summer heat. The expression on Olivia's face when she'd caught him on his balcony that afternoon was burned into his memory: shock, worry, confusion all at once, but one distinct emotion stood out, and it was the one that he hated the most.

It'd taken him a while to put a word to it, but now he had one: pity.

It was a filth that he couldn't wash, not even when they were skin-to-skin in his bed later that evening or he'd finally torn himself away from her to make that (failed) Kennedy Centre trip. Just months ago he'd probably have felt visceral anger ripple through him within seconds of catching her gaze, daring Olivia Benson to feel pity for him, because years of being on the receiving end of scorn and condescension had sharpened his defences to a point. Now he was beginning to feel like he deserved it, and that hurt even more than the damning emotion that'd flashed through her brown eyes - one that she'd immediately tried to hide.

Worst of all, he couldn't blame her for feeling that way.

Her voice, once a healing balm, now felt hostile and unwelcome in his ears.

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.

He hated how his response to that had been a sarcastic quip about her playing moral police, but it couldn't compare to how much he hated seeing her so wounded - and knowing that he was the one responsible for that.

Thinking his way out of his problems wasn't working, and neither was talking himself out of them - he couldn't keep telling himself that he was burnt out and deserved a break when it'd dragged on for weeks without an end in sight. He couldn't tell himself to avoid a reprise of his Harvard-era nicotine addiction without caving to the temptation of one of the increasingly scarce choices he still had control over. He couldn't crawl out of the pit of resentment he'd buried himself in - a pit of resentment towards Olivia that he wanted no part of, yet continued to languish in the more he watched the ease with which she navigated all these changes.

She had every reason to pity him. She was still every bit the effortlessly charming, feisty person he'd fallen for back in New York, while he was a far cry from the notoriously sharp and aggressive ADA he'd once been and feared he never would be again. She had every reason to pity him: someone so rattled, so fragile that even his moral compass was askew.

He'd lied to her, because it was easier than admitting that every one of her attempts to rescue him only made him sink a foot deeper.

If even she couldn't help him, who else could?

Rafael crushed his cigarette under his heel and slammed the car door shut, realising with some dismay that the rows of SUVs in the lot heralded the official start of the summer - along with the crowds he'd come to the park with the exact goal of avoiding. The cicada screams became one with the distant shrieks of children breaking free from their parents' arms, instantly puncturing the peaceful tranquillity he'd once associated with this hideaway, and the combination of that and the withering summer heat immediately forced Rafael back into the security of his car.

He tossed the scrunched-up Kennedy Centre ticket out the open window and drove off.


The day Olivia learned she'd passed the sergeant's exam with flying colours had been a highlight in an otherwise awful year. A uni had handed her that nondescript brown envelope one morning, long before the rest of the squad had arrived for the day, and she'd torn it open in the privacy of the cribs with shaking hands, until she caught sight of the 48/8,000 printed in bold and a massive weight immediately soared off her shoulders - weight from far more than just the sleepless nights she spent bent over a study guide in her living room. After years of not even daring to consider a promotion, the slip of paper in her palm felt like a victory flag: a much-needed beacon of hope after being dragged to hell and back, and perhaps one of the first times in months that she truly felt in control of her fate.

Did it really matter that she hadn't officially been offered the job yet? It didn't change the spring in her step as she emerged from the office and into the warm late morning sun, feeling the most accomplished she had since arriving in Bethesda. She ran a finger over the Fearlessness pendant she'd finally thought to don once more, the familiar feeling of cool metal against her skin a much-needed reminder of the Olivia Benson she'd once been - and the Olivia Davis she now was.

That interview had gone well - unexpectedly well, in fact - and she'd almost forgotten that nothing on her resume was technically true as she spoke passionately of a fictional life in Portland, momentarily drawing strength from Persephone James' free spirit and vigour. By the time the half an hour had flown by, Olivia left the building with the interviewer's impressed smile imprinted in her mind, overwhelmed by the same pride she'd had opening that envelope that fall morning. She was in control of her fate - and she wanted to savour every ounce she had.

The events of the past day had seemingly faded into oblivion - until she pulled her phone out of the pocket of her blazer and was greeted by an empty screen yet again.

Haven't heard from you in a while. How are you doing? I'm going to be in town for an interview this morning - want to drive down and grab lunch somewhere?

She'd hurriedly fired off that message in a pre-interview frenzy before leaving her apartment that morning, but only now, with that obstacle behind her and the minutes to lunch ticking away, did she start to feel like something was amiss. More than 24 hours since she'd last heard from Rafael - since when did the man who was surgically attached to his cell phone not acknowledge a message? Not even a New Year's vacation to a ski resort in Switzerland had stopped him from apparently whipping out his phone to realise that he was needed back in New York to face Minonna Efron in court.

Olivia lingered in her parked car, deliberating between a concerned are you okay? and carefree what's on today?, but unable to shake the growing discomfort that something significant enough must have happened to tear him away from his cell phone - and not necessarily significant in a good way. Had the mere mention of "interview" repulsed him so profoundly that he couldn't even send a one-word reply letting her know he was alive? Was he really still that sensitive, even after their attempts to smooth the residual friction?

Then again, he'd driven into town and enjoyed that Kennedy Centre concert. Maybe things really were looking up for him the more they spent time apart; perhaps he was enjoying the scenery at Great Falls or exploring Gaithersberg as they'd once suggested but never got around to doing, and she was making a mountain out of a molehill again. Why was she defaulting to thinking the worst of him, which was precisely what he detested so much from her?

Olivia swallowed the lump in her throat and tucked her cell phone back in her pocket. She wanted to trust him. She was going to have to make true on her word - and what better time to prove it to him than now, when their fractured relationship was in the greatest need of healing?

Still, that uncertainty was enough to make her cancel any lunch plans she'd contemplated on the drive into town that morning, and she instead turned around to make the 10-mile trip back to Bethesda. And it was only when the last of the post-interview high had worn off at a red light in Van Ness that Olivia also happened to catch sight of the CVS receipt that'd fallen to the floor underneath the shotgun seat, and a wave of nausea rippled up her gullet.

Clearblue Plus Pregnancy Test. Those were the only words she could see on that sun-bleached slip of paper.

The test. That fucking test. She'd put it aside to focus on her interview; now it was over and she had no good reason to put it off.

And that was how she ended up kneeling on the tiled floor of her bathroom thirty minutes later, the white plastic stick lying on the counter as her phone timer ticked down mercilessly.

5:00, 4:59, 4:58…

Olivia couldn't believe it'd come to this: sitting alone in her bathroom at mid-day, eyes conspicuously turned away from the stick on the counter, the unopened tampon boxes still untouched in the cabinet, wondering if she was pregnant with her and Rafael Barba's child.

Child. It was an abstract, foreign concept. Her child. Their child.

If she couldn't even begin to grasp that herself, how on earth was she going to tell Rafael about this? Was she ready for the potential implosion of the very fragile (and rapidly cracking) peace between them when she looked him in the eye and showed him the very stick she'd spent a whole day avoiding?

Was he ready for it? She wished she had even the slightest of clues.

4:00, 3:59, 3:58…

Children. She'd wanted children with Brian Cassidy once; she'd been staring at him one evening as he was hunched over her stove making soup after an arduous night shift, and briefly imagined someone a fraction of his size running circles around him, gleeful childish squeals filling the room. That glimpse of comfortable domesticity had been a void she'd tried so desperately to fill her entire life, and it made her heart stir in a way she didn't even know it was capable of.

She'd long thought about being a mother, and maybe raising a child in comfortable, spacious suburbia and without the NYPD rousing her out of bed at ungodly hours could work. Maybe she could make it work, somehow; her and Rafael. Perhaps her chance had finally arrived.

Children. Olivia was starting to think that she didn't hate the idea as much as she thought she did. Maybe she didn't hate it at all.

3:00, 2:59, 2:58…

She bit down on her lower lip so hard that she drew blood, the metallic taste forcing her to come to her senses.

No, no, no. She couldn't do this.

Children didn't exist in a vacuum. This wasn't New York, the city that she knew like the back of her hand; this wasn't the comfortable existence she'd once shared with Brian. Now was the absolute worst time for her to be pregnant, when she had the prospect of an exciting new career and many more months of assimilation into D.C. ahead of her. Even the increasingly familiar landscapes and buildings still felt foreign and sometimes even hostile, the strolls around the mall isolating and unnatural. She was just starting to rebuild her life from the shambles that WITSEC had reduced it to - this was the last thing she needed.

And then there was Rafael.

How would he take a shock like this when he could barely get a grip on his own emotions as it was? Would it be the thing to finally rouse him from his slump? Or push him even deeper into the pit by trapping him in a life she didn't even know if he wanted or not?

At least she'd talked to Brian about children, even if in passing. The subject had never once come up with Rafael, and this certainly wasn't the way she wanted to broach it for the first time, but the lines on the plastic strip were going to make that decision for her in a matter of minutes. Friends with benefits, as much as she detested that stupid term, certainly didn't sign up to talk about that. God, she was going to have to find the courage to walk up to his door and look him squarely in the eye and say-

2:00, 1:59, 1:58…

No.

She had to think about herself for a minute - how she was going to deal with what came next when that alarm rang. She was going to be the first of the two of them to be confronted by the reality of what the stick said; she was going to have to decide what she wanted to do that was best for herself, before Rafael, before everything else.

Now was the absolute worst time for her to be pregnant, when even she didn't know if she could shoulder the enormous responsibility of caring for someone else when keeping herself and Rafael afloat was proving enough of a challenge. She actually had things to look forward to - a career she so desperately wanted inches from her grasp, all the people she hadn't yet met, all the places and experiences she hadn't yet sunk her teeth into.

She wanted to be excited about them all, without looking down at her growing belly and counting down the weeks until everything changed again.

One thing was clear. She didn't want this. Not now.

1:00, 0:59, 0:58…

Olivia could feel her breath catch as she clutched her phone in her clammy palm, the seconds flying by almost cruelly quickly. She had to focus; focus on exactly what came next, when she picked up that stick and got up from this bathroom floor. She would fix this somehow, no matter what awaited her.

Positive - call the marshals, ask about health insurance. Gather all the information she could before knocking on Rafael's door to tell him; she'd sit down with him and brew a cup of (decaffeinated) tea and they'd force themselves to come to their senses and talk about the problem, no more half-truths or walls between them.

Negative - god, why was this the harder outcome all of a sudden? Sit down with him and brew a cup of (caffeinated) tea and tell him we're being reckless, we need to stop? Wait until he was in a better frame of mind, if he ever got there, and tell him then? Throw the test in the trash and pretend it never existed and they'd move right on with their lives?

(She realised that even the last option was proving to be beyond her.)

Her right hand, which was tightly gripping the edge of the bathroom counter for support, accidentally swept the stick onto the floor as an abrupt, shrill chime piped through the speakers of her phone and signalled the end of that excruciating 5-minute wait. It landed face-down two feet away from her, and she instinctively recoiled as the plastic crashed against the tiles, the noise jolting her right back to reality, where she needed to be.

She'd put this test aside to focus on her interview; now it was over and she had no good reason to put it off.

Olivia's hands trembled as she reached over to check the stick.


Haven't heard from you in a while. How are you doing? I'm going to be in town for an interview this morning - want to drive down and grab lunch somewhere?

Why was it so difficult to type a reply to that message?

He tried to picture what was running through Olivia's mind right now. Panic? Worry? Knowing her, she'd probably aced that job interview - only for him to dampen that celebratory high with his radio silence. Was she sitting in a parking lot somewhere, staring at her phone and wondering whether or not to call him for the third time (or more, he'd lost count) since they'd last spoken? Making friendly conversation with her server at some restaurant downtown, holding onto the hope that he'd show up to join her eventually? Silently lamenting just how far he'd fallen - and how pitiful that was?

Rafael jumped when his phone buzzed in his hand once more.

Call me back when you see this?

He knew it for sure now. Olivia was worried - and he had the power to hit the "Call" button and end it once and for all. Exchange pleasantries with her; maybe even lie if he had to, because he'd dragged her through the mud enough.

She didn't deserve any of this. She didn't deserve him in this state.

Downtown D.C. was just 10 miles from here. He could easily take her up on that lunch invitation and waltz into some chic bistro with a serene smile on his face that suggested he'd spent the last two days doing some soul searching - soul searching that'd actually worked. Maybe he'd end up paying for her meal despite her quiet protests, because that was what she deserved for acing a job interview, and that was what she deserved from him. All it took was a text message he simply couldn't muster the courage to type.

He had two options: continue to sit in his parked car in this Barnes & Noble parking lot until the store opened, or finally pick up his phone, leave this lot and enact the very scenario he'd just envisioned - and he realised with a sinking feeling that he wanted neither. He wanted to decide between two options where neither involved Olivia Benson.

That was when the realisation washed over him with blinding clarity.

God damn it, he just needed space.

Being physically alone wasn't enough anymore - not when Rafael's own thoughts were engulfing him whether or not he was sitting next to her on his couch or strolling through the mall alone. He needed space, away from Olivia's concerned gaze and text messages, away from the expectant energy that her apartment had been charged with of late but he could never seem to meet. He needed to escape this train of thought; leave the confines of this suburb that seemed to close in on him the more he tried to embrace it.

Once upon a time, he'd thought that he and Olivia were perfectly content building their new lives in their tiny New York bubble, the only space in which they could both just be - except that now she'd outgrown it, and he needed an exit. The kindest thing he could do for her now was to help her untie the weight around her ankle that continued to drag her down, that weight being him. She'd never admit this to him, but he knew that she needed that space just as much as he did - maybe even more - and he was the one who had to give it to her.

Haven't heard from you in a while. Are you alright? I'm going to be in town this morning - want to drive down and grab lunch somewhere?

She'd probably meant for that message to be friendly - cheerful, even - but in Rafael's swirling mind, it felt more like a threat than an olive branch, and the text composition bubble below it remained empty.

Rafael tossed his cigarette butt on the asphalt and listened to it sizzle as the late morning sun beat down mercilessly on him. There was no respite to be found at the mall in its capitalistic summer glory; even Great Falls was proving too bustling for the rush of the Potomac River to take him out of his own head. His apartment was too silent, this parking lot too cavernous. And the last place he needed to be now was sitting across a table from Olivia downtown as he struggled to formulate an explanation for his uncharacteristic radio silence - one he just knew she would try to pry out of him, because who even was Olivia Benson (Davis) if she didn't care too damn much about him?

He needed to escape this train of thought; leave the confines of this suburb that seemed to be inches away from swallowing him whole.

Rafael gripped the steering wheel and felt an intoxicating rush wash over him - one that reminded him that this was one of the only things he still had control over. He didn't just want to grasp at any hint of it he had left. He had to, because he was feeling it slip into oblivion with each passing day.

At first he didn't know where exactly he needed to go when he turned onto Montrose Avenue, passing each intersection tentatively while contemplating his destination. He felt his stomach lurch when he passed restaurants they frequented, maybe even felt a wave of nausea when the coffee shop came into view.

God damn it, why couldn't he find a way out of this town; of being Rafael Marquez; of Olivia Benson?

It was only when he caught sight of the sign emblazoned with I-495 that the wheels in his head started turning, and his shaky anxiety gave way to a wild, almost reckless confidence.

North was the wrong direction to head in. South was where Olivia was; it was where his new home was, but those thoughts only made his steps on the gas pedal an ounce more assertive each time. He kept his eyes peeled to the road as a mile became five and five became ten, and the I-495 morphed into the I-95, passing multiple opportunities to turn back but wilfully speeding past them all.

North was the wrong direction to head in, but Rafael kept his foot on the gas until the D.C. scenery morphed into an endless stretch of highway.


Olivia almost burst into tears when she finally grabbed the test from the ground.

Negative.

She blinked and peered at the singular blue line.

Negative.

In an instant, she felt the colour return to her face. She wasn't pregnant. Olivia's grip around the plastic stick tighten, her knees still weak and breath still shaky, and collapsed against the cabinet door - one that she'd now be able to actually look at - for support.

She wasn't pregnant, she repeated in her head like a refrain. If not for the lump in her throat that hadn't yet dissipated, maybe she would even have shrieked in relief seeing that line. She wasn't pregnant.

God damn it, this had all been too close. She'd come this close to completely rocking her and Rafael's entire existences here, but had narrowly avoided the worst. There weren't going to be frantic calls to the marshals about health insurance, gut-wrenching visits to the OB-GYN or a conversation with him she'd been dreading more than words could express.

She wasn't pregnant. The life she'd planned out and was looking forward to still lay ahead of her.

Olivia triumphantly tossed the test into the trash, burying it under a wad of used paper she'd used to scribble down interview-related notes on, and finally picked herself up from the bathroom floor as the room came back into clarity. She rummaged through her fridge for last night's leftovers, her growling stomach a reminder of the lunch downtown that'd never happened and that today's trials weren't over just yet.

The rest of the emotions and thoughts she'd tried to bury all day quickly bubbled to the surface before she'd even had time to catch her breath. Only one thought plagued her as she drizzled a copious amount of salad dressing over the limp vegetables in her bowl, leaving a soggy and unappetising pool of liquid in its wake.

Where the hell was Rafael?

She worriedly glanced at her cell phone. Still no reply to any of her messages. She called him again and waited for the endless rings to morph into his voice. Still no response.

There were multiple perfectly logical explanations for Rafael's silence - perhaps he'd lost track of time aimlessly wandering through the mall; maybe even through one of the Smithsonian museums. Perhaps he'd dropped his cell phone somewhere, even dropped it into the toilet bowl - a stupid explanation she'd be more than happy to accept under the circumstances. Maybe he'd just put his phone aside to lose himself in a good book, or do some soul-searching in solitude, which he'd seemed to need more than ever of late.

There were multiple perfectly logical explanations for Rafael's silence, but she couldn't convince herself into believing any of them.

Olivia picked at the salad she'd hastily assembled with the scraps of lettuce she hadn't found the time or headspace to run to Whole Foods to replenish, the leaves tasteless and limp in her mouth, even the protests of her still-empty stomach not enough to make her finish that small bowl - and there was even less to stop her train of thought from descending into clammy, frenzied panic.

Each possibility that came to her mind was worse than the last. Had he fallen into a melancholic slump in his apartment? Was he blackout drunk in his living room from the almost-full Macallan bottle she'd spotted in his kitchen cabinet - or the untouched Bacardi she feared he'd go through at breakneck pace? Off doing something else reckless to drown his sorrows?

Just a few weeks ago she'd have berated herself for even daring to consider those possibilities, and about Rafael Barba, of all people. But all it'd taken was a few weeks for her to be slapped in the face by the bitter, sobering realisation that she really didn't know Rafael as well as she thought she did, let alone Rafael Marquez. The last time she'd seen him even just a little tipsy was that last night they shared in New York, his hand pressed to her back and breath tinged with Cabernet, right before they'd been abruptly interrupted by-

Oh, God.

Why hadn't she thought of this earlier?

They'd been so firmly stuck in this Bethesda bubble and mired in their squabbles that their guards were simultaneously at the highest and lowest they'd ever been.

Bang.

The apartment was silent, but that gunshot was all that rang in her ears.

She smelled the blood; saw it coating the back of Rafael's jacket as he lay prone on the concrete, tasted it on her tongue as she felt her head hit the ground.

That resonant bang gave way to a shrill, piercing scream, and Olivia was unable to stop herself from grabbing her car keys off the counter and heading out the door, the rest of the salad untouched and still clad in the work-friendly Ann Taylor clothes she'd left the house in that morning.

No, it's unlikely, she fruitlessly attempted to convince herself as she got into her car. WITSEC is safe. They couldn't have tracked us here - except that this was an international sex trafficking ring that'd killed a man in protective custody and evaded the FBI and Interpol for years, and she had no clue what she could be up against.

Suddenly, she wished she had a holster strapped to her hip.

The wait at the red light nearest to his apartment complex felt arduously long, and so she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, the series of text messages still unanswered, and dialled his number one more time.


Shit, Rafael cursed when he lifted his eyes from his coffee cup and realised that his cell phone was vibrating frantically - again.

He didn't even have to look at the screen to know who was calling for the umpteenth time since that morning.

(Who else would call him anyway, when the only people he knew in D.C. were Olivia and the marshals?)

He could almost imagine her first words when he finally picked up - a deep breath to calm her raging nerves, a "where are you?" with a concern and sense of urgency she'd try unsuccessfully to hide, and to which he'd remain silent, because she certainly wouldn't take well to learning that he was sitting in front of a Cinnabon in a Delaware rest stop.

That was how every conversation between them had seemed of late - tense and stilted, Rafael perpetually at a loss for words as he wrestled with the tidal waves of emotion that seemed to swallow him whole each time he opened his mouth or did as much as look into her eyes. The solution was almost too simple: not talking. Never mind that Olivia probably was going to keep calling; never mind that a fraction of guilt still stabbed away at him whenever he saw her name on the screen and waited for the rings to cease.

He was the problem, just like he'd told her that morning in his bed. She'd probably aced her job interview, while here he was in the middle of Delaware on a rash decision because the only thing he'd let himself be consumed with all morning was escaping from the hell he just couldn't shake. He'd tried facing the problems, only to find himself even more downtrodden with each passing day.

The only thing left for him was to run.

Rafael picked at the remnants of the sickly-sweet confection with his plastic fork and let her call go to voicemail, his stomach churning from the combination of coffee and sugar on an empty stomach. He'd made it two hours out of D.C. Two more and he'd be looking at the Manhattan skyline.

He turned his phone off and continued driving north.


This was the third time Olivia had driven past that afternoon, but nothing had changed. Rafael's car was gone from the lot; she'd knocked and rung the doorbell to no avail. She slowed to a crawl on one of the small streets lining the perimeter of his apartment complex and peered at his shut windows and curtains for signs of life.

Nothing looked out of place. The door hadn't been busted down; the blinds looked purposefully drawn. The fact that his car was gone was a good sign - he probably hadn't been kidnapped by whichever insidious forces were behind that evening in Chelsea. Heck, he probably wasn't even in danger at all, although she'd come dangerously close to dialling Nguyen and sending a search party out for him.

She had to be overreacting again, she thought. He's spending his time however he wants to. Since when was he obligated to fill her in on his daily activities?

A few days ago she'd played moral police with him, but now she was staking out his place like a cop, and she didn't know what to feel about that - except for the distinct feeling that he'd absolutely hate knowing that she was here.

She had to be overreacting again, she repeated to herself. In all likelihood, he'd re-emerge unscathed in a matter of hours and she'd forget she was even on this side street at all, the topic never coming up again.

But what if she wasn't overreacting?

Olivia hesitated before driving off, knowing full well that she'd probably be back in an hour, or maybe less. Her calls and texts to him remained unanswered, his absence creating an increasingly oppressive cloud of worry that hung over her ominously - one that only looked to grow as the hours continued to tick by without hearing from him.

The next time she called him, she jumped when she heard his voice on the other end of the line, only to realise with a sinking feeling that the call had gone straight to voicemail.

Hi, you've reached Rafael. I can't come to the phone right now, but leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible.

His message was eerily similar to the one he'd used in New York - cadence, intonation, volume - except for the conspicuous omission of his last name, which made Olivia's hair stand on end. It was a message she'd heard frequently enough, especially when he was in court, although that certainly was the last place he was at right now.

That left her with thousands of possibilities for where he had gone - or where he'd been forced to go.

Hi, you've reached Rafael. I can't come to the phone right now, but leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible.

The calmness in his tone silently taunted her. What reason could he possibly have to turn his phone off?

Was this his subtle sign of defiance against her, or was something far more insidious brewing?

Hi, you've reached Rafael. I can't come to the phone right now, but leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible.

That was exactly what Olivia did, but she wasn't hopeful about hearing back anytime soon.


Rafael almost burst into tears when he finally stopped the car.

Tears didn't come to him easily, especially after he'd trained himself not to shed them from a tender age after learning the hard way that they didn't mix well with the smell of alcohol that permeated every square inch of their Bronx walk-up. He hadn't cried after breaking up with Yelina Munoz or losing a massive, high-stakes trial in Brooklyn. However, he wasn't surprised that his eyes had watered the second he'd flung the door open and breathed in air so familiar that his chest clenched on instinct.

Hoboken, New Jersey.

He'd looked up this exact view on Google Maps more times than he could count or dared to admit to himself, but nothing could compare to soaking it in in person, the mid-afternoon sun reflecting off the Hudson and his view of the Manhattan skyline crystal-clear. So close was he to the only place that could make him feel alive - his home - that he could almost feel the city grime coating his skin; hear the roar of passing subway cars under his feet.

So close was he to the people he'd been forced to tear himself away from - his mother, probably holed up in her tiny charter school office planning for the next school year, his abuelita in her Bronx walk-up watching a rerun of a telenovela her neighbour had recommended her, Rita staring down some slimy client by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows in the Park Avenue office of Calhoun & Berkeley and promising to help him walk out of 60 Centre Street a free man. So close was he to the life WITSEC had robbed from him - the life where he woke up each morning with a fire in his mind he once thought would never be extinguished, because he knew exactly how to do the job that made him the very person he was.

It didn't matter that the lecture the marshals had delivered to them countless times was playing in his head: not to step foot near the New York metropolitan area, because there was no telling what kind of intel that sex trafficking ring had on them; not to even think about getting in touch with anyone from his past life lest their phones and emails were bugged. Rafael expelled Blake's baritone voice from his mind and strolled along the pier, keeping the spire of the Empire State Building firmly in his sights with every step.

Traffic whizzed along the West Side Highway, relentless and unceasing, and Rafael thought about all that he could get back if he turned around and headed straight for the Holland Tunnel right now, allowing himself to put aside memories of the gunshots that still rang in his ears. He'd already come so far on this reckless decision alone - why not drive the last few miles now?

He'd be home.

He didn't know how long he lingered on that park bench, mind racing with the possibilities. He'd ring his mother's doorbell in less than an hour (maybe more than that, with the perennially terrible Holland Tunnel traffic, but he didn't mind one bit today), watching the shock in her face melt into relief and tears of joy when she laid eyes on him. Maybe he'd even knock on Jack McCoy's door without warning and announce that he was ready to get right back to work, the looming threats on his life and thoughts of lying in a pool of his own blood not enough to stop him from walking through the doors of his old office and taking stock of how things had changed in the three months he'd been gone.

He continued staring across the water at the Lower Manhattan skyline for what felt like slow hours, the buildings suddenly even more imposing than the last time he'd walked among them, and it was only then he felt unease creep into his mind.

Maybe it was because he felt almost vulnerable in jeans and a polo T-shirt, a far cry from the suits he'd once worn as armour; perhaps it was the way the city sparkled differently from afar, its sheen suddenly insidious and foreboding, its manic energy almost unbearably overwhelming even from this distance. The two months he'd spent in Bethesda felt endless; in New York, two months was nothing.

He could be home in the blink of an eye if he just turned around right now and entered the Holland Tunnel, but what even was home anymore?

Had everyone moved on without him? A new up-and-coming ADA sitting at his old desk in 1 Hogan Place? Criminals getting put away while Amaro, Rollins and Fin stared in relief from the gallery? A Wall Street exec occupying his old apartment and replacing his oak desk with a sleek new Herman Miller chair and standing desk? Rita heading back to work without as much as missing a beat, like she always did, the only trace of him left a photo on her desk? His mother and abuelita starting to come to terms with a world without Rafael, that he'd only shatter when he showed up on their doorsteps?

Was he ever truly going to be Rafael Barba again, even if he exited the Holland Tunnel right now and told himself that he'd pick up right where he left off that spring night in Chelsea?

Was New York still home?

New York. Bethesda.

He was caught between two places, one a home he loved so dearly but could admire only from a distance, the other he tried to love but couldn't seem to love him back. He stared at his hands listlessly, his entire existence little more than a disparate, clashing assortment of bits and pieces of Rafael Barba and Rafael Marquez.

He didn't know who Rafael Marquez was. He didn't know who Rafael Barba was anymore.

The events of the last three months blurred into an ambiguous, murky haze, raw guilt, fear and anger flooding him all at once, and Rafael finally tore his eyes from the Manhattan skyline that only represented something that he wanted so badly, yet he knew he couldn't have back.

The compass needle pointing him towards home simply refused to come to a stop.

He got back into his car and contemplated his next destination. New York or Bethesda?

Home, or home?

Or neither?


When Olivia finally saw the familiar-looking Honda Civic pull up in the driveway, she ran through her plan in her head. The take-out bag she'd spent the evening listlessly digging through promptly went to the floor; she took a swig from the cup of iced coffee she'd had Allison make for her earlier that afternoon, now a room-temperature, diluted sludge, knowing that she would need every last ounce of caffeine she could.

Be calm, she ordered herself as she waited for the car to pull to a stop. She'd lost track of the hours she'd spent waiting here, watching the sun dip below the horizon and closely watching every car that pulled into the lot in the hopes that Rafael's would show up. She'd had multiple hours to go over this - she'd calmly approach him, they'd retreat into the privacy of his apartment, they'd talk calmly about what'd happened and sort this out once and for all. She had to be calm - calm for him, calm for them.

Then she stepped out of the car, the trapped anxiety of the last few hours finally finding release when she took in his weary figure, and all the calmness she'd willed herself to feel instantly fled her system.

"Rafael!"

His name, urgent and emphatic and charged with an unexpected anguish, echoed in the still night air.

Rafael reluctantly lifted his eyes from the ground and caught sight of her figure charging towards him from across the lot. There was no use pretending that he hadn't seen her car waiting in the lot, probably for hours, knowing her. He couldn't even say that he was surprised. This was the inevitable; the punishment he knew would be waiting for him when they finally locked eyes again.

He'd resisted using the word, but even a split-second glance at her was enough for him to concede defeat to the distress in her eyes - distress with an unmistakable undercurrent of fury.

She lingered three feet behind him as he fished through his pockets for his key, Rafael feeling her brown eyes bore a hole through him even from behind him. You can say no, he told himself, as he hid his shaking hands. Tell her to go home and that we'll talk tomorrow.

It seemed to be an easy choice until he heard her voice again, cutting through the tentative silence like a knife.

"Can I come in?"

It was more a demand than a request, and he suppressed a tired sigh - the product of a manic 3.5-hour drive back to Bethesda, this time with no stop in Delaware - to let her into his living room. Olivia made a beeline for his kitchen and filled his kettle with water she probably wanted to use to make the tea over which they'd calmly talk about exactly what had transpired that day, and it was only then that he realised she was still clad in what she must've worn to that job interview in the morning - white blouse, black slacks, brand-new blazer, looking so unmistakably Olivia Davis with those bangs effortlessly framing her brown eyes.

He was surprised when he ended up being the first to break the silence. "How was the interview?"

In the absence of anything else to fill the uncomfortable silence, surely that would suffice. I care about you, that question said. He still did, didn't he?

If only everything else he'd done that day said the same.

"You know I'm not here to talk about that, Rafael," she replied flatly without turning around, although the undercurrent of stress in her tone was bubbling much faster than the water in the kettle was.

"So… what do you want to talk about?" he asked as he settled on his couch, perhaps the last remotely comfortable thing he'd do before she turned around and this only got worse.

Feigning ignorance. Anything to drag out this peace as long as they could, because he didn't want to know what came next.

Olivia left the stove with an impatient sigh and propped herself against the kitchen counter with arms akimbo, even the twenty feet that now separated them not enough to hide just how much tension she was emanating - a tension that was rapidly infiltrating every corner of the room. "Where have you been the whole day?"

She didn't waste a minute, he thought. So much for dragging out the peace as long as they could.

Olivia stared at him questioningly as she awaited his response, the residual anguish and worry from the day leaking into her eyes and silently demanding an explanation.

"I went for a drive."

She looked at him as though expecting him to continue that sentence, only to be met with silence, and her dissatisfaction quickly became apparent.

"A drive that lasted all day? Two days, in fact? You could have checked your phone."

I went for a drive. Five words. He wanted to justify an entire day's - two days', in fact - worth of anxiety and blind panic with five words.

Olivia felt her grip on the kitchen counter tighten, every second of Rafael's evasiveness causing the last specks of calm she could muster to explode into raw, simmering anger. Two days' worth of worry; two days entertaining increasingly gruesome possibilities while he went for a drive. It was almost ridiculous.

He averted her eviscerating gaze. "I had to clear my head."

"You could have told me. Replied to my messages. Answered my calls." Her eyes went right to his phone on the coffee table, its compact and unassuming metal form now an emblem of betrayal and broken trust.

"I don't answer to you."

Five more unsatisfying words. The room felt like it was spinning as Olivia struggled against the wall of sheer frustration pooling in her belly.

"You had to know that I was going to get worried. Two days, Rafael. Two entire days without hearing a word from you," she said emphatically, as the water in the kettle started bubbling behind her, her teeth pressed against her lower lip and the Berlin Wall of thick tension between them her only remaining defences.

"And the fact that we're both here and talking now is ample evidence that I'm fine, Liv," Rafael deadpanned.

"Where did you go?" she demanded with the same intensity he saw when he watched her work a perp through the one-way mirror. Olivia immediately tried to hide it, but the damage had been done. She'd looked at him in the same way she did a criminal - and he shrank into his seat, his cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and hurt.

Criminal. He wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to rid himself of the withering shame that she was making him feel - one that he'd never imagined would be cast his way.

"It doesn't make a difference if you know," he said coldly, praying to no avail that she'd drop the topic before he became undone.

"I'm worried about you!" she fired back, her voice almost thunderous in the still night silence. "This drinking, smoking, disappearing for two entire days - you can't just shrug them off. Where the hell did you go?" Olivia repeated.

There it was again - anger, worry and concern, and that undercurrent of pity.

She could try to hide it the best she could, but he couldn't hide from that silent judgment - the judgment that was asking why he couldn't take a page from Rafael Barba's book and just get over this already.

He wished he knew the answer himself.

"I didn't disappear," Rafael retaliated, although he knew all too well that it was all but a game of semantics. "If you need to know so badly, I drove to Hoboken and drove right back here, and nothing happened."

Shit. Rafael knew instantly that he'd made a mistake. He'd spoken too much - and he was helpless as Olivia's displeasure only seemed to multiply, and rightfully so.

She shook her head in disbelief and steadied herself against the kitchen counter. "Do you know how reckless that is? You could have gotten yourself killed!"

Reckless. Just like the series of heated nights that had led to her kneeling on the floor of her bathroom, phone in hand and white stick on the marble counter. That was the last thing they had to talk about now - especially when he'd driven to Hoboken for the day; as good as driving right back into Manhattan, where unspeakable danger could have caught him in a moment of weakness.

Her gaze shifted between Rafael and the car keys on the table, the plastic pieces now symbols of impulsivity she wished she could crush under her heel like he did his cigarettes. Hoboken! He hadn't merely forgotten about the countless lectures the marshals had given them in the clearinghouse. He'd wilfully ignored them.

The uncleared pile of Nordstrom bags by the main door and the cigarettes and empty scotch glass on the armrest had been her first signs, but this was the most egregious of them all. Since when was Rafael Barba this reckless?

"I'm telling you, Rafael, you need to get help. Go to therapy; talk to the marshals about everything that's going on. You can't go on like this," she added without waiting for his response, unsure if she could take another half-hearted explanation. "I hate seeing you like this. You need help, and if I can't be that person, you need to start looking for it."

His stomach turned with revulsion at the mere thought of confiding in Blake - Blake, the marshal who seemed to tolerate Rafael at best and despise him at worst - or sitting in some leather chair in that federal fortress and hiding behind evasive half-truths to a therapist who'd dispense some advice he knew very well that his pride would never let him take.

I hate seeing you like this.

It wasn't the first time he'd heard something to that effect, but the scorn in her voice made him feel like he was.

You need to start looking for it.

Of course her intentions were good, but he was having a hard time believing it when the testiness and impatience in her tone only suggested otherwise, and Rafael finally was ruffled enough to get out of his seat and pace the room, every footstep charged with resentment.

This was exactly why he'd run; exactly why he couldn't bring himself to look her in the eye for more than a few seconds at a time, lest her sheer disappointment decimate any modicum of confidence he had left.

Why couldn't he just swallow his pride and admit that she was right - that this was the dose of reality that he needed?

Maybe he hated that the only thing Olivia could be was right.

"Why do you care so much? I'm back now, I'm fine. Why do you care so much when you can choose not to?"

(He didn't know how to admit that Olivia not caring any longer was a far more terrifying unknown - one that he knew would completely and utterly destroy him.)

She sighed deeply in an attempt to quell the increasingly turbulent energy in the room. "Because whatever you do affects me too, Rafael."

"You don't have to treat me like a child," he argued, venomously lingering on the last word. "You're the one choosing to make me your problem."

She shook her head indignantly and closed the distance between them. "No. Your emotions affect me; your decisions affect me."

Was that… sadness in her expression?

It didn't warm the icy chill to his reply. "Still, you don't have to let them affect you."

You're the one choosing to make me your problem. That was the only sentence she could hear. Olivia's mind flashed back to those five bone-chilling minutes on her bathroom floor, and something snapped in her.

It didn't matter that she'd spent the entire afternoon convincing herself that this was something that didn't need to see the light of day until they tackled the bigger crisis at hand, because the words escaped her mouth before she could stop herself.

"I had to take a pregnancy test today, Rafael!"

The water in the kettle, now boiling at a fever pitch, was the only sound that filled the room.

Rafael's mouth hung agape, his hardened expression turning to shock and then to worry, eyes silently screaming with unadulterated terror.

Pregnancy test. Oh, God.

His already feverish mind was boiling over with a sudden wave of panic. Condoms. Of course they'd used condoms - they'd never have sex without one. But he knew better than to assume that they'd been foolproof; not when those nights had only gotten wilder and more uninhibited of late. The distant slaps of sweat-dampened flash, her lips on his neck, her cries of ecstasy as she collapsed on top of him in an orgasmic haze - those memories now made his stomach turn.

Pregnancy test. God, they'd fucked up. Rafael stared at her, throat thick and tongue paralysed, until she finally punctured the silence.

"God help me if it was positive, because we can't do this." The layer of sarcasm barely concealed the undeniable sadness in that sentence.

It was negative. She wasn't pregnant.

But relief was the last thing he was feeling.

Olivia's punishing, withering gaze was indictment enough, yet Rafael couldn't tear his eyes away from her, that bombshell making him even more alert to her every word. "And it's not just that. I'm tired - exhausted, actually - of seeing you like this, Rafael. I'm going to start working again in a matter of weeks, whether you like it or not, and I'm not about to feel guilty for wanting that for myself."

He was sure that there were many reasons for her relief at the result of that test: a new career, an exciting new life ahead of her, but her damning tone - and that one, unambiguous line - was telling of the full truth.

We can't do this.

The pronoun said it all. Olivia was relieved she wasn't pregnant because she couldn't trust him.

"You need to get over yourself and do something to help yourself get out of this. I don't know what else to do now," she continued defeatedly, her shoulders slumping and eyes glistening with unshed tears. "This mess we're in… I don't know what else is going to fix it."

It was an opening for Rafael to reach over and put his arms around her, his silent confirmation that he was going to be alright; that they were going to be alright somehow. It was his opportunity to change the colour of this conversation, pull them back before they descended into ruins; the last lifeline he had to seize now.

Except that he couldn't, and the only thing kicking in was the defence mechanism he'd spent years honing to shield himself from the punishing gazes of the people he'd rubbed shoulders with at Harvard - the ones who underestimated him; put him down at every turn.

Maybe it was one of the only things he still knew how to do; one of the only things he felt like he still had control over.

"So, it's all my fault then. I'm the wash-out you can't rescue to stroke your own ego. Get off your high horse and find something else to make your problem."

The bitter, barbed sarcasm that echoed in the room took Olivia right back to the afternoons she'd spent in his office or sitting behind him in the gallery, watching his pithy insults and smug comebacks sap the life out of the twisted criminal or slimy defence attorney sitting across from him. Once upon a time, she'd suppressed an amused chuckle or satisfied grin seeing just how effortlessly he was able to chip away at the confidence of some of the most heinous people she'd ever encountered - but that was the last thing on her mind now, because that bitter, barbed sarcasm was directed at her.

And that was what finally quelled the last of the day's anger and frustration; what finally settled the last of the raging nerves she'd felt in those arduous 5 minutes kneeling on her bathroom floor: raw, stinging hurt.

I'm the wash-out you can't rescue to stroke your own ego.

That sentence echoed menacingly in her head as the kettle settled back into silence, although tea was the last thing on her mind.

She didn't know which parts of that sentence were true, and that terrified her even more than the ten feet that separated them - him perched by the window, staring out at the pitch-black Georgetown Prep golf course, her leaning unsteadily against the living room wall next to his couch.

Her voice was trembling when she next spoke. "I'm not saying that. Look, I know that I haven't been there for you the best way I can, and that's on me," she said apologetically. "But I also know that we can't keep doing this - all this recklessness, all this fighting."

Olivia let out another deep sigh as memories of the last few torrid nights they'd spent in bed stabbed away at her conscience. "You need to help yourself just as much as I want to help you - and believe me when I say that I want things between us to go back to the way they were a few weeks ago. I know you're so much better than this."

She joined him by the window, still keeping three feet of cautious distance from him as he silently absorbed every word, but her tone was firm and calm for the first time since she'd stepped out of the car that night.

"We need to fix this. This can't continue, Rafael."

Olivia watched the corners of his lips tremble, a riot of inscrutable emotion coursing through his green eyes. For a second, Rafael thought he had to sit down as the day's events and the enormity of this exchange finally sank over him - the exhaustion that weighed him down after eight hours of manic driving, the residual anger and bitterness that just couldn't seem to flee the room, the sparkling Hudson and New York skyline he'd stared at that afternoon…

He looked up at Olivia, her expression earnest and body language visibly softer than it'd been in the parking lot just a few minutes ago, and all he could see was New York.

It was in her eyes; in her voice. His mind raced back to the 16th Precinct; his office - afternoons and evenings with legs on the table and case files untouched as they chatted into the night; raucous Forlini's drinks and scorching kisses in the doorway of her apartment. There was the night in Chelsea, bodies pressed and lips brushing on that sidewalk; there was the day she'd trudged into the precinct with snow-covered boots and jacket and red skin and Rafael realised for the first time that he'd fallen in love with Olivia Benson. There was the first time Captain Harris had introduced them in court and he'd made that pithy quip while riding a post-arraignment high; there was the moment he'd managed to put William Lewis away and Olivia's silent, unshed tears of gratitude reminded him of why he'd fought so damn hard for this, for her.

She nervously tugged at the sleeves of her blouse and it was only then that he finally saw it around her neck: that Fearlessness pendant, luminescent against her skin. The same one that he'd let his fingers brush over the first time they'd fallen into bed together that night after Forlini's - the promisingly tantalising night that'd changed everything between them.

Olivia was New York. Olivia was home.

The escape to Hoboken had given him the clarity he'd so desperately needed, after all, and his voice was the most steady and clear it'd been all day.

"You're right. This can't continue."

The confidence in his voice struck Olivia immediately, and much-welcomed relief finally washed over her. This was exactly what she'd hoped for - all the twists and turns of that conversation culminating in one of the things between them that she always had faith in.

This wasn't going to defeat them. They'd talk things out, finally put the issue to re-

"I can't be around you, Liv."

Her breath caught, and the room started spinning once more.

"You're the problem. You're the reason I can't move on."

"I-" she began, only to be rapidly silenced by the scorn that rapidly overtook his entire demeanour.

"I look at you and all I see is New York. I can't move on. Not like this."

She frantically searched him for any hints of doubt or even sarcasm, and found none. Olivia swallowed the rapidly forming lump in her throat, her eyes imploring him for an explanation.

He'd done reckless things all day; heck, the last few weeks, but this one filled him with a confidence so intoxicating that it almost terrified him, and so he delivered the final, damning blow.

"I can't be around you, Liv," he repeated, this time even more firmly.

One part of him was feeling guilty - guilty for dragging her through the mud; for forcing her to see this side to him. But then he looked up at her, the three feet between them feeling almost as wide as the Hudson that'd separated him from Manhattan that afternoon - an emblem of a life he could never have back no matter how hard he tried to reach for it.

Olivia Benson was New York. And no matter how much she tried, Olivia Davis was still New York.

He couldn't live like this. He had to tear himself away from New York; from her.

It took a few seconds for Olivia's shock to melt into raw hurt, the callousness with which he'd said that line reverberating in the room. She'd seen so many sides to Rafael in the short time they'd known each other: his tenderness, sharpness, wit, vulnerability, sarcasm… but she'd never seen a side to him this cruel.

You're the problem. You're the reason I can't move on.

It was the way he looked at her like she was the enemy: accusatory, cold, bitter.

It was cruel.

It felt like slow hours before either of them moved, but it was Olivia who finally picked up her car keys from the kitchen counter and made her way to the door, casting him one final, lingering look as her hand moved to the handle - a look so devastated and broken that he almost wanted to take everything back and embrace her before she disappeared into the night.

But he didn't, and the door shut behind her with a quiet click of finality.

The room fell into silence once more, and this time, Rafael had the distinct feeling that things would stay this way for much longer than just two days.