I go home that night, because I can't risk Olivia finding out anything more, but I get to work early the next day. I stop by the precinct first, to get some files, and I'm taken aback when I find Olivia already there. She seems as surprised to see me as I am to see her, but I snap out of it quickly and say in as strong a voice as I can muster, "Good morning, Detective."

"'Morning," she mutters. "What are you doing here so early?"

I shrug. "I could ask you the same question."

She sighs. "Sorry. It's been a tough . . ." She trails off and I'm left to wonder what the missing word is. Day? Week? Case? Life? All of those things, in more ways than one.

"I know," I say quietly, and pull out a chair beside her. It's the last thing I want to do, the last thing I should do, but I do it anyway, because I know she needs me to.

She seems surprised, but masks it quickly, and matches my quiet tone. "Thanks."

Suddenly, I have the urge to take her hand and squeeze it, because she looks like she needs someone right now. And because I need someone right now, and I want that someone to be her. "What is it, Olivia?"

She sighs again and buries her head in her hands. "It's the anniversary of my mom's death. It's been a year."

I don't know what to say. We all know about her mother, and what happened to her, and how she always resented Olivia for it. And yet their relationship has always been one fueled by strong emotions, a love/hate relationship in the truest sense of the term. Not unlike mine and hers, back when I was young and naïve and would do anything to feel something, whether it was elation or unbearable pain. "I'm sorry," I say, because it's the only thing I can say.

She offers me a weak smile. "Yeah. It's hard, sometimes. Sometimes I miss her, but then I think I'm not missing the mother I had, but the mother I wished I did."

"I understand," I say, because I do. After I broke up with her, it seemed like the end of the world, and I cried myself to sleep more than once. I'd never done it when I was with her, because she didn't allow me to cry, and she only punished me more for it. But when I cried after, it wasn't because I missed her; it was because I missed what I might have had. I know that now.

"Yeah?"

I don't know what she's really asking, or if she's asking anything at all, but I nod anyway, because it seems like what she wants me to do.

Her expression softens, and she instinctively takes my hand. I feel a spark between us, a shiver coursing through my veins, and then I blush when I realize it was just an electric shock. God, why does she affect me like this? Our close proximity is unnerving and intoxicating all at once.

I wonder what came first, the addict or the drug. There's no addict if there's nothing to be addicted to, but a drug isn't a drug unless someone wants to make it one. I don't know, but I do know that I am undeniably addicted to Olivia Benson. There are no two ways about it.

"Sorry," she says, and I realize she's talking about the shock.

I smile a bit. "It's okay." But I don't let go of her hand. It's a comfort, for both of us.

Olivia clears her throat. "You know what? I think I'm going to visit my mom. Maybe bring her flowers." She hesitates. "Do you want to come with me?"

My heart stops, for just a moment, and I can't help but turn around, wondering who she's talking to, because it can't be me. Olivia can't be inviting me to do something with her. Okay, it's not a date, or anything even resembling one. But she wants me to do something with her, even if it's just because she's feeling vulnerable and needs someone right now. She wants me. No one has ever wanted me this way before, not as a friend, or anything more. Other people wanted other things, most of which culminated in sex; the rougher the better. I hated it. But Olivia isn't asking me home with her. She's not even asking me to dinner. She's asking me to come to her mother's grave, because she genuinely wants my company, or my comfort, or at least something that isn't sex.

I don't know what she sees in me, but I'm not about to question it now. "Okay," I agree, and her smile lights up my world.

"Okay," she echoes, quietly, and pulls on her coat. "Ready?"

I grab my own jacket and follow her out of the precinct, trying to calm my racing pulse. I get so keyed up just being close to her. I've never known anyone like Olivia before, and I have no clue why she wants anything to do with me, but I'm going to accept this gift I'm being offered, just in case it doesn't last.

Of course it won't last. Why would Olivia want me, as a friend or even a girlfriend?

I climb into the passenger seat of her car, silently, trying to be what she wants me to be. I hold my breath, lest I say the wrong thing and she realizes that she didn't really want me here after all, and leaves me on the side of the road, just like fifteen years ago. But this time, I'll have money for a cab, and I won't have to find my own way home. This time, I'll be stronger.

We drive in silence for a few minutes and stop at a flower shop, where Olivia picks out a bouquet of violets, which she says were her mother's favorite. Mine, too, I don't say, because no one has ever brought me flowers before, and no one ever will.

Olivia gives me a smile as she brings the flowers out to the car. "Thanks," she says softly.

I don't know what to say to that, so I chew on my lower lip and don't say anything at all for the entire ride to the cemetery.

Finally, we arrive, and Olivia comes around to my side of the car and holds the door for me, which makes me smile. She grabs the flowers and I follow her down the path to her mother's grave.

The stone says In loving memory of Serena Benson, 1945-2000. She sits by the tombstone and gently, almost reverently, puts down the flowers. "I love you, Mom," she says, so quietly I can barely hear.

It feels almost as if I'm intruding on a private moment and I stand awkwardly a few feet away, because it doesn't seem appropriate for me to come any closer.

Suddenly, Olivia holds out her arms for me, and I need the comfort as much as she does. Without over thinking it, without thinking at all, I walk into them, because I know if I think, I'll lose my courage. But then I'm wrapped up in her warm embrace, and it feels so good. I rest my head on her shoulder and inhale the scent of her vanilla shampoo.

We both realize at the same time that this is too intimate a gesture for friends, and break apart, almost sheepishly. "Sorry," I say quickly, even though she's the one who initiated the contact.

She sighs. "Look, Alex – you told me you don't want a romantic relationship. That's fine. But I do want to be your friend. If you don't want that, then just tell me right now, okay? I don't want to make you uncomfortable, or force you to do something you don't want to do."

"I do. I do want to be . . ." I falter. Really, I do want to be her girlfriend, but I'm not stupid – I know she could never love me, even though she thinks she might be able to. And I can't admit to myself that maybe what I did fifteen years ago wasn't a mistake, but a necessary hurdle on the path of self-discovery.

"What is it, Alex?"

I shake my head. We're here at her mother's grave, on the anniversary of her death, and Olivia is asking me what's wrong. I can't tell her.

"Alex." She takes my hands in hers and waits until I finally meet her eyes. "Talk to me."

My walls are starting to crumble, but I can't let them break. I pull back. "I'm sorry about your mother," I say again, and turn away from her. I walk to the road where her car is parked and raise my hand to hail a cab.

I don't look back.

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