Olivia cries as she reads and rereads his letter.

It's not the first time she's cried over Elliot, for Elliot, or because of Elliot, especially if you include tears that were unwillingly released in rage after they would exchange heated barbs in their early days. But it's the first time she's cried tears of relief because of Elliot. Olivia didn't realize how much she actually feared what Elliot was writing to her this time. But as she reads each line on the page, she feels the tension coiled tightly in her entire body slowly release.

Rather than reading words that cut her, shake her to her very core, Elliot has reassured her that she's not alone again. He is thinking of her, of them, and he's making an effort. He is following through. But it's also more than that; he's trying to keep them on the path they were on before he left, making progress, not just standing still.

Only a few months ago she'd stood in this very kitchen with him in front of her in her space and begging for more from her with his strong presence. She had trusted him with her son that day. She meant every word that she spoke to Carisi earlier that day: "There is nobody I trust more to bring my son home in one piece than Stabler." But she wasn't ready then to trust him with her heart. She was still paralyzed by the possibilities, even though she wanted her happiness, her normality. She wasn't brave enough to jump in then.

She was more courageous recently, having grown more secure in her belief she and Elliot may be ready for more. She hadn't trusted herself or him in January, not fully. But just before he left, she found herself trusting him again.

When she thought Elliot was going to kiss her in that dingy urgent care, she braced and willed herself not to pull back like she'd done in January. He'd jokingly asked her about her ass, which hurt so bad after six pellets had been dug from her hip and side, and he lifted her up off the bed, supporting her as she found her footing. And then, for a split second, with her hand on his chest, feeling his heart pounding, she felt it again. The draw between them, the irrefutable chemistry that they'd worked so hard to deny for years. Her eyes flitted down to his lips and she wanted to know, right then, how they would feel pressed against hers.

Elliot must have confused her fortitude for apprehension, or maybe he was afraid of making the wrong move after being rejected before because he hesitated and then moved in for a hug. She welcomed his embrace, the feel of his strong chest warm and steady against hers, his arms providing comfort and safety just as they did when he carried her from the diner amidst the smoke.

And now, with this letter, he's comforted her again.

It's well past 1:00 a.m. when she wipes the last tear from her cheek, and she's dead on her feet. She's in no shape to write a reply, not tonight. She needs time to let his words settle. She also needs time to think of what she wants to say and how she wants to say it. And between the wine hangover and crying hangover she's going to have tomorrow morning, she needs to get all the sleep she can tonight.

Gently she folds the two sheets of paper along their former creases, where his finger had run to force the paper to his will, and she holds them to her chest. His letter, held tightly in her hand, covers the small compass he bought her; the cool metal presses into her skin. Shuffling to bed, all she can think about is how grateful she is that Elliot was the one to write first, to take this chance. Olivia knows she wants Elliot and that their time might finally be due, but she hasn't been brave enough to take that first step.

She's unable to actually sit down to write her response to Elliot until the weekend. Tuesday morning's emotional hangover is greeted by a string of brutal sexual assaults on a high school baseball field. Her squad, missing Muncy, does not apprehend all the suspects until Thursday night. They are arraigned Friday morning, and she goes home early to spend the afternoon with her son.

Noah has been moodier than normal this spring and often too cool for his mom now that he's in middle school. It's a combination of puberty and so many changes in his life—a new home, his half brother and the McCanns, and the residual fear over the hit that was taken out on his mother over the winter and her recent gunshot wound. Olivia isn't surprised by his attitude, but it was still not particularly fun.

But recent events in Ohio, when she returns still bandaged and instructed to 'take it easy' for two weeks, give her some reprieve from Noah's young adolescent snark. He really steps up around the house and willingly spends time with her when she is home. And after the permission-slip mishap, she promises a trip to his favorite ice cream parlor and arcade for some simple fun. Olivia treasures these moments when he's still her little boy, knowing that all too soon he will be a young man and out of the house.

That night, sitting at her kitchen island once again, all she gets on the page is Elliot. She's written his name hundreds of times before: on DD5's, on post-it notes, and even in a journal that Lindstrom had suggested she start keeping. This is the first time she wants to say everything to him, but not a single word feels good enough to follow his name.

Saturday evening, she rips and crumples eight sheets of paper before she calls it quits. She tries to write what she feels—her surprise at his letter, her relief that he's written to her and what he's written to her, and her desire for a new beginning—but her thoughts are all jumbled. Eventually her hand cramps, and her words are not legible (though, she thinks, he'd still be able to read her handwriting, regardless of its lack of precision).

By Sunday evening, she's finally able to put her thoughts down on paper in a cohesive manner. Her pen moves smoothly as the words flow from her effortlessly.

Waiting for Olivia's response is the hardest thing Elliot has ever done. Or, at least, it feels harder than anything he can remember, which might be a bit extreme given how difficult his life has actually been. But his anxiety shoots through the roof the moment he drops his letter in the outgoing mail.

He is able to ignore the nervousness that settles in his gut for the first week. Rationally, he knows that it could take a while for the letter to arrive at her apartment. In the past, most of his mail from Rome arrived in New York in eight to ten days, and express mail usually took three to seven. He should have sent the letter Express, he thinks.

He runs six miles every morning starting the second week. His letter could hit her mailbox at any time. Elliot isn't sure that Olivia will actually open the envelope. He knows that she may trash it, and he could completely understand if she did.

The third week, his long runs are no longer enough to excise him of his restlessness, so he buys a set of dumbbells for his tiny one-bedroom apartment to exercise before bed.

By the start of the fourth week, nearing one month since he dared to write to her, he loses sleep at night. His mind races, and once he is able to fall asleep, it isn't peaceful. Elliot considers texting or calling her just to make sure she received the letter, even if she hasn't read it. When he wakes each night around 2:00 a.m., he knows it's only 8:00 p.m. in New York. She would likely be home and still awake.

He pulls up her contact, stares at the small image of her on his screen, but he can't bring himself to dial her number. His heart pounds wildly as fears run through his mind so fast he barely has time to hang on to one thought before the next one rushes through.

Will she answer? Or will she send him to voicemail?

Will she be happy? Or shocked? Confused?

Or even worse, angry?

Is she cutting him out?

In the end, he decides not to reach out to her but to stew in his own misery until she makes the next move.

The slow devolution of his attitude does not go unnoticed.

"Who pissed in your corn flakes?" Tia asks, after Elliot cusses andvslams his desk drawer. Tia is still with Interpol, but this case is far-reaching and involves several agencies, including Interpol. She and Elliot had worked on it together briefly before he left. Even still, she surprises him by presenting at an interagency meeting about a week after he rejoins the team. It is nice to have a familiar face, and one who already knows the new Elliot, the widower. She doesn't give him the pitying looks like the rest of the team, nor does she reference their drunken conversation and sleepover the prior year, where he had rejected her advances and spilled his feelings for another woman.

"I think you mean Cheerios," Elliot grouches.

"Whatever it is, the meaning is still the same. You are being an ass," she answers, pushing him for answers.

"Don't hold back," he snips, looking around the office to make sure no one can overhear them.

Tia is a strong woman and has never held her tongue with him or cowed to him before. She reminds him of Olivia in that vein, but the comparison ends there.

She scoffs at his sarcasm. "I've never done so, and I never will. Including right now."

He just hmphs at her, training his eyes back on the computer screen in front of him, eyebrows furrowed.

"Are you going to tell me what has created this pleasant disposition?"

He hmphs again, shaking his head and squinting harder at the screen, as if his forced attention will make his email write itself.

"Does it have anything to do with O-liv-ia?" Tia pronounces Olivia's name as if she holds the keys to the kingdom.

To some extent, she does. Elliot's eyes widen before he has the ability to narrow them again, questioning her. He's not sure if he's angry, but he is curious how Tia knows his emotions are currently being controlled by Olivia.

Satisfied she finally has Elliot's attention, Tia gives him an inch. "I remembered her name on the flight home. That's her name, right? Olivia? The woman you are in love with?"

Elliot's eyes dart back to his computer.

Tia leans down, her mouth just an inch from his ear. "That's what I thought. I won't push you any more today, Elliot. But if you don't get your head out of your ample behind, then you are going to interfere with our assignment."

When he stays silent, Tia stands and asks more loudly, "Do you understand me, Detective?" She may have deferred to him when she was in New York last fall, but here, Interpol is higher up the food chain, and he answers to her.

He exhales, sinking into his chair, before he answers, "Yeah, I hear you."

Excitement and fear flood Elliot as his heart beats wildly and his stomach flips and drops when he unlocks his small mailbox in the lobby of his apartment a couple nights later. Filling the small space is a slim cardboard envelope, slightly larger than a sheet of paper and stamped with a red "Express" in the top right-hand corner along with the price she paid to return her letter to him so quickly.

He snags it and turns, taking the steps two at a time until he reaches his landing and almost kicks in his door when the key won't cooperate with his shaky hands. Dropping his bags on the floor as soon as he steps inside, he collapses on his couch and rips open the envelope.

July 16, 2023

Elliot,

Finding a letter from you in my stack of bills was a surprise. And not a completely welcomed one. I thought about tossing it in the trash, but something told me that I needed to read what you said. (That something might have been Fin.)

I blame my late response partly on the fact it took me over a week to open the envelope. I don't think you can fault me. The last time I opened a letter from you, well, let's just say I didn't immediately trust what would be inside this one. And given it took me six months to open a Christmas present, I'd say you are incredibly lucky that I opened your letter this calendar year.

It's been a long time since I sat down and wrote a letter long-hand. Most of my days are spent typing—emails, texts, and even electronic case notes and DD5s now. It also took me a few days to collect my thoughts and truly decide how to respond to everything you wrote.

Who are you and what happened to my monosyllabic partner?

I'm sorry to hear that you are struggling. I don't want you to be lonely or frustrated or feel unmoored by the job. I hope by now you have found your rhythm and are connecting with your colleagues, old and new. I know how hard it is to return to a place alone when you've only known it with another. I hope you are able to find new places you feel comfortable and can make new memories.

Before you left on this assignment, I also felt that we had finally found our footing for the first time since you returned to the city. We've had several false starts and stutters, but that last case felt good. I hadn't realized how much I missed working with you. I missed you while you were gone, of course, but I don't think I had let myself just want you in my life. It was good just to share Wo Hop with you over case files, like old times. And it was annoying as hell to have you call me out. Are you Liv, Love, Laughing in Rome, Dr. Stabler?

If we are using these letters to be direct and candid, I'll admit that I am afraid that you leaving again will be a step back for us—another false start. I worry that with this job you will fall back on your bad habits, leaving me behind and locked out, and that I will have to again learn to live without you.

I had to learn to live without you once before. It was hard, but I did it. I lived an entire life without you. You came back, though. And, whether I wanted you to or not, you worked your way back into my life.

I can't lose you again, El. But I'm tired of standing still. I wasn't ready before, and I'm not really sure that I'm completely ready now. I am trying, though. I'm trying to be ready and to trust that things can work between us. Often, I'm so afraid that I'm making this all up. I need you to tell me that what we have right now between us is real, what we are to each other is real. I need to know exactly where your head is at. I need you to be the one to go first here, El. Maybe it's not fair, but it's what I need.

Maybe this would be better if you were here, but you aren't here. And if our past has shown us anything, it has shown us that we will never have perfect timing and, as much as I hate to admit it, time is no longer on our side. So, I don't want to wait until you return.

If you are serious about this, about starting fresh and on our terms, then I'm willing to try. I will keep writing you back. I only ask that when times get tough and you want to shut out the world, do not leave me behind again.

Thinking of you,

Olivia