"Well," Paul said, ducking his head bashfully and twisting the toe of his shoe on the laminate flooring just inside her open front door. "I had a really nice time with you tonight."

"Me, too," she answered, smiling. It was cute, really, to see a man so tall and broad turn as shy and sweet as Paul was now. His cheeks were still flushed a little pink, and there was a glimmer of something like gratitude in his eyes, as if he just couldn't believe his luck.

"Get home safe," she told him, teasing just a little. Teasing, but encouraging him to go; the night was chilly, and the door was wide open while she waited for him to walk through it, and she was wearing nothing but a short satin robe that did nothing to ward off the cold. Now that they'd had their fun she was ready to go back to bed alone, to sink beneath the blankets and sleep, peaceful and, god willing, dreamless.

"Yeah," he fired off a megawatt smile that was almost enough to make her go weak in the knees, and then he leaned in and kissed her cheek, chaste as a schoolboy. "Have a good night, Lindsey."

"Have a good night, Paul."

He shot her one last awestruck glance and then he tucked his hands into his pockets and stepped out into the night, whistling. Honest to god whistling; she didn't think she'd been with anyone so grateful to fuck her in her entire life, except for maybe Brian Cassidy. She shook her head, smiling fondly as she watched him traipse down the sidewalk towards his own front door. Paul was a big boy, he could make his way home all right, and she didn't mean to watch him the whole way, but before she could turn away she heard the sharp sound of a car door slamming from down the street.

On reflex her head jerked towards the sound, peering into the darkness. There was a streetlight near her house that illuminated everything in a ten foot radius, but beyond the circle of light it was hard to make out anything at all; there was nothing out there but shadow.

It was just a slamming car door, on a residential street, on a Friday night; sure it was late, well past 2:00 a.m., but people came and went at that hour sometimes, and the neighborhood was a safe one. The sound shouldn't have been alarming, but something about it set her on edge; it sounded angry, somehow. It sounded almost familiar.

Maybe it's Elliot, she thought. He'd be pissed as hell if he came here and saw Paul leaving her house at this hour. But he wouldn't come, hadn't been here in nearly two weeks. There was no reason for him to turn up now, no reason for her to think that he would and no reason for him to want to, anyway. He'd done his duty, bitched at her for spending time with Paul, for not getting a job, but she was employed, now, and she'd reported that to Jackie just like she was supposed to, and whatever Elliot said it really wasn't any of his business who she spent her time with, and he seemed to agree because he'd disappeared again. He always left when she most wanted him to stay.

Out in the street she could hear the sound of heavy footfalls, the driver of the car making their way home she supposed, but as she looked out into the night she saw a shadow approaching, and felt her stomach lurch.

Even from a distance, even in the dark she knew him, would know him anywhere. Knew the shape of him, the cadence of his steps, felt his presence as surely as if he were standing next to her; it was Elliot, marching towards her through the darkness, Elliot who had slammed the door, and she was right, she realized, right about the sound of that slamming door; he was angry. It had always been like this with him, with them; she could feel him, always, and she did not need him to speak to know what he was thinking.

She could slam her own door. Close it, lock it, bar him entry. There was nothing she wanted to say to him and nothing she wanted to hear from him. More of his excuses, more of his lectures, more of her accusations; what was the point? In any of it? They could not change the past, and in the present he had abandoned and insulted her.

Still, though, she stayed. Stayed where she was, leaning against her open front door, watching him. Stayed there, in her little robe that stopped well above her knee, that belted at her waist, that she was in danger of falling out of from several different angles, that did nothing to hide the shape of her body. Stayed there, knowing that the impending confrontation was likely to be catastrophic, and doing nothing to stop it. It would feel good to fight, she thought. A person could only take so much nice.

He did not stop or slow his pace; he did not pause on the front porch, ask for entry to her home or wait to be invited. Instead he just kept moving, up the steps, across the porch, straight through the door, his shoulder brushing hers when he passed her, and when he reached her foyer he spun around to face her, red-faced and shaking with fury. It was a shame he was losing his hair; without it he had nothing to disguise the flush that painted his entire head.

Olivia closed the door; likely her neighbors were asleep, but she did not want to risk giving them a show.

"What the fuck are you thinking?" Elliot demanded the second the door closed.

"Keep your voice down," she told him coolly. Her son was sleeping upstairs, and she did not want Elliot to wake him.

"Jesus, Liv -"

"I thought we had this fight already." They had argued about Paul the last time Elliot was here, and she wasn't interested in rehashing the same tired lines with him. What she really wanted was to sleep, but Elliot was pacing towards her, trapping her between his heavy bulk and the front door, leaving her no means of escape. She wasn't really looking for one, anyway.

"I thought you said you weren't sleeping with him!"

"What difference does it make?" she fired back. "I mean, really, Elliot. What does it matter to you who I see or what I do with them?"

Kathy used to call it the red haze. When Elliot got so angry he'd speak without thought, lash out, react, and half the time when the storm had passed he didn't even remember what he'd said. Lost in the moment, overwhelmed by his emotions, he'd let himself get carried away, and when it was done he hardly even recognized himself. It wasn't like that now; he was furious, and perilously close to losing control, but he had not lost his head. His thoughts were his own, and they taunted him.

In the office, earlier in the night, he'd read the transcripts of the Lewis trial. Read all the words Liv had said, all the words Lewis had said, their warring descriptions of what had transpired between them. In the office he'd been drowning in the knowledge that she'd brushed so close to death, the knowledge that he'd come so close to losing her, but in the half hour it took for him to get from the office to her front door different parts of the transcripts kept washing over him. The argument between Liv and Lewis over whether he was handcuffed when she beat him - Liv said no, and Lewis said yes, and Elliot didn't know which one of them was lying. Lewis accusing her of attempting to seduce him, of trying to play out some kind of consensual rape fantasty. That part was a lie, and Elliot didn't need Liv to confirm it for him.

One part of it had risen above the rest, however, had begun to consume him as he drove, was bouncing around inside his head now like a pinball in a machine.

You came into the bedroom, started talking to me about your romantic fantasies about your ex-partner.

He had absolutely no idea what that meant. What Liv had said, or why, didn't know why Lewis brought it up, couldn't imagine what kind of damage Lewis was trying to inflict on her, but what he did know was this; that when Liv was bound and bleeding, drugged and starving, she had spoken of him. In a moment when she needed him, a moment he dearly wished he could've been there for her, her thoughts had turned to him. Had she confessed some sort of feelings for him while she was delirious? Had she called out his name? There was no way for him to know, and he was not fool enough to ask, but the truth remained, clear and unrelenting - she had thought of him. Years after he was gone, when she was angry, when she hated him, maybe, she'd thought of him.

Somewhere inside her, somewhere she'd buried it, somewhere deep where she kept all her secrets, she had clung to his memory. Even then, even now. How could she…how could she care for him, want him, even, maybe - romantic fantasies, romantic fantasies, romantic - and fuck that guy Paul? How could she choose someone else when Elliot was standing right in front of her?

In a calmer moment, a saner moment, a more rational moment, he'd have known the answer to those questions. Would've thought of Kathy, and bowed his head in shame, and not dared reproach Olivia for doing the same thing he'd done himself. In the morning he'd remember that night he went to Kathy, laid her out on the floor and rutted into her with thoughts of Liv dancing through his head, and hate himself for it.

Later, though. That would come later, because in the moment he was coming apart at the seams. She had been hurt, and he had not been there to stop it. She needed him, and he left. She wanted him, and by god, he wanted her, too.

"It matters," he growled through clenched teeth, the words he'd been storing up inside his heart for nearly two decades rushing forth as the dam that had held them in check for so long finally burst. "Because it should've been me."

It should've been him who saved her, protected her, brought her home safe after her ordeal. Him who beat Lewis to a pulp, him who faced off with the bastard on the stand and shielded Liv from those vile insinuations. It should've been him who touched her tonight, him who got the chance to love her. He should've been the one she chose, because he should've been the one who chose her. He should've chosen her, after Gitano, that night on the steps after Valerie Sennet died, should've gone to her, and not Kathy, when the death of the Royce children sent him spiraling, should've gone to her the night Jenna Fox died, should've answered the phone, should've…Christ, there were so many things he should've done.

"Stop," she said harshly, her eyes blazing at him in the darkness. "Before you do something you regret."

"I know what I regret." He regretted not touching her. He regretted walking away from her. He regretted so many things. "What do you regret, Olivia?"

"Not a goddamn thing."

Maybe she didn't regret it, the time she'd spent tonight in the arms of that oaf from next door. Her body was warm and loose beneath that too-short robe, her nipples hard as diamonds and tenting the fabric, drawing his eye back to the perfect swell of her breast every time he tried to look away, her hair thick and wild like she'd teased her fingers through it a million times, or maybe he had, Paul, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter, Elliot thought, didn't matter how Paul touched her or what he made her feel; it wouldn't be enough, Elliot thought. No one would ever be enough for her, no one but him, and he knew that because nothing was enough for him. Nothing but her.

"Look me in the eye and tell me you don't want me," Elliot demanded. "Tell me you never did."

"Go to hell." She snarled the words at him, but she wasn't trying to leave. Wasn't pushing him away or trying to distance herself from him; she was leaning against the door but she wasn't shrinking into it, was just leaning, waiting, almost, with her hips jutting out provocatively and the black satin of her robe straining across her breasts.

"Don't lie," he told her. "You say whatever you want to Paul but don't you lie to me."

It was precisely the same thing she's said to him. You say whatever you want to Kathy but don't you dare lie to me. This new world they'd found themselves in was built on lies, but he would not stand for untruths between them. If they could be honest with no one else, he would demand they be honest with each other.

He took a chance, leaned in close, caught hold of her by the hips, and she gasped when he did it, rocked reflexively into his touch. The fabric of her robe was smooth and soft beneath his palms and she was softer still, and when he bowed his head low, let his cheek brush against hers, he could feel her, so hot she could've burned him.

"No more games," he said, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth as he spoke. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you to leave," she breathed out unsteadily.

It shook him, just a little; he hadn't expected her to deny him. He'd been so sure; so sure he knew her, so sure she felt the same thing he did, so sure that they both wanted the same things, had only been holding themselves back for the sake of one another's hearts. He'd been so sure that if he just jumped she'd follow him, but she'd told him no, and he could not in good conscience press her further.

"Ok," he said, and drew his hands away from her, though his heart was screaming against it. "If that's what you want…I'll go."

Go where, though? Back to his wife? To the wife he'd been so ready to betray? Back to the job he didn't give a shit about and the slow and steady death of everything that mattered to him? Back to a life without her in it?

There was no other choice; she'd made her wants plain, and she did not want him, and his soul felt as if it were crumbling into dust.

He turned away from her, wanting only to give her the space to move aside from the door so that he could leave through it, but then without warning her hand shot out, caught hold of him by the arm. With a mighty force she spun him back around to face her, and before he could draw breath her lips crashed into his.