Sunlight filtered through the blinds, painting Olivia's bedroom in warm streaks of gold. She stirred beneath the covers, stretching lazily before realizing—she'd slept in.
The realization hit like a gentle wave, surprising her. Since Daniel, her sleep had been a tangle of shallow breaths and midnight starts. Now, the quiet calm of her body felt foreign, almost indulgent. She let herself savour it for a few moments before throwing on a sweatshirt and padding into the kitchen.
There he was.
Elliot stood by the counter, one hand braced on the edge, the other holding his phone. He was still in yesterday's clothes—faded jeans and a black T-shirt that clung to the broad lines of his shoulders. His hair was tousled, a little flattened on one side where he'd slept. He hadn't heard her yet, and Olivia took a moment to observe him, to notice how comfortable he looked in her space.
The scent of coffee hung in the air, rich and grounding. Next to the pot was a glass of orange juice, beads of condensation rolling down its sides. For her.
She cleared her throat softly, and he looked up, startled for just a second before relaxing into an easy smile. "Morning."
"Morning," she echoed, her voice scratchy with sleep. She crossed her arms instinctively, suddenly aware that she was braless beneath the thin sweatshirt.
Elliot glanced at her—just a flicker of his eyes—but it lingered longer than it should have, long enough to make him feel strange. It wasn't intentional, but he'd noticed. He cleared his throat, looking back at his phone as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. What the hell was wrong with him? It was Liv.
"I, uh, made coffee," he said, gesturing vaguely toward the pot. "Thought you could use it."
Her lips curved in a small, grateful smile. "Thanks." She moved past him to pour a cup, catching the faint scent of him as she did—that pine tar soap, clean and rugged. It was distracting in a way it shouldn't have been.
Olivia sipped her coffee, the warmth spreading through her hands, but it did nothing to settle the knot forming in her chest. It had been this way for awhile now—this careful dance of avoidance. She could feel it simmering beneath every interaction, this unnameable tension between them. Elliot's casualness only made it harder. His easy smiles, his practiced nonchalance—they felt like a wall, one she didn't think he'd ever be brave enough to tear down. If anything was going to change, it had to start with her.
She set the mug down on the counter, her fingers lingering around its rim. "Elliot," she said finally, breaking the quiet. Her voice was steady, but her heart wasn't.
He looked at her then, really looked at her. His face softened, but there was a shadow behind his eyes, something guarded. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms.
"What is this?" she asked, gesturing faintly between them. "What are we doing here?"
His jaw tightened, and he shifted his weight, suddenly restless. The question was a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through thoughts he'd been trying to ignore. What were they doing? He didn't have an answer—not one that felt solid, anyway.
"What do you mean?" he asked, though the question sounded careful, deliberate.
"You know what I mean," she said, her voice gentler now but no less insistent.
Elliot let his gaze drop, his hand rising to rub the back of his neck in an old, familiar gesture. She deserved honesty, didn't she? But honesty meant pulling apart feelings he'd been carefully keeping at a distance. The truth was, he didn't know what this was. Didn't know how to define it or if defining it would only make things more complicated.
"Liv, I don't know… I think maybe you're overthinking things."
As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He wasn't even sure he believed them. Was she overthinking? Or was she just saying what he was too afraid to say himself? The air between them felt electric. He could feel her eyes on him, sharp and unrelenting, and it made him want to fidget like a guilty kid caught lying.
He told himself he was trying to protect her—or maybe it was himself he was trying to protect. Because the truth was terrifying. Admitting what was between them, what it could mean, wasn't something he was sure he was ready for. Hell, he wasn't even sure he could articulate it.
"Overthinking?" Olivia's brows knitted together, and her stomach dropped slightly at his deflection.
Elliot glanced up at her, just for a second, and the look on her face made something twist in his chest. She wasn't angry, not exactly. Hurt was starting to creep in, though, and he hated that he might've been the one to put it there. But what was he supposed to say? That every time she walked into a room, he felt like the ground beneath him was shifting? That he'd spent the night on her couch wishing he had the courage to tell her how much she meant to him—but also wishing he didn't? Because wanting her was dangerous. And complicated.
And maybe impossible.
Olivia stood across from him, her arms crossed over the oversized sweatshirt she'd thrown on, her face open but vulnerable. He noticed for the first time that she wasn't wearing a bra under the soft fabric. The curve of her figure wasn't intentional, but it sent a wave of discomfort through him—shame, even—because she wasn't trying to get his attention. She wasn't doing anything except being herself. And he hated that he noticed her in that way. He shouldn't be noticing her like that.
And yet, here they were.
So instead of saying anything honest, Elliot made things infinitely worse.
He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his stubbly hair. "I'm just saying...Look, you've been through a lot with Daniel. Everything's raw right now."
Olivia's lips parted, her frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "And?" she pressed, her voice sharpening. "You think that's clouding my judgment?"
Elliot hesitated, cursing himself internally. Why couldn't he just say it—admit that this wasn't about her judgment at all? It was about him, about the way he couldn't handle the idea of this shifting between them, the weight of what it could mean if they crossed a line they couldn't uncross. But instead, he said, "That's not what I'm saying."
His tone came out sharper than intended, and he caught the flash of hurt in her eyes. Immediately, he softened his voice, but the tension remained. "I just...I think you're seeing something that maybe isn't really there."
Olivia blinked, her breath catching in her throat. She stared at him for a long moment, her expression torn between disbelief and something deeper, something wounded. "Are you serious?"
"Liv, come on," Elliot said, pushing off the counter and standing taller, needing the distance. "We're just...we've been friends for more than a dozen years. We've been through hell together. It's bound to mess with your head, make things feel more complicated than they are."
She stood perfectly still, but he could see the way her fingers tightened around her arms, her nails digging into the fabric of her sleeves. Her frustration gave way to something quieter, something more painful. "You really think that's what this is?"
Elliot's throat tightened. He didn't want to hurt her, but he was already too deep in the lie to backpedal. "I think," he began, but the words faltered. He clenched his jaw, his hands on his hips, trying to stay steady. "I think we've both got too much going on to start digging into shit that might not even be real."
Olivia's chest tightened at his words, but it wasn't anger this time—it was hurt. "Shit that might not be real," she repeated softly, her voice like a whisper. She tasted the words, rolling them over in her mind, and they left a bitterness she couldn't swallow.
Elliot could feel the shift in the room, the way her hurt was turning into something colder, sharper. He wanted to take it back, to say something—anything—that would make her believe this wasn't easy for him, either. But then she asked, "Why can't you just be honest with me?"
"I'm trying to protect you," Elliot said finally, his voice lower now, almost pleading. He ran a hand over his hair again, his frustration evident. "And me."
She shook her head slowly, her voice trembling as she replied, "You're not protecting anyone, Elliot. You're a chickenshit."
His eyes flashed with something—defensiveness, maybe even guilt—but he didn't address it. Instead, he said, "Liv, you've been through so much. Your track record with… with men—"
"Don't," she interrupted, her voice suddenly sharp. "Don't you dare throw that in my face."
He flinched at the force of her words, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. He could see the way her jaw tightened, the way her chest rose and fell with steady, measured breaths, as if she were holding herself together by sheer will. He knew he deserved her ire; still, it didn't stop the knot of frustration and shame from tangling in his chest.
Olivia's hands fell to her sides, her shoulders slumping slightly. Her voice was quieter when she spoke again, but no less firm. "You don't get to use my past to justify your fear, Elliot. That's not fair."
And it wasn't fair, he knew that. But he didn't know how to fix it, how to undo the damage he'd already caused. Elliot's mind churned with excuses, with defences. What was he supposed to say? That he wasn't scared? That he wasn't using her past as a shield to avoid confronting the mess of feelings he'd buried for years? He couldn't say those things because they'd be lies.
He dropped his gaze, his thumb and forefinger pressing against the bridge of his nose as if the motion might somehow ease the tension. When he finally glanced up again, Olivia's expression hit him like a punch to the gut. Her eyes glimmered with something raw—anger, yes, but layered over a deep, deep hurt. And it was all his doing.
For Olivia, his words felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. She knew this conversation would be hard, she'd prepared herself for resistance, but she hadn't prepared for him to weaponize her own pain against her. It wasn't just about Daniel or her mistakes in the past—it was the fact that Elliot, the person she trusted more than anyone else, was using them as an excuse to keep her at arm's length.
She tightened her grip on the edge of the counter. "You think I don't know what's happened in my past?" she said steadily. "I've spent years sorting through it, trying to make sense of it all." She paused, her chest tightening as she held his gaze. "But you? You're more comfortable with things staying the way they are than you are with being honest about what's really going on."
His mouth opened, and then closed again, no words coming out.
Finally, Olivia straightened, lifting her chin as if bracing herself for the inevitable. Her hands still trembled slightly, but her voice was calm and resolute. "If you can't be honest, Elliot—about what you feel, about what this is—then there's nothing left to talk about."
The finality in her tone hit him like a slap, but he couldn't argue. He'd built this wall between them, brick by brick, and now it was suffocating them both. But he still couldn't bring himself to tear it down.
"Just go, Elliot," Olivia whispered, her voice fragile.
For a second, he didn't move, as if waiting for her to take it back. But when she didn't, he nodded stiffly and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. He avoided her gaze as he walked to the door, his movements slow and reluctant. The door clicked behind him as he left.
The sound echoed in the silence, and Olivia stayed frozen, her knuckles white against the counter. She bit her lip hard, willing herself not to cry, but her chest ached. Her lip trembled, and a single tear slid down her cheek before she wiped it away quickly.
On the other side of the door, Elliot paused in the hallway, his hand still on the doorknob. He stared down at the worn carpet, his chest tight. He'd told himself he was doing the right thing, the smart thing. But as he stood there, the guilt gnawed at him.
By the time he reached his car, he was cursing himself under his breath.
He sat behind the wheel, gripping it tightly. "Idiot," he muttered, staring out the windshield. He'd hurt her—Liv. And for what? To avoid facing the truth? To keep himself from admitting what they both already knew, even if neither of them could quite say it yet?
Olivia was right: he was a chickenshit.
The team had been surveilling Daniel for a week, and if anyone had expected anything exciting to happen, they were sorely disappointed. The routine was maddeningly normal. Daniel's movements were a perfect reflection of a man living an ordinary life—no wild excursions, no late-night meetings, no shadowy figures slipping in and out of his apartment. Just work and home. Lunch breaks in between. No one following him. No suspicious purchases.
Even after speaking with his sister, Lisa, they had nothing to show for their efforts. She was wheelchair-bound with cerebral palsy, and her devotion to her brother was so clear it made everyone feel like the villain just for asking about him. She painted Daniel as a saint—caring, responsible, the kind of man who went out of his way to help those in need.
They had scanned his financials, his emails, his social media. They had combed through his workplace records, checked for any irregularities, but it all came back clean. He was just an unremarkable man in his fifties, going through the motions of life, with no evidence of any dangerous activity.
And yet, every single agent in the room knew that something was off. They couldn't put their finger on it, but the gut feeling told them that Daniel was hiding something more.
Olivia's patience was wearing thin. The added weight of her ongoing standoff with Elliot didn't help. They hadn't spoken much in the last few days, both avoiding one another like two magnets repelling each other. Elliot's irritation was mounting too—his words sharper, his gaze colder. He'd been distant ever since Olivia kicked him out. His posture had been rigid, defensive. And no one at the 1-6 missed the way the air between them crackled with unresolved tension.
It was Munch who broke the silence, his sardonic tone cutting through the squad room. "You know, they say the best criminals are the ones who blend in perfectly. Makes me wonder—what's this guy got to hide under all that vanilla exterior?"
Cragen leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing at the board filled with Daniel's information. "Keep looking. No one's this clean. Go back to the people closest to him. Fin, dig deeper into his sister's background—financials, visitors, anything unusual. Munch, see if there's any connection to known offenders in his circles. Olivia, Elliot—keep pressing the angles on the women he's been involved with."
Olivia and Elliot exchanged a tense glance, their usual synchronicity feeling frayed at the edges. But they both nodded, professionalism overriding personal friction.
Hours later, as the team sifted through records and files, Olivia's computer pinged with a notification.
"Captain," Olivia called, her voice tight. Cragen, Elliot, Fin, and Munch gathered around her desk as she turned the monitor to face them. "Daniel's been receiving payments from a shell account. The account holder? Nick Ganzner."
The name hit Olivia like a slap, her stomach twisting even as she forced herself to stay composed. She gripped the edge of her desk, her knuckles whitening. Years had passed, but even the sight of his name dragged her back to that dark apartment, the sound of his voice smooth and insistent as he tried to sell her on his sick fantasy. The memory of his hand on her arm, the cold certainty in his eyes when she'd told him to leave—and the way he'd smiled like she was overreacting, like it was all a joke—still haunted her in ways she rarely let herself admit.
"Nick Ganzner?" Munch raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with dark humour. "The guy who thought acting out a rape fantasy on a date was a good idea? And then leaked case file details to the press? That Ganzner?" He let out a low whistle. "You sure know how to pick 'em, Liv."
Elliot froze, his stomach tightening at Munch's casual tone. Munch knew about Ganzner? And not just in passing, either—it was clear he knew enough to connect the dots immediately. Elliot glanced at Olivia, her jaw set and her eyes focused on the screen, ignoring Munch's remark like it was background noise.
The realization hit him hard: She'd told Munch. Not him. For whatever reason, Liv had chosen to share this part of her life with Munch, not her partner, not the one person who prided himself on being there for her no matter what. Had he said or done something that made her think he wouldn't understand? Or had she just decided, long ago, that some parts of her life were off-limits to him?
Elliot thought back to every careless comment he'd ever made about her being guarded, about the way she avoided sharing details about her past. He'd never pushed too hard—never wanted to cross a line. But now, standing here, he couldn't help but feel the sting of his own ignorance. He thought he knew her better than anyone, but clearly, there were parts of her life she'd deliberately kept from him.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry. His usual instinct—to protect, to step in, to somehow fix things—felt useless now. All he could feel was regret. Regret for the things he'd said, for the ways he'd let his assumptions fill the gaps she'd left, and for the fact that Munch—of all people—knew more about her pain than he did.
Olivia's cheeks flushed with humiliation, heat rising up her neck as she stiffened. Munch's comment wasn't cruel—it was on-brand humour for him, a dry observation meant to cut through the tension. But in light of what Elliot had said the other morning, it stung deeply.
She tried to keep her reaction contained, her expression neutral, but she felt her gaze dart to Elliot involuntarily, catching his expression before she could stop herself. His face was carefully blank, but his eyes told a different story—there was regret there.
It wasn't just the embarrassment of her past being laid bare in front of her colleagues that got to her. It was knowing Elliot was standing there, silently piecing together parts of her life she'd kept hidden from him.
"Cut it out, Munch," Cragen said, his voice gruff, shooting Olivia a quick, almost apologetic look.
"I'm just saying," Munch muttered, raising his hands in mock surrender. "What are the odds?"
"Focus," Cragen snapped, turning to Olivia. "What do we know about Ganzner's connection to Daniel?"
Olivia cleared her throat, fighting to shake off the embarrassment. "Ganzner's been paying Daniel for months through a shell account. We don't have the full picture yet, but I think we can guess what it's about." She hesitated, reluctant to voice her suspicions, but she pushed through. "Ganzner's motive has to be revenge. And Daniel..." Her voice tightened. "Daniel went rogue."
Elliot frowned, his gaze locked on hers. "Rogue how?"
"So my guess is that Daniel's not just some random guy Ganzner hired for dirt. He's got a whole operation. Revenge porn," Olivia said bitterly, her words hitting like ice. "His job is to exploit exes for his clients. Recordings, photos—anything that can destroy someone's reputation. But with me..." She faltered, then straightened. "With me, it's different. He's escalated."
"Fin, Munch, start pulling cases on revenge porn rings," Cragen commanded. "Elliot," he said, his tone softening slightly, "you take Olivia and dig deeper into Ganzner's background. I want every move he's made in the past year."
"What about Daniel?" Elliot asked, his voice sharper than he intended. "We're just going to sit on him? He's the dangerous one."
"We don't have enough yet," Cragen said. "But we will. And when we do, we'll take him down."
As the team dispersed, Olivia turned back to her computer, avoiding Elliot's gaze. He hesitated, standing by her desk for a moment before finally speaking.
"Olivia," he started, his voice low.
She didn't look up. "Don't," she said, her tone clipped. "We have work to do."
Elliot's mouth pressed into a thin line, frustration and guilt battling in his chest. He wanted to say something—anything—to take back the words he'd thrown at her in deflection the other morning. But now wasn't the time. Instead, he nodded silently and walked away.
