The house was still cloaked in pre-dawn quiet when Olivia crept into the kitchen. Her stomach growled audibly, reminding her of her excuse to "sleep through" dinner the night before. It wasn't just hunger that had driven her out of bed early, though; she'd wanted a moment of peace before the family stirred.
She fumbled with the coffee machine, locating the filters on her second try. The familiar, earthy aroma of brewing coffee filled the air, a small comfort in a space that still didn't feel like hers. The idea of breakfast had crossed her mind—something warm and substantial to quell the ache in her stomach—but she hesitated. She opened one cupboard, then another, finding mismatched mugs and an array of spices, but no sign of the pans or mixing bowls. She didn't want to snoop, didn't want to feel like a trespasser in someone else's domain.
Just as she was contemplating retreating to her room with coffee alone, Kathy appeared in the doorway, her hair neatly tied back and her steps light.
"Oh, good morning, Olivia." Kathy's smile was warm, but there was something about her easy comfort in the space that made Olivia feel even more out of place.
"Morning," Olivia replied, stepping aside as Kathy crossed to the counter.
Kathy eyed the coffee machine, then glanced back at Olivia. "You're up early."
"I couldn't sleep," Olivia admitted, holding her empty mug close. "I thought I'd try to be useful—maybe make breakfast—but I can't seem to find anything."
Kathy's laugh was soft, but not unkind. "It takes a little while to learn where everything is. Don't worry, I've got it."
Olivia watched as Kathy moved with practiced efficiency, pulling out pans and cracking eggs into a bowl. The sense of displacement deepened. "I'd still like to help," she offered, her voice tentative.
Kathy paused, turning toward her. "Well, how about you set the table?"
Relieved to have a task, Olivia nodded.
When Kathy handed her a stack of plates, there were three. Olivia took them automatically before realizing the number was wrong. Kathy paused, her brow furrowing slightly. "Oh, right," she said quickly, pulling a fourth plate from the cupboard. "Here you go."
The correction was casual, but it hit Olivia like a misplaced step. She told herself it wasn't intentional. It couldn't have been. Kathy was kind, wasn't she? Still, the sting lingered as she arranged the plates around the table, her movements slower now, more deliberate.
By the time Elliot came downstairs, Olivia was already seated at the kitchen table, her first cup of coffee long gone. She cradled the empty mug in her hands, staring into its depths as if willing it to refill itself, the faint bitterness of the last sip still lingering on her tongue.
Elliot paused in the doorway, his gaze lingering on her longer than he intended. Where Kathy was always cheerful and polished in the mornings—sometimes almost irritatingly so—Olivia sat in stark contrast, and somehow, it was disarmingly endearing. She didn't look particularly well-rested despite sleeping through dinner the night before. Her hair was adorably mussed, falling in soft, haphazard waves around her face, and her cheeks were flushed from either the coffee or the remnants of sleep. She wore a pair of plaid flannel pants and a faded Siena College T-shirt, a garment that must have been snug and colourful decades ago but had since stretched and softened with time, molding into something that could only be described as quintessentially Olivia.
It was easily the least Olivia-like look he could have imagined and yet, at the same time, it was so unmistakably her—practical, unpretentious, and unselfconscious in a way that took his breath away. She seemed utterly comfortable in her own skin, as if she had nothing to prove, and that quiet confidence struck him as more intimate than anything he'd ever known about her.
"Here," he said softly, crossing to the counter and grabbing the coffee pot. He refilled her mug without asking, pouring just enough cream and stirring it once. The ritual was second nature by now—something he had done countless times for her at the precinct, but here, in the quiet warmth of the kitchen, it felt different.
Olivia glanced up, startled by the small gesture. Her eyes flicked to him briefly, her lips parting as if to say something, but the words didn't come.
Kathy, moving with the ease of someone long accustomed to the space, noticed the exchange. Her gaze shifted from the coffee pot to Elliot, and her tone, though light, carried an edge. "You know," Kathy said with a faint smile, "it's funny. After all these years, you still can't seem to remember how I take mine."
Elliot didn't miss a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting in a teasing grin. "That's because you keep changing it on me," he quipped.
Kathy arched a brow but didn't press further, turning her attention back to the stove.
The moment settled over the room like a thin veil of tension, the kind that wasn't overt but was palpable enough to make Olivia's shoulders tighten. She stared at the coffee in front of her, its warmth curling upward in faint tendrils of steam, but the earlier hunger that had driven her from bed was gone.
Without a word, she pushed her chair back, the legs scraping softly against the floor. "I'm going to get dressed," she murmured, her voice barely audible.
Elliot glanced up, his brow furrowing slightly. "You sure? Breakfast is almost ready."
She forced a small smile, one that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm actually not that hungry."
She left the room quietly, her steps soft on the hardwood floor.
As the days passed, the absence of Daniel was both a relief and a source of disquiet. Olivia hadn't seen him in public, hadn't caught a glimpse of him lingering in familiar places. Even the cameras at her apartment, which she'd checked obsessively at first, had shown nothing. That constant vigilance, the exhausting weight of always looking over her shoulder, had dulled quickly once she started to feel secure under Elliot's roof. It surprised her how swiftly she adapted to a life where she wasn't constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. It wasn't real freedom, but it was close enough to pretend.
Her sense of safety hadn't come passively, though. Weeks earlier, Olivia had taken the difficult but necessary step of filing for a restraining order against Daniel. The process was daunting and invasive in ways she hadn't fully anticipated. She'd spent hours at the courthouse filling out paperwork, describing in detail the events that had led her to fear for her safety. It was a strange feeling, having to put something so personal and terrifying into clinical language, to try to make her fear tangible to someone who didn't know her or him.
After filing, Olivia had been required to appear before a judge, who asked pointed questions designed to test the validity of her claims. From the moment she submitted her petition, Olivia had worried that her evidence wouldn't be strong enough to hold up under scrutiny. She had no texts to present, no photos of the bruises on her wrist, and no security footage of the alleged break-in. Without tangible proof, her case rested heavily on her word—and while her reputation as a seasoned detective carried weight, she knew firsthand that the law demanded more than instinct.
To bolster her case, Olivia asked Elliot to accompany her to the hearing. His corroboration could provide the additional credibility her claims needed. He had seen the aftermath of the break-in: the open window, the disturbed drawer. He'd witnessed the bruises on her wrist shortly after the café incident. His testimony, she hoped, would lend enough substance to sway the judge.
But as Olivia sat at the petitioner's table, facing the judge's sharp gaze, doubt gnawed at her resolve.
"Ms. Benson, I've reviewed your petition and supporting documents. I see here that you're requesting a restraining order against Daniel Price. I'll need you to elaborate on the reasons for your request and present any evidence you've brought today."
Olivia cleared her throat, gripping the edges of the table. "Your Honour, Daniel Price has engaged in behaviour that makes me fear for my safety. He's sent unsettling texts, followed me in public, grabbed me hard enough to leave bruises, and—most disturbingly—entered my apartment without my consent."
The judge raised an eyebrow, her pen hovering over her notepad. "Let's address the break-in first. Do you have any evidence of this incident?"
Olivia hesitated, a pang of self-doubt creeping in. "No security footage, Your Honour, but I documented the incident in my personal records and can testify to the state of my apartment. Detective Elliot Stabler is also present and can corroborate my account."
Elliot stood as he was called, his expression composed as he swore the oath. The judge addressed him. "Mr. Stabler, did you witness evidence of this alleged break-in?"
"Yes, Your Honour. I arrived at Ms. Benson's apartment shortly after she discovered the intrusion. The window had been forced open, and a drawer in her bedroom was clearly rummaged through."
"Do you have photographic evidence or forensic findings?" the judge pressed.
"No, Your Honour," Elliot admitted. "The scene wasn't processed as a formal investigation at the time, although CSU was involved. Our focus was on ensuring Ms. Benson's safety."
The judge scribbled something in her notes, then turned back to Olivia. "Let's move on to the bruises you mentioned. Do you have any documentation—photos or medical reports?"
Olivia's voice tightened. "No, Your Honour. He grabbed my wrist outside a café when I tried to leave. There were bruises later, but I didn't think to take pictures."
Elliot stepped in again. "I can confirm this incident. I saw the marks on her wrist afterward, and they matched where she'd been grabbed."
The judge's neutral expression didn't shift. "Noted. Now, let's discuss the messages you say you received."
Olivia's stomach churned as she prepared to answer. "I don't have those messages, Your Honour. I blocked his number after receiving them and didn't save them."
"Why did you block him?"
"Because the texts made me uncomfortable. He was pressuring me to meet with him. While they weren't outright threats, the tone and context made me feel unsafe."
"Do you remember any specific wording from the messages?"
"Yes," Olivia said, swallowing hard. "He said things like, 'You owe me' and 'I won't wait forever.' It wasn't the words themselves—it was how they fit into everything else he'd been doing."
Elliot added, "She told me about these texts shortly after receiving them. While the exact messages aren't preserved, her description of them at the time aligns with what she's saying now."
The judge set her pen down, folding her hands. "Ms. Benson, your concerns are understandable, but your case lacks concrete evidence. You're relying on your testimony and that of Detective Stabler, but there are no messages, no photos of the bruises, no security footage, and no forensic evidence. Do you realize how this might appear?"
The words hit Olivia like a cold slap. She gripped the table tighter. "Yes, Your Honour," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "I understand that the evidence is circumstantial, but I know how these situations escalate. I've seen it. I'm asking for protection now because I don't want this to go any further."
The judge's gaze softened slightly. "Your reputation as a law enforcement officer carries weight, Ms. Benson. That said, the law requires more than suspicion to grant protection."
After a moment of deliberation, the judge spoke again. "Given the testimony presented and the credibility of the parties involved, I will grant a temporary restraining order. This will remain in effect until the full hearing, at which time Mr. Price will have the opportunity to respond."
The gavel struck, signalling the end of the hearing.
Outside the courtroom, Elliot placed a hand on Olivia's shoulder. "Liv, you did what you could."
Olivia nodded, though the realization of how fragile her case was weighed heavily on her. For now, she'd secured a line of defence, but she couldn't shake the uneasy knowledge of how close she'd come to walking away empty-handed.
And so, life had settled into something resembling a rhythm. Commuting with Elliot had become easy, the car rides filled with comfortable silence or soft conversation. She'd grown used to the steady routines of his family—the early morning bustle, the clatter of dishes at breakfast, and the low murmur of voices late in the evening when the house wound down. The meals, hot and hearty, were quite a contrast to her own habits: a bowl of cereal eaten standing at the counter or takeout from the diner where they knew her order by name before she even spoke.
That first terrible grief, raw and gaping, had been soothed by the steadiness of the Stablers' lives. She felt a bit like an orphan taken in by distant relatives, a charity case too polite to refuse. Yet even as she hovered on the margins, there was a strange comfort in it—a residual joy and stability that felt like pressing her back to a warm door. It wasn't hers, but she could almost imagine it might be.
It could be enough, she told herself, fingers tracing absent patterns on the kitchen counter. I can survive on this. The thought felt absurd even as it formed. What kind of life was survival? She could exist here, nourished by scraps of kindness and stability, but she'd never thrive. She'd never truly belong.
The realization hit with an ache, sharp and hollow. She didn't want to live like this—grateful, dependent, always on the edge of someone else's life. And yet the alternative, stepping back into the void of her own existence, was equally unthinkable.
Elliot had always prided himself on reading people. Years of experience on the job sharpened his instincts, and Olivia, for all her strength and guardedness, wasn't as opaque to him as she might have thought. She was hurting—that much had been clear from the moment she'd stepped into his home. He found himself watching her more than he wanted to admit. Not in the way he'd been trained to watch—a detective's sharp eye for detail—but in a quieter, more personal way. She fit into the routines of his family like a puzzle piece forced into place—close enough to look right, but not quite clicking. Kathy had been patient, kind even, though Elliot could sense the subtle strain it added to their already delicate balance.
Sometimes Elliot had feeling that Olivia was slipping through his fingers. He'd see her in the mornings, standing by the window with her coffee, staring out at nothing in particular. He knew she didn't sleep well—he'd heard her pacing late at night, the faint creak of floorboards as familiar now as the sound of his own name.
But as the weeks passed, he'd noticed something shifting. Her edges seemed softer, her walls not as impenetrable as they'd been. She wasn't fully herself, not yet, but she was coming around. There were moments now where she let herself relax, let herself smile. She laughed a little more often, even if it was mostly at Eli's antics.
Elliot watched the way she interacted with his youngest, how her face lit up in a way that seemed almost involuntary when Eli burst into a room with his unbridled energy. They'd taken to playing cards together after dinner, their heads bent over the table in concentration, bursts of laughter filling the room as Eli gleefully beat her at Go Fish. It was sweet, the bond they'd formed, and it warmed something in Elliot.
So when Olivia came downstairs one morning and told him she was moving back to her apartment, the words hit him like a sucker punch.
He blinked at her, his coffee mug hovering midair. "You're leaving?"
She nodded, her expression steady. "I think it's time."
Elliot set his mug down, his brow furrowing deeply. "Did something happen? Did someone say something to make you feel unwelcome?"
"No." Her response was immediate, firm, but there was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. "Nothing like that. It's just…the opposite, actually."
Elliot leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. He studied her face, the faint strain in her expression, the way her shoulders seemed to curl inward, like she was trying to make herself smaller. "Then why?" he pressed gently. "I thought things were going well."
"They are," she said, offering a faint smile, but it was brittle, her gaze dropping to the floor. "That's the problem, Elliot."
He frowned, not understanding. "You're going to have to explain that one to me."
She hesitated, her fingers fiddling with the hem of her sleeve, a nervous habit he hadn't seen in years. Finally, she drew in a breath. "Daniel doesn't seem to be a threat anymore. It's been weeks since I've seen or heard anything from him. Nothing on the cameras, nothing out in public. I think...I think it's over."
Elliot's brows knitted together. He wanted to feel relieved, but the way she said it, the way her voice wavered ever so slightly, told him there was more. "Okay," he said slowly, watching her closely. "So you're saying my place isn't necessary anymore."
She nodded, but there was something in the gesture—something reluctant, conflicted.
"That's not the whole reason, though," he said, his voice quiet but insistent. "Is it?"
Her head jerked up, her eyes locking with his. For a moment, she looked like she might deny it, brush him off. But then her lip quivered, and she cursed softly under her breath, pressing her fist to her mouth as if to physically hold back the words.
"Elliot..." she started, her voice cracking. She shook her head, clearly angry with herself, with her own honesty.
"It's okay," he said, stepping closer, his tone gentle but steady. "You can talk to me."
She exhaled sharply, her breath shuddering as she lowered her hand. "Your family...this house..." She paused, her voice faltering. "It's everything I didn't know I needed. For the first time in a long time, I've felt safe. And like I belonged somewhere, even if it was just borrowed."
The words hung in the air, and Elliot felt something twist in his chest. He didn't interrupt, sensing she needed to get it out.
"But that's just it," she continued, her voice dropping to barely a whisper. "It is borrowed. It'll only ever be temporary. And the longer I stay, the harder it's going to be to leave."
He reached out, resting a hand lightly on her arm. "You don't have to leave, Liv. No one here is asking you to."
"I know," she said softly, shaking her head. "But I do have to, for me." Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back, swallowing hard. "If I don't, I'll get too comfortable. I'll forget that this isn't my life—it's yours. And as much as I love being a part of it, even on the edges, I can't let myself get absorbed into something that isn't mine to keep."
Elliot couldn't believe what he was hearing. She was baring her soul, speaking with a kind of raw honesty he'd rarely seen from her. And the part that floored him the most—the part he couldn't quite wrap his head around—was that Olivia actually wished she were a part of his life. The admission stirred something deep in him, a mix of guilt and hope and...?
She shook her head again, more forcefully this time. "This is your family, your life. I'm just...a stray cat pressed against the door, feeling the warmth but knowing I don't belong inside." Her voice broke, and she looked away, biting her lip as a tear slipped down her cheek. She swiped at it angrily.
He stared at her, his jaw tight, his thoughts a chaotic mess. For so long, he'd assumed Olivia didn't want this kind of life. She was fiercely independent, always keeping her walls up, always the one who left before she could get too close. And yet, here she was, admitting that she wanted to belong—wanted to stay—but couldn't let herself.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. She stood there, arms wrapped around herself, clearly trying to rein in the emotions spilling over. Her vulnerability was a rare thing, and he could tell it had taken everything in her to admit what she had.
"Liv," he said softly, stepping closer. She glanced at him but quickly looked away, her cheeks flushing as she took a step back.
"Stop," he commanded.
She froze in place, her wide, tear-filled eyes meeting his again.
"Stop saying you don't fit," he continued, his tone softer now. "You fit, Liv. You always have. You're not some stray cat hanging around the edges. You're..." He paused, struggling to find the right words. "You're a part of this, whether you want to admit it or not. You think Eli sees you as anything less than family? Because I promise you, he doesn't."
She swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on the floor. "El..." she started, but her voice faltered.
Elliot leaned closer, lowering his voice even more. "And it's not just Eli. It's me too, Liv. You don't just fit—you make this place better. You make me better. So yeah, this is my life, but it doesn't feel complete without you in it. And I know you might not believe that, but it's the truth."
Her breath hitched, and Elliot knew he had to ground this conversation back in reality. He could feel how close they were to something that neither of them were ready to confront. He had to keep this focused, logical, clear.
He pressed on. "You've already put so much into this. You filed the petition. You're taking a stand. Don't pull away now, not when the hearing's in three days. Let us see this through with you. Please."
Olivia's lips parted, and he saw the hesitation in her eyes. She wanted to push back, to tell him again why she couldn't stay—but she didn't. Instead, she pressed a hand to her mouth, her shoulders trembling slightly.
"You're safe here," he reminded her. "You don't have to decide anything else right now. Just stay. Three more days, Liv. We'll figure out the rest later."
Her hand fell from her mouth, and she looked at him, her eyes glossy but unguarded. She nodded, barely at first, then more decisively. "Okay," she said quietly. "I'll stay. Until the hearing."
Relief washed over Elliot, but he kept his tone calm. "Good," he said. "That's all I'm asking."
She exhaled shakily and turned away, brushing a tear off her cheek. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?" she muttered, but there was no heat behind it.
He allowed himself a faint smile. "Yeah. You've told me before."