"You should just stay."

Elliot blinked, his arm still draped around Olivia, his fingers tracing absent circles against her back. "Stay?"

She let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head at herself. "I mean—it's late. It's almost two. You could go home, but that seems kind of...pointless?"

He watched her, eyes warm.

"We've had sleepovers before," she added, trying to make it sound normal, casual, but the way her voice faltered betrayed her. "You've crashed here a dozen times."

"Yeah," he said, lips curving slightly. "But that was different."

She groaned, tipping her head back against the couch. "I know. That's what makes this so stupid. Why is this awkward?"

Elliot huffed a laugh. "Because everything's different now."

She met his gaze again, something lighter settling between them, something fond. "So what, we have to figure out how to sleep next to each other all over again?"

"Apparently."

She bit her lip, considering him. "So...are you staying?"

His answer was quiet, steady. "Yeah. I'm staying."

Something unknotted in her chest at that. She nodded, exhaling, and pushed up from the couch. "Okay. Then I guess we should—um—go to bed."

He stood too, stretching a little, and smirked at her. "What, you're not gonna make me sleep on the couch?"

She gave him a look, deadpan. "Would you?"

"Not a chance."

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the way her lips twitched, the hint of a smile she couldn't suppress.

God, this was ridiculous. They were grown adults. They'd spent over a decade in and out of each other's space, knowing each other better than most people ever could. And yet, as she turned toward the bathroom, she could feel her pulse pick up, anticipation humming beneath her skin.

He heard the bathroom door click shut, the faint sound of water running. For a moment, he just stood there, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake the feeling that something in his chest had come unmoored...and it had, like an anchor lifting from the ocean floor. It wasn't panic, not exactly, but a slow, weightless drift into something unknown. He'd spent so many years holding himself in check, keeping his feelings tethered tight, but now—now there was nothing to hold onto.

And what was this, exactly? They were just going to bed. Just sleeping. That was the plan. That was probably the plan. But as he stood there, anticipation crackled through him, something slow and warm and electric curling in his stomach. Because what if? What if the quiet press of bodies in the dark, the steady rhythm of their breathing in sync, turned into something else? What if one touch led to another, and another, and suddenly they weren't just sleeping anymore?

He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. Jesus. He needed to get a grip. He wasn't expecting anything. Wasn't assuming. If all they did was sleep, if all he got was the simple, impossible gift of holding her through the night, it would be enough. It would be everything.

And yet, even as he told himself that, his pulse kicked up just a little. What if?

When Olivia reappeared, the overhead light from the hallway framed her in soft gold. She'd changed into an old Back to the Future t-shirt that had seen better days, the fabric thin and worn, draping over her frame in a way that somehow made her look smaller. Her shorts barely counted as such—frayed edges, soft from years of washing, riding up as she moved.

Elliot's gaze traced over her, lingering.

When they had first started working together, he had wondered at her—this tiny, powerful woman with a jaw set like iron and eyes that saw everything. He'd worried, too, in those early days. Worried whether she'd be able to protect herself, whether she'd be able to protect him. It wasn't that he thought she was weak, but she was small, and the world was brutal. It had been instinct, at first, to step in front of her, to position himself between her and danger.

But then she had proven herself—over and over, with a sharpness that left no room for doubt. She had taken hits, thrown harder ones. She was more than up to the task. And Elliot had learned, fast, that she didn't need protecting. That, more often than not, she was the one protecting him.

Still, she had changed over the years. Once all lean lines and sharp muscle, she had softened with time. She was still incredibly fit, still strong in ways most people weren't, but she had filled out in places, her frame carrying the kind of graceful curves that made her look like someone safe. She was huggable, warm, matronly in a way that had nothing to do with age or size and everything to do with the way she held people.

But since Daniel, some of that softness had thinned. Not entirely—not enough for most people to notice—but he noticed. The extra weight that had made her seem so at home in her own body had hollowed into something sharper. Haunted. It worried him, in ways he didn't know how to say.

She pushed a hand through her hair absently, her fingers working through the knots, and he knew she wasn't thinking about how she looked—she never did, not in that way.

But Elliot?

He thought about it. He thought about all of it. About how Olivia Benson had always been self-possessed, always sure-footed. And yet tonight, she was just a little hesitant. A little unsure.

It was fucking adorable.

He exhaled again, shaking his head, and without much thought, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and shoved them off, stepping out of them easily. Boxers. That was good enough. It wasn't like she hadn't seen him like this before—locker rooms, undercover ops, hotel stakeouts when they had to change in the same room. And yet, standing here in the quiet of her apartment, his skin warm from the late-night snack and the closeness of her, it was so different.

Olivia flicked off the bathroom light and paused when she saw him. Her gaze skated over him—his bare legs, the broad frame of his shoulders, the softness in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

"So that's how it's gonna be, huh?" she said lightly, lifting an eyebrow as she padded toward the bed.

Elliot smirked, tilting his head. "I could put my pants back on."

She rolled her eyes. "Forget it."

She pulled back the covers, sliding into bed first, the cool sheets shocking against her skin. Elliot followed, slipping in beside her, and for a moment, they both just lay there, stiff and awkward, staring at the ceiling.

It shouldn't feel weird. But it did.

She shifted first, turning onto her side. She could feel him hesitate, and then, after a beat, he moved too, rolling to face her before sighing and—just like that—pulling her in, tucking her against him.

And it wasn't weird.

It wasn't awkward.

It was easy.

She fit against him like she belonged there, his arm coming around her, her head finding that space beneath his chin like it had always been hers.

Elliot let out a slow breath, pressing a kiss into her hair.

"Yeah," he murmured, voice thick with a desire that made her shiver. "I could get used to this."

Olivia felt boneless and lovely in the most exquisite way—like every muscle in her body had unravelled, every tension finally released. It reminded her of the feeling that came after lovemaking, that beautifully spent sensation of being wrung out and satisfied, but this—this was even better. Because tonight, they hadn't just touched skin; they had touched souls. She had unspooled fears, stripped herself bare in a way that had nothing to do with her body and everything to do with trust. It was a delicious kind of tired, like sinking into warmth after being cold for too long. She had never felt more wonderful.

A slow breath left her as she nestled in, but then, the doubts began to nag. What if this doesn't feel this easy in the morning? What if we wake up and everything is different in a way we can't come back from? The moment was so perfect, so achingly sweet, that it felt fragile.

Elliot, as always, sensed it.

His arm tightened around her, his voice low and certain. "I'm not going anywhere."

Her throat went tight, but she didn't argue.

Instead, she shifted slightly, pressing closer, and that was when he did it—slid his hand under the hem of her shorts, fingers splaying wide over her upper thigh. Warm. Solid. Easy.

She tensed. Just a little. But he felt it.

Elliot stilled, then pulled back just enough to glance down at her, brow furrowing. "Olivia Benson, are you self-conscious about your body?"

She let out a breath, barely more than a scoff, but he felt the way her muscles tensed under his palm. "Maybe."

His lips twitched. "Jesus. I had to come over here and make sure you had at least two good meals, because it's clear you've been wasting away."

That earned him a light smack to the chest. "Oh, I have not."

He grinned, but his hand didn't move. He just kept it there, palm warm against her skin, rubbing her ass like he had every right to.

And after a moment, Olivia exhaled and let herself relax into it. She let herself belong.

Elliot wasn't sure what had woken him first—the sound of her breath catching, the slight tremble against his side, or just some instinct buried so deep in his bones that it would always, always attune him to her.

Either way, his eyes blinked open into the still-dark room, and he knew something was wrong.

At first, Olivia was just shifting in sleep, her body drawing in on itself, her fingers curling unconsciously into the sheets. But then he heard it—a soft, wounded sound escaping her lips, almost too quiet to notice. But he noticed.

His arms tightened around her automatically, instinct kicking in before thought. He didn't have to guess at the ghosts that haunted her in sleep—he had his own. And yet, knowing that she still carried them, that even here, even now, when she was finally safe, her mind refused to give her peace? It made his stomach twist.

Gently, he smoothed a hand over her back, trailing warmth down her spine.

"Liv," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "It's okay. I've got you."

She twitched, just slightly, as if some part of her heard him, recognized him. He exhaled softly, pressing a kiss into her hair, lingering there, breathing her in.

He let his hand drift up, brushing over her cheek, his thumb tracing along her temple. It was feather-light, a barely-there touch, but he felt it when her body slackened, when the tension bled from her muscles, when her breath evened out and her fingers—still gripping the sheets—relaxed.

Elliot didn't move, just kept tracing slow circles against her skin.

And then he just watched her.

There had been a time—years, more than a decade—when Elliot had refused to let himself look at Olivia like this.

It wasn't just about loyalty to vows he'd made, not really. It was about her. About respect. Olivia Benson was not someone to be reduced to want, to be gazed at like something to be possessed. She was his partner, his best friend, and no matter how many moments had simmered between them, no matter how often his pulse had stuttered just from the way she said his name, he had never let himself indulge.

Because it was too dangerous.

Because he couldn't afford to.

Because looking at her—really looking—would mean seeing everything he wasn't allowed to have.

But now?

Now, the barriers were gone. There was no line to toe, no guilt curling in his gut. There was just her, soft and warm in his arms, her breath steady against his skin. And for the first time, he let himself take her in.

The moonlight kissed her skin, traced over the slope of her nose, the delicate curve of her cheek, the parted softness of her lips. He let his gaze follow the path of light, drinking her in, letting himself reverence her the way he'd always wanted to.

And it wasn't cheap. It wasn't a violation.

It was worship.

She had given herself over to sleep, to him, trusting that he would keep her safe, and there was nothing in the world more sacred than that.

He had always known, in some way, that Olivia Benson was his person. His one. But now? Now, she was here, wrapped around him like she belonged there, and there was no universe in which he was ever letting go.

Elliot tightened his grip on her, just slightly, just enough to feel her, and then he pressed one last lingering kiss to her hair.

"I've got you," he whispered again, and this time, Olivia sighed against him, her fingers slipping into the fabric of his t-shirt, holding on.

And Elliot closed his eyes, holding onto her just as tightly.

Morning broke gently, quietly.

Slow, golden light filtered through the blinds, stretching long across the sheets. Olivia shifted, still nestled in the warmth of Elliot's arms, her body heavy with the delicious weight of rest.

She felt good.

And then, suddenly, he was shifting.

Elliot rolled toward her, pressing his body over hers, his hands sinking into the mattress on either side of her head. He moved with easy confidence, with something teasing in his grin as he hovered above her, knees bracketing her hips, caging her in.

"Good morning," he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

His weight was solid, comforting, sexy, and when he leaned down, nose brushing against hers, she felt a slow, familiar heat curl through her stomach.

She let him press a lazy kiss to her lips, her fingers curling lightly at his sides, but when he started to deepen it, she turned her head, stifling a laugh.

"Elliot," she protested.

He hummed, lips trailing toward her jaw. "Mmm?"

She bit back a grin, dodging his next kiss. "Teeth."

That made him pause.

He lifted his head, blinking at her, looking so genuinely baffled that she did laugh this time.

"What?" he asked, as if she had just spoken in riddles.

She gave him a deadpan look. "We are not making out with morning breath."

Elliot groaned and collapsed onto her dramatically, his full weight pressing her into the mattress as he nuzzled into her neck like an oversized dog. "Liv. Come on."

She squirmed under him, laughing harder now. "No way. I love you, but I do not love morning breath."

The words barely had time to register before she was squirming out from underneath him, her laughter light and easy. It was such a Liv thing to say—so casual, so natural, slipping from her lips without hesitation.

I love you.

Elliot didn't react—at least, not outwardly. He just rolled onto his back with an exaggerated sigh, playing along, grumbling, "Toothbrush first, lust later." But inside?

Inside, it hit.

Not like a shock, not like something unexpected—no, he'd known for a long time that she loved him. Maybe not in this exact way, but it had always been there.

But hearing it?

Even tossed out in a teasing protest, even wrapped in the warmth of laughter—he felt it settle somewhere deep in his chest, undeniable and solid.

She loved him.

And God help him, he loved her too. Had for years. Would for the rest of his life.

But now wasn't the time to dwell on it.

Because Olivia Benson had just told him she loved him, and all she wanted in return was for him to go brush his damn teeth.

And so, with a smirk and a shake of his head, he pushed himself up, following her out of bed.

It wasn't until she was standing at the sink, toothbrush in hand, that it really hit her.

She'd said it.

It had just slipped out, tucked into laughter like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And maybe it was. Maybe it always had been.

Her elbow knocked against his as they brushed, an easy, familiar rhythm, and when she glanced up, their eyes met in the mirror.

For a moment, they just looked at each other—foam in their mouths, hair a mess, their bodies still warm and loose from sleep. It was ridiculous. It was so not like the movies.

And yet, somehow, that made it even better.

Because it wasn't some grand, dramatic declaration. It wasn't whispered in desperation or shouted in the heat of the moment. It was just...life.

And God, that was the part that got her. That this was real. That they had made it here, to this soft, quiet place where love could slip so easily into the spaces between them.

She spat into the sink, rinsing her mouth, and when she looked up again, he was still watching her.

She wasn't sure if he was going to say anything about it.

She wasn't sure if she was.

But either way, she knew—this morning, this moment, this silly, stupid milestone—it mattered.

Olivia turned to reach for a towel and Elliot caught her wrist, tugging her into him.

Her breath hitched as his hands found her waist, warm and sure, fingers pressing just under the hem of her shirt.

"We're minty fresh now," he murmured, lips ghosting against her temple.

She shivered, tilting her head up, meeting his gaze.

He kissed her softly at first, just a slow press of lips, but then she melted into him, her fingers gripping at his shoulders, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

By the time they made it back to bed, Elliot was already backing her toward the mattress, his hands greedy at her sides, his mouth dragging slow, reverent kisses along her throat.

They fell into the sheets together, bodies tangling, hands learning, discovering.

It was slow, but burning, the kind of touch that was soaked in years of almosts, of stolen glances and swallowed longing, of nights spent pretending they weren't dreaming of this—palms running over bare skin, fingers sinking into hair, mouths exploring, taking. His hands mapped over her and he groaned against her mouth, his weight pressing her deeper into the mattress.

His palm swept over the curve of her waist, gliding up her ribs, his touch both reverent and hungry. As his fingers skimmed higher, her shirt rode up with them, baring warm skin to the cool air, and she sucked in a breath, her back arching instinctively. Heat curled low in her stomach, a simmering ache, but then he pulled back slightly, shifting onto his knees, and just looked at her.

Greedy and awed all at once, his gaze roamed over her like he was committing every inch of her to memory. The rise and fall of her breath, the soft strength of her body, the way the morning light cast gentle shadows across her skin.

She swallowed, suddenly self-conscious under the weight of his attention. "It's all I've got," she said, voice quiet, almost sheepish.

Elliot's eyes flicked up to hers, steady and sure. "It's all I need."

And then—

The sudden shrill sound of "Old Town Road" blasted through the air, Eli's unmistakable, loud-as-hell ringtone. It felt like the universe had grabbed hold and yanked them out of their perfect bubble.

They both froze.

Elliot blinked a couple of times, his heart sinking just as the phone buzzed again, demanding attention. Olivia's lips curled into a half-smile as she pulled her shirt back down.

He looked at her, a mix of confusion and frustration written across his face. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

The phone buzzed again, more insistent. FaceTime.

Elliot groaned, running a hand through his hair. He couldn't just answer the call here, not with Olivia beside him—his shirtless, boxered self definitely wasn't the right vibe for a FaceTime call with his son.

"Hang on." He pushed himself off the bed, reaching for the phone. "I'm gonna head down to the car to take this." He cast her a glance, half apologetic, half annoyed at the interruption. "I'll be right back."

Olivia nodded, offering him a teasing smile as she shifted back against the pillows. "Go on. Eli needs you more than I do."

He sighed, tugging his boxers up a little higher as he grabbed his phone. "Yeah, well...he might not need me, but I'm his dad. I'll be right back."

Olivia let out a wistful breath, watching him struggle into his pants and then go, sensing that no matter how badly they both wanted this, life—and a loud-ass phone call—would always have other plans.