Chapter Text
The 4:00 AM anxiety didn't just wake her anymore; it was a loyal companion, a cold hand gripping her heart long before the alarm ever could.
Tonight, it had started at 1:17 AM, the moment she walked into her apartment.
The air was stale, laced with the metallic tang of beer and the faint, dusty scent of his aftershave. Elliot was on her couch, boots still on, propped up on her coffee table. The blue light of a mindless action movie flickered across his face.
"Hey," she said, her voice gravelly with fatigue. Her keys hit the bowl by the door with a clatter that felt obscenely loud in the tension.
"Where've you been?" he grunted. It wasn't a question of concern. It was an interrogation.
"Work," she said, toeing off her own boots. The word felt stupid. Obvious. "A case broke. A missing kid."
"Always a missing kid." He didn't look away from the screen. He took a long pull from the bottle of beer—her beer, from her fridge—and set it down. "You missed dinner. I ordered Italian."
She saw the empty containers on the counter. "Sorry, I..."
"Yeah." He muted the TV and finally turned to look at her. His eyes raked over her, from her messy hair down to her wrinkled clothes. It wasn't the look of a lover. It was the look of an inspector. "You look like hell, Liv."
"I feel like hell, Elliot. I'm going to shower and go to bed." She started for her bedroom, a leaden weight in her legs. She just wanted sleep. She wanted oblivion.
She didn't hear him follow her until she was in the bedroom, stripping off her shirt. She was down to her underwear and a t-shirt when his hands landed on her waist.
She startled, a small "oh" of surprise.
"El, I'm exhausted. I'm covered in... the city. I just want to sleep."
"I missed you," he said, and the words were a lie. They were a tool. His hands roamed up her back, his thumbs digging into the knots in her shoulders, but it wasn't a massage. It was an inventory.
He spun her around and pushed her back toward the bed, his mouth finding hers. It was a closed-mouth, perfunctory kiss. It tasted like stale beer and impatience.
"Elliot, please, I'm so tired. Not tonight." She tried to turn her head, but his hand came up to cup her jaw, holding her in place.
"Shh," he murmured against her lips. "It'll be quick. It'll help you sleep."
The lie was so profound, so utterly self-serving, it stunned her into silence. He was reframing his need as a favor to her.
He pushed her onto the mattress and came down on top of her, his weight pinning her. His knee nudged her legs apart. He was already working at his own jeans, his movements practiced and efficient.
She closed her eyes. She went somewhere else.
She thought about the case. The missing boy. The terrified mother. She thought about Noah, safe in his room, thank God, the one good, pure thing. She thought about paperwork.
His hand shoved under the waistband of her panties, pulling them down to her knees. He didn't wait. There was no preparation, no care for her. There was just a sudden, blunt, selfish thrust.
A small, pained grunt escaped her, muffled by the pillow as he'd rolled her onto her stomach.
He didn't notice. Or he didn't care.
His rhythm was brutal, piston-like, all his. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the flesh, holding her in place, rocking her back and forth to his beat. He was fucking at her, not with her.
He was the man who "always had her back”, but right now, he was just a heavy, grunting weight, using her body as a receptacle for his own frustrations. The friction was a raw, burning ache. His labored breath puffed hot against her ear.
This was what Dr. Lindstrom had pushed her toward. See whether there's more there, or, move on. She was trying. She was trying to find the man she had loved, the partner she had missed for a decade.
But he wasn't there. In his place was this... this bully.
A new word, a new thought, sharp and clear.
A bully.
Barba's voice, not from the courtroom, but from the dim light of Forlini's. I grew up in a home, in a neighborhood where I got bullied. We're gonna see him through different prisms.
Elliot groaned, a low, animal sound. He thrust harder, faster, his hips slamming into her with a force that would leave bruises. He buried his face in her hair, and with a final, shuddering spasm, he emptied himself inside her.
He collapsed, his full, sweaty weight pressing her down into the mattress, making it hard to breathe.
She lay there, a doll, a prop, waiting.
One second. Two.
He didn't say anything. He didn't kiss her. He didn't even look at her.
He just pulled out, a wet, slick sound that made her stomach turn. He rolled off her, his back to her, and punched the pillow. There were the sounds of him finishing taking off his pants, then he settled.
Within a minute, she could hear the low, rumbling snore.
She stayed on the bed, her panties still tangled around her knees, for a long, long time. The semen, his, was a sticky, cooling trickle down her inner thigh. She felt... vile. Not just used, but erased.
This was her "idealized relationship.”. This was the great love she was supposed to explore.
She felt a single, hot tear slide down her cheek, but it wasn't a tear of sadness. It was a tear of pure, undiluted rage.
She stood up on shaky legs and went into the bathroom, locking the door.
She turned on the shower, as hot as she could stand it, and scrubbed her skin until it was red and raw. She washed his smell off her, his taste out of her mouth, his seed from her body. She scrubbed and scrubbed, but she couldn't get the feeling off. The feeling of being an object.
She got out, wrapped in a towel, and looked at her phone. 1:48 AM.
I do know what it means to love someone unconditionally.
A different voice. A voice that had never, not once, laid a hand on her in entitlement. A voice that had called her out, yes, but had also seen her. The man whom she’s showed how to change from black and white to color.
When you're ready to stop feeling betrayed by me, I'll be here.
She was so, so betrayed. But as she stood there, dripping on her bathmat, the sound of Elliot's snoring a monster in the next room, she realized with a sickening lurch who the real betrayal had been against.
It had been against herself.
Her fingers, still trembling, unlocked her phone. She went to her contacts, to a name she hadn't touched since that night at Forlini's.
She hesitated. What could she say? He was right. You were right. I'm a fool.
She jdidn’t ust needed a friend. She needed... him.
Her thumb typed out the words, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Rafa, I'm so sorry to text this late. Are you awake? I… I need a friend.
She hit send before she could lose her nerve.
The digital clock on the nightstand read 1:48 AM in silent, mocking red.
Rafael Barba was not asleep. He rarely was, these days.
He was in his living room, the city lights of Manhattan spread out below his window like a carpet of indifferent diamonds. A single, dim lamp cast a pool of amber light on the leather armchair where he sat, a heavy biography resting unread in his lap. A glass of water, not whiskey, sat sweating on the coaster beside him.
For six months, he had been suspended in this state. Six months of waiting.
He had meant every word he said at Forlini's. He did know what it meant to love someone unconditionally. And in the raw, aching silence that followed, he’d discovered the agonizing corollary: that "unconditional" meant loving her even when she was wrong. Even when she was choosing a violent, reckless bully over him.
He'd promised he would be there when she was ready. He’d just never anticipated how much the waiting would cost him.
He’d walked away from Forlini's, leaving her to her drink and her denial. He had to. But her final words... Rafa... I miss you, too... they were the cruelest part. They were the hook in his heart, the tiny ember of hope he couldn't extinguish, and it was that hope that kept him awake at 2 AM.
He closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was tired. Tired of his own stubborn pride, tired of her stubborn loyalty to a man who didn't deserve it.
The silence was broken by a soft buzz on the coffee table.
At this hour, a text meant only one thing: catastrophe.
His heart seized. It was a cold, sharp panic that was exclusively reserved for her. He lunged for the phone, his mind already cycling through a Rolodex of horrors—a case, an accident, Noah...
He snatched it up. The screen glowed.
Olivia Benson
Rafa, I'm so sorry to text this late. Are you awake? I... I need a friend.
He stared at the words until they blurred. His breath, which he hadn't realized he was holding, escaped him in a shaky, silent hiss.
He read it again, the lawyer in him dissecting every part.
I'm so sorry. She was ashamed. She was breaking the six months of silence. She was acknowledging the rift.
I... I need a friend. The ellipsis. The hesitation. This wasn't a request; it was a surrender. And the word she chose: friend. Not a lawyer. Not a captain. A friend.
This was the text he had been waiting for and dreading in equal measure. This was the signal. She was ready.
A dark, possessive satisfaction flared in his chest—He finally hurt you, didn't he? The bully finally did what bullies do.—but he smothered it instantly. It was an unworthy thought, and it wasn't what mattered.
What mattered was the fear he could read between the lines. The desolation. She hadn't sent this text lightly. To reach out to him, the man she felt so betrayed by, meant she had nowhere else to turn.
He thought of his promise. I'll be here.
His thumbs were steady as he typed, his response immediate, simple, and safe. He would not ask questions. He would not demand an apology. He would not say "I told you so."
He would just open the door.
I'm awake.
Olivia's phone vibrated in her hand almost immediately, the buzz shockingly loud against the porcelain of the sink. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a painful, frantic beat.
She was terrified to look. He had every right to ignore her. He had every right to text back Are you kidding me? or, worse, nothing at all.
Steeling herself, she raised the phone.
I'm awake.
Her breath hitched. It was just two words. No anger. No questions. No "I told you so." It wasn't the opening salvo of a new fight. It was just... a fact. An open door.
A small, broken sound, half-sob and half-laugh, escaped her. He was awake. He was there.
She sank onto the closed lid of the toilet, the bath towel clutched to her chest. Her fingers trembled as she tried to type. What could she possibly say? You were right about Elliot, he's a selfish monster and he just used my body like a piece of garbage?
Before she could type, the phone buzzed again.
Are you okay? Can you talk?
Tears of relief pricked her eyes. He was leading. She didn't have to think.
No. He's here. Sleeping. I'm in the bathroom. Door's locked.
The three dots indicating he was typing appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. The wait was agonizing. She could picture him, processing, the legal mind clicking into place.
The new text wasn't what she expected.
Where is Noah?
Of course. Not "What did he do?" Not "Are you hurt?" His first, immediate thought was her son. The sob she'd been holding back finally broke, silent and aching. He knew her.
In his room. Asleep. He's safe. He didn't hear.
The response was immediate, a command.
Okay. Good. I'm calling your phone right now. Turn your volume all the way down. Just press 'accept.' You don't have to say a word. I'll just stay on the line.
Her hands fumbled with the volume rocker on the side of her phone, pressing it down, down, down, until the "silent" icon appeared.
A second later, the screen lit up.
INCOMING CALL: Rafa
Her thumb, slick and shaking, slid across the screen to accept. She pressed the phone to her ear.
There was no "hello."
There was only the faint, static-filled sound of an open line. The sound of him breathing. A slow, steady inhale and exhale. He was there. He was present. He was with her.
She slid down from the toilet lid to the bathmat, pulling her knees to her chest, making herself small. She closed her eyes, clutching the phone to her ear like a lifeline. She listened to him breathe for a long, silent minute.
Then, his voice, a bare whisper, so quiet it was just an intimate vibration against her ear.
"I'm here, Liv. I'm right here."
A raw, ugly sob ripped out of her, and she turned, pressing her forehead against the cold tile of the bathtub, hiding her face, her other hand clamped over her mouth to muffle the sound.
"Rafa..." she choked out. His name was a broken thing. "I... I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry to... to call you. I just..."
"Don't be sorry," his voice came back, still a whisper, but firm. "You're safe. Noah's safe. That's all that matters."
"I..." A raw, ugly sob ripped out of her, and she turned, pressing her forehead against the cold, gritty brick of the building beside her, hiding her face from the empty street. "I'm such a fool," she whispered into the phone, the words thick with tears and a self-loathing so deep it burned.
"No," he said. Not "Why?" Not "What happened?" Just a simple, immediate negation.
"You were right," she gasped, the confession tearing out of her, desperate and sudden. "You were right. At Forlini's. You... you saw him. You saw him for what he is, and I... I defended him. I attacked you."
She could hear him breathing on the other end, a slow, measured inhale and exhale. He was letting her talk. He was giving her the space to let the poison out.
"He's... he's in my apartment," she said, the words feeling obscene. "He's in my... in my bed. Sleeping."
The silence from his end stretched for a single, terrible beat. Then, his voice, different. The calm was still there, but it was sharpened, honed to a fine, dangerous edge.
"Liv... what did he do?"
"He just... he doesn't see me," she tried to explain, the violation feeling too big and too ugly to put into simple words. "I'm just... a thing. A thing he uses. I was tired, Rafa, I was so tired from a case, and I said no. I... I said not tonight. And he just... he didn't care."
She was shaking so hard she had to brace her back against the tiolet to keep from curling into a ball on the floor.
"He... he told me it would 'help me sleep'."
She heard his sharp, quiet intake of breath. It was the only sound he made, but it was louder than a shout.
"He's a bully," she said, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. "You said it. You said you grew up with bullies and you knew one when you saw one . And I... God, I called you the betrayer."
"Olivia." He said her full name, and the authority in it cut through her rising panic, making her sit up straight.
"I'm so sorry, Rafa. I'm so, so sorry. I didn't see... I wouldn't let myself see."
"It's not about that right now," he said, his voice tight, controlled. "Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?"
"He..." She had to think, to separate the physical from the emotional. "Bruises, probably. He's... he's not gentle. But it wasn't... it was the way, Rafa. The way he just... took. And then rolled over and... and went to sleep. Like I was a... a bottle he'd finished."
She was sobbing again, quietly, hopelessly, the tears cold on her cheeks.
"I can hear him snoring through the door."
"Stop," he said, his voice iron. "You stop that right now. This is not your fault." She could hear him pacing, a caged animal. "You are not a fool. You're loyal. You just... you gave your loyalty to the wrong person."
He paused, and his next words hit her almost as hard as Stabler’s hips had.
"I'm not hanging up, Olivia. I'm staying right here on this line. You don't have to talk. You can just... sit there. But I am not leaving you. I'm going to wait with you until he's gone. I'm right here."
"Okay," she wept, the single word a total surrender. "Okay."
She pulled her knees up, wrapped her arms around them, and leaned her head against the bathroom cabinet. She closed her eyes, and for the first time in months, she wasn't alone with the monster in the next room.
When he hit send, his mind immediately began to race. What was it? A case? A fight? He needed more. He needed to know if she was in danger.
Are you okay? Can you talk?
The reply was almost instant, and the words stopped his heart.
No. He's here. Sleeping. I'm in the bathroom. Door's locked.
He's here. There was only one "he" that mattered. Stabler. Door's locked. The implication was immediate and visceral. She was hiding. She was trapped in her own home.
Rafael shot to his feet, the book thudding to the floor. His legal mind, his prosecutor's mind, clicked on, cold and sharp. All thoughts of their personal drama, of Forlini's, of betrayal, evaporated. This was a tactical situation.
One thought, and one thought only, shoved its way to the front of his brain.
Where is Noah?
The wait for her reply was the longest ten seconds of his life.
In his room. Asleep. He's safe. He didn't hear.
He closed his eyes, a violent wave of relief warring with a cold, rising tide of absolute fury. Noah was safe. But Olivia was not. She was locked in a bathroom, terrified, while the man who was supposed to "have her back" slept in her bed.
He began to pace, his bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. He had to be smart. He couldn't make her talk. He couldn't risk Stabler waking up. But he could not, would not, leave her alone.
Okay. Good. I'm calling your phone right now. Turn your volume all the way down. Just press 'accept.' You don't have to say a word. I'll just stay on the line.
He didn't wait for a reply. He hit the call icon, pressing the phone hard against his ear.
It rang once.
Click.
The line was open. He heard nothing. Just the faint, empty-room static of an open connection. He pictured her on the other side of the door, curled up, phone clutched in her hand. He listened, holding his own breath, straining.
He heard it. A tiny, hitched, muffled sound. A sob she was swallowing.
He had to anchor her. He had to let her know she wasn't alone.
"I'm here, Liv," he whispered, his voice barely a vibration. "I'm right here."
The sound that came back over the line was a raw, strangled gasp. A dam breaking.
"Rafa... I'm... I'm so sorry..."
He listened, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached, as her confession poured out.
"...you were right... you saw him... a bully... and I... I attacked you..."
He gripped the phone, his knuckles white. He didn't say, I know. He didn't say, I told you so. He just let her purge the poison.
"...he told me it would 'help me sleep'..."
Rafael's eyes snapped shut. The quiet, calculated cruelty of it—the coercion—was more damning than a punch.
"Liv... what did he do?" he asked, his voice low, tight with a control he barely possessed.
He listened to her faltering, shame-filled words. "Bruises, probably... he's not gentle... the way he just... took... and then rolled over... like I was a... a bottle he'd finished."
Every word was a nail. This wasn't just a betrayal. It was a crime. It was a pattern.
"I can hear him snoring through the door."
That detail, so mundane and so monstrous, was what finally broke through his control.
"Stop," he said, his voice iron. "You stop that right now. This is not your fault." He was pacing again, a caged animal. "You are not a fool. You're loyal. You just... you gave your loyalty to the wrong person."
He stopped at his window, staring down at the indifferent city lights. He had to keep her safe. He had to see her through the night.
"I'm not hanging up, Olivia," he said, and it was a vow. "I'm staying right here on this line. You don't have to talk. You can just... sit there. But I am not leaving you. I'm going to wait with you until he's gone. I'm right here."
He heard her whispered, weeping "Okay."
He sank back into his armchair, his suit pants from the day before still on. He wasn't a lover. He wasn't a friend. He was a sentry. He was on watch. And he would stay on that line, a silent guardian in the dark, until the monster in her bed was gone.
She sagged against the cabinet, the "okay" a wisp of air.
His promise—I am not leaving you. I'm going to wait with you until he's gone—settled over her like a weighted blanket. It was absolute. It was the first solid thing she'd touched all night.
She was still wrapped in a single, damp towel, and the cold of the tile floor was seeping into her skin, making her shake . She couldn't just sit here and freeze. She had to do something, even if it was small.
Keeping the phone pressed tight to her ear, she slowly, painfully, got to her feet. The movement was stiff, her muscles screaming in protest from the abuse earlier. She listened. The only sounds were the faint, steady rhythm of Rafael's breathing on the line and the low, rumbling snore from the bedroom. He was still asleep.
Her robe was on the hook on the back of the door. Carefully, moving with a silence learned from years of tactical entries, she stood and reached for it. She eased the heavy terry cloth off the hook, wincing at the skrrt of the metal. She froze.
The snoring continued, uninterrupted.
On the other end, Rafael's breathing didn't change, but she felt his silent, questioning presence. She didn't speak. She just slowly, quietly, let the damp towel drop to the mat and shrugged into the robe, pulling the belt tight. It was a small act of self-preservation, of reclaiming her own skin. It felt monumental.
She slid back down to the floor, her back against the door, and curled her knees to her chest.
And so, the vigil began.
The line was silent, but not empty. It was filled with his presence. Every few minutes, she would hear the soft shush of him inhaling, the faint, controlled exhale. He was awake. He was listening. He was there.
It was the most profound intimacy she had ever known. More intimate than any touch, any kiss. He was sitting with her in her shame, in her fear, in her rage, and he was not flinching.
Time blurred. 2 AM became 4 AM.
Her tears dried, leaving her skin tight and her eyes burning. The panic began to recede, calcifying into something else. Something cold and hard. A diamond-sharp resolve.
With Rafael as her silent witness, she could finally think clearly. She could see the night for what it was. Not a mistake. Not a miscommunication. It was an assault. It was the culmination of six months of escalating... bullying.
Rafael's word. The right word.
He had bulldozed his way back into her life, demanded her time, her loyalty, her home, her body, all while offering nothing of himself. He’d weaponized her "unconditional" love for him, just as Rafael had predicted.
She heard a change in the snoring from the bedroom. A snort, a heavy shift of weight on the mattress, and then... silence.
Her entire body went rigid. Her breath caught in her throat.
On the phone, she heard Rafael's breathing stop, too. He'd heard it. He was listening as intently as she was.
He's awake.
She waited, her heart a cold stone in her chest. She heard the creak of the mattress as he sat up. A low, confused grunt.
"Liv?"
His voice was thick with sleep, muffled by the door.
"Liv, you in there? What the hell's the door closed for?"
She didn't move. She didn't breathe.
She heard the thud of his bare feet hitting the floor.
"Liv?" He was at the door. She could feel his presence on the other side of the wood, a spike of hot, angry confusion. He jiggled the knob. It rattled in its frame.
"Olivia, open the damn door."
She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the phone harder to her ear, as if Rafael could somehow shield her through the wood.
"I'm on the line, Liv," his voice came, a steady, low whisper, a steel rod against her spine. "I'm right here. You don't have to answer him."
The jiggling became a bang. One hard, open-palmed slap against the door that made her flinch violently.
"I'm not playing this game. Open the door!"
His voice was no longer confused. It was the command voice. The one he used on perps. The one he was using on her.
"Elliot, you need to leave," she said. Her own voice was a surprise. It was low, shaking, but it was hers.
"What? I can't hear you. Open the door."
"I said, you need to leave." She spoke louder this time, her voice gaining strength from the silent man on the phone. "Get your things. And get out of my apartment."
There was a dead, stunned silence from the other side.
"...What the hell did you say to me?"
"You heard me, El. Get out."
"You... you're kicking me out?" He sounded incredulous, as if the very concept was impossible. He rattled the knob again, harder. "We'll talk about this. Open the door, Liv."
"No. There's nothing to talk about. You are going to get your things, and you are going to walk out that front door, or I am going to call 1PP and have you removed. Your choice."
The silence that followed was heavy, complete. She could practically hear the gears of his ego grinding, the shock giving way to a cold, simmering rage.
Finally, she heard him step back.
"Fine," he spat. The word was clipped, violent. "Fine. You want me gone? I'm gone."
She heard him stomp into the bedroom. She heard a drawer yanked open. The sound of his boots hitting the floor.
On the phone, Rafael said nothing. He was just breathing. A steady, calm presence in the storm.
She stayed on the floor, listening to the sounds of him angrily dressing, grabbing his things. She heard him go to the front door, the jingle of his own keys, and then the door was yanked open with enough force to bang against the wall.
It slammed shut, the sound echoing through the apartment like a gunshot.
She was alone.
She waited. One minute. Two.
"Liv?" Rafael's voice, no longer a whisper. "Is he gone?"
"I... I think so," she whispered, her entire body trembling with the adrenaline crash.
"Go slowly," he commanded, his voice all business. "Go to your front door. Look through the peephole. Confirm he's not in the hall. Confirm the elevator has gone."
"Okay."
She got up, her legs like water. She walked through the apartment on trembling limbs, the phone clutched in her hand, and put her eye to the peephole.
The hallway was empty.
"He's... he's gone, Rafa. He's gone."
"Good," he said, and she heard him let out a long, slow breath he seemed to have been holding for an hour. "Good girl. You did it."
The praise, the simple acknowledgment, was what finally broke her. She slid down the front door, her back to it, and the phone in her lap, and finally let go. She wept. Not the quiet, muffled sobs from the bathroom, but the gut-wrenching, agonizing wails of a woman who had just realized she was, finally, free.
And on the other end of the phone, Rafael Barba just listened, his promise kept.
He listened to her break.
Rafael sat in the amber light of his living room, the phone pressed so hard to his ear it hurt. He was a silent witness to the raw, agonizing, animal sound of her grief. It was the sound of a dam of denial, six months in the making, finally shattering.
His free hand was clenched on the arm of his chair, his knuckles white, his nails digging into the leather. The fury in his chest was a physical, burning thing. It was a desire for violence so potent it almost choked him. Every ragged sob that tore from her was a fresh indictment.
He told me it would help me sleep.
The cold, calculated cruelty of that phrase... he would never forget it. He would never forgive it.
He waited until the terrible, wracking wails tapered off, quieting into wet, shuddering gasps. He heard her try to speak, fail, and then try again.
"Rafa..." Her voice was wrecked, a raw whisper.
"I'm still here, Liv. I'm right here," he said, his own voice low and steady, an anchor in her storm.
"I... I don't know... I don't know what to do now."
The lost, childlike sound of those words broke through his rage and galvanized him. This was not the time for fury. This was the time for action.
"You're going to do two things for me," he said, his voice dropping into the calm, authoritative tone he'd used in a thousand crises. "First, you are going to lock every lock on your front door. Put the chain on. Do it now, while I'm on the line."
He waited. He heard the shush of her robe, the sound of her unsteady footsteps. He heard the metallic click of the deadbolt and the heavy clack-clack-clack of the chain sliding into its catch.
"Good," he said. "Now, you are going to go to Noah's room. You're just going to look. You're not going to wake him. Just put your eyes on him and confirm he's safe."
He heard her walk down the hall, the sound of her bare feet on the hardwood. The creak of Noah's door opening. A long, silent pause. He heard her take a single, shaky, relieved breath.
"He's... he's fine, Rafa. He's fast asleep."
"Good girl," he breathed, the relief so sharp it was almost painful. "Okay. Now go back to your room. Lock your bedroom door. Can you do that?"
"Yes. Okay. I'm... I'm in."
"Alright, Liv. You're safe. He's gone. You and Noah are safe."
"I... yes. Rafa... thank you. God, thank you."
"Always," he said, the word a vow. "I'm going to hang up now. But I am not going to sleep. You call for any reason. Any. You understand me?"
"Yes. Okay."
"Goodnight, Liv."
He ended the call, but he did not move. The silence of his apartment was deafening, rushing in to fill the void that her voice, her pain, had occupied.
He stared at his phone.
He couldn't stay here.
He, a man who lived by words and intellect, was vibrating with a physical, primal need to move. He couldn't sit here, across town, while she was bleeding from wounds she couldn't even see yet. While she was alone, on the floor, in the wreckage of what that bully had done.
He’d said he would be there. And he would.
He shot to his feet. He moved with a cold, contained energy, not frantic, but focused. He stalked into his bedroom, ripping off the dress shirt and suit pants he'd never bothered to change. He pulled on a pair of dark jeans and a soft, black cashmere sweater—something simple, something quiet. He shoved his feet into socks and his leather boots, his movements economical and swift.
He grabbed his keys, his wallet, his phone.
He had to text her. He couldn't just show up—that was Stabler's move. He couldn't pound on her door and demand entry. He would not, ever, put her in a position of feeling cornered or coerced again.
But he also wasn't going to ask her. She was in no state to make a decision, to bear the burden of saying "yes" or "no" to him.
He would give her a fact. He would give her a choice that required no action on her part.
I'm in a cab. I'll be there in 20. You don't have to let me in. You don't even have to answer the door. I'll just sit in the hall outside. But I am coming.
He hit send. He didn't wait for a reply. He was already shrugging into his overcoat, his jaw set, his eyes cold.
Okay.
The cab ride through the dark, sleeping city was a blur of cold rage. He was a prosecutor, and he was building a case. He was cataloging every word she'd said. Told me it would help me sleep. He's not gentle. He just... took.
Coercion. Assault. Menacing.
He'd kill him. If Stabler had been there, he would have, with his bare hands.
But Stabler wasn't there. She was. And she was alone.
He got out of the cab a block from her apartment, the 4 AM air biting at his face, but he didn't feel it. He was running on a different kind of fuel. He walked with a long, measured stride, a man on a mission. He let himself into her building, his old key fob—a relic from a time of late-night case files and shared takeout—still, thankfully, working.
He rode the elevator up, his heart a cold, heavy stone in his chest.
The hallway was silent. He walked to her door. 16L.
He could sit outside, as he'd promised.
He put his hand in his pocket to retrieve his phone and text her that he was there.
But before he could, he heard the slide of the deadbolt. And then the door opened.
The text message glowed in her hand, a beacon in the ruins of her living room.
I'm in a cab. I'll be there in 20. You don't have to let me in. You don't even have to answer the door. I'll just sit in the hall outside. But I am coming.
Olivia stared at the words, her breath catching on a fresh sob. He wasn't asking for permission. He wasn't putting the burden of a decision on her. He was just... coming. He was offering his presence, his protection, without demanding a single thing in return—not even for her to open the door. He was willing to be a sentry in the hallway, a physical barrier between her and the world.
It was the most profoundly respectful and protective act anyone had shown her in years. And it was the exact opposite of the violation that had just occurred in her bedroom.
I'll just sit in the hall outside.
That single sentence was what made her move. She couldn't. She wouldn't let him do that. After everything, she would not make him sit on the cold floor outside her apartment like a guard.
She typed a single, shaky reply.
Okay.
She forced her trembling legs to hold her, pushing herself up from the floor. She stood by the door, leaning her forehead against the cool wood, and waited. The 20 minutes were a lifetime. She listened to the hum of the fridge, the distant wail of a siren, the pounding of her own heart.
She was a wreck. Her robe was belted tight, but she was barefoot. Her hair was a damp, tangled mess from the shower and her tears. Her face was swollen, her eyes red and raw. She felt disgusting, exposed, and ashamed.
The elevator dinged in the hallway.
Her head snapped up. She squinted through the peephole.
The doors slid open, and he stepped out. He wasn't the slick ADA in the bespoke suit. He was in dark jeans and a black sweater, his overcoat unbuttoned. He looked... normal. But his face was anything but. As he walked toward her door, she saw his expression under the dim hallway lights. His jaw was set, his mouth a hard, grim line. He wasn't looking at his phone. He was looking at her door, his eyes filled with a cold, controlled fury that wasn't directed at her at all. It was for her.
He stopped a few feet away, as if honoring a perimeter. He reached into his pocket, his promise kept. He was going to text her, to let her know he was there, ready to take his post in the hall.
Before he could, she moved.
Her hand was shaking so violently she fumbled with the chain. The clack-clack-clack of the metal sliding through the catch was obscenely loud in the 4 AM silence.
She undid the deadbolt—the lock she had just secured on his instruction.
She turned the knob.
Olivia pulled the door open.
He stood there, his hand still in his pocket, his phone still in his grasp. His eyes met hers.
The cold fury in his expression instantly melted, replaced by something so raw, so full of a profound, aching pain for her, that it almost brought her to her knees again. He didn't look at her with pity, or disgust. He just... saw her. He saw the robe, the red-rimmed eyes, the shaking hands.
He didn't move. He didn't step forward. He waited, holding his ground, letting her be the one to complete the act.
She stepped back, pulling the door open wider in a silent invitation.
"Rafa," she breathed, and her voice wasn't even a sound.
Only then did he move. He crossed the threshold in one smooth, silent step, his presence immediately filling the space, pushing out the ghosts of the night. He reached past her and quietly, firmly, pushed the door shut.
She heard the heavy, final click of the latch.
He was inside. He was here. And the monster was gone.