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Elliot turns the music down and makes himself useful at the sink while Olivia sees Noah off to bed.
They’d spent the evening together, cooking dinner in her small kitchen with Fleetwood Mac streaming from the bluetooth speaker (a playlist he’d spent entirely too long creating) and a cabernet sauvignon breathing on the counter.
Hearing their banter and the ensuing laughter, even Noah had wanted in on the action, so he’d been given the important tasks of mixing the salad and taste-testing the sauce. “Needs salt,” he’d said confidently, and they tamed their grins enough to let the boy add a pinch before the three of them sat down at the table to enjoy the fruits of their labor.
Noah spent the entirety of the meal begging stories of Elliot, who happily regaled him with tales of tackling suspects and high-speed chases through the streets of New York. He made Olivia out to be the hero of each narrative and Noah beamed with pride, weakening her resolve just enough to agree to ice cream for dessert.
He doesn’t dare call it a date — neither of them would, at least not yet. They’re not trying to jinx anything, but Elliot revels in the simple domesticity. He’s craved this, the weightless brilliance of just being, for as long as he can remember.
Tossing the dish towel on the counter, he turns to find her leaning in the doorway, staring at him with a smile that lights her eyes. Warmth radiates from her, and he thinks she’s never looked more beautiful.
“He asleep?”
“I gave him ten minutes to finish reading, but I doubt he’ll last that long. It’s getting pretty late.”
“I’ll um— I’ll head out then.” He looks past her, clearing his throat in a pathetic attempt at masking his disappointment, and starts toward the door.
“No!” She stops him with a hand on his arm. “No, I didn’t— It’s just past his bedtime, that’s all. Stay.” A pause. “Please,” she adds, though it’s completely unnecessary because he’d do anything she asked.
He offers her another drink and they move to the couch, sipping wine and making small talk: work, the kids, his mother, holiday plans. Eventually, the conversation quiets and they sit in easy silence, admiring the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree and the hush of falling snow outside the windows.
Elliot sets his empty glass on the end table and stands, holding out his hand to her.
She eyes him warily. “What?”
“Dance with me.”
“You can’t be serious.”
He shrugs and raises his brow, but a shaky breath belies his confidence — the longer she stalls, the more nervous he gets.
“El,” she sighs, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.
“Starting to feel like an idiot here, Liv.”
She looks at him, really looks, and he’s so damn earnest there’s no way she can deny him. Olivia takes his hand and he pulls her up with an arm around her waist; it’s comfortable, if a bit reserved. Not too close, not too much, not too fast.
In the background, the playlist shuffles to the next song. Everywhere, one of her favorites, and she smiles at the familiar strains, but—
“Not really a song for slow dancing.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he murmurs into her hair.
Their edges are softened by the shimmering glow of the lights. She sinks deeper into his embrace, fisting her hand in the fabric of his shirt and resting her head on his chest. Fingers splayed wide over the small of her back, he draws her impossibly closer, and she hums contentedly.
They stay like this, curled into one another, swaying gently, until they are peaceful and drowsy and the warmth of their bodies pressed flush together has seeped into their bones and filled the cracks with gold.
Olivia pushes back to meet his gaze, vaguely aware that the music has stopped.
“I think this is the part where you kiss me.”
“Yeah?”
She nods. It’s inevitable, always has been; they both know it.
“Liv, I—”
“Elliot,” she exhales, a benediction of trust.
He settles his palm against the column of her neck, traces his thumb over the curve of her jaw and lifts her chin, fits his mouth to hers in a deep, lingering kiss and oh… oh, it’s a sweet and longing thing, so achingly tender that it takes his breath away, makes his heart race until he’s dizzy with want of her.
Olivia looks up at him with sanguine eyes, dark and glossy and hopeful. He goes back for more, then, and she meets him halfway, eagerly granting permission when his tongue smooths over her bottom lip.
The crowd doesn’t cheer. There are no fireworks. No love theme plays.
It’s just them.
Soft and breathless and quiet, making up for lost time. Filling each other with gold.