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"I am fairly certain," Rafael said, adjusting his cashmere scarf until it covered the lower half of his face, "that my ears have fallen off. They are gone. I am now Van Gogh. I hope you're happy."
"You're being dramatic," Olivia laughed, tightening her grip on his arm. She was wearing her thick wool coat and a beanie pulled low, looking entirely too comfortable in the twenty-degree weather. "It’s crisp. It’s invigorating. Look at the sky, Rafa. It’s periwinkle."
"It’s gray, Olivia. It is the color of a depressed pigeon. And it is freezing."
They were walking down the Literary Walk in Central Park, the wide, elm-lined promenade that usually teemed with tourists. Today, thanks to the biting wind, it was relatively empty. The bare branches of the American Elms stretched over them like a cathedral ceiling, skeletal and striking against the fading light.
Rafael stopped walking to glare at the paper cup in her gloved hand.
"And I still don't understand how you are drinking that," he noted with disdain. "That is not hot chocolate. It is brown water mixed with industrial sludge and three pounds of sugar."
"It’s street cart cocoa," she defended, taking a sip and humming happily. "It tastes like childhood. And it’s warming my hands. Where is your distinctively overpriced espresso?"
"I finished it three blocks ago. It was excellent. It had notes of hazelnut. Unlike your... slurry."
"You're a snob, Barba."
"I have standards. There is a difference."
He grumbled, but he didn't pull away. In fact, he leaned into her, their sides pressed together against the chill. He unlinked his arm from hers only to slide it around her waist, pulling her closer under the guise of conserving heat.
"Fine," he admitted, looking up at the statues of poets and writers lining the path. "It is... picturesque. In a bleak, Russian novel sort of way."
"See?" She bumped her hip against his. "I knew you liked nature."
"I like Central Park," he corrected. "Because it is nature that has submitted to the will of urban planning. It is organized nature. I respect it."
"You're impossible."
"And yet, you are walking with me voluntarily."
"Noah is at a sleepover," she reminded him softly. "And my apartment is too quiet. I’d rather listen to you complain about the weather than sit in the silence."
Rafael’s expression softened instantly. The snark vanished, replaced by a quiet tenderness. He squeezed her waist through the thick wool of her coat.
"Well then," he murmured, steering them toward a bench that faced a row of trees wrapped in dormant strings of lights. "I suppose I can conjure a few more complaints about the wind chill. For your entertainment."
"You're too kind, Counselor."
"I try."
The sun didn't so much set as it surrendered, dropping behind the jagged silhouette of the Central Park West skyline and plunging the park into a deep, bruised purple twilight.
Usually, this was the time Rafael insisted on finding a taxi. He liked New York, but he preferred it well-lit and temperature-controlled. However, Olivia had stopped walking. She was looking up at the canopy of elms, her breath misting in the air, a small, expectant smile playing on her lips.
"Wait for it," she whispered.
"Wait for what? Frostbite?" Rafael adjusted his collar, preparing to launch into a closing argument about the benefits of indoor heating.
Click.
It happened all at once. An audible hum of electricity surged through the park, and suddenly, the world turned gold.
Thousands of tiny white lights wrapped around the trunks and branches of the trees flared to life. The Mall was transformed from a gray, wintry path into a glowing tunnel of fireflies. The light reflected off the patches of old snow on the ground and danced in Olivia’s eyes.
Rafael shut his mouth. The argument died in his throat.
It was... undeniably breathtaking. The contrast of the sharp, cold air and the warm, enveloping light created a hush that settled over the few pedestrians wandering the path.
"Okay," Rafael admitted quietly, the tension leaving his shoulders. "I withdraw my previous objection. That is... significant."
"I told you," Olivia said, her voice soft with satisfaction. She turned to face him, the glow from the trees casting soft shadows across her face, smoothing away the lines of stress that usually lived around her eyes. "You spend so much time looking at files, Rafa. Sometimes you forget to look up."
"I look up," he defended, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He stepped closer to her, drawn in by the warmth radiating from her, or perhaps just the way the lights caught the gold flecks in her irises. "I look at you."
Olivia’s breath hitched. She lowered her cup of cocoa, the steam curling between them.
"Smooth, Counselor," she murmured, a flush rising on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the wind.
"Accurate," he countered.
He reached out, his gloved hand finding hers. He didn't pull her along the path this time. Instead, he tugged her gently off the main walkway, toward a massive, ancient oak tree near the edge of the lawn. Its trunk was wrapped in lights that extended high into the branches, creating a secluded umbrella of illumination away from the prying eyes of the joggers and tourists.
"Where are we going?" she asked, following him without resistance.
"Out of the wind," he said, stepping into the shelter of the tree. The massive trunk blocked the biting gust coming off the reservoir. It was quieter here, darker but for the fairy lights spiraling above them.
He turned to her, the city noise muffled by the distance and the winter air. "And away from the public. I feel a sudden need for privacy."
Under the shelter of the oak, the wind died down to a whisper.
The world narrowed to the few feet of space between them. Above, the strands of fairy lights wound tight around the thick branches created a ceiling of soft, amber fire. It cast a glow that turned the trampled snow at their feet into a carpet of diamonds and painted Olivia’s skin in warm, golden hues.
She looked up at the lights, her expression unguarded in a way he rarely saw. Usually, her face was set in determination or guarded by exhaustion. Here, bathed in the artificial starlight, she looked younger. Softer.
"It's quiet," she whispered, a cloud of steam escaping her lips. She didn't look at him yet; she was still mesmerized by the canopy. "You can’t even hear the sirens."
"The city is holding its breath," Rafael murmured. He took the paper cup of half-finished cocoa from her hand and set it on the low stone wall behind them. "It knows better than to interrupt."
Freed of the cup, Olivia finally turned her gaze to him. The playful glint was gone, replaced by a heavy, lidded look that made Rafael’s pulse hammer against his collar.
"You're shaking," he noted, though he wasn't much warmer.
"It's the adrenaline," she lied softly. "Or maybe I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the phone to ring."
"Let it ring," he said, stepping closer until the toes of his boots bumped against hers. "We are off the clock, Lieutenant. For the next five minutes, the only case you have to solve is how to get warm."
He reached out, taking her gloved hands in his. The leather of his gloves against the wool of hers felt clumsy, impersonal. He frowned at the barrier.
Slowly, deliberately, he let go of one of her hands to pull his own glove off, tucking it into his pocket. Then the other. He reached for her hands again, tugging the thick wool mittens from her fingers with a patience that bordered on reverence.
When his bare skin finally touched hers, the shock was electric—a jolt of cold meeting heat that made them both gasp.
"Your hands are freezing," she whispered, her fingers instinctively curling around his palms to share warmth.
"They're fine," he dismissed, lifting his hands to frame her face.
He slid his fingers into the hair at her temples, pushing the knit beanie back just enough so he could see her eyes clearly. His thumbs brushed over her cheekbones, the skin cool and flushed pink from the wind.
"You are..." He searched for a word that could encompass the lights, the snow, and the way she was looking at him like he was the only anchor in a drifting world. "...Radiant."
Olivia leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut. "You're poetic when you're cold, Barba."
"I am poetic when I am inspired," he corrected, his voice dropping to a rough murmur.
He lowered his head, giving her ample time to pull away, to make a joke, to check her phone. She didn't. She tilted her chin up, shifting on her toes to meet him halfway.
The kiss began softly—a tentative brush of lips, testing the temperature, a question asked and answered in the silence. But the moment their mouths connected, the cold air around them ceased to matter.
Rafael groaned low in his throat, his grip on her face tightening as he deepened the kiss. It was slow and unhurried, a luxury they rarely afforded themselves. He tasted the sweetness of the cocoa on her tongue and the sharp, clean scent of the winter air clinging to her skin.
Olivia’s hands found their way inside his open coat, sliding around his waist to press flat against the warmth of his back through his sweater. She pulled him closer, erasing the space between their heavy coats until they were a single, insulated entity under the glowing tree.
The lights above them flickered—a gentle, rhythmic pulse—but neither of them noticed.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their breathing and the rustle of the wind in the branches above. It was a suspended moment in time, a perfect, stolen frame in the movie of a city that never stopped moving.
When Rafael finally pulled back, he didn't go far. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged. He kept his hands on her face, unwilling to break the connection.
"Better?" he asked, his voice barely audible.
"Much," she breathed, opening her eyes. They were shining, reflecting the thousands of tiny bulbs above them. "I can't feel my toes, but... I don't care."
"We should get you inside," he said, though he made no move to step away. "Hypothermia is not a valid defense for being late to work tomorrow."
"Five more minutes?" she asked, a hopeful smile tugging at her lips.
Rafael looked at her—flushed, happy, and holding onto him like she never wanted to let go. He looked at the lights. He looked at the empty path beyond the tree.
"Take ten," he whispered, and kissed her again.