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The verdict lands with a dull, suffocating weight but not like justice. Because there was no justice in a case where a young girl took her life.
The verdict felt like something heavy being placed over a wound that will never close. How could it, Olivia thought.
The girl is gone. Sixteen years old and gone. Reduced to memories, testimony, photographs.
Abused by her mother for years. The girl learned early that pain was expected, and comfort was not. She was taught, slowly and carefully, that she didn’t matter. That she was the problem. That her mother’s life would be better without her.
She hurt herself because she believed she deserved it. Because the person who should have protected her convinced her she was a burden. A mistake.
And God.
God, did it bring out of Olivia everything she would rather forget.
Everything about her existence. Her childhood. Her life.
She knows what it’s like to grow up believing your existence is a mistake. To feel like you owe the world something for taking up space. To learn that pain feels familiar, even deserved. To hurt yourself not because you want to disappear, but because you think you’re supposed to suffer.
As the mother is led away in cuffs, Olivia turns before she completely loses control. Tears spill down her face before she can stop them, hot and relentless. This isn’t just another victim.
This is a mirror she never wanted held up.
And somehow breathing was becoming an effort. She needed to get away. Finn and Elliot stand a few feet away from her, talking quietly, what comes next now that the case is officially over.
And under any other circumstances, Elliot’s presence alone would ground her.
Two months ago, that steadiness had started to mean something different, bigger.
Nothing official or labeled. Just conversations that went on too late into the night. Truths spoken carefully, like both of them were still afraid to break something fragile. Kathy and him have been separated for over a year, not just separated but divorced, and eventually the unspoken things between Olivia and Elliot had finally been spoken aloud. Feelings that had lived under the surface for decades, finally acknowledged.
They hadn’t taken any major steps forward. Just hands finding each other in the dark, just sitting close on her couch after long days, shoulders touching, breathing in sync. And all that would eventually lead to them holding each other in their arms till late at night. Whispering soft little words as their hands and light movements of their fingers ground each other.
Usually, the thought of him, was enough to steady her. Enough to remind her she wasn’t alone. That someone in her life saw her fully and stayed anyway. That she truly did matter.
But that didn’t help her now.
Not when she feels exposed just standing there.
Not when there’s something she’s barely allowed herself to remember. And the idea of him witnessing that, the part of her that still feels broken, makes her chest tighten painfully.
Elliot shifts his weight slightly, turns just enough that his attention drifts elsewhere for a second.
That’s all she needs. She turns, walks out of the courtroom and doesn’t look back. She needs safety of being alone with the pain before it spills out where someone she cares about could see it. Before she says something she’s spent a lifetime locking away.
So she did the thing she learned the best in her life, she locked her heart from the world and she locked the doors of her apartment.
She sits on the couch long after she gets home, her body feels heavy, like gravity has doubled. She curls slightly inward, one arm wrapped across her middle, the other resting uselessly at her side. The cushions dip under her weight and for a moment she lets herself sink, lets the stillness hold her.
And she grieves.
She grieves the girl that felt like pain was something she could control when everything else was chaos.
And she grieves the fact that she knows that logic.
She knows what it’s like to grow up believing you have to absorb anger that isn’t yours and turn it inward because that feels easier than letting it destroy everything around you. To feel like your existence came at a cost you’re supposed to pay.
She thinks about her younger self.
About the truth she never asked for and didn’t know how to put down. The knowledge of how she was conceived sitting in her chest like a bruise no one else could see. The way her mother’s pain filled every room, every silence, until Olivia learned to make herself smaller.
She remembers lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she was some kind of cosmic joke.
If violence had stamped itself into her DNA.
If there was something rotten in her that would never go away because it had been there from the beginning.
The guilt had been relentless back then. Guilt for being alive, for reminding her mother of something she wanted to forget. Guilt for needing love from someone who didn’t know how to give it without hurting herself in the process.
She presses her fingers into the fabric of the couch, grounding herself. She wants to draw her knees up, curl inward, rest her forehead against them and disappear into that small, contained space where nothing else can touch her.
But—
There’s a knock at the door.
A knock she knows all to well.
Her body reacts before her mind does, muscles tightening, heart stuttering painfully in her chest. And for a moment she considers not moving at all. Pretending she isn’t here. Letting the silence stretch until he gives up and leaves.
Because she wants him. God, she wants him. His steadiness. His arms. The way he holds her like she’s real and solid and worth staying for.
But at the same time… she doesn’t know how to let herself have that right now.
Because there’s a part of her, deeply buried, that still doesn’t know if she deserves the comfort right now. That little girl inside her, the one she hid away, is wide awake now, whispering that she shouldn’t open the door. That she shouldn’t take up space. That she shouldn’t need anything.
Another knock follows. Same rhythm. Same patience.
He’s not leaving.
“Liv,” he says gently. Not accusing. “I know you’re in there.”
Her eyes close. Her chest tightens.
“I’m not going away until you open,” he adds, just as steady. “You don’t have to talk about anything. I just need to see you’re alright”
She exhales shakily and pushes herself up from the couch. Her legs feel heavy, like they don’t quite belong to her. She moves slowly, as if going too fast might make her unravel completely.
Halfway to the door, she stops.
She closes her eyes for a brief second, steadying herself, reminding herself she’s not trapped. She’s not wrong for needing someone, for needing comfort.
The little girl inside her doesn’t fully believe that.
But Elliot does.
She reaches the door and rests her forehead briefly against it, just for a second, breathing in, breathing out.
“I’m here,” he says quietly from the other side, like he knows exactly where she is.
Then she straightens, unlocks the door, and pulls them open.
He’s standing there, exactly as she knew he would be. Jacket on. Eyes soft but searching, taking her in all at once. He doesn’t say her name. He doesn’t need to.
She looks tired. Worn down. Vulnerable in a way she rarely allows anyone to see. And for a heartbeat, she almost steps back, almost closes the door again.
Instead, she stays.
And he doesn’t hesitate.
He steps forward, decisive but gentle, and reaches back with one hand to push the door closed behind him. It clicks shut softly, sealing the apartment away from the rest of the world.
Then he’s right there.
One arm comes around her back, firm and sure, pulling her in against him before her mind can catch up. His other hand rises to the back of her head, palm warm and steady, fingers spreading protectively through her hair.
He holds her like he knows she’s already falling.
For a few seconds, she doesn’t respond. She stands there pressed against his chest, heart pounding, every nerve screaming that this is too much and not enough all at once.
But he doesn’t move away.
His hand at the back of her head settles there, anchoring her. His arm tightens slightly around her back, not crushing, not demanding, just present. His breathing is slow and deliberate against her temple, steady in a way hers can’t be yet. He rests his cheek lightly against her hair, grounding her without trapping her.
It’s the patience and care that break her.
Her shoulders sag as the fight drains out of her, and finally she lifts her arms and wrap them around him.
She melts into him.
Her forehead presses into the space near his shoulder, her head turning instinctively until her cheek rests against him. Her body folds inward, giving up its weight, trusting him to hold it, and he does. He adjusts immediately, bracing himself, pulling her closer, his arm firm around her back like a shield.
The sound she makes is small but devastating. A broken exhale that turns into a quiet sob she can’t stop. Her body trembles, not violently, but deeply, like something ancient has been shaken loose.
And he tightens his hold.
His hand at the back of her head moves now, slow and steady, thumb pressing gently where her skull meets her neck, circling in a rhythm meant to soothe. His other arm flexes around her spine, anchoring her fully against him. He breathes with her, matching her broken rhythm until it begins to steady.
This isn’t the kind of comfort that floats on the surface on the skin.
This is the kind that sinks deep into every bone.
The kind that tells the little girl inside her, that she is held without expectation. Without punishment. Without cost.
She just lets herself be held.
And Elliot stands there, solid and unmoving, arms locked around her, holding all of it, the grief for the girl who didn’t survive, the mourning for the child she once was and the guilt she’s still carrying.
When her breathing finally slows, still shaky and fragile, but no longer breaking, he shifts carefully, adjusting his hold without letting her go. One hand stays firm at her back as he guides her deeper into the apartment, until they reach the couch and he turns her, easing her down until she’s sitting.
She wipes at her face with the back of her hand, embarrassed but too tired to care. Her eyes are red. Her chest still feels tight. But she’s breathing calmly.
He watches her for a beat, making sure she’s alright. Then he steps away, heading toward the kitchen without a word.
Elliot returns with a glass of water and holds it out to her. She takes it with both hands, fingers brushing his briefly. The contact is small, but grounding.
She takes a careful sip. Then another. The coolness steadies her, helps settle the tightness in her throat.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, her voice rough but sincere as she sets the glass down on the table.
Elliot sits on the couch beside her, but not too close. He gives her space without leaving, an intentional distance. His elbows rest on his legs, hands loosely clasped. He watches the floor for a moment before speaking, like he’s choosing his words carefully.
“I got worried,” he says finally, voice low and steady. “One second you were there, and the next… you were gone.”
“I’m sorry,” she says automatically. “I just—I needed—”
He shakes his head gently before she can finish. “No.” He looks at her then, really looks at her. “There’s nothing for you to apologize for. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
The words land heavier than he probably intends.
She nods, “I just couldn’t breathe in there anymore,” she admits quietly. “It felt like… if I stayed, something was going to break. And I didn’t know how to stop it. So I just left”
Elliot nods slowly, like he understands that feeling too well. He doesn’t rush to fill the space.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently.
The question hangs between them.
Olivia doesn’t answer right away. Silence stretches out, heavy but not uncomfortable. She stares at the floor, jaw tight, fingers laced together in her lap. For a long moment it looks like she might shake her head, might close herself off again.
But she didn’t, she speaks.
“I can’t get her out of my head,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “The way she must’ve felt. Like there was no way out except… that.” She swallows hard. “I keep thinking about how long she lived like that. How every day probably felt like punishment. Like she shouldn’t be here.”
Her shoulders lift with a shallow breath and fall again.
“She didn’t wake up one day wanting to die Elliot,” Olivia continues. “She woke up every day wanting to find the meaning, the reason.”
Elliot doesn’t interrupt. His eyes stay on her, steady and attentive, giving her the space to keep going.
“I don’t think she ever found one,” Olivia goes on. “Not with a mother who chose bottles of vodka over her own daughter.” Her voice falters just slightly, and her gaze drops to the floor.
The words hang there, heavy and unresolved.
Something inside Elliot fractures at the sound of it, close enough to an ache. He had known this case was personal for her long before she ever said it. He saw it in the way she pushed herself, in how fiercely she fought for that girl, in how deeply every detail seemed to cut. He knew why.
Because of her mother.
Because of the house she grew up in.
Because she saw herself in that girl.
A child trapped inside her mother’s pain, trying to survive someone else’s suffering without being swallowed by it.
Elliot had made a conscious choice during the investigation not to push her. He knew Olivia well enough to understand that when she locked in on a case like this, questioning her motives or asking her to step back would only shut her down. Justice was how she coped. How she stayed upright.
But the case was over now.
And what was left was the aftermath.
He wants, desperately, for her to know that she doesn’t have to carry this part alone. That there is room here, with him, for the messiness of it. For the grief. For the old wounds that never fully healed.
And more than anything, he wants her to feel what she never had growing up: that she deserves to be taken care of, that she deserves gentleness, deserves love.
He shifts slightly, turning more toward her, careful not to crowd her or make her feel cornered. His voice, when he speaks, is gentle and respectful of how fragile this moment is.
“Made you think of your own mother?” he asks quietly.
It’s not an accusation. Not a push. Just an opening. An invitation for her to speak if she wants to. He watches her closely, heart heavy, ready to meet her wherever she goes next.
Because he isn’t leaving, and he needs her to know that.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “It reminded me of my story. The only difference is… that girl really didn’t do anything wrong.”
Elliot doesn’t hesitate. His voice is soft, steady, certain. “You didn’t either.”
She lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Just disbelief. Her gaze drops to her hands, fingers rubbing at her skin like she’s trying to ground herself in something physical.
“She was just born into a cruel household, Elliot,” she says. “I, on the other hand, was born as a reminder of something awful.”
The words hurt coming out. They always do.
“I was a walking, living reminder to my mother,” Olivia continues, voice low and tight. “Of something she would’ve given anything to forget. But she couldn’t. Because I was there.” Her throat tightens. “And she never hid from me what she thought when she looked at me. I knew. I always knew.”
Elliot’s chest aches as he listens. He stays quiet, letting her take the space she needs.
“And I can’t even blame her,” Olivia says, tears gathering now, blurring her vision. “A mother is supposed to love. But how do you love something that broke you?” She shakes her head slowly. “It must feel so twisted. You hate what happened to you. You hate the person who did it. And then you’re reminded every single day of it. At the breakfast table. In the hallway. In your own home.”
“It’s not your fault,” Elliot says gently, firmly, like he needs the words to reach all the way down to the places where she still doubts it.
She swallows, but her eyes stay down.
“I know that,” she says. “I even believe it most days. But growing up…” Her shoulders tense. “Growing up, I felt like a mistake that slipped by. Like something that should’ve been erased but wasn’t. Like the universe messed up and just… left me there.”
She presses her lips together, trying to keep her composure, failing.
“That girl… she thought she was the problem,” Olivia says. “So did I. And that’s what scares me the most. Because I know exactly how convincing that thought can be. How it wraps itself around you until you don’t even question it anymore.”
Elliot shifts closer now, unable to stay back any longer. Not touching yet but close enough that she can feel him there.
“I remember the first time my mother told me I was a product of rape. That made me feel like my existence was wrong, that somehow, my very presence is punishment for someone else’s sin. It whispered that every act of love I craved, I didn’t deserve it.”
Elliot was holding back his tears at those words because for him, there was no part of her that didn’t deserve love. And it was so obvious for him, so natural. But he understood why she felt the way she did.
“And then when I was thirteen,” Olivia says, barely audible now, “she told me for the first time that she wished she’d never had me.”
The words sit there, heavy and final.
“I believed her,” she continues after a moment. “Not just because she said it. But because I could see it.” Her voice trembles. “I saw her pain every day. I saw how much she was hurting. How she drowned it in alcohol.”
She swallows hard, eyes glossy, unfocused, staring at something far away.
“I watched her disappear a little more every year,” Olivia says. “And I thought… this is because of me.”
Her hands tighten in her lap.
“I stopped asking for things,” she continues. “Stopped expecting them. Love, comfort, protection, those became things other people got.” She shrugs faintly. “I told myself I didn’t need them. That wanting them from her was selfish.”
Her fingers trace an invisible line along her knee, repetitive, grounding.
“I got good grades. Stayed out of trouble. Took care of myself.” Her voice softens. “I took care of her, too. Made sure she ate. Made sure she got home.”
Elliot swallows hard.
“And when she drank,” Olivia says, “I learned not to react. Not to exist. Not to be loud.” She glances up at him briefly, eyes shining. “I learned how to shrink so I wouldn’t set anything off.”
She pauses, chest rising and falling.
“And there was always this sense that I owed something,” she says. “Like the world was doing me a favor by letting me be here.”
“Because it felt like I was a knife,” she whispers. “Like just by breathing, by asking for anything at all, I was stabbing my mother over and over again.” Her voice cracks.
Elliot’s jaw clenches, his chest aching as he listens, but he stays quiet. He knows this isn’t a moment for interruption. This is something she’s carried alone for too long.
“So I internalized it,” Olivia continues. “I learned to believe that I was the damage. That if I could just make myself smaller, quieter, it would hurt her less.” A shaky breath escapes her. “If I erased pieces of myself, maybe the world would be cleaner. Lighter. Less… dirty.” She shakes her head slowly.
Her shoulders curl inward, instinctively protecting her chest.
“And when that didn’t work… when she was still in pain…” Olivia’s voice falters, barely holding together, “I started thinking maybe, maybe I had to take punishment. To balance the scale.”
Her hand moves before she can second‑guess it. Slowly, deliberately, she pushes up the sleeve of her shirt.
Elliot’s breath catches.
There it is.
A small, circular scar. Pale against her skin. Old and healed but there.
His gaze fixes on it, then flicks back to her face, torn between looking and not looking at all.
“My friend in high school never accidentally burned me,” Olivia says softly. “Like I told everyone.” She swallows. “I did it.”
She looks at him then.
And she sees it, how tightly he’s holding himself together. How every instinct in him is screaming to react, to comfort, to protect the girl she once was from a pain that already happened. But he doesn’t. He stays strong for her.
That restraint almost undoes her more than anything else.
“That’s the only scar that’s left,” she continues quietly. “The others faded and healed completely.” A faint, sad breath leaves her. “But that one stayed.“
Her eyes drift back to the mark, fingers hovering just above it without touching.
“I was in a very bad place when I was fifteen,” she says. “And I really believed, really believed, that if I hurt myself enough, it would make things right. Like pain was a currency. Like if I paid enough of it, the universe would stop collecting interest.”
Her voice shakes, but she keeps going.
“When I hurt myself,” she says quietly, “It felt like justice.”
Elliot’s chest tightens painfully, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“I didn’t want anyone to see,” Olivia goes on. “I didn’t want help. I didn’t want to be stopped. I wanted control. I wanted to decide when the pain happened instead of waiting for it to come out of nowhere.” Her voice drops. “It was quiet. Private. Mine.”
She presses a hand to her sternum. “And the worst part is… it worked. For a while.” A tear slips free. “It grounded me. It made everything else go quiet. And that terrified me, because I knew what that meant.”
Her shoulders start to shake, not violently, but deeply, like something old is finally cracking open.
“And above all of that, I was really convinced if I punished myself, maybe my mother would hurt less. Maybe the house would feel lighter. Maybe she wouldn’t drink so much. Maybe I wouldn’t be such a burden.” Tears slide down her face unchecked.
“Maybe if I carved the bad out of me, there’d be something left that was worth loving.”
Elliot can’t take it anymore.
He reaches out and places his hand lightly over her knee. In a warm and gentle and reassuring way. His thumb presses just slightly, a grounding pressure. His jaw is tight. His eyes red, with tears about to spill any second.
“You didn’t deserve that,” he says quietly, his voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “Any of it.”
Her lip trembles.
“I know that,” she whispers. She wipes at her face quickly, like she’s embarrassed by the tears. “El, it was a long time ago. I’m alright now. I’ve been alright for a long time. You don’t need to worry about me like that.”
She says it gently, almost apologetically, like she’s trying to protect him now. Like this is something she’s already put in a box, labeled and shelved, something that shouldn’t be pulled out anymore.
But Elliot shakes his head slowly.
“I know you know it,” he says, his voice thick. “I know the adult you understands it. The cop. The woman who’s spent her life standing up for other people.” His hand tightens just slightly on her knee. “But that’s not who I’m talking to right now.”
She looks at him, confused, vulnerable.
“I need her to hear it,” he continues, emotion finally spilling over. His eyes are wet now, tears tracking silently down his cheeks. “The kid. The fifteen‑year‑old who thought she had to hurt just to make the world fair. The girl who believed she had to pay for someone else’s pain.”
Olivia’s breath catches hard. She shakes her head faintly, like she doesn’t want to go there, like that girl is too fragile to touch.
“She didn’t deserve it,” Elliot says again, firmer now. “She didn’t deserve to be blamed. She didn’t deserve to be punished. She didn’t deserve to think she was dirty or wrong or too much.” His voice cracks completely. “Because she wasn’t.”
A sob breaks free from Olivia’s chest, sharp and uncontrollable. She presses a hand over her mouth, but it doesn’t stop the sound.
“I need her to know that she mattered. That she matters. That she’s not a mistake. That she’s not something to punish. That she’s… loved. She’s loved, Liv.”
His eyes glisten, tears sliding down, unchecked. “And I am sorry for the things that happened to her.”
He pauses, voice breaking, and it’s so raw it feels like it’s tearing the air between them apart. “But I am… I am glad she survived. That she’s still here. That she became the woman she is now. Because that woman…” he swallows, his chest rising with the effort to steady his words, “…that woman is someone who stands up for people who don’t have a voice. Someone who fights, who protects, who refuses to let the world chew anyone else up the way she was. That woman… she’s worth everything. She’s worth so much more than any of the pain she went through.”
Tears are streaming down her face now, no longer restrained. She feels exposed in a way she hasn’t in years, like every wall she built has cracked open at once.
And without thinking, without weighing the moment or asking permission, Elliot reaches out.
He takes her arm, the one with the scar. His touch is reverent, careful, like he’s holding something sacred. He lifts it gently and presses his lips to the small, pale mark, a soft warm kiss, steady and devastating in its tenderness.
The gesture breaks her.
A sound tears out of Olivia’s chest, raw and helpless, and she lunges forward, throwing her arms around him as she clutches him tight, fingers digging into his back, her body folding into his as sobs rack through her. She’s not trying to be quiet anymore. She can’t.
Elliot holds her instantly, fiercely, pulling her in until there’s no space left between them. His own breath stutters as he presses his face into her hair, his tears falling freely now too. He doesn’t hide them. He doesn’t stop them.
They sob together, deep, human sobs that come from a place neither of them usually lets anyone see.
And somewhere deep inside Olivia, the girl she’s kept hidden for so long finally exhales.
She’s no longer curled up in a dark corner, no longer bracing for punishment or silence or abandonment. She’s being seen. Held. Acknowledged. Not as a problem to be fixed, not as damage to be managed, but as someone who mattered then and matters now.
That girl is breathing.
And Elliot holds her like he knows exactly who he’s holding, not just the woman she became, but the child she was.
After what was minutes or a hour, they really don’t know, her body stops trembling so violently. The hiccups of sobs fade into soft, uneven breaths. His arms loosen slightly, but he doesn’t let her go, just adjusts so she can relax into him, feel the steady weight of him against her.
Her fingers slide from his back to rest against his chest. She leans her forehead against him, eyes still closed, letting the silence wash over them. He shifts slightly, careful, so she can breathe more freely.
He wipes his face with the back of his hand and then he lifts a thumb to brush at her cheek, removing the tears that have tracked down her face. She tilts her head into his touch, and a small, wobbly smile breaks through.
Elliot smiles at her, voice low and tender. “I meant every word I said Liv. Every single one.”
“I believe you,” she whispers.
They rest their foreheads together, the quiet weight of the room pressing around them, safe and still. His hand settles gently on her cheek, thumb brushing lightly over the curve of her jaw, the touch so soft it feels like it could shatter if handled too roughly.
Neither of them speaks.
And then, almost imperceptibly, her lips brush against his. Not completely a kiss. Just a soft, fleeting touch, a whisper of intention, a promise in one tiny gesture.
There’s nothing sudden or desperate about it. Her eyes flutter open just slightly, meeting his, shy and searching, and he sees the same mixture of wonder and vulnerability he feels mirrored in her gaze.
They had talked before, about the path they might take, about exploring what they feel for each other slowly, tenderly, without pushing. And this, the softest brush of lips, is their first quiet step.
A promise, an acknowledgment that what’s there between them isn’t fleeting or careless.
She pulls back slightly, enough to look at him, really look at him. The man beside her. Her partner. Her friend. Her best friend. The man who makes her heart melt and her stomach flutter like she is teenage girl with a big, embarrassing crush.
Her eyes take in the warmth in his expression, the small lines that crease his face when he smiles, the softness in his gaze that he only lets her see.
Her voice trembles, quiet and raw. “I… I truly fell in love with you,” she whispers.
For a moment, there’s a silence, full and heavy, as if the world itself is holding its breath with them. Then, a wide, almost childlike smile spreads across his face. One that reaches his eyes, crinkles the corners, and warms the space around them.
“Then it’s a good thing, I fell a very long time ago.” he says.
Her lips part, a small sound escaping, soft, almost musical, a laugh that carries relief, joy, and disbelief all at once. She smiles at him, and he reaches up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, thumb lingering against her temple. She leans into the touch, head tilting toward him, letting herself be held in the quiet safety of the space between them.
They sink into the couch together, blankets wrapped around them, the world outside temporarily forgotten.
Olivia felt safe. Seen. Loved.
And deep inside, the little girl she once was, is breathing, no longer curled up in darkness but somewhere in the warmth, held and protected, finally allowed to rest.