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The problem with holiday mixers, Rafael Barba decided as he swirled a glass of lukewarm club soda, was the forced proximity to people he spent the other 364 days of the year trying to avoid.
It was 11:40 PM on New Year's Eve. The rooftop bar of the hotel was packed to fire-code capacity with half the Manhattan District Attorney's office and a significant portion of the NYPD brass. The air smelled of expensive perfume, cheap champagne, and political ambition.
"And that’s why I told the defense counsel," Judge Kincaid was saying, shouting over the thumping bass of a Top 40 remix, "that if he wanted a continuance, he should have filed it before the ink dried on the indictment!"
"Fascinating, Your Honor," Rafael said, his face frozen in a mask of polite interest while his soul slowly left his body. "A masterclass in judicial efficiency."
He checked his watch. Twenty minutes to midnight.
Twenty minutes until the ball dropped. Twenty minutes until the inevitable, chaotic, alcohol-fueled tradition where everyone grabbed the nearest person to ring in the New Year.
For the last three years, Rafael had spent this moment hiding in the men's room or "taking an urgent call" in the lobby. But this year was different. This year, he had someone he wanted to kiss. Desperately.
Unfortunately, that someone was currently standing across the room, wearing a midnight-blue velvet dress that clung to her in ways that violated several statutes regarding public decency.
Olivia Benson was holding court near the bar, laughing at something Amanda Rollins was saying. She looked radiant. Dangerous. Every time she shifted her weight, the slit in the dress revealed a flash of leg that made Rafael’s grip on his glass tighten painfully.
As if sensing his gaze—because of course she did; their radar was attuned to a terrifying frequency—she looked up. Her eyes locked onto his across the sea of blazers and cocktail dresses.
She smirked. It was a tiny, subtle thing, visible only to him. She tilted her head toward the terrace doors, then looked back at Rollins.
The signal.
"If you’ll excuse me, Judge," Rafael interrupted, not waiting for a pause in the story. "I believe I see the Bureau Chief, and I must... pay my respects before the year ends."
"Oh, of course, Barba! Go, go!"
Rafael slipped away, weaving through the crowd like a shark in a coral reef. He dodged a drunken paralegal, sidestepped Fin Tutuola (who was currently showing pictures of his grandson to a captive audience), and made his way toward the edge of the room.
He found her near a potted palm tree by the service entrance to the terrace.
"You look like you were about to hold the Judge in contempt," Olivia murmured, not looking at him. She was pretending to inspect the label on an empty nearby champagne bottle.
"I was considering pleading insanity," Rafael replied, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her, facing the crowd so it looked like a casual conversation between colleagues. "Kincaid has been talking about procedural delays for fifteen minutes. I have aged a decade."
"Poor baby," she teased. She took a sip of her drink. "You know, it’s almost midnight."
"I am aware." He glanced at her, taking in the curve of her neck and the way the velvet absorbed the ambient light. "And I have a distinct problem, Lieutenant."
"Oh?"
"I have no intention of ringing in the New Year shaking hands with my colleagues. However, if I kiss you in front of half of One Police Plaza, we will be the headline of the Post tomorrow morning."
"True," she agreed. "Rollins has been watching me like a hawk. I think she suspects."
"Rollins always suspects. She’s a detective. It’s annoying."
"So," Olivia turned slightly, lowering her voice. "We need an exit strategy. Fast."
"The terrace?"
"Too crowded. Everyone is going out there to watch the fireworks."
"The service corridor?"
"Too risky. Caterers."
Rafael scanned the room. His eyes landed on a heavy oak door near the back of the bar, marked PRIVATE: STAFF ONLY. It likely led to a storage room or a secondary exit.
"Do you trust me?" he asked.
Olivia raised an eyebrow. "With my life? Yes. With my career? Debatable."
"Follow me. Don't look at me. Just... drift."
"I don't 'drift', Barba."
"Meander, then. Just get to that door in two minutes."
He pushed off the wall, adjusting his suit jacket. "Happy New Year, Lieutenant," he said loudly enough for a passing waiter to hear.
"Happy New Year, Counselor," she replied, her voice cool and professional, though the heat in her eyes promised retribution.
Rafael walked away, grabbing two fresh glasses of champagne from a passing tray as he went. He headed toward the back of the room, moving with the purposeful stride of a man looking for a restroom, praying that the "Staff Only" door wasn't locked.
The door marked PRIVATE: STAFF ONLY was, by the grace of whatever deity looked after lovesick fools and District Attorneys, unlocked.
Rafael slipped inside, his heart hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with the bass line thumping through the wall and everything to do with the woman trailing ten feet behind him. He found himself in a narrow service corridor, dimly lit by a flickering fluorescent strip overhead. It smelled of industrial cleaner and stored linens—a sharp contrast to the expensive perfume of the ballroom.
He moved quickly past a stack of banquet chairs and a tower of spare glassware, finding a small alcove where the corridor turned toward the freight elevators. It was secluded. It was quiet. It was perfect.
He checked his watch. 11:56 PM.
He balanced the two champagne flutes he’d pilfered in one hand, using the other to loosen his tie just a fraction. He stood in the shadows, listening.
The heavy door creaked open.
For a split second, Rafael stopped breathing. If it was a waiter, he would have to feign a dizzy spell. If it was Fin, he would have to fake his own death.
A sliver of midnight-blue velvet appeared in the gap.
Olivia slipped through, closing the door softly behind her with a definitive click. She leaned back against the wood, letting out a breath that puffed her cheeks. She looked flustered, her eyes scanning the dim hallway until they landed on him.
A slow, wicked grin spread across her face.
"Coast is clear," she whispered, pushing off the door and walking toward him. The click of her heels on the linoleum echoed sharply in the confined space. "Rollins got cornered by the new captain from the 2-7. She looked miserable. It was the perfect diversion."
"Remind me to send that captain a fruit basket," Rafael murmured, stepping out of the shadows to meet her.
"You're corrupting me, Barba," she said, stopping inches from him. She reached out, running a hand down the lapel of his suit jacket. "Sneaking into service corridors? Hiding from the police? I feel like a delinquent."
"We are delinquents, Liv. We are stealing time." He handed her one of the champagne flutes. "And possibly trespassing. Though as a prosecutor, I would argue we temporarily lost our way in search of a fire exit."
"Is that your official statement?"
"It’s my opening argument."
She laughed, the sound low and intimate, instantly warming the sterile hallway. She took the glass, her fingers brushing his.
"Three minutes," she noted, glancing at the utilitarian clock on the wall above the freight elevator, which was synchronized perfectly with his watch. "We cut it close."
"I thrive under pressure. You know this."
He backed her up gently until she was pressed against the stack of folded tablecloths on a service cart. It wasn't romantic in the traditional sense—they were surrounded by the backstage clutter of a hotel—but the way she looked at him, with her eyes dark and heavy-lidded, made it feel like the most exclusive room in the city.
"You know," she whispered, taking a sip of the champagne. "If we get caught back here, the rumors will be unstoppable. They'll say we were..."
"Conspiring?" he suggested, stepping closer, caging her in against the linens.
"Colluding," she corrected, tilting her head back.
"Compromising the integrity of the justice system?"
"Definitely that."
Through the walls, the muffled sound of the DJ cut out. A voice on a microphone boomed, distant but audible.
"Alright, everyone! Grab your glasses! We are sixty seconds away!"
The roar of the crowd seeped through the door—a wave of collective anticipation.
"One minute," Rafael said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. He set his glass down on a nearby shelf, abandoning the champagne. He didn't need it. He was already drunk on the adrenaline of having her this close, this secretly.
He placed his hands on her waist, the velvet of her dress soft under his palms. "Any last motions before the year ends, Lieutenant?"
Olivia set her glass down next to his. She reached up, her hands sliding into his hair, ruining the gel he had painstakingly applied hours ago.
"Just one," she breathed, pulling him down. "Counsel should approach the bench."
Through the heavy door, the chant began. It was a low rumble at first, growing louder with every number, a collective roar of hundreds of people desperate to put the old year behind them.
"Ten! Nine!"
Rafael didn't look at the door. He didn't look at his watch. He looked only at her.
In the harsh, flickering light of the service corridor, Olivia Benson was a masterpiece. Her eyes were dark and blown wide, her breathing matching the frantic rhythm of his own heart. She was pressed against the stack of linens, but she wasn't retreating. She was holding onto his lapels like they were the only solid thing in a spinning world.
"Eight! Seven!"
"You know," he murmured, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones, tracing the line of her jaw. "This is wildly unprofessional."
"I know," she whispered, her hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his neck, pulling him until their foreheads rested together. "I don't care."
"Six! Five!"
"Neither do I."
"Four! Three!"
The air between them crackled, electric and heavy. The smell of industrial cleaner vanished, replaced entirely by her scent—vanilla, champagne, and the warm, terrifying promise of her.
"Two! One!"
A muffled roar erupted from the ballroom, shaking the door in its frame. Happy New Year!
Rafael didn't hear it. He only heard the sharp intake of her breath as he finally, finally closed the distance.
The kiss wasn't tentative. It wasn't the polite, closed-mouth peck of colleagues or friends. It was an explosion. It was months of stolen glances across courtrooms, late nights over takeout, and unvoiced arguments pouring into a single moment.
Olivia made a low sound in her throat, opening to him immediately. Her fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, ruining his impeccable grooming with delightful efficiency. Rafael groaned, pressing her harder against the linens, his hands sliding down to grip her waist, anchoring her to him.
It was messy. It was desperate. It was perfect.
Somewhere outside, on the terrace, fireworks began to boom—dull thuds that vibrated through the floorboards. But the only spark Rafael cared about was the one burning him alive from the inside out.
They broke apart only when oxygen became a non-negotiable necessity.
Rafael rested his forehead against hers, his chest heaving. His tie was crooked. His lips felt swollen. He was fairly certain he had lost the ability to draft a coherent sentence.
"Happy New Year, Liv," he rasped, his voice wrecked.
"Happy New Year, Rafa," she whispered back, her eyes shining. She looked thoroughly kissed and incredibly pleased about it.
She reached up, her thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. She frowned slightly.
"We have a problem," she noted, her voice husky.
"We have many problems," he agreed, stealing a quick peck on her nose. "Which one specifically?"
"You're wearing my lipstick. It’s 'Midnight Berry'. Very distinct."
Rafael swore softly, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. "If Fin sees me wearing berry lipstick, I will have to move to New Jersey and change my name."
"Here." She took the handkerchief from him. "Let me."
With gentle, efficient strokes, she wiped the evidence of their crime from his mouth. She checked his collar, smoothed his lapels, and did her best to pat his hair back into some semblance of order.
"Better?" he asked, straightening his tie.
"Passable," she decided. She pulled a compact from her clutch and quickly reapplied her own lipstick, checking her reflection in the small mirror. She snapped it shut with a grin. "Ready to face the jury?"
"Never. But I suppose we must."
He stepped back, offering her his arm—not intimately, but with the polite distance of a colleague escorting a lady.
"You go first," he suggested. "I’ll wait two minutes. I’ll tell anyone who asks that I was taking a call from the DA."
"Coward," she teased.
"Strategist," he corrected.
Olivia opened the door. The wall of noise—laughter, music, cheering—crashed back in on them. She looked back at him one last time, that secret smile playing on her lips.
"See you on the other side, Counselor."
She slipped out, the blue velvet disappearing into the crowd.
Rafael leaned back against the stack of tablecloths, taking a deep breath. He listened to the fading boom of the fireworks. He touched his lips, which still tingled with the ghost of hers.
He checked his watch. 12:05 AM.
It was going to be a very good year.