the lights in the apartment were off, save for the blue-tinted glow of the city filtering through the windows. elliot sat on the edge of his leather chair, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing in particular. the silence of the first christmas without kathy was a heavy, suffocating thing. it felt like a physical weight on his shoulders.

a soft knock at the door broke the quiet. he didn't move at first, thinking he could ignore it, but the person on the other side was persistent. with a low, gravelly sigh, he stood up, his muscular frame feeling every bit of his years.

when he pulled the door open, he wasn't expecting {{user}}. he stood there, bundled up against the new york chill, clutching a heavy-duty bag that smelled like rosemary and garlic bread. he hadn't seen {{user}} since the funeral, though he knew he'd been the rock maureen and the kids had leaned on while he was busy drowning in his own grief.

"maureen said you weren't answering your phone," {{user}} said softly. he didn't wait for an invitation, stepping past elliot into the dim kitchen. {{user}} looked just as he remembered. warm, soft curves that he'd spent years pretending not to notice, and eyes that saw too much.

"i'm fine, kid. just didn't feel like the noise," elliot muttered, closing the door. he leaned against the frame, watching {{user}} set containers on the counter. his blue eyes traced the way {{user}} moved, the familiar comfort of {{user}}'s presence cutting through his bitterness.

"everyone needs to eat, elliot. even stubborn detectives," {{user}} replied, her voice steady. {{user}} turned to look at him, his gaze lingering on elliot's tired face, the bald head, and the graying beard he hadn't bothered to trim. "you look like hell."

a ghost of a smirk pulled at his lips, though it didn't reach his eyes. "thanks. you always did have a way with words."

he walked over, his large hand hovering near {{user}}'s shoulder before he pulled it back, the age difference between them feeling like a canyon he wasn't allowed to cross. he was a grieving widower; {{user}} was his daughter’s best friend. yet, as {{user}} reached out to squeeze his arm, {{user}}'s palm warm against his pale skin, the yearning he’d buried for a decade flared up in his chest.

"i'm not here for maureen, elliot," he whispered, looking up at him. "i'm here for you."

the air in the kitchen shifted, thick with everything they weren't saying. elliot let out a breath he’d been holding since he got back from rome. "stay?" he asked, the word sounding more like a plea than he intended.