The precinct is dimmed and silent, only a few ghostly cops drifting around the place as they make their way up to the squad room. She scans her desk for a second before disappearing to the locker room, and he doesn't follow for a minute, figuring that she'll come back downstairs.

He doesn't know what is going to happen when she comes back down. All the things he want to do, that have flashed through his find at inopportune moments, still seem impossible despite the lines they have crossed. Then again, it will never be the right time to think about loving, touching, drowning in his partner. Or never be the wrong one.

When ten minutes have gone past and she still hasn't returned, he begins to wonder. After fifteen minutes, he ignores all the voices in his head that tell him to turn round and go home, the voices of conscience and reason and sense. Instead, he follows her.

She's standing in the locker room, making no attempt either to find her keys or to leave. Instead, her hands are pressed up against the cool, hard metal, as is her forehead as she leans in. He cannot see her face, but he hears her breathing, and the mutters under her breath.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

She had gone upstairs not knowing what she was going to do. Opening her locker, she had seen her keys lying innocently on the top shelf, but the thought of going home, of sitting in a darkened apartment, of touching herself with just the memory of him, is excruciating. She wants to do it now, to come, to release the gnawing, nagging ache between her legs that gets worse every time the seam of her jeans rubs against her. But while she knows that it would be no hard task to bring on an orgasm, she also knows that it wouldn't be enough. Not one, not two, not on her own. She's screwed, and she knows it, needing to feel more than her own familiar fingers against herself.

It's only when she hears the door open that she realises she's been talking to herself. She doesn't have to look to know that it is him, she could tell his entrance anywhere. Not by sight, or sound, or smell, just by something she cannot define.

He takes two steps towards her and she turns round, leaning back against the locker and tipping her head backwards. Her eyes are closed, her lips slightly parted and he almost turns round and walks out of the room. It's too intense, too extreme, too painful to watch her and not have her. But, despite his desire to run and hide, he doesn't. He can never leave her.

When she opens her eyes and looks at him, it's over.

Before he can know how or why, he's in front of her, feeling her breath on his neck. He reaches to her, unthinkingly, guided by a force he has no control over, and then his fingers are running over her collar bone, from the centre outwards, tracing their line.

He's so close. Too close. She's reeling in him, in his scent and his heat and the fear he invokes in her. The fear of prior knowledge. Of knowing this is it. The jump into the unknown. Somehow, somewhere, she knew it would always come to this, and yet that is a lie. She hadn't known at all, and that is what made it bearable. Had she been expecting this for so many years, been waiting for this, she'd have lost it by now. Or perhaps she has, and this is insanity at its best.

She moves backwards, trying to take in some air that isn't him, that hasn't been in him, that isn't weighed down by him. But he follows, and nowhere seems far enough away. They've pushed through the door to the locker room, they're in unknown territory now, and his hands are tracing down her arms.

She's reversing, stepping backwards backwards backwards, until she's hit the wall of the shower room without noticing. If anyone asked how they got there, she wouldn't have a clue.

They still haven't really touched, haven't kissed, haven't dared. Their fingertips are simply together, and occasionally one of them will run their fingers up the others forearms. When she feels the cold tiles against her back she shivers involuntarily. Her nails graze gently on his forearms.

He is trapped. Caught in her eyes. Nothing will ever hold him as tight as they do, and he watches them dilate as he skims her skin, the hairs under his fingers standing on end as he brushes over them.

He's come closer and closer, and now she slips her leg in between his, her thigh pressing against his erection. In turn he leans in, bending at the knee ever so slightly and shifting his leg into her, returning the favour. He feels her push down onto him, not grinding, just creating pressure. He almost kids himself that he can feel her heat, her desire, her want.

Now her hands have travelled to his neck, are scratching the base of his neck, tracing his hairline as she watches his face. He rests with one hand against the tiles, the other brushing the sliver of skin he sees in the gap between her jeans and her top, that he has already touched once before, in the car.

He feels lost, a teenage boy fumbling in the dark. Like the sky might be able to fall in on his head, that the wrath of the gods will descend and destroy him. If she doesn't first.

Then it begins to rain.

They've leant against the shower and now it's drenching them, soaking through their clothes to their skin, weighing them down. Neither makes a move though, either to stop the water or to stop their actions. They know they couldn't if they tried.

She undoes the button of his pants and slides the zip down slowly before releasing him. He had been damp before, a combination first of desire and then of water seeping through, but now a torrent of water coats him. Her hand is wet as well, and the sensation is unbearable and perfect.

He's looking at her, and when she takes him in her hand, touches him for the first time, it seems he is crying, streaks of water trailing down his face and dancing between his stubble. She begins to move, and as she does so, he slips his hand down into her pants again. His leg is still between hers and the friction his hand creates between her body and his is harsh, exquisite.

He can feel her heat, the difference in textures between the sheer lightness of the water and the thicker, hotter, slipperiness of her core. His attention is torn between the lust travelling through his body and the feel of her beneath his hand. He presses hard, unable to control himself, pressing up against her pelvic bone in fury, and feels her shudder slightly underneath him.

With that, she tightens her grip on him, and he almost shudders too. He wants more and yet for nothing to change, to fall into her and never surface but he also knows this, this excruciating agony of sensation and frustration and longing will kill him if it doesn't end.

He is vaguely aware that his shoes have filled with water, he's drenched, and then such prosaic thoughts disappear again as, despite his body pressed against her, she slides her back down the wall. He imagines she leaves a trail across his pant leg as she rubs himself across him.

Then her mouth is on his cock and there is no more room for imagination or thought or the feeling of water running down his spine. All his mind can hold is the increased warmth of her mouth and the scrape of her teeth upon him, the friction counteracting the slickness of so much water and liquid on him.

She is soaked, water streaming down her face, and he strokes her cheek as she runs her tongue from the base of his cock to the tip and pauses for a second, tasting the droplets that lie there.

They lose themselves, for what might be hours but is probably only minutes. Her core is throbbing, desperate, but she cannot help but think of her release in the car, and his lack of one. Nevertheless, she cannot help squirming slightly, causing the drenched fabric to rub against her, granting some relief and yet increasing her desire.

He's tensing now, both hands leaning against the wall, overshadowing her, and yet the thought of this being it, of him coming in her mouth, of them doing something that lovers do, is terrifying. That, and he wants to see her eyes, to gaze at her face to face when he comes.

He takes one hand from the wall and runs his hand down through her drenched hair, across her cheek to under her chin. Lifting her head slightly, she looks up at him before squinting and blinking at the water hitting her. Without speaking, he draws her up in front of him, leaning back into her and returning his hand to her pants.

She hadn't expected his movement, his stopping her actions, but when he touches her again her confusion vanishes in a haze of aching want. Before she can gasp, can get a full, humid breath into her lungs, his fingers are in her and she's reached down between them to inflict the same torment on him, running her hand smoothly up and down him and swiping the tip with her thumb.

Their stomachs are almost touching, one of her hands gripping the back of his neck as he presses ever closer, ever harder. Her chest is hard against and he can feel her heat through their soaking clothes, feel her heart beating, almost as clear as if they were naked. As he continues his touch, he's skirting round her clit, moving his fingers but only brushing gently with his thumb, and she digs her nails into his skin, desperate to urge him onwards. She wants to sob, to beat him, to scream his name, but they stay silent, drops of water running across their lips and falling into oblivion.

As she comes near to her release, her muscles tense and her breath speeds up, and he can feel her begin to shake beneath him. Not only is she starting to clench around his fingers but her hand has sped up on his cock, and he knows that it isn't long before he will come. As he feels himself tighten, his muscles spasm, he presses in onto her clit with his thumb.

When he comes in her hand, she doesn't realise for a second, so swept away is she by her orgasm. His thumb has pushed against her, and the intensity of that pressure after such gentle, fluttering strokes causes shudders throughout her body as it screams. She can feel a low, humming moan coming from her, fading into silence but for the sound of water pouring across them, and in that noise she can also make out his panting next to her ear.

As she comes down, finds her sense and her mind again, she looks down at her hand, still on his cock. She has his come on her fingers, and before it is washed away by the water, she lifts her hand and traces his lips slowly, going from corner to corner. He does the same, coating her with herself, adding a sheen to her mouth as she looks at him.

And then they kiss. Then and only then, after both coming, after touching each other in the most private of ways, after being soaked to the skin and feeling the whole of their bodies pressed to each other. They kiss, and they taste each other on their mouths as it mixes with saliva and water and sweat, and they drown.

Their hands run across each others bodies, through the clothes, but they don't need to touch to know. After so long, their body shapes, where their muscles lie, where they curve, where their scars have changed them, are so known to them that feeling it is simply an affirmation of that knowledge, not a learning.

The shower is lukewarm now, a chill settling onto them through their clothes, and yet they should be steaming as cold water touches heated bodies. They're kissing with eleven years of grief and rage and helplessness controlling them, and it feels like a new beginning, an eternity starting.

They both shiver involuntarily at the same time, and the kiss slows, and stops. They lean against each other, forehead to forehead, breath mixing as soon as it leaves their mouths. They're both panting slightly, tremors beginning to take over their bodies uncontrollably as cold water hits them. They're in sync in every shudder they make.

Olivia turns off the shower.

There is water everywhere, dripping off the tips of her hair, resting on her eyelashes as she looks at him. She blinks, breaks their eye contact, and it falls to the ground, flowing away with the rest of the water. He wants to catch it with his tongue, hold it, but it's over.

Their fingers intertwine with one another as they step from the shower, water following them as they step across the floor, leaving a trail behind them as they leave.

And then they let go.