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The dream was always the same.
He was back in the courtroom. But it wasn't the sterile, wood-paneled room at 100 Centre Street. It was a cage. The walls were closing in, made of iron bars that groaned as they constricted.
The gallery was full of ghosts. Baby Drew. Lewis. Wheatley. They were all screaming, a cacophony of accusation.
Guilty. Guilty. Monster.
Rafael stood at the defense table, but he couldn't move. His hands were shackled to the table.
And in the judge's chair sat Olivia.
She wasn't wearing judicial robes. She was wearing her black blazer. She held a gavel that looked suspiciously like a gun.
"You have the right to remain silent," she intoned, her voice booming like thunder. "But you never do, do you, Rafael?"
"I'm trying to save you!" he screamed, pulling at the chains. The metal bit into his wrists, drawing blood.
"You're hurting me," she countered. She raised the gavel/gun. "You always hurt me."
The walls slammed shut. The air vanished. A figure lunged at him from the shadows—a faceless assailant tackling him to the ground. Rafael fought back. He had to fight back. It was instinct. It was survival.
He swung his arm with everything he had, striking out at the shadow, desperate to break free...
CRACK.
The sound of the impact was sickeningly real. It wasn't the dull thud of a dream; it was the sharp, wet slap of flesh on flesh.
"Rafael!"
The scream ripped him from the nightmare.
Rafael gasped, sitting bolt upright, his chest heaving, sweat soaking through his t-shirt. He was disoriented, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
He wasn't in a cage. He was in a hotel room in Albany. The streetlights outside cast long, orange shadows across the twin beds.
He looked to his left.
Olivia was sitting on the edge of her bed—the bed he had just been thrashing in? No, she had come to wake him.
She was clutching her face.
Rafael froze. The air left the room.
"Liv?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
She lowered her hand. Even in the dim light, the mark was visible. A red welt rising rapidly on her cheekbone, right beneath her eye. Her lip was split, a small bead of blood welling in the corner.
He had hit her.
He had lashed out in his sleep, and he had backhanded her across the face.
"Oh my god," Rafael choked out.
He scrambled backward, practically falling off the other side of the bed. He hit the wall and slid down it, pulling his knees to his chest, burying his hands in his hair.
"Rafa, it's okay," Olivia said. Her voice was calm, but he could hear the shock in it. "You were dreaming. You were screaming."
"Don't," he commanded, his voice raw. "Don't come near me."
"I'm fine. It was an accident."
"I hit you," he said, staring at his hands. His right hand—the one that had connected—was throbbing. "I drew blood."
"It's a split lip. I've had worse from a suspect resisting arrest."
"I am not a suspect!" he shouted, the self-loathing exploding out of him. "I am supposed to be the one person you don't have to defend yourself against!"
He squeezed his eyes shut, the image of her flinching searing itself into his brain.
"I'm dangerous," he whispered. "I'm unstable. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be in this room with you."
"Rafael, stop."
He heard her stand up. He heard her footsteps.
"Stay back!" he warned, pressing himself harder into the wall. "I mean it, Liv. I don't know... I don't know if I'm awake yet. I don't know if I'll do it again."
"You are awake," she said. She stopped a few feet away. He could sense her hovering. "Look at me."
He shook his head.
"Look. At. Me."
He forced his head up.
She was standing there, silhouetted by the window. She had wiped the blood from her lip. The bruise on her cheek was darkening, but her eyes were soft.
"I didn't mean to," he whispered, the words tumbling out on a sob. "Liv, I didn't mean to."
"I know," she said.
"In the dream... I was trapped. I was fighting. I thought..." He swallowed hard. "I thought I was fighting for you. But I ended up hurting you. It's the metaphor of my entire life, isn't it?"
Olivia sighed. She walked over to the mini-bar, grabbed a bottle of water, and cracked it open. She took a sip, then walked over to him and slid down the wall until she was sitting next to him. Not touching. Just close.
"It's not a metaphor," she said quietly. "It's a nightmare. You have PTSD, Rafael. You've been through a lot. It’s not surprising that you fight in your sleep."
"I hit a woman," he stated, the shame acid in his throat. "My father... my father used his hands. I swore I never would."
"You are not your father," she said fiercely. "Your father hit to control. You hit because your brain was misfiring in a panic loop. There is a difference."
"The result is the same. You're bleeding."
"And you're shaking."
She reached out. He flinched, pulling his arm away.
"Please," he begged. "Don't touch me. I don't deserve it."
"Too bad," she said. She reached out again, slower this time, and took his hand. She forced his clenched fist to uncurl. She placed her palm against his.
"See?" she said. "No hitting. Just holding."
Rafael stared at their hands. He felt tears leaking from his eyes, hot and humiliating.
"I didn't mean to," he repeated, the phrase becoming a confession for everything. "I didn't mean to leave you at the courthouse. I didn't mean to make you feel abandoned."
"I know," she whispered.
"I didn't mean to take the Wheatley case to hurt you. I meant to save you from a cross-examination that would have ended your career. I didn't mean to act like I knew better than you. I just... I was so scared of losing you."
"I know," she said, her thumb stroking the back of his hand.
"I didn't mean to break us," he finished, his voice barely audible. "I thought... I thought if I stepped away, the colors would stop swirling. I thought I could go back to the black and white. But I couldn't. I just brought the gray with me."
Olivia was silent for a long moment. She brought his hand to her lips—her split lip—and kissed his knuckles.
"You hurt me," she admitted. The honesty was brutal, but clean. "Tonight. And two years ago. You hurt me, Rafael."
He flinched, but he didn't pull away. He accepted the verdict.
"But," she continued. "I know you didn't mean to. Intent matters. In the law, and in life."
"Does it?" he asked. "The injury is the same regardless of intent."
"No," she said. "If you had hit me because you were angry... because you wanted to control me... I would have put you through that wall and arrested you. But this?" She gestured to the room, to the nightmare. "This is just... fallout. This is us trying to survive the damage we've both taken."
She shifted, turning her body toward him.
"I didn't mean to push you away, either," she said softly. "When you came back. I didn't mean to make you feel like you had to earn your way back into my life. I was just... hurt. And stubborn."
"We're both stubborn," he murmured.
"We are."
She touched her cheek, wincing slightly.
"I need ice," she said.
"I'll get it," Rafael said, starting to get up.
"Sit," she ordered. "I'll get it. You need to breathe. You're hyperventilating."
She got up and went to the ice bucket. She wrapped a few cubes in a washcloth and came back. She sat down, pressing the cloth to her cheek.
"It really doesn't hurt," she lied.
"You're a terrible liar, Captain."
"I'm trying to make you feel better."
"Don't. I need to feel this. I need to remember that I am capable of hurting you."
"Why?"
"So I never do it again."
Olivia looked at him. The ice pack covered half her face, but her other eye was clear and penetrating.
"You can't promise that, Rafa. We're going to hurt each other. That's the price of admission. You'll say something sharp. I'll shut down. You'll take a case I hate. I'll run into a burning building."
She reached out with her free hand and grabbed his knee.
"The goal isn't 'never hurt each other'," she said. "The goal is 'never mean to'. And when we do... we fix it."
"How do I fix this?" he asked, gesturing to her face.
"You go back to sleep," she said.
"I can't. If I sleep... the cage comes back."
"Then we change the setting."
She stood up. "Move over."
"What?"
"Move over. One bed."
"Liv, I just assaulted you in my sleep. You are not sleeping in the same bed as me."
"I am," she said, kicking off her slippers and climbing onto his mattress. "Because if you start thrashing, I want to be close enough to wake you up before you wind up a punch."
"Or I'll break your nose."
"I have excellent reflexes. And now I'm on guard."
She patted the space beside her. "Come on. I'm tired. And my face hurts."
Guilt, sharp and fresh, pierced him. He couldn't argue with her when she played the injury card.
He climbed back into the bed. He lay on his back, stiff as a board, terrified to move.
Olivia settled in beside him. She turned on her side, facing him. She draped her arm—the one not holding the ice pack—across his chest.
"Relax," she murmured. "I've got you."
"I'm afraid," he whispered into the dark.
"I know. Me too."
"What if I hurt you again?"
"Then I'll hit you back," she mumbled sleepily. "Harder."
Rafael let out a startled, breathless laugh. "Fair."
He lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of her arm. It was heavy. It was trusting. It was an act of profound forgiveness.
I didn't mean to, he thought again.
But as he listened to her breathing even out, he realized the inverse was also true.
He did mean to love her. He meant to stay. He meant to protect her, even from himself.
He reached up and carefully, gently, placed his hand over hers on his chest.
"I'm sorry," he whispered one last time.
"Go to sleep, Barba," she breathed.
And this time, the dream didn't come. There was no cage. Just the steady rise and fall of her breath, and the promise that even when he broke things, she was willing to help him glue them back together.