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"Olivia," he says, a prayer meant for her alone, standing at the altar of her desk. Her office is a holy place, and he can't be caught wanting her in it. Can't be caught wanting her at all. He's an ADA now. Can't be caught watching her smile and slick her sweat-stuck bangs from her forehead; can't be caught wanting to suck the salt from her fingertips.
Amanda would never forgive him. Or she would, and it would hurt worse than if she didn't. He worries that she knows, somehow, no matter how well he hides it.
He couldn't betray Rafael like this. Sonny knows he loves her. She hasn't spoken to him since the trial, but he loves her. Sonny wonders if she loves him too. If she's angry, hurt, or loves him enough to not wish to see him any longer.
She's looking at Sonny, but he wants her to do anything but.
He doesn't recall the case, just the smell of her. The sweetness he can't lean into, no matter how desperately he needs it.
She doesn't depend solely on coffee like Rafael does.
Sonny wishes he could stop thinking about her, about him.
Live without living like this. Without needing. Olivia's gazing at him from across the hard wood of the desk.
He smiles back at her and closes his eyes.
"You feeling all right, Carisi?" she asks, merciless, pure and genuine care in her tone. Unknowing of his wanting, his need. She couldn't know. She couldn't.
He opens his eyes, but doesn't look at her. He can't. He might fall to his knees and bury his face in the fabric of her slacks.
"I'm all right, Liv."
And it's the truth.
He's with Amanda and Olivia, they'd invited her to a late dinner, and thankfully, she had accepted. Amanda and Liv are discussing something—not a case, there's an unspoken rule about not talking about those at the table, and though Olivia has no need to follow it, she does nonetheless—but Sonny can't hear a thing, dizzy from the blood pounding in his ears. Warmth in his stomach. The food he's barely picked at settling in it like a rock. He plays with the fork.
Amanda's happier than he's seen her in a while, chatting with Olivia. Sonny knows the feeling. Her eyes are light and gleaming with it.
Olivia turns towards him. He barely resists the urge to squirm, her attention something he aches for, but it hurts just as badly to receive it. A burning spotlight on the most hidden parts of himself, blistering him and leaving numbness when the burn subsides, when she looks away. But now, she's looking at him, and smiling in that way she does, even as she talks to Amanda.
Amanda turns to look at him, too. He moves, a bit, face hot, hoping he's not red. About to blame a phantom sickness on his inability to do much of anything in their combined presence. He is sick, in a way. Burning up; unable to eat, if purely psychological.
A good enough excuse to remove himself from the table. To seek refuge in the bathroom. To go check on the kids.
He won't, though, and he knows it. He's a coward like that.
He says something that doesn't matter, but seems to placate Amanda, though Olivia looks at him for a beat longer. She turns back to the conversation. Sonny can breath again.
The rest of dinner passes by with little incident, even as Sonny remains hyper-aware of every second, every look, every laugh.
Olivia offers to help with the dishes. Sonny almost denies her, she's far too important for him to let her do dishes in his and Amanda's home, but changes his mind. Looks at her with soft eyes, and she doesn't realize he isn't smiling. Or she ignores it. "You can dry, if you want," he acquiesces.
Amanda is packing away the left overs. If she notices Sonny didn't eat much, she doesn't say anything. Olivia takes the dish towel.
Sonny's looking, again, edging dangerously close to watching, and Olivia and Amanda are laughing, dishes finished, food all placed into the fridge, easy smiles and warmth between them.
Sonny's looking.
Olivia glows in the dim lights.
He drinks it in, how bright she is. Brighter than the sun. It hurts his eyes.
It's even darker out. Late enough that Olivia should be leaving.
"I'm going to head out, soon."
She stays for another forty minutes.
She does have to leave, eventually. She aims a dazzling smile at Sonny, kisses Amanda on the cheek, warmly, loving.
"Love you," Amanda tells her, arms wrapped around Olivia tight. There's something in her tone that betrays her, and Sonny tries to decipher it. He can't quite reach it, and Amanda is already walking Olivia out the door, and he tilts his head as they go. He waits, composes himself, breathes in and out, again, then follows.
From the doorframe, he watches as Amanda walks Olivia to her car. Watches her get inside it, face barely visible in the dark, even with the lamps above. Watches Liv roll down the window. Watches Amanda lean in, lean close, through the window, and say something low and quiet that Sonny can't read from her lips. Face obscured by shadow and distance. Something he's certain is supposed to be hidden from him, whispered to Olivia. A secret he can't know.
"Love you," he thinks, and something shifts, and he's overtaken by the sudden churn of nausea, the shaking, the blistering cold of his skin, and the blistering cold of the air, and he can't breath any longer.
He steps back, fast, barely avoiding tripping on the threshold.
Rushes to the bathroom, heaving over the water: what little he'd eaten at dinner makes a reappearance. Eyes and nose burn. He cries. He flushes. Wipes his face. Leans against the wall.
Steadies himself. Breathes.
Breathes.
Checks in on the kids. Whatever bullshit he's caught in the middle of, he still needs to make sure they're okay. They're asleep, fine and content. Uninterrupted.
If nothing else is fine, at least they are.
He makes it to bed without touching Amanda. He must look sick, because Amanda eyes him with pity, places her hand on the side of his burning, chilled face.
"You're feeling sick?" she asks, and it's obvious, and he wants to laugh. "You could've told me earlier, we could've rescheduled dinner with Liv for some other night."
Her hand is warm, and it scalds him. His flesh might melt from his bones, if he lets it.
His eyes flutter closed, and he turns his face away from her touch.
He prays.
He wants. Helpless.
He thinks of loving Amanda. Thinks of Olivia. Thinks, vague, tired, but sudden, and shocking, of Rafael. Of what he does or doesn't want.
He doesn't know what he wants. What he deserves.
"I love you," Amanda says, sweet and caring, and deserving exactly what she gets. "I love you."
Sonny can't bring himself to reply.