What if Liv and Elliot had one steamy night together before he left SVU, changing his number and dropping off the face of the earth. Liv has no way to tell him that they have a child together, so she just doesn't.
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The Tuscan sun hangs heavy in the sky, a thick blanket of warmth that clings to the rolling hills of their orange orchard. Three years in, the land still feels new, a canvas waiting to be painted with the vibrant tapestry of harvest. Elliot, a sheen of sweat already slicking his brow, reaches high, carefully snipping a cluster of ripe Valencia oranges. The air thrums with the joyous cacophony of spring – the frantic buzzing of bees, the melodic chirp of unseen birds, and the laughter that spills from his family like sunlight dappling through the leaves.
Sixteen-year-old Ivy, all long legs and fierce independence, navigates the uneven ground with practised ease, a canvas tote slung over her shoulder. With each plucked orange, she lets out a satisfied grunt, her blonde ponytail bouncing with every step. Recently turned three-year-old Isabella, a whirlwind of blonde curls and boundless energy, chases Primrose, their blonde cockapoo, through the rows of trees. Primrose yaps excitedly, her pink tongue lolling out in a goofy grin.
At the end of a row, Olivia, her belly prominent at thirty weeks pregnant, leans against the rough bark of an ancient olive tree. A wide-brimmed straw hat shades her face, but the smile crinkling her eyes speaks volumes of contentment. Lizzie, Elliot's twenty-five-year-old daughter, sits beside her, sorting through a mound of oranges with practised efficiency. Her laughter rings out as Isabella, momentarily distracted by a particularly plump orange, tackles Primrose in a giggling heap.
"Careful, little one," Olivia calls out, her voice laced with amusement. "Those are for squeezing, not wrestling."
Isabella, momentarily chastened, scrambles to her feet, orange clutched triumphantly in her chubby hand. She toddles over to Olivia, depositing her prize with a wide, gap-toothed grin.
"For Mama," she declares, her voice thick with pride.
Olivia ruffles Isabella's hair, her heart overflowing with love. "Thank you, sweetheart. That's a beautiful one."
Bernie, Elliot's mother, a woman whose silver hair rivals the sunshine in brightness, emerges from the farmhouse with a tray laden with glasses of cool lemonade. Her smile widens at the sight of her granddaughter's offering.
"That's just what Mama needs," she says, watching Olivia accept the orange with a grateful pat on Isabella's head. "Fresh from the orchard, the best kind."
Elliot, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, joins them under the shade of the olive tree. He hands Bernie a glass of lemonade, the ice clinking satisfyingly against the glass.
"Looks like a good haul today," Bernie remarks, surveying the overflowing totes.
"This year seems especially bountiful," Elliot agrees, taking a long sip of the cool liquid. He glances at his family, a wave of warmth washing over him. Three years in Tuscany, and they've built a life here, a life rooted in the rich earth and nurtured by the relentless Tuscan sun. The laughter, the shared labour, the love – it all felt like a scene straight out of a Renaissance painting, a vibrant tapestry woven with the threads of family, tradition, and the promise of a sweet harvest.
