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Lincoln passes her in the hall, breathless and out of tune, and she wants to ask him what he's done and where he's going but she realizes he's not speaking to her, again.
The first time, in the closet of the confidential Christmas Party, and he wrapped a string of lights around each of their wrists and he had entirely too much to drink and declared he loved her, like he should, like she is his to love. Like he only could, after spending so much time with her, putting his life relentlessly in her hands.
The second time, evading Broyles for a quick peck, murmuring, suppressing, something other about friendship and responsibilities.
The third time, watching the ball drop, virtually, over New York, from his apartment. She thought she might love him in times like this, when they were alone and everything was not so hard, so weird.
The last time, he simply touches her, after hearing through the grapevine of her next assignment. They are all dangerous, but this one even more so, because he does not know where she will be going or what she will be doing, or where they stand.
He wakes up in a cold sweat the morning of the he nearly dies and Olivia will come back a few days later and she's not his. Never really was.