Harvey Specter

Harvey specter x wife reader

Summary: A client goes after Harvey Specter's wife for leverage

♡ Requested by @harveyspecterlover

Harvey had always said there were two rules in his world.

Win.

And keep you out of it.

Unfortunately, one very desperate client decided to test the second rule.

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Harvey Specter sat in his corner office at Pearson Specter Litt, the city skyline stretching beyond the glass walls. The day had started like any other—deals to close, rivals to outmaneuver. Then the call came.

A client he had represented in a high-stakes merger, a man named Victor Kane, had uncovered a vulnerability. Instead of negotiating through proper channels, Kane had decided to apply pressure elsewhere. His target: Harvey’s wife.

You worked at Pearson Specter Litt too, part of the legal team, quietly sharp, trusted enough to be around files that mattered but never meant to be in the line of fire. That afternoon, as you left the building for a quick coffee run, a sleek black car pulled up beside the curb.

Two men approached you politely but firmly. “Mrs. Specter, Mr. Kane would like a word. It concerns your husband.”

They escorted you to a private meeting room in a nearby hotel, where Kane waited with a folder of documents. He laid them out on the table: copies of Harvey’s confidential case files, notes on ongoing negotiations, and internal details that should never have left the firm.

“Your husband has been very helpful to my business,” Kane said calmly. “But I need more. A few adjustments to the terms, some overlooked clauses. If he refuses, these files go to the ethics board. Or worse, his competitors.”

You kept her composure, listening without giving anything away. Kane continued, explaining the leverage he believed he held. You asked measured questions, careful, precise, stalling, learning, memorizing everything you could.

Meanwhile, Harvey received a brief text from you:

“Meeting with Victor Kane. Will explain later.”

He recognized the name instantly and was already on his feet before the message fully sank in.

By the time Harvey arrived at the hotel, Kane’s men had already escorted her back toward the firm’s entrance. You met him in the lobby, expression steady but tight at the edges. They stepped aside into a quiet corner.

“He wants you to alter the merger agreement,” you said quietly. “He showed me files he shouldn’t have. I didn’t agree to anything.”

Harvey’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed even. “I’ll handle it. You okay?”

You nodded. “Just shaken. He didn’t touch me. He thought using me would make you fold.”

Harvey pulled you into a brief embrace, then stepped back with something cold and certain settling in his eyes. “He miscalculated. This ends now.”

Back at the office, Harvey gathered Donna, Mike, and Louis. They reviewed every file Kane had accessed, tracing the breach to a junior associate who had been bribed. Within hours, they had built a counter-strategy: a motion to disqualify Kane’s counsel, a report to the bar association, and a quiet warning to partners at Kane’s own firm.

That evening, Harvey returned home. You were already there, pouring two glasses of scotch like you'd been waiting for him to walk through the door.

They sat together on the couch, the weight of the day settling between them.

“You didn’t have to go through that,” he said.

“I handled it,” you replied. “And now you will.”

Harvey raised his glass. “To leverage that backfires.”

They clinked glasses, the city lights flickering outside. The threat had been identified, the lines drawn. Harvey Specter did not lose, especially not when it came to you.

Tomorrow would bring the next move, but tonight, they had each other and a very clear path forward.

His hand found your wrist first. Steady. Certain. Then he pulled you up like it was the most natural thing in the world for you to end up exactly where he wanted you.

Close.

Too close to think.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles slowly, grounding you in a way that made everything else feel a little further away.

“Harvey—”

You didn’t get to finish.

Not with words.

He kissed you instead, deeper this time, not asking, just taking all the space you’d been holding together since the moment this day started going wrong. Not breaking you. Never that. Just loosening every tight, exhausted edge until you couldn’t hold onto any of it anymore.

Your breath caught against him, the resistance fading in uneven pieces until there was nothing left but him and the quiet between you.

His hand slid to your waist, firm and steady, not rushing, just grounding you in a way only he seemed capable of. Like he was deciding for both of you that the rest of the world could wait.

It was enough to make you focus on him instead of everything else and then he guided you with him, across the room.

No hesitation. No doubt.

me as soon as im home:

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summary she decided to be the one who sacrificed herself. harvey decided that wasn't happening.

prompt – plea deal, protective harvey, harvey punches malik, breakdown, part 2 of 2 warnings – legal threat, emotional breakdown, physical confrontation, angst with resolution 🎀 word count – ~4 note – harvey punching malik the way he punched travis tanner has been living in my head since i started this fic 😭🔥 thank you anon for this idea, hope part 2 was worth the wait 🫶

requests are open 🎀

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She'd made the decision on a Thursday morning.

Alone in her office, door closed, the city doing its indifferent thing forty floors below. She'd read the subpoena three times. She'd read the case notes twice. She'd sat with the legal reality of her situation in the quiet way she sat with all hard things — methodically, without flinching, turning it over until she understood every angle of it.

And then she'd understood.

Malik wasn't bluffing. Three years of sealed case files, client records, correspondence — he had enough to build something. Not a certainty, not a slam dunk, but enough. Enough to drag it out. Enough to make it ugly. Enough to pull Harvey into the middle of it, Mike into the middle of it, the entire firm into the middle of it, and watch the whole thing come apart from the inside.

Unless she made it stop.

A plea deal. Conspiracy to withhold information. Suspended licence, no jail time, the firm left intact. Malik had put it on the table two days ago — quietly, through intermediaries, the way he did everything — and she'd told them she needed time to consider it.

She'd considered it.

She thought about Mike, who had taken his own deal and survived it. She thought about Harvey, who had built everything he had on the back of loyalty and sacrifice and never once asked anyone to do something he wouldn't do himself. She thought about what it would cost the firm if this went to trial. What it would cost Harvey specifically — his reputation, his cases, the career that had already survived more than it should have had to.

She thought about the fact that she was a criminal defence lawyer and she knew better than anyone what Malik could do with three years of files and enough time.

She picked up the phone and called Malik's office.

She didn't tell Harvey.

Donna knew by noon.

She always knew. That was the thing about Donna — she had a system, a network, a way of knowing things that had never been fully explained and never needed to be. She'd intercepted the call log, or read something in the way the receptionist had acted, or simply looked at the closed door of Harvey's wife's office for too long and understood what it meant.

She called Harvey at twelve fourteen.

"She called Malik's office this morning," Donna said, without preamble. "She's meeting with him at two."

Harvey was very still on the other end of the line.

"She's taking the deal," Donna said quietly. "Harvey. She's going to take the plea deal."

The line was silent for exactly three seconds.

"Where," Harvey said.

She'd dressed carefully for the meeting.

Not armour exactly — she knew what armour felt like, she wore it every day in courtrooms, and this wasn't quite that. This was something else. The deliberate composure of someone who had made a decision they weren't entirely at peace with and had decided to carry it anyway. She'd done her hair. She'd chosen the grey suit. She'd looked at herself in the mirror in her office bathroom and told herself this was right and believed approximately sixty percent of it.

The conference room Malik had chosen was on the fourteenth floor of a building three blocks from the firm. Neutral ground — his choice, which told her everything about how he saw this meeting. A formality. A conclusion. Something already decided being made official.

She walked in at two o'clock exactly.

Malik was already there. Of course he was. He stood when she entered — the surface courtesy he always maintained, the politeness that was its own kind of weapon — and gestured to the chair across from him.

"Counsellor," he said. "Thank you for coming."

"Let's not waste each other's time," she said. Sat down. Put her bag on the table. Looked at him directly. "I've reviewed the terms."

"And?"

She reached into her bag for the document. Her hand was steady. She was very focused on keeping it steady.

"I have a few—"

The door opened.

She looked up.

Harvey was standing in the doorway.

She felt the blood leave her face.

He looked at her first — one long, sweeping look that took in the document in her hand and the bag on the table and the composed face she'd been holding in place for the last four hours — and something moved across his expression that was past anger, past hurt, past every controlled thing he usually managed.

Then he looked at Malik.

"We're done here," Harvey said.

Malik looked at him with the almost-smile. "Mr Specter. This is a private meeting—"

"I said we're done." Harvey crossed the room. Stopped at the table. Looked at the document in her hand. "Give me that."

"Harvey—"

"Give it to me."

She looked at him. His jaw was set, his eyes were doing the thing she'd seen once before in their hotel room and never anywhere else — the thing that was past strategy, past composure, just him, raw and certain — and she felt the decision she'd made that morning begin to crack at the edges.

She put the document on the table.

Harvey picked it up. Looked at it for exactly two seconds. Then he looked at Malik.

"You subpoenaed her files," Harvey said. His voice was very quiet. The dangerous kind of quiet. "You threatened her career. You went to her directly, alone, and pressured her into believing the only way out was to sacrifice herself." He put the document down. "And she almost let you. Because she was trying to protect me."

Malik said nothing.

"Here's what's going to happen," Harvey said. "You are going to drop this. All of it. The subpoena, the files, the case you think you're building." He leaned forward, both hands flat on the table. "Because if you don't — if you push this one more inch — I will come for you. Not the firm. Not Mike. You, personally, professionally, completely. I will find every case you've ever built on pressure instead of evidence, every time you've crossed the line between prosecution and manipulation, and I will dismantle it piece by piece until there's nothing left." A pause. The kind Harvey used like a full stop. "You don't beat me, Malik. Nobody does."

Malik looked at him. The almost-smile was gone.

"That sounds like a threat," Malik said.

"It's a promise." Harvey straightened. "And you know I keep them."

Malik was quiet for a moment. The calculation moving behind his eyes — the same calculation she'd watched him run in every room she'd seen him in. Running it now. Measuring.

"You can't protect everyone forever, Harvey—"

Harvey hit him.

It happened fast — one clean movement, the kind that had been building since the moment Donna had called at twelve fourteen, since the moment he'd walked into this room and seen the document in her hand — his fist connecting with Malik's jaw with the full force of everything he'd been managing for weeks.

Malik went back into his chair. His associate was on his feet immediately. She was already standing, hand on Harvey's arm, his name on her lips.

Harvey looked at Malik. His hand was at his side. His breathing was controlled — barely, but controlled.

"That's for going to her," Harvey said quietly. "Alone. Without counsel. And making her feel like she had no other choice."

Malik touched his jaw. Looked at Harvey with an expression that was recalibrating, reassessing, measuring something it hadn't fully measured before.

"Get out of this building," Harvey said. "Both of you."

They were in Harvey's car before either of them spoke.

Ray was driving. The city moved past the windows. She was looking at her hands in her lap, the document still on the conference table fourteen floors up, and the decision she'd made that morning was completely, thoroughly undone.

"You should have told me," Harvey said.

His voice was quiet. Not angry — the anger had gone into that room and left it there. This was something else.

"I know," she said.

"You were going to take a plea deal. Suspend your licence. End your career." He paused. "Without telling me."

"I was trying to protect you—"

"I know what you were trying to do." He turned to look at her. "That's what makes it worse."

She looked at him. His jaw was still tight, his eyes still doing the thing, but underneath it was something she recognised — the thing that came out when the walls came all the way down. The thing that was just Harvey, without any of the rest of it.

"You did the same thing I almost did," she said quietly. "You've done it for Mike. For Donna. You make decisions to protect the people you love and you don't always ask first."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

He held her gaze. Said nothing.

"I saw a way to make it stop," she said. "A way that kept you out of it. Kept Mike out of it. Kept the firm intact." She looked at her hands. "I knew you'd try to stop me. That's why I didn't tell you."

"Because you knew I'd be right to stop you."

She didn't answer that.

Harvey reached across and took her hand. Not gently — firmly, the way he held things he wasn't letting go of.

"I need you to listen to me," he said. "Not as a lawyer. Not as someone trying to manage a situation." He waited until she looked at him. "You are not a variable in someone else's equation. You are not something to be sacrificed to keep the rest of it intact." His grip tightened slightly. "You are the thing I'm keeping. Everything else comes after that."

She looked at him for a long moment.

And then, because they were alone, because Ray's partition was up and the city was outside and there was nowhere else to be, she let it go.

It came quietly — the way things did when they'd been held in too long. Her shoulders dropped and her breath changed and the composure she'd been carrying since Thursday morning finally, completely gave way. She pressed her hand over her mouth and looked out the window and felt five weeks of Malik and subpoenas and sealed files and impossible choices move through her all at once.

Harvey didn't say anything. He pulled her toward him, his arm around her, her face against his shoulder, and let it run. He didn't tell her it was okay. He didn't tell her to stop. He just held on — solid and certain and completely immovable, the way he always was, the way she had never fully stopped needing him to be.

His hand moved slowly across her back.

"I've got you," he said quietly. Into her hair. Just that. Just those three words.

She believed him.

She always believed him. That was the thing — through everything, through Malik and the files and the plea deal she'd almost signed — she had always, fundamentally, believed him.

She stayed against his shoulder until the car stopped. Until the city had done what the city always did and carried on around them, indifferent and ongoing.

Then she sat up. Wiped her face. Looked at him.

He looked back at her. His thumb moved once across her cheekbone.

"Malik is done," he said. Quiet and certain. "I'll make sure of it."

"You punched him," she said.

"Yes."

"Harvey."

"He had it coming." No apology in it. None at all.

She looked at him for a moment. Then, despite everything, despite the last five weeks and the last few hours and the document on the fourteenth floor — she laughed. Small and helpless and real.

Harvey's expression shifted. The tight jaw loosening, the almost-smile appearing, the one she'd spent years learning to find underneath everything else.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go home."

She nodded. Took his hand. Held it the way she held things she wasn't letting go of either.

Outside the city kept moving.

Inside the car, it was just them — and that, for right now, was everything.

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summary harvey specter has spent years being untouchable. andrew malik knows exactly how to change that.

prompt – malik goes after reader, criminal lawyer reader, protective harvey, meeting scene, cliffhanger ending warnings – legal threat, manipulation, emotional tension, part 1 of (maybe) 2 word count – ~3.5k note – "i don't lose. and i don't lose you." harvey specter you impossible man 😭🎀 anyone want a part 2? let me know!

requests are open :)

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You'd built your career on reading people.

Twelve years of criminal law — first as an associate, then as a senior partner at Pearson Specter — had given you a very particular skill set. You knew how prosecutors moved. You knew how they built pressure before they had evidence, how they used proximity as a weapon, how a well-placed word in a corridor could do more damage than a subpoena. You'd spent over a decade on the other side of that game.

Which was why, when Andrew Malik was waiting outside the building on a Tuesday evening, you clocked it immediately for what it was.

Not a coincidence. Not a courtesy.

An opening move.

"Mrs Specter," he said, when you were close enough.

You stopped. Took two seconds to read him — deliberate positioning, unhurried stance, the patience of someone who had been waiting a while and wanted you to know it. Watching your face with the particular attention of a man who collected reactions for a living.

"Mr Malik." You kept your voice even. Professionally courteous. "This is unexpected."

"I apologise for the informality." He didn't sound apologetic at all. "I was hoping you'd have a few minutes."

"My schedule doesn't allow for unplanned meetings."

"Of course." The almost-smile. Measured. Deliberate. "You seem like someone who understands how these things work, counsellor. I respect that." A pause, perfectly weighted. "I simply wanted you to know — before things move forward — that there's still time to make choices that protect yourself. Your career." He let it sit. "Your firm."

You looked at him for one long moment.

"If you have something to say to me professionally," you said, "put it in writing and send it to my office." Completely even. Completely controlled. "Have a good evening, Mr Malik."

You walked past him and didn't look back.

You also didn't breathe properly for the next three blocks.

Harvey knew before you said a word.

You came through the door and he looked up from the files spread across the counter and something in his face shifted — not dramatically, not visibly to anyone who didn't know him — but you did know him. You'd spent years learning the small language of him, the things that lived in the pauses and the set of his jaw and the particular quality of his stillness.

He went very still now.

"Who," he said.

Not what happened. Not are you okay. Just — who.

"Malik," you said. "Outside my building. He was waiting for me."

Harvey set down the file he was holding. Slowly. The deliberate controlled movement of someone deciding not to react the way they wanted to react.

"What did he say."

You told him. All of it — the positioning, the almost-smile, the way he'd said counsellor like he wanted you to know he saw both things at once. The warning about your career. Your firm.

Harvey didn't say anything for a moment. He crossed the kitchen — not pacing, just moving, the way he did when staying still wasn't an option — and when he turned back to you his eyes were doing something that had nothing to do with strategy.

"He didn't come to you as my wife," Harvey said. Quiet. Too quiet.

"No. He came to me as a lawyer at Pearson Specter."

"He's not using you as leverage." Harvey said it like he was working it out in real time, each word landing harder than the last. "He's coming after your career. Directly."

"That's what it looked like."

Harvey looked at you for a long moment. And then something happened that didn't happen often — the strategy dropped entirely, just for a second, and what was underneath it was something sharper and more honest.

"He did this because he knew I'd know," Harvey said. "He knew I'd understand exactly what he was doing the second you told me." His jaw tightened. "He's not just threatening you. He's making sure I know he can reach you. That's the message."

"Harvey—"

"He went to you because you're the one thing I don't stay rational about." He said it simply. Like it was just a fact. Like admitting it cost him nothing, which meant it cost him everything. "And he knows that."

You crossed the kitchen. Stopped in front of him.

"Then don't give him what he wants," you said. "Stay rational."

He looked at you. The controlled face. The uncontrolled eyes.

"Tell me everything," you said. "Not the version you've been managing. All of it."

He told you.

Jessica's office. Seven in the morning. The kind of meeting that happened when a situation had outgrown the hope of resolving itself quietly.

Harvey had been in the building since six. You knew because Donna had texted you — he's here, he's fine, he's not fine— and when you'd arrived he was already in the conference room, jacket on, completely composed, with the particular energy of someone who had decided exactly how today was going to go and was waiting for everyone else to catch up.

He looked at you when you walked in. Just looked — a single sweep, checking, the way he'd been doing since Tuesday evening without seeming to notice he was doing it. Then he looked back at the table.

You sat beside him. Jessica across from you. Mike and Louis further down. Donna at the end.

"Malik has requested a meeting," Jessica said. "Here. Off the record." She looked around the room. "He wants to watch us in the same space. See what we give away."

"Then we give him nothing," Harvey said.

"We give him nothing," Jessica agreed. Her eyes moved to you. "You'll be in the room."

It wasn't a question. She'd already decided, the way Jessica decided things — three steps ahead, no wasted moves.

"Obviously," you said.

Harvey said nothing. But you felt the almost imperceptible shift beside you — the tension that moved through him and was controlled immediately, before it reached the surface. Before anyone else could see it.

You saw it.

Malik arrived exactly on time.

He sat across from you and Harvey and Jessica with the ease of someone who had never once walked into a room and felt outnumbered. One associate behind him. Unhurried. Deliberate.

He looked around the table. Then his eyes settled on you.

"Counsellor," he said. "Good to see you in a more appropriate setting."

"Likewise," you said. Courtroom face. Completely intact.

Beside you, Harvey didn't move. Didn't speak. But you felt the quality of his attention shift — the way a room shifted when something predatory went very still.

"I'll be direct," Malik said. "I'm not here for the firm as an institution. I'm not here for any one associate." His eyes moved briefly to Mike. "I'm here because I believe certain people at this firm have operated above the law for a very long time. And I intend to demonstrate that the law applies equally. To everyone." A pause. "Regardless of how good their lawyers are."

"That's a philosophy," Harvey said. His voice was perfectly level. "Not a case."

"The case is coming."

"Then come back when you have one."

Malik looked at you again. Something deliberate in it — the choice to redirect, the choice to make Harvey watch him do it.

"Mrs Specter," he said. "Twelve years of criminal defence. Impressive record. It would be — significant — if that career became complicated by associations that weren't fully considered at the time."

You held his gaze. Didn't blink. Didn't shift.

"Mr Malik," you said, voice completely steady, "I've spent twelve years in rooms with prosecutors who arrived considerably better prepared than you appear to be today. If you have something evidentiary, present it." A beat. "If you're here to apply pressure through implication, I'd recommend a less experienced audience."

Something moved in Malik's expression. Almost imperceptible. Almost.

Beside you Harvey was still. The specific kind of still that wasn't calm — you knew the difference by now. This was the stillness of someone watching something they wanted to stop and choosing not to. Yet.

"I appreciate the directness," Malik said, pleasantly. He looked at Harvey then, finally, and the almost-smile was back. "You trained her well."

The temperature in the room dropped.

Harvey looked at Malik. And when he spoke his voice was quiet — not raised, not sharp, quieter than everything else — which was somehow worse than either of those things.

"She doesn't need training," Harvey said. "She's been doing this longer than some of your prosecutors have been out of law school." A pause, one beat, the kind that Harvey used the way other people used volume. "And if you look at her like that again — like she's something you can use — we're going to have a very different conversation than the one Jessica arranged."

The room was silent.

Malik held Harvey's gaze for a moment. Recalibrated. The almost-smile didn't disappear but it shifted slightly — the adjustment of someone who had just accurately measured something they'd slightly underestimated.

"I think," Jessica said, from the head of the table, with the tone that ended things, "that concludes what we have to discuss today."

Malik stood. Unhurried. Deliberate. He looked around the room once more.

"Thank you for your time," he said. His eyes found you one final time. "You're very good, counsellor. Genuinely." A pause. "It's going to make this more interesting."

He left.

The room exhaled.

Mike leaned back. Louis said something under his breath. Jessica was already thinking forward, you could see it — three moves, four moves, the chess game already running in her head.

Harvey stood up and walked out without a word.

You found him in his office two minutes later.

He was at the window — hands in his pockets, back to the room, looking at the city — and you closed the door and crossed the floor and stood beside him and waited, because you knew him well enough to know that pushing right now wasn't the answer.

He spoke first.

"He said I trained you." His voice was low. Still carrying the edge from the meeting, the thing underneath the control that hadn't fully settled yet. "Like you were an asset. Like you were something that belonged to the firm, to me—"

"Harvey."

"I sat in that room and watched him use you as a pressure point for forty minutes and I couldn't—" he stopped. "Every move I make right now has to be calculated. Every reaction has to be managed. And he knows that. He's counting on it." His jaw tightened. "He knows the second I stop being strategic about this I hand him exactly what he wants."

"So don't."

"It's harder than it should be." He said it quietly. Like admitting it cost him something. "When it's you."

You turned to face him. He stayed looking at the window for a moment longer — the city moving indifferently below, the way it always did, the way it had through every case and every battle and every impossible thing this firm had survived.

Then he looked at you.

"I don't lose," he said. Quiet. Certain. The bedrock of him, underneath everything else. "That's not ego. That's just what I do." A pause. "And I don't lose you."

You held his gaze. "Then don't."

Something in his face — not softening exactly, more like settling. The particular quality of a man who had made a decision and meant it completely.

He reached out. Took your hand. Held it the way he held things he intended to keep.

Then his phone buzzed on the desk.

He looked at it. You felt the change immediately — the hand around yours going very still, the shift in the air, the thing that moved across his face that wasn't anger or strategy or any of the things you'd seen in the meeting.

It was colder than all of those.

"Harvey." Your voice came out careful. "What is it."

He looked up from the phone. Met your eyes.

"He subpoenaed your case files," he said. "Three years of criminal defence work. Sealed cases. Client records." His grip on your hand tightened, barely perceptibly. "He's not coming after you as leverage anymore."

The office was completely quiet.

"He's coming after your licence," Harvey said.

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summary harvey specter is many things. a doctor is not one of them. but when it's you, he tries anyway.

prompt – sick reader, harvey takes care of her, protective harvey, louis litt being louis litt warnings – none, just soft harvey and a very dramatic louis 😭🎀 word count – ~2.5k note – soft harvey is my roman empire and i will not apologise. Adding louis was the best decision, hope this is everything you wanted 🫶

requests are open :)

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You'd tried to hide it.

That was the thing — you'd genuinely, sincerely tried. You'd taken paracetamol at seven in the morning, drunk two coffees back to back, and walked into Pearson Specter looking entirely fine. Or close enough to fine. Fine adjacent.

Harvey had known by nine.

You'd felt it the moment he clocked it — that particular shift in his attention, subtle enough that nobody else would catch it but you'd had over a year to learn the difference between Harvey watching a room and Harvey watching you. The way his eyes had moved to you across the bullpen and stayed a second longer than necessary before he'd looked back at his file.

You'd chosen to ignore it. He'd let you, for a while.

By eleven you were at your desk with your third coffee going cold beside you, the same paragraph of a deposition prep blurring in front of you for the twentieth time, and a headache that had quietly graduated from manageable to genuinely miserable somewhere around your ten o'clock.

Donna appeared at your shoulder without sound.

"You look terrible," she said, not unkindly.

"Thank you Donna."

"Medically. How long?"

"Since yesterday."

She nodded, unsurprised. Set a glass of water on your desk. "He texted me at nine fifteen asking if you seemed off to me."

You closed your eyes briefly. "Of course he did."

"I told him you seemed fine." A pause. "I lied."

"Donna—"

"He worries." She said it simply, like it was just a fact, like Harvey Specter texting his secretary about you at nine in the morning was the most normal thing in the world. Maybe, at this point, it was. "He just does it quietly so you won't tell him to stop."

She patted your shoulder once and disappeared. You looked back at your screen. The paragraph remained impenetrable.

Harvey appeared in your office at half past twelve.

He closed the door behind him — conversation, not a pass-through — and instead of sitting across from you like he normally would he came around the desk entirely, perching against the edge of it beside your chair, close enough that you had to tilt your head up to look at him.

It was a deliberate choice. You both knew it.

He reached down without preamble and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. Not clinical — too slow for clinical, his fingers brushing into your hairline after, a gesture that had nothing to do with checking your temperature and everything to do with the fact that he'd been wanting to do it since nine fifteen.

"You're warm," he said.

"I'm fine."

"You've read the same page for forty minutes."

"I'm—"

"Don't say processing." His eyes dropped to yours, steady and close. "Go home."

"I have the Calloway prep—"

"Mike has it."

"Harvey—"

"I already sorted it." His hand had moved without him seeming to notice, fingers resting lightly at the back of your neck now, thumb tracing a slow line just below your hairline. The kind of touch he only gave when he wasn't thinking about it, when the professional layer had slipped and it was just him underneath. "Go home. I'll be there by seven."

You looked at him. The headache pulsed. He was looking back at you with the expression he'd never once used in a courtroom — the quiet one, the one that only existed here, between the two of you, when there was nobody else around.

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to." Simple. Certain. "Go home."

You went home.

Harvey was in the middle of a call when Louis appeared in his office doorway.

He didn't knock. He never knocked when he was worked up about something, and the expression on his face — somewhere between frantic and indignant, which was Louis's natural resting state during any minor inconvenience — told Harvey everything he needed to know about how this was going to go.

He held up one finger. Louis ignored it completely.

"Where is she?"

Harvey kept his eyes on the window, phone still to his ear. "I'll call you back." He hung up. Turned around. "You have thirty seconds."

"I've been looking for her for two hours," Louis said, already at full volume, already pacing the three steps his energy allowed before turning back. "She's not at her desk, she's not answering her phone, nobody knows where she is and I have a client meeting at four that she was supposed to—"

"She went home."

Louis stopped. "She went — why didn't anyone tell me—"

"Because it's not your business."

"It is absolutely my business when I have a client meeting—"

"Which Mike will cover." Harvey's voice hadn't changed. Still even, still controlled, but there was something underneath it — a particular flatness that people who knew him well enough understood meant stop. "She's sick. She went home."

"She can't just—" Louis gestured vaguely, the full weight of his frustration looking for somewhere to land, "—disappear without telling anyone. She has responsibilities, Harvey, and I don't care if she has a sniffle—"

"She has a fever." Harvey said it quietly. The kind of quiet that wasn't soft. "She's been sitting at her desk since eight this morning running a fever because she didn't want to let anyone down. She went home because I told her to." A pause. One beat. Controlled and deliberate. "And if you have a problem with that, Louis, you can take it up with Jessica."

Something in Louis's face shifted. The indignation receding slightly, recalibrating, the way it did when he'd pushed far enough into something to finally feel its edges.

"I didn't know she was actually—" he started.

"I know you didn't." Still flat. Still even. "Now you do."

Louis looked at him for a moment. Harvey held his gaze without expression, without movement, in the way that made him the best closer in the city — not because he was loud, but because he never needed to be.

The silence did the work.

"Is she—" Louis started, differently this time. Quieter. "Is she alright?"

Something shifted almost imperceptibly in Harvey's expression. "She will be."

Louis nodded slowly. He looked like he wanted to say something else, something that might have been an actual apology if he'd been able to locate one, and settled instead for a short, slightly stilted: "Tell her the meeting is covered. She shouldn't worry about it."

"I will."

Another pause. Then Louis, with the particular awkward sincerity he only managed when he'd genuinely overstepped: "I hope she feels better."

Harvey looked at him for one more second. "Close the door on your way out."

Louis closed the door on his way out.

Harvey was already reaching for his jacket.

He was there by six forty.

You heard his key in the lock — his key, on his keyring, where it had lived for the past eight months — and then his footsteps through the apartment, unhurried and familiar. He appeared in the bedroom doorway to find you buried under every blanket you owned, laptop open to something you'd already lost the thread of, looking approximately as awful as you felt.

He took in the blanket situation.

"That's my grey one," he said.

"You left it here."

"I left it here so it would be here when I'm here. Not so you could—" he gestured at the pile, "—hoard it."

"I'm sick."

"I can see that." But he was already setting down the bag he'd brought, shrugging off his jacket, and when he sat on the edge of the bed and reached over to press his hand to your forehead again it was gentler than before. More deliberate. His thumb traced across your cheekbone after, just once, and he let the touch linger in a way he almost never did anywhere that wasn't completely private.

"Still warm," he murmured.

"Still aware of that."

The corner of his mouth moved. "Did you eat today?"

"I had coffee."

"That's not—"

"I know it's not food, Harvey."

He looked at you for a moment with the expression that meant he was deciding how hard to push and landing on not very, because it was you and you were sick and there were certain fights he'd quietly stopped picking somewhere around month four. He reached into the bag instead — soup from the place on 54th, actual medicine, the specific brand of tea you kept at the office that he'd apparently memorised without ever mentioning it.

You watched him unpack it all onto your nightstand with the focused efficiency he brought to everything and felt something tighten in your chest that had nothing to do with being unwell.

"Harvey."

"Mm." Not looking up.

"You got the tea from my desk."

A pause. "Donna got it."

"You asked Donna to get my tea."

"Eat the soup."

You ate the soup.

He sat beside you, close enough that his shoulder pressed against yours, and pretended to review something on his phone while actually watching you in the way he'd been watching you all day — that particular quality of attention he'd never quite learned to hide from you, maybe had stopped trying to hide a long time ago.

"Louis came to find me," you said.

Harvey's jaw moved, just slightly. "I know."

"What did you say to him?"

"Nothing he didn't need to hear."

You looked at him sideways. He was looking at his phone, expression perfectly neutral, but there was something in the set of his shoulders — something settled, something that had been resolved — that told you it had been more than nothing.

"Harvey."

"He was loud," he said simply. "I wasn't."

"Did you threaten him?"

"I suggested he speak to Jessica if he had further concerns."

"That's a threat."

"That's a referral." The corner of his mouth curved, barely. "He said to tell you the meeting is covered and he hopes you feel better."

You blinked. "Louis said that?"

"Approximately."

You were quiet for a moment, turning that over. Then, softer: "You didn't have to do that."

He looked at you then, properly, and the neutrality had dropped entirely. Just him, the real version, the one you'd spent over a year learning.

"You were sitting at your desk with a fever for four hours," he said quietly, "because you didn't want to let anyone down." His hand found yours on top of the blanket, fingers curling loosely around it. "Nobody gets to make that worse."

You looked at him for a long moment. The headache had dulled. The soup was warm. Harvey Specter was sitting on your bed holding your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, which, after a year, it was.

"You texted Donna about me at nine fifteen," you said.

He didn't look away. "I always notice."

Three words. Entirely unbothered. Completely devastating.

You looked back at your soup so he wouldn't see your face.

When you'd finished he set everything aside and reached over, pushing your hair back from your face with a familiarity that still caught you sometimes — the easiness of it, the way he touched you like it was just where his hands went. He tucked it behind your ear, let his fingers rest at your jaw.

"Sleep," he said.

"You'll be bored."

"I have work."

"You hate working from—"

"I don't hate it when it's here." Simply. Like it cost him nothing. "With you. I don't hate it."

You looked at him for a long moment. Harvey Specter, best closer in the city, sitting on your bed at quarter to seven on a Wednesday with his tie loosened and his walls entirely down and his hand still resting at your jaw like you were something worth being careful with.

"You're surprisingly good at this," you said quietly.

Something moved across his face. Warm and private and entirely his.

"Don't tell anyone," he said.

You laughed, tired and small, and let yourself sink into the pillows. His hand moved to your hair, slow and unhurried, and you heard him settle beside you — the quiet sound of him opening something on his phone, the familiar warmth of him along your side.

He stayed.

Of course he stayed. He'd been staying for over a year. That was the thing about Harvey that nobody at Pearson Specter would ever believe — that behind every wall and every sharp word and every carefully constructed performance, this was what existed. A man who texted Donna at nine fifteen and brought soup from the place on 54th and told Louis Litt exactly where to go and then came home and stayed.

Just stayed.

You were asleep within minutes, and the last thing you felt was his hand in your hair and the weight of him beside you and the particular irreplaceable feeling of being completely, entirely looked after.

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⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆

summary you've liked harvey specter for longer than you'd ever admit out loud. tonight, stuck in the office at midnight with nowhere to hide, that becomes a problem.

prompt – late night at the office, slow burn, opposites attract warnings – none, just tension and a kiss 🎀 word count – ~2.5k note – this request had me in a chokehold from the second i read it 😭 hope this is everything you wanted!!

requests are open :)

⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆

The office was quieter at night.

Not silent — it was never fully silent, there was always something humming, the ventilation, the city thirty floors below, the occasional elevator ping echoing down the empty hallway — but quieter. Stripped back. Like the building exhaled when everyone left and became something closer to itself.

You'd always liked it, honestly. The stillness of it. The way the city lights came through the floor-to-ceiling windows and turned everything amber and blue and soft in a way it never was during the day when it was all fluorescent lighting and printer noise and Louis Litt at full volume.

What you did not like was that it was midnight, you had a deposition prep that needed to be finished by seven in the morning, and Harvey Specter was sitting twelve feet away from you in his office showing absolutely no signs of being a normal human being who got tired.

You'd been his personal assistant for fourteen months. You knew his coffee order, his filing system, which judges he respected and which ones he thought were idiots, the exact tone of voice Donna used when she was warning you about his mood versus the tone she used when it was actually fine. You knew him, probably better than most people in this building did.

Which was exactly the problem.

Because somewhere between learning his coffee order and surviving his worst moods and making him laugh when he was trying very hard not to — somewhere in the middle of all of that — you had made the catastrophic mistake of actually liking him.

Not in a small, manageable way. In a quiet, persistent, deeply inconvenient way that had been sitting in your chest for the better part of six months and showed absolutely no signs of leaving.

You were aware of how ill-advised this was. You didn't need anyone to tell you.

You looked back down at your laptop.

"You've reread that same page four times."

You looked up. Harvey was leaning in his office doorway, jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He was holding a glass of water and looking at you with the particular expression he reserved for things he found either mildly amusing or mildly concerning and hadn't decided which yet.

"I'm absorbing it slowly," you said.

"You're staring at it."

"Deeply absorbing."

He made a sound that was almost a laugh and pushed off the doorframe, walking over to your desk. He set the glass of water in front of you without saying anything about it, then leaned against the edge and looked at the screen.

"Where are you stuck?"

"I'm not stuck."

"You've been on that page for twenty minutes."

You looked up at him. He was closer than he needed to be — that was the thing about Harvey, he had no concept of unnecessary distance, he just existed wherever he decided to exist and expected the world to rearrange itself accordingly. Up close like this, with the office half-dark and quiet around you, it was harder than usual to be normal about it.

"The Calloway witness," you said, looking back at the screen. "I don't think the prep angles we have are going to hold up. He's going to deflect the third question and we lose the thread."

Harvey was quiet for a moment. Then he pulled a chair over and sat down beside you, holding out his hand for the file without asking.

You gave it to him.

He read through it, and you watched him do it — the way his eyes moved, quick and sharp, the small crease between his brows when something bothered him. He was quiet when he was thinking. Properly quiet, none of the performance he wore the rest of the time. It was one of the things about him that had gotten you in trouble in the first place.

"You're right," he said, after a moment.

You blinked. "Sorry?"

"The third question. He'll deflect." He tapped the page. "We reframe it. Lead with the inconsistency in his January statement before we get there, gives us the thread back before he can cut it."

You looked at the file, then back at him. "That's actually—"

"Good? Yes. I know."

"I was going to say logical."

"Same thing when I say it."

You laughed before you could stop yourself, quiet and genuine, and he looked at you sideways with the almost-smile he used when he'd made you laugh and was pretending not to notice. Which was worse, somehow, than if he'd just smiled properly.

You looked back at the screen. Typed the note. Kept your eyes very firmly where they belonged.

An hour passed like that. The two of you, closer than necessary, working through the prep in a way that was almost easy. He'd point something out, you'd push back if you disagreed, sometimes he'd concede and sometimes he'd make his case and occasionally one of you would say something that made the other one laugh and then you'd both go quiet again.

It was comfortable in a way that made it worse.

At some point the water he'd brought you appeared at your elbow and you drank it without thinking and he didn't say anything about that either.

By one in the morning the prep was done, or close enough to done that the last pieces could wait until morning. You saved everything, closed the laptop, stretched your arms over your head and felt your back protest the last three hours of being hunched over a desk.

Harvey was still reading something. Or pretending to.

"We're done," you said.

"I know."

"You could go home."

"So could you."

You looked at him. He was looking at the file but something in the set of his shoulders had changed, something slightly less settled than it had been a moment ago, though you couldn't have explained how you knew that. Fourteen months, maybe. Or just him.

"Harvey."

"Mm."

"What are you still doing here?"

He put the file down then, slowly, and turned to look at you properly. In the low light his eyes were darker than usual, something in them that wasn't quite the sharpness he used at work and wasn't quite the quiet you'd seen tonight either. Something in between.

"I could ask you the same thing," he said.

"I had work to finish."

"So did I."

"You finished it forty minutes ago."

The almost-smile appeared. "You noticed."

(You always noticed. That was the whole problem.)

"Lucky guess," you said.

He looked at you for a moment longer than felt strictly comfortable. You held it, because you were not going to be the first one to look away, you had some dignity left.

"You know," he said, voice dropping just slightly, "for someone who is relentlessly, aggressively cheerful in every situation—"

"I prefer optimistic—"

"—you are remarkably difficult to read."

You blinked. "Me?"

"You." He tilted his head slightly, the way he did in depositions when he was making a point. "You've worked for me for over a year. You know how I take my coffee, you know when I'm in a bad mood before I do, you know which cases I actually care about versus the ones I'm just winning on principle." A pause. "And you never tell me anything about yourself."

The office was very quiet.

"That's not true," you said, though your voice came out slightly less steady than you wanted it to.

"Name something."

"I — I talk all the time, you always tell me I talk too much—"

"About other things. About everyone else." He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and the distance between you shifted in a way that made your chest do something unhelpful. "Not about you."

You didn't have an answer for that. Which was unusual. You almost always had an answer for everything.

"Harvey—"

"How long?"

You went still. "How long what?"

He looked at you. Just looked at you, steady and unhurried, in the way that made him the best closer in the city because he never needed to fill the silence, he just waited and let it do the work.

(You hated that you found that attractive. You genuinely hated it.)

"I don't know what you're asking," you said, which was not true.

"Yes you do."

The city hummed thirty floors below. Somewhere down the hall the elevator pinged, distant and irrelevant.

You exhaled. "That's a very arrogant question."

"It's a direct question."

"It assumes—"

"It assumes correctly," he said quietly. "And you know it does."

The silence stretched between you, taut and warm. Your heart was doing something unreasonable. You were very aware of how close he was, of the city light catching the line of his jaw, of the fact that Harvey Specter — controlled, guarded, emotionally fortified Harvey Specter — had just looked at you like that and said it assumes correctly and was still watching you like he had all the time in the world.

"Six months," you said finally. Quietly. Like if you said it small enough it would be less terrifying.

Something shifted in his face. Not surprise — he'd known, clearly, you weren't sure how but he'd known — something softer than that. Something that undid you slightly at the edges.

"Six months," he repeated.

"Don't make it weird."

"I'm not making it weird."

"You're doing the thing where you repeat what someone says and let it sit there—"

"It's been eight for me," he said.

You stopped.

He held your gaze, completely steady, and you thought distantly that it was deeply unfair that he could say something like that and look like that while saying it and still be so entirely, insufferably composed.

"Eight months," you said.

"Mm."

"You've — for eight months—"

"Yes."

"And you didn't—"

"You worked for me."

"I still work for you—"

"I know," he said. "I'm choosing to consider that a secondary concern."

You stared at him. He looked back at you, and the almost-smile was there again, but underneath it was something real, something open in a way Harvey Specter very rarely allowed himself to be, and that more than anything was what got you.

You closed the distance.

It wasn't dramatic. No grand moment, no buildup. You just leaned forward and kissed him, soft and careful, like a question. His response was immediate — one hand coming up to your jaw, tilting you toward him, kissing you back in a way that was unhurried and certain and so entirely like him that you almost laughed.

When you pulled back his hand stayed where it was, thumb tracing slow against your cheekbone.

"Okay," you said, slightly breathless.

"Okay," he agreed.

"This is going to complicate things."

"Most worthwhile things do."

You looked at him — this impossible, guarded, secretly soft man who had apparently been carrying eight months of something around and said absolutely nothing about it — and felt the laugh rise before you could stop it, quiet and helpless.

He raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing." You shook your head. "You're just — you're so—"

"Handsome? Brilliant? Devastatingly—"

"Impossible," you said. "Completely impossible."

He smiled then. Properly, fully, the one he didn't give out easily. "And yet."

"And yet," you agreed.

Outside, the city carried on, indifferent and bright. The office hummed around you, quiet and amber-lit, and Harvey Specter was smiling at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

You'd liked him for six months. He'd liked you for eight.

And somehow, inexplicably, that felt like exactly the right amount of time.

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part one

The elevator dinged like a curtain rising, and Harvey Specter stepped out as if the entire floor was his stage — sharp suit, sharper stride, and a look that could command the skyline.

He moved with the casual confidence of a man already dismantling opposing counsel in his head — and enjoying it.

Today, there was something more.

Across the open space, Mike stood near the filing desks, deep in conversation with a junior associate about an upcoming filing.

Then his voice trailed off, and Harvey followed his gaze — and saw her.

She was leaning casually against Donna’s desk, twirling a silver pen as they talked quietly.

A lavender blouse tucked into a black skirt. Heels that defied gravity.

And an expression that drew attention without even trying.

So she hadn’t disappeared.

She’d simply chosen to leave.

Harvey’s attention held a second too long.

“Jesus,” Mike muttered as Harvey stepped up beside him. “Does she come with a warning label?”

“You’re exaggerating.”

Mike smirked. “Denial. Classic.”

“I’m reading the mood,” Harvey replied, adjusting his cuffs with practiced precision.

“You’re reading the curve of her skirt like it’s a deposition transcript.”

Harvey didn’t answer. He didn’t look away, either.

He was too busy remembering the way that silk slipped through his hands at three in the morning — lavender against dark hardwood.

Tangible. Contained.

She was neither.

“She’s going to look up, you know,” Mike added, tone teasing. “And when she does, you’re gonna pretend you weren’t just mentally writing her a sonnet.”

“Trust me,” Harvey said with a smirk, “if I ever need advice about women, you’ll be the last person I call.”

She looked up for a second, eyes meeting his. Harvey stayed perfectly still, pretending not to care, but he noticed every detail anyway.

Across the room, Donna didn’t miss a beat. She leaned back, eyes catching every microscopic shift in her posture as Harvey approached.

“I can’t quite put my finger on it,” Donna said lightly, studying her with that familiar, unsettling precision. “You’re… brighter today.”

Her lips curved. “Brighter?”

“Mmm.” Donna hummed. “Something in the air. New perfume? New jewelry?”

A pause. A smile.

“Or did you finally stop saying no to the most stubborn man in Manhattan?”

Her hand stilled on the pen.

"I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I’m Donna,” she said simply. “Your skirt’s a quarter inch higher than usual. You keep smoothing it like you’re grounding yourself.”

Her gaze dipped briefly. “That pen? That’s your ‘I’m perfectly fine’ grip.”

She tilted her head, voice still light. “And you’ve angled yourself toward the hallway. Just in case he walks by.”

A flicker passed through her expression before it vanished.

“Do you do this to everyone,” she asked, voice smooth, “or am I paying premium rates for profiling?”

Donna’s smirk returned, effortless. “Relax. Your secret’s safe with me.” Her eyes flicked past her shoulder. “His, on the other hand…”

Across the bullpen, Harvey stood perfectly composed.

Donna’s gaze sharpened slightly.

“He is wearing it like a neon sign,” she said softly.

“A man that controlled doesn’t look that still unless he’s losing a fight with himself.”

Her hand stilled.

She turned her head slowly — deliberately — and met his gaze across the bullpen.

He’d looked the same that morning.

Still. Composed. Guarded.

She’d stood at the edge of his bed before sunrise, watching the steady rise and fall of his breathing — just long enough to steady her own.

Then she’d dressed in silence and left, reminding herself that staying would mean surrendering ground she couldn’t afford to lose.

Seeing him now made her wonder what it had cost her.

Donna leaned in just enough to murmur, “Don’t go too hard on him,” before straightening and walking away, heels clicking decisively across the floor.

She drew in a steady breath, smoothing invisible creases from her skirt.

Control. Composure. Strategy.

“Well, look who it is.” She leaned an elbow against the desk, posture relaxed, expression unreadable.

“You know, if you’re going to stare, at least have the decency to say something flattering.”

Mike coughed to cover his laugh. “We weren’t staring.”

Harvey didn’t answer. He flipped open the folder in her hands without asking, eyes scanning the page like it belonged to him.

“You’re not that distracting.”

She moved closer. Not touching. Close enough to disrupt the air between them.

“You stammered in court yesterday.”

He stilled. “I cleared my throat.”

“You forgot the word injunction. I even noted the hesitation. Tactical?”

“Theatrical,” he said, jaw tightening a fraction.

“Mhm,” she hummed, glancing at his collar. “Tell that to your tie. You adjusted it six times in under a minute.”

“Or,” he said smoothly, closing the folder, “maybe I was reminding you who’s running this show.”

A pause. Not long. Just enough to let the moment stretch.

Mike slowly took a step back, hands raised. “You know what? I think I left my sanity in the file room. I’m gonna go find it… and never come back.”

Harvey’s gaze flicked up, sharp and deliberate. “Good choice.”

As Mike escaped, Harvey handed the folder back. Their fingers brushed — brief, deliberate.

“It’s solid. Clean language, airtight terms.”

“Just another late-night win,” She replied, unflinching. “Nothing fancy.”

His gaze didn’t leave her as he stepped closer, closing the distance until the desk pressed lightly against her back.

He didn’t look at the folder.

He looked at the pulse at her throat — fast, betraying her.

“You’re doing it again,” he said, voice low, measured.

She lifted a brow, unyielding. “Doing what?”

“Acting like you don’t know exactly what this does to me.”

The words landed quietly.

His hand settled on the desk beside her — not touching, never careless — just close enough to box her in without laying a finger on her.

Close enough to make it clear who was crowding who.

"You left a mess this morning."

Her expression stayed perfectly composed, but something sharpened in her eyes.

“I left an exit,” she corrected softly. “There’s a difference.”

A beat.

“And if I recall, you weren't complaining about the 'mess' when you were the one causing it."

The air between them turned electric.

Somewhere nearby, papers hit the floor. Neither of them reacted.

"I don't like unfinished business," His expression hardened. “You don’t get to walk in here wearing that perfume like last night didn’t happen.”

His gaze dropped — slow, deliberate — then returned to her eyes.

She didn’t smile this time.

“Unfinished business?” she repeated.

“Isn’t that what you prefer, Harvey? Clean exits. No complications.”

Her voice was steady — but her fingers tightened around the folder just a little too hard.

A faint crease formed between his brows. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t keep things that could cost you leverage,” she said evenly. “I didn’t expect special treatment.”

Something cracked through his composure—brief, sharp.

“You think that’s how this works?” he asked, voice lowering. “You think I don’t want—”

He stopped himself.

Silence filled the space he left unfinished.

Her voice, when it came, was almost gentle.

“See?” she said. “That pause. That’s my answer.”

She turned.

Silk caught the light as she moved — but she didn’t make it far.

Harvey’s hand came down against the edge of the desk, blocking her path.

He didn’t touch her — he didn’t need to. The space between them already belonged to him.

She didn’t push him away.

Instead, she reached up and hooked a finger behind the knot of his tie, drawing him down the last few inches.

The movement was so fluid, so practiced, that for a second, Harvey forgot they were standing in the middle of a glass-walled firm.

His breath caught. His hands hovered near her waist, restraint warring with instinct.

“You’re losing focus,” she murmured, eyes steady on his. “Try to keep up.”

She released his tie. The loss of tension pulled him forward a fraction before he caught himself.

“See you at trial.”

She didn’t slip past him.

She waited.

Brow arched. Silent. Unmoving.

He was the one who stepped back.

She passed him slowly, her shoulder brushing his—deliberate, lingering, unmistakable.

It felt like a mark.

Donna, who had been very busy filing the same single sheet of paper for the last three minutes, didn’t look up when Harvey’s office door opened.

“Are you okay?” she asked lightly.

Harvey straightened his jacket as he stepped fully into the bullpen. “She’s a problem.”

“No,” Donna said, finally lifting her eyes to him — calm, surgical. “She’s a mirror.”

He didn’t react. That was the reaction.

“And you really don’t like what you’re seeing, do you?”

“I’m going back to work.”

“To do what?” Donna called, a knowing smile curving her mouth. “Call your tailor? Or your therapist?”

“To win,” he corrected sharply, already turning away.

He made it two steps before his hand betrayed him — rising instinctively to his tie.

He stilled.

Her fingers had lingered there minutes ago. Precise. Deliberate. Not messy.

Strategic.

Donna watched the realization settle across his shoulders before he masked it.

He exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

For the first time in his career, Harvey Specter—the Best Closer— felt the unsettling truth settle in his chest.

He’d been outplayed.

She didn’t turn around when Harvey walked away.

That was the rule.

Leave first. Don’t look back. Don’t confirm the damage.

Only when his office door closed did she allow herself a breath.

It came out shaky.

Damn it.

She’d expected anger. Control. Retaliation.

Not hesitation.

Harvey Specter didn’t leave gaps unless something mattered.

That was new.

She’d won the exchange. Publicly. Cleanly. But winning wasn’t the same as leaving untouched.

She adjusted her grip on the folder, grounding herself. The silk of her blouse still carried his presence too vividly for comfort. That would fade. Everything did.

Trial in an hour.

Feelings later. Winning first.

The conference room was too quiet for a prep session. Even the scrape of a chair sounded like an interruption.

A file lay open in the center of it — Hale v. Roth Capital.

Harvey leaned against the far end, jacket draped over his chair, sleeves rolled to a precise, deliberate angle.

At the other end, she sat upright, legal pad open, fingers tapping lightly on the edge. Collected. Ready. Her gaze met his, an unspoken challenge lingering between them.

Donna sat calm and unreadable at the center, pen idle, while Mike hovered near the door, fidgeting and glancing nervously between them as if the air itself might explode.

Jessica Pearson’s voice cut through the low hum of fluorescent lights.

“This is prep for Roth Capital,” she began. “Former negotiating partner claims an implied agreement. Defense says discussions never crossed the line. Keep it factual. Clear. Professional.”

She paused, letting the weight of the room settle.

Harvey straightened, adjusting his cuff once.

She didn’t move. The room seemed to shrink slightly between them, though no one else would admit it aloud.

“Openings,” Jessica continued. “Harvey.”

He pushed off the table, rolling his shoulders back as he stepped forward.

Every eye on him, yet only hers registered as a threat.

“Let’s not waste time,” he began, pacing slowly. “This case isn’t about contracts. It’s about promises — and what happens when one side makes them knowing they never intend to keep them.”

He tapped the file once.

“My client didn’t wake up one morning and imagine an agreement. Roth Capital created those expectations — through conduct, through assurances, through weeks of negotiations that went far beyond ‘casual.’”

He looked up.

“You don’t need a signature to create obligation. You need intent. And we’re going to show you exactly when Roth crossed that line.”

Her pen moved once. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t need to. Harvey could feel her assessment anyway—precise, weighing, unforgiving.

Jessica nodded once. “Opposing counsel.”

A few associates shifted in their seats.

Harvey didn’t.

He stayed exactly where he was, watching, waiting, like he already knew which angle she’d take and was daring her to surprise him.

“This case,” she said evenly, “is about confusing momentum with commitment. Negotiations are not promises. Optimism is not obligation.”

She let her gaze sweep the table—not challenging anyone else, but Harvey felt it as a weight pressing against his composure.

“My opponent wants you to believe implication should carry the same weight as ink,” She continued, voice steady. “It doesn’t. And if it did, no business in this city would survive its own enthusiasm.”

The room went still.

The corner of Jessica’s mouth ticked upward.

Harvey felt his pulse quicken, though outwardly he remained impeccable.

Jessica broke the tension. “Cross.”

“So your argument,” he cut in, “is that intent doesn’t matter if it wasn’t convenient to honor?”

She didn’t flinch. Her calm was a mirror to his tension, reflecting it back sharper.

“My argument,” she replied, “is that no one is entitled to something they never asked for.”

Harvey stepped closer to the table. “Let’s talk about behavior, then. “Steps taken, doors opened, assumptions made.”

She tilted her head slightly, pen tapping lightly. “Steps taken do not create obligation. Doors opened do not bind consent. And assumptions… are never enforceable.”

Jessica’s eyes flicked toward him. “Watch your phrasing, Mr. Specter.”

Harvey exhaled sharply, then circled the table like he would a witness.

“You don’t think there’s responsibility in what you start?”

She met his gaze fully now.

“I think responsibility begins when expectations are mutual.”

“And when Hale declined other offers based on that relationship?”

She inhaled once.

“Then Hale assumed risk before securing protection.”

“So Roth Capital can just walk away?” Harvey asked.

“Yes,” she said simply, “because they never promised to stay.”

The word landed clean. Absolute.

Donna swallowed.

Mike exhaled sharply, eyes flicking between Harvey and her.

Harvey leaned in, voice lower now. “You’re telling this court that leaving without a word is acceptable?”

“I’m telling the court,” She replied, “that leaving before expectations harden into leverage is sometimes the kindest option.”

Harvey laughed once — short, humorless.

“Kind?”

“Yes,” she said evenly. “Because it doesn’t pretend to offer something it can’t sustain.”

Something flickered across his expression—brief, unguarded.

“And if the other party wanted more?”

She held his gaze.

“Then they should have said so.”

That ended it.

Harvey turned away, running a hand through his hair.

Jessica broke the silence.

“That’s enough.”

Her eyes settled on Harvey — sharp, unimpressed.

The message was clear: get it together

Yet Harvey’s glance flicked back to her once more, a quiet acknowledgment that the game — and the tension — was far from over.

Harvey took the long way back to his office after the mock trial.

He stopped twice to answer questions he already knew the answers to, signed a document that didn’t need his signature, corrected an associate on a point that didn’t matter. By the time he reached his door, the loss had settled — not heavy, just there. Like something he couldn’t shake, no matter how he shifted.

He didn’t close the door behind him.

Mike noticed.

He waited until Harvey had crossed the room, set his folder down, and loosened his cuff links — not his tie — before he spoke.

“You know you lost that on purpose, right?”

Harvey didn’t look up. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair with deliberate care.

“I don’t lose on purpose.”

Mike leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him the way he did when he wasn’t buying the performance.

“No,” he said lightly. “You lose when you’re trying to prove something instead of win.”

Harvey closed the file with a sharp snap. “I was testing the room.”

Mike nodded, unfazed. “You do that when you’re bored. Today you were… invested.”

Mike pushed off the doorframe and wandered closer, stopping short of the desk. “I’ve seen you lose before,” he continued. “You get angry. You get aggressive. You start planning revenge in your head before the judge even leaves the bench.”

He tilted his head, studying Harvey. “This wasn’t that.”

Harvey’s jaw tightened. “Spit it out.”

Mike hesitated, but he said it anyway.

“She’s got a different kind of pull, doesn’t she? Something you can’t out-negotiate, can’t intimidate, or charm your way out of.“

Harvey turned from the window, his gaze sharp, assessing. “What’s your point, Mike?”

“My point,” Mike said, catching the stress ball and rolling it once in his palm, “is that for the first time, Harvey Specter looks genuinely off-balance. And it’s not because of a case or a rival firm.”

He met Harvey’s eyes. “It’s because of a woman who just walks in and out of your life like she owns the place, and you’re letting her.” He paused, then added, “And honestly? It’s kind of fascinating to watch.”

Harvey’s voice cut in, too quick.

“I don’t chase things that can walk away.”

A beat.

“I don’t,” he said again — this time trying to convince himself, not Mike.

Mike didn’t smile.

“Then stop pretending this is about the walk,” he said softly.

Another stretch of silence. This one heavier. The city lights flickered, restless.

Harvey turned away, staring out at Manhattan like it might offer a rebuttal. When he spoke again, his voice was lower.

“You think I don’t know what this looks like?”

Mike moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “I think you don’t like what it feels like.”

Harvey didn’t turn.

The door clicked shut behind him.

He stood alone, the office suddenly too quiet.

His hand drifted to his tie again — then stopped.

He let it fall.

Night settled over Manhattan like a breath held too long.

The firm was dark now, emptied of voices and urgency, leaving only the city bleeding through the glass — light without sound, motion without warmth, indifferent to everything inside.

Harvey stood at the window, jacket abandoned on the couch, tie loosened but still hanging around his neck — forgotten, like a habit he didn’t know how to drop.

He wasn’t watching the skyline. He was watching the reflection in the glass as she stepped through his door.

She didn’t knock. She never did.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“You didn’t think,” Harvey said quietly, his hands sliding into his pockets, “or you didn’t hope?”

He turned to face her. The edge was gone. What remained was heavier — the kind of tired no amount of sleep could touch. The tired that came from thinking too much, too late.

She stayed by the door, her bag resting lightly on her shoulder. The blouse was slightly rumpled now, the silk catching the dim ambient light.

“I’m not in the mood for fight, Harvey. I’m going home.”

“Why were you so angry?”

The question landed bluntly. No legal jargon, no witty comeback. Just truth, dropped between them.

Her hand tightened on the strap. Her voice faltered slightly, softer than usual.

“I wasn't angry. I was professional.”

“Don’t lie to me.” He stepped forward, crossing the rug until he was in her space again, but this time the energy was heavy, not electric.

“You’ve been a thunderstorm since you walked in this morning. You left my apartment like it was a crime scene, and you spent the day trying to cut me down in front of my own associates.”

“I was reclaiming my ground,” she snapped, then caught herself, her voice softening just a fraction. “Because last night, I lost it. I don’t like losing my ground, Harvey. Especially not to you.”

“Why? Because it’s me? Or because of how it felt?”

She looked away, a bitter laugh escaping her.

“Because I know how this ends. You’re Harvey Specter. You win, you celebrate, and then you move on to the next case. I wasn't going to wait around for you to wake up and decide that I was just another 'closed' file.”

Harvey’s expression softened, a rare crack appearing in the granite. He reached out, his hand hovering before gently catching her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“You think I was acting today because I wanted to win?” he asked, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “I was acting that way because I couldn't breathe. I woke up, and the space next to me was cold, and for the first time in years, I didn't want to come into this office. I wanted to find you.”

She exhaled slowly, as if steadying herself against the pull of her own hope rather than just the man in front of her. Her hand rose almost instinctively, brushing his wrist before falling away.

“I want to believe you,” she said quietly. “I want to. I just—don’t know if I can.”

Harvey’s brow furrows. “Why?”

“Because… believing you doesn’t make it easy,” she admitted, her words barely louder than a whisper.

She stepped back once. Just one step — but it fractured the fragile gravity holding them together.

“You didn’t lose today because you argued badly,” her tone careful now, softer but firm. “You lost because you were reacting instead of choosing. And that scares you.” Her gaze sharpened. “It doesn’t scare me.”

Harvey’s jaw tightens. “So what — you’re walking away again?”

She adjusted the strap of her bag, reclaiming the posture she wore in court this morning.

“I don’t want to be something you circle,” she said. “Something you analyze. Something you try to outmaneuver until you convince yourself you’ve got the upper hand.”

Silence stretched. The city hummed beyond the glass, indifferent.

“And if I decide?” he asked.

Her lips curved — not a smile, but something quieter. Sadder. Resolute.

“Then you’ll know,” she said. “Because I won’t be the one walking away.”

She reached for the door.

Harvey moved without thinking — one step forward, hand lifting — then stopped. For the first time, restraint wasn’t strategy. It was fear.

The door opened.

She left.

The click of the latch echoed far too loudly, carving the emptiness.

Harvey stood alone, the city reflected in the glass — vast, alive, unreachable.

For the first time, the thought didn’t sharpen him. It unsettled him, and he didn’t try to fight it.

Fred Weasley x FemDiggoryReader

The final task is upon you and this time, you think you might actually be in it to win.

Warmings: canon accurate violence, gore

——————————————————————-

The morning of the final task dawned gray and heavy, as though the castle itself understood what waited for you in the maze that had swallowed the Quidditch pitch whole. You had barely slept, every toss and turn haunted by flickering images of shifting hedges, unseen dangers, and the Triwizard Cup glowing just out of reach.

Still, when you dragged yourself from bed and dressed, you found that somewhere deep down there was a steel resolve. You were nervous, yes, but ready. Ready to face whatever came. Ready to see this thing through.

The thought of winning tugged at you in quiet, treacherous ways. What if you did it? What if you actually managed to win? You thought of George’s words, of the twins’ shop dream, of the way your own life might change with prize money that big. A spark of hope dared to bloom in your chest.

That spark flickered out the moment you reached the stairs.

Because as you rounded the landing, heading for the Great Hall, you nearly collided with someone coming down the opposite staircase. Tall, red-haired, and unmistakable. Fred.

You both froze. Once, not so long ago, this kind of run-in would have been seamless. You would’ve fallen into step beside him without thought, shoulder brushing shoulder as you chattered about what you hoped to find for breakfast, or laughed about last night’s escapades in the common room, or complained about whatever class loomed ahead. Now, only silence greeted you.

Fred stood there, staring at you with that unreadable expression, and the weight of all the things unsaid pressed between you. There was emotion in his eyes. Too much, too sharp, like a thousand words crowding at the back of his throat with no way out.