Baby, I'd burn this world for you || CLOSED ||

Louis is practically vibrating beside you, his stride quick and proud, like a man walking a prize-winning racehorse into the show ring. “Number one in her class,” he’s saying to no one in particular, though he’s loud enough for half the bullpen to hear. “Harvard. My Harvard. Full ride. Recruited by half the firms in the city, but she chose us. Chose me.”

You resist the urge to shrink under the weight of so many eyes. Associates glance up from their monitors, partners peer over the rims of their reading glasses, and you can feel the quiet ripple of appraisal following you through the room. You know what they’re thinking: fresh out of law school, bright-eyed, top of your class—how long until the grind of this place dulls the shine? You lift your chin and keep your pace steady. Let them watch.

Louis slows as you approach the corner office—the corner office—and your pulse ticks up. Through the glass, you see him: Harvey Specter. The Harvey Specter. Leaning back in his chair like the world spins because he lets it, a pen balanced between his fingers, the faintest curve of a smirk tugging at his mouth. The city skyline sprawls behind him, impossibly bright for this early in the morning.

Louis pushes the door open without knocking, voice pitched in that particular way that’s half-boast, half-plea for validation. “Harvey, meet my new associate. Number one at Harvard Law.”

Harvey’s gaze flicks from Louis to you, and it’s like being under a spotlight—sharp, assessing, the kind of look that takes in everything and gives nothing back. Up close, you catch the faint scent of his cologne: something warm and expensive, threaded with a hint of spice. It settles under your skin in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“You plan on keeping her in the bullpen?” Harvey asks, his tone lazy but edged with amusement. “Seems like a waste.”

Louis bristles. “She’s with me. And she’s going to be the best associate this firm has ever seen.”

Harvey’s smirk widens by a fraction, like he knows something neither of you do yet. His eyes stay on you as he says, “We’ll see about that.”

The words shouldn’t make your stomach flip. They do anyway.

The next several weeks blur into a series of long nights and longer days. You prove quickly that you aren’t just book-smart—you’re fast, adaptable, and unshakable under pressure. You file airtight motions with minutes to spare, dismantle opposing arguments in conference calls, and pull case law from thin air like you’ve been practicing for years. Whispers start to follow you down the hallway—not just about being Louis’ Harvard golden girl, but about the way you leave no loose ends. The way you can smile at someone while tearing their argument to shreds.

You drink your coffee black, keep your bullpen desk unnervingly tidy, and dress like every meeting could make or break your career. When someone tries to pass their grunt work onto you, you hand it back with corrections. Associates either want to be you or avoid you entirely. Partners are starting to remember your name.

One afternoon, the tap of Louis’ shoes announces him before he even rounds the corner to your desk. He’s clutching a thick file to his chest like it’s a newborn. “Clear your schedule,” he says, practically bouncing in place.

You slide your pen into your notepad and arch a brow. “That’s a big ask, considering I actually do work around here.”

“Cute,” he says flatly, though there’s the ghost of a smirk on his face. He sets the file down on your desk with a heavy thud. “I’m bringing you in on a case. High stakes. Big client. One wrong move and we’re toast.”

You flip open the file, scanning the first few pages, your brain already sifting through strategies. “And you’re trusting me with this because…?”

“Because,” Louis says, drawing out the word, “you’re the best associate this firm has seen in years. And because I want Harvey Specter to choke on the fact that my protégé just outshined him.”

You glance up, meeting his eyes. “So no pressure, then.”

Louis grins. “Exactly. Now, read up. We meet the client tomorrow morning.”

Two days later, Harvey’s on his way back from a meeting when he hears raised voices echoing down the hall. Not angry, exactly—sharp. Heated. Curious, he follows the sound until it leads him to one of the glass-walled conference rooms.

Inside, Louis sits stiffly at the table, arms crossed, eyes trained on you. You’re standing, posture straight, expression cool, facing down a red-faced client who’s clearly in the middle of a tirade. Harvey lingers in the doorway, unnoticed.

The client jabs a finger at you. “I don’t care what the law says—this deal is garbage, and I’m not signing it.”

You tilt your head, the faintest smile tugging at your mouth. “With respect, you hired us to get you the best possible outcome. This is it. The other side folds if you take this now, but if you walk out that door, you’ll spend the next six months bleeding money in litigation you won’t win.”

The client starts to interrupt, but you press on, voice razor-sharp. “You’re emotional. I get it. But emotions don’t win cases. Facts do. And the fact is, if you reject this offer, you lose. And when you lose, you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”

A long silence follows. Then, with a muttered curse, the client sits down and signs.

Harvey watches as you slide the paperwork across the table, your smile polite but victorious. Louis beams. Harvey, still in the doorway, can’t help the slow grin spreading across his face.

It’s late by the time the bullpen empties, the steady hum of the office replaced by the low whir of the air system. Your desk lamp casts a warm halo over the neat stacks of files, and you’re buried deep in a deposition transcript when a voice cuts through the quiet.

“Planning on sleeping here, Rookie?”

You look up, startled, to find Harvey leaning against the edge of your desk, hands in his pockets, smirk firmly in place. “Some of us don’t clock out at five,” you say, reaching for a highlighter.

“Some of us know when to call it a night.” He nods toward the file. “That the case from this morning?”

You nod. “I like to be thorough.”

“Thorough’s good,” he says, studying you in that sharp, unreadable way. “But you keep this up, and you’ll burn out before your first year’s up.”

You arch a brow. “Is this a lecture?”

“An invitation,” he corrects smoothly. “There’s a bar two blocks over. Come on.”

You hesitate, and his smile widens. “Mentorship, not a date. Unless you want it to be.”

Rolling your eyes, you close the file and stand. “One drink.”

“Then let’s go,” he says, pushing away from your desk, his smirk softening just enough to make you wonder what exactly you’ve agreed to.

The air outside is crisp, the city alive with the hum of traffic and the distant wail of sirens. Harvey walks beside you, his long stride unhurried, hands still in his pockets like the night belongs to him. The bar is low-lit and sleek, all dark wood and leather, the kind of place that feels private even when it’s busy.

You slide into a booth, and he orders without asking—scotch for him, gin and tonic for you. When the drinks arrive, he lifts his glass toward you. “To surviving Louis Litt.”

You smirk. “I think I’m doing more than surviving.”

“That’s what worries me,” he says, eyes glinting in the dim light. “You’re good—too good for your first few months here. Which means you’ve got a target on your back.”

You take a slow sip, watching him over the rim of your glass. God, he really is exactly as handsome as everyone says he is. The cut of his suit, the way his hair catches the light, the easy confidence in every movement—it’s almost distracting.

“So what, you’re here to protect me?”

He leans back, smiling like he knows exactly what you’re doing. “I’m here because I like to keep an eye on talent. And because you were impressive today.”

“Impressive enough to get a drink with Harvey Specter?”

“Let’s just say,” he drawls, “I don’t make a habit of taking rookies out for drinks. You’re an exception.”

The conversation drifts—cases, courtroom tactics, the unspoken rules of Pearson Hardman. Every so often, his gaze lingers a fraction too long, like he’s measuring you in ways that have nothing to do with work.

When the drinks are gone, he stands and shrugs into his coat, waiting for you to follow. Outside, the night air is cooler, the streets quieter. You walk together toward the firm, and there’s an ease between you now that wasn’t there a few hours ago.

At the front of the building, he pauses. “Get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow, you get to do it all over again.”

You smirk. “Was that encouragement?”

“Don’t get used to it,” he says, but there’s a glint in his eyes that makes it feel like a promise.

You watch him walk away into the night, realizing you’re already looking forward to the next time you’re in his orbit.

The weeks that follow pull you into his world almost without you realizing it. A case you’re on overlaps with one of his, and suddenly you’re in his office more than your own desk—sprawled on the leather couch near the window, heels discarded on the floor, legal pads and files spread out beside you. Harvey’s jacket, vest, and tie are draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled to his forearms. A pair of low glasses of scotch from his office bar sit on the coffee table, the amber liquid catching the glow from the city lights beyond the glass.

He’s pacing, file in hand, rattling off points with that easy confidence. You volley back without missing a beat, chin propped in your hand, eyes following him. “That’s your strategy?” you tease. “Bold move, Specter. Risky. I give it a week before it blows up in your face.”

He smirks, setting the file down. “Funny, because I was thinking the same thing about your opening statement.”

“Mine is bulletproof.”

“Yours is overconfident.”

“Yours is lazy.”

“Yours is trying too hard.”

“Yours—”

“Careful,” he warns, but there’s amusement in his voice.

You grin. “—is exactly what I’d expect from a man whose solution to everything is intimidation and a tailored suit.”

He settles into the armchair across from you, one arm draped casually over the side. “And yet, somehow, that ‘man’ wins. Every. Single. Time.”

You tap your pen against the edge of your glass. “Maybe you just haven’t had me on the other side of the table yet.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Sounds like it, doesn’t it?”

He studies you for a beat, the smirk fading into something sharper, more curious. The city light cuts across his face, and for just a moment, the banter gives way to silence thick enough to feel. “Careful what you wish for, Rookie,” he says at last, voice low. “You might just get it.”

You smile, leaning back into the couch. He takes a sip of scotch, eyes still on you. Then, with a subtle tilt of his head, he says, “Go home. Get some rest. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes but start gathering your files, slipping your heels back on. “Don’t miss me too much.”

He smirks. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You’re halfway out the door when you toss over your shoulder, “You’d be lost without me.”

“Debatable,” he calls after you, but there’s a warmth under the word that lingers after you’re gone.

When the door clicks shut, Harvey exhales, collapsing into his chair. He stares at the empty couch, then downs the rest of his scotch in one swallow. Leaning back, he scrubs a hand over his face, the word slipping out under his breath, low and rough: “Goddamnit.”

The weeks that follow aren’t explosive—they’re a slow, deliberate creep toward something neither of you says out loud. Harvey keeps the banter quick and the praise understated, but you notice the shift anyway. He starts asking for your input on cases you’re not staffed on. He waves you into his office after meetings that technically ended fifteen minutes ago, just to “pick your brain.” You’re not sure if it’s because you’re good at your job or because he likes watching you tear apart an argument, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left standing.

In return, you’ve gotten bolder. You let your heels slip off the moment you hit the couch in his office. You steal the pens from his desk when yours run out. You lean over his shoulder when he’s scrolling through a contract, close enough that you can smell his cologne under the faint warmth of scotch. And every time, he doesn’t move away.

Donna starts raising her eyebrows at how often she sees you in his glass-walled office. Louis makes a snide comment about “Harvey poaching talent” when he catches you two laughing over something that has nothing to do with law. You shrug it off—out loud, at least. Privately, you can feel the current under every exchange, the way his gaze lingers a beat too long, the way yours drops to his mouth when he smirks.

Nights are the most dangerous. When the bullpen is dark and the hum of the city filters in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, you’re still in his office, your jacket draped over the back of a chair, files spread across the table between you. Sometimes you talk strategy. Sometimes the conversation veers into stories about Harvard, his early days at the firm, or your first big case win. The laughter comes easier then—so does the silence.

And when you finally stand to leave, there’s always that pause. His eyes on you as you collect your things. Yours on him as he leans back in his chair, watching.

Neither of you has crossed the line yet. But you’re both standing at the edge, looking down.

It happens on a Thursday. The case had been brutal, the kind that drags the whole week down with it, and Harvey suggests—too casually—to “get a drink before we both lose what’s left of our sanity.” You don’t even pretend to hesitate.

The bar is quieter this time, tucked away from the usual finance crowd. Dark wood, low lighting, jazz bleeding through the speakers. You take the booth across from him, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. Half an hour and two rounds in, you’re both leaning in, elbows on the table, trading war stories about the worst clients you’ve ever had.

“You still think you’re the reason I win?” he asks, that smirk cutting through the dim light.

“Absolutely,” you say, swirling your glass. “Without me, you’d be—”

“Careful.” His voice dips, low enough to blur the line between warning and invitation.

You hold his gaze, unflinching. “—bored.”

It should end there. It doesn’t. His hand finds the table between you, fingers brushing yours in a way that can’t be written off as accidental. You don’t move. The noise of the bar fades to the sound of your own pulse.

For a second, you think he’s going to close the distance—his eyes drop, just barely, to your mouth.

And then he leans back, pulling his hand away like nothing happened. “Another round?”

The air between you is different now. Charged. Dangerous. And neither of you mentions it on the walk back to the firm.

The next day, you can’t focus. The numbers on the page blur, the clauses in the contract don’t stick, and your mind keeps replaying the brush of his fingers like it’s on loop. You’re halfway through the same paragraph for the third time when Louis’s hand is slamming down on the wall of your desk.

“My office. Now.”

You blink, realizing half the bullpen is already looking at you. “Uh—sure, Louis.”

Inside, he shuts the door with unnecessary force. “You’re off your game.”

“I’m fine,” you say, stacking your papers just to have something to do with your hands.

“No, you’re not. I’ve been watching you all morning. You’ve missed details you wouldn’t normally miss. And you know what missing details leads to? Mistakes. Which leads to the other side winning. And you know what that leads to?”

“An angry Louis?”

He stares at you like you’ve just confessed to a felony. “This isn’t a joke.”

You soften your tone, even if you can’t help the flicker of a smirk. “I said I’m fine. It won’t happen again.”

He huffs, still unconvinced, but lets you go. Back at your desk, you catch yourself glancing at Harvey’s office, glass walls gleaming under the morning sun. He’s inside, jacket off, leaning over a file—but you’d swear his eyes flick up to meet yours for a split second before he goes back to work.

It’s late when he finds you. The bullpen’s nearly empty—just the soft hum of the copier somewhere down the hall, the city glow bleeding in through the windows. You’re so deep in your file that you don’t notice him until the reflection of his suit fills your peripheral.

“You’ve been distracted,” he says, voice low enough that it feels like it’s meant only for you.

You look up, leaning back in your chair, trying to hide the fact that your pulse just spiked. “You been talking to Louis?”

“Don’t need to.” His eyes flick over your desk like he’s taking in the evidence. “I see it.”

You sit up straighter, defensive without meaning to be. “I’m still delivering results.”

“Not the point.” He studies you for a beat too long, the way he does in court when he’s already won but wants to watch the other side squirm. Then his mouth twitches—not quite a smile. “Come out with me tonight.”

You blink, caught off guard. “The usual bar?”

“Not tonight.” There’s a pause, calculated. “My place.”

For a second, you wonder if you misheard him. His place. The words land heavier than they should, dragging a hundred questions behind them. Is this still work? Is this mentorship? Is this something else entirely? You search his face for a tell, but he’s giving you nothing.

“That’s… different,” you say finally, trying to keep your tone light.

“You afraid I’m going to make you work through dinner?” His smirk is there, but it doesn’t hide the way his gaze lingers.

You take your time closing your file, sliding it into your bag. Your mind’s racing ahead, weighing all the things this could mean. “I’m afraid of what your definition of dinner is.”

His smirk deepens. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

You stand, slipping into your jacket, and even then there’s a moment—a beat—where neither of you moves. Then you step past him, the quiet sound of your heels on the tile filling the space between words.

The ride is short, quiet in a way that doesn’t feel uncomfortable but still sits heavy. You thank Ray when you step out, the city air colder here, cleaner somehow. Harvey leads the way without a word, unlocking the door to a high-rise apartment that looks exactly like you’d imagine it would—sleek lines, warm lighting, the kind of view that makes you pause on the threshold.

It smells faintly like leather and whatever cologne he wears, the one you’ve only ever caught in passing before. Here, it’s stronger. More personal.

He drops his keys in a dish near the door, loosens his tie, and gestures toward the living room. “Make yourself at home.”

You step in, eyes catching on the floor-to-ceiling windows spilling city lights across polished hardwood, the low hum of jazz floating from somewhere unseen. It’s not staged—no carefully curated backdrop like the conference rooms at work. It’s lived-in, but not messy. Comfortable, but still him.

You toe off your heels without thinking, padding further inside. “Nice place.”

He glances over his shoulder with the faintest hint of a smirk. “I’ve been told it’s not bad.”

There’s a moment where you just stand there, him watching you take it all in, the air between you thick with something that has nothing to do with work.

He heads to a bar cart tucked into the corner, pulling out two heavy crystal tumblers and a bottle of Macallan. “Scotch okay?”

You nod, dropping your bag onto the end of the couch. “You keep the good stuff here, huh?”

“I keep the good stuff everywhere.” The faint clink of ice follows his words. He hands you a glass, his fingers brushing yours—brief, but enough to send heat crawling up your spine.

You take a sip, the burn settling in your chest. “So, this is what you do when you’re not closing billion-dollar deals?”

“This is me taking a night off,” he says, settling onto the couch, tie discarded, top buttons undone. The relaxed version of Harvey is disarming, and you can’t decide if that’s better or worse for your nerves.

“Feels like I should be taking notes,” you say.

“Please. You’d have your own style. Different from mine, but just as lethal.” His gaze is steady, the kind that feels like it’s peeling you apart layer by layer.

“Lethal’s a big word,” you murmur.

“It’s the right one.” He takes a slow sip, not breaking eye contact. “You’ve got an instinct most people spend decades faking.”

It’s the kind of praise that should feel purely professional, but the way he says it—low, deliberate—makes your chest feel tight.

You set your glass down, leaning back into the couch, pretending to be more at ease than you are. “Careful, Harvey. Sounds like you’re complimenting me.”

His smirk is slow, almost dangerous. “Maybe I am.”

You swirl the amber in your glass, watching the way the light catches it. “You’re different out of the office.”

“How so?”

“Less… sharp edges. Still sharp, just—” You pause, eyes flicking over him. “—not in a way that’s designed to cut.”

One brow arches. “And here I thought you liked the sharp edges.”

“I do,” you admit before you can stop yourself.

The quiet that follows is heavier than before. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, the space between you suddenly feeling a lot smaller.

“You know,” he says, voice low enough that you feel it more than hear it, “most people in your position would be trying to impress me.”

“Maybe I already have.”

That earns you a smile—slower, warmer than the ones he flashes in court. “Maybe you have,” he repeats, like he’s turning the idea over in his mind.

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, and that’s when you realize how close you’ve both leaned in. The air feels charged, like the city outside is holding its breath.

"This is a dumb idea," you almost immediately breathe out, your eyes dropping to his mouth all the same. You can feel his breath against your lips, just teetering on the edge of giving into weeks worth of tension.

"Really stupid," Harvey echoes. "But I want to. Do you want to?"

Your eyes lock with his. A single, slow nod. You really, really want to.

Your nod barely has time to settle between you before his mouth is on yours—slow, deliberate, like he’s tasting the answer. His lips are warm and soft, the faintest graze of stubble scratching your skin when he tilts his head. The scent of his cologne is stronger here, wrapping around you with the low hum of the city beyond the glass. His thumb brushes the curve of your jaw, not pushing, just holding you there, making the kiss feel even more inevitable.

When he pulls back, it’s only by an inch, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet. His eyes search yours, unreadable, the kind of silence that hums louder than words.

And then he’s kissing you again—harder this time, with a heat that steals the air from your lungs. The angle shifts, his hand sliding into your hair, his body leaning in like he’s finally stopped caring about lines. The taste of scotch and something entirely him blooms on your tongue. You feel the press of his chest through the crisp fabric of his shirt, the way his fingers flex against the back of your neck like he’s anchoring you to him.

The kiss deepens until you’re both moving without thought, mouths opening, finding a rhythm that’s all heat and want. His hand drags from your neck to your waist, pulling you closer until your knees bump his. You can feel the solid weight of him, the warmth radiating through his shirt, and it sends your mind racing ahead of your body.

Your fingers hover at the edge of his collar, unsure for a beat before you touch him—just grazing the smooth silk of his tie, then curling it loosely in your hand like you’re testing how far you can go. He doesn’t notice the pause; or if he does, he hides it well, leaning in to kiss you again, deeper.

The faint taste of scotch, the scrape of his stubble, the slow drag of his thumb along your hip—it’s all too much and not enough. You shift forward, knees brushing his thigh, and your breath catches before you can stop it.

“Mm,” he hums into your mouth, like he’s pleased with himself.

You try to kiss him back the way he’s kissing you—sure, practiced—but there’s a stutter in your movements, a slight awkwardness in where to put your hands. You end up smoothing them over his chest, feeling the firm planes beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, before hesitating again.

He doesn’t slow. One hand fists gently in the fabric at your lower back, the other sliding up your spine, fingertips pressing lightly through the layers of your blouse. Your jacket slips off your shoulders without you meaning it to, pooling on the couch beside you.

When his fingers brush the first button of your blouse, your stomach flips—not with fear, but with the dizzy awareness that you’ve never let anyone this close before. You’re not sure if you’re doing this right, but Harvey… Harvey kisses you like you are.

His fingers work at the buttons slowly, like he’s giving you a chance to stop him. One by one, they come undone, the fabric parting until it sits on your shoulders. The air hits your skin, cooler than his hands, and then he’s leaning back just enough to look at you.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, eyes sweeping over you in a way that makes your pulse hammer. “You’re beautiful.”

The words land heavier than you expect, heating your face instantly. You look away, not because you don’t want to hear it, but because you don’t know what to do with it.

A smirk tugs at his mouth. “You can tear opposing counsel to shreds without blinking, but tell you you’re beautiful and you go all quiet?”

You huff out a laugh, but it’s softer than usual, your fingers fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt. “It’s… different.”

He tips his head, curiosity cutting through the heat in his gaze. “Different how?”

You hesitate, weighing whether to tell him. The moment stretches, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your side, and suddenly it feels worse to not say it.

“I’ve never…” You swallow, meeting his eyes for half a second before looking away again. “I’ve never done this before.”

For the first time tonight, he goes still. His thumb pauses against your side, and that sharp, assessing gaze fixes on you like you’ve just thrown him a curveball.

“You’re telling me…” his voice dips, incredulous but amused, “…no one’s ever closed this deal before?”

You groan quietly, covering your face with one hand. “God, don’t say it like that.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “What? I’m just clarifying the terms.” His hand finds your wrist, gently pulling it from your face so he can look at you. “You’ve never—”

You shake your head, cheeks hot. “Never. And I wasn’t exactly… planning for it to happen like this, but—” your eyes flick to his, steady now— “I want to.”

For a second, his smirk lingers, like he’s savoring the surprise. Then it eases into something slower, warmer. “You know, most people don’t drop that on me after I’ve got their shirt off.”

“Sorry to ruin your usual flow.”

“Ruin?” He leans back just enough to look you over, head tilted. “Rookie, you just made my night a hell of a lot more interesting.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning in again, that smirk back in place, “but I’m also very, very good.”

His voice drops lower on the last word, and he shifts closer, one hand sliding to your shoulder to gently push your blouse the rest of the way open. The fabric parts easily under his fingers, cool air brushing your skin before the warmth of him replaces it.

He lowers himself, slow enough that you feel the anticipation crawl up your spine, his mouth finding the curve of your neck. The first kiss there is soft—barely more than a press of lips—but it sends a shiver through you all the same. He follows it with another, lower this time, the faint scrape of stubble dragging heat in its wake.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing your collarbone before trailing back up, “what you’re in for.”

He brings his lips back up to yours after that, but this time, when he kisses you, there's so much more behind it. You can feel his earnestness, his promise in the way his lips move against yours, the softness of them mirroring the almost uncharacteristic gentleness with which he's treating you. He pulls back slowly, a hint of a smirk on his face as his hand wraps with yours, pulling you to your feet.

"What? You think I'd let you have your first time on a couch? Please. I'm Harvey Fucking Specter. Luxury, baby."

If it were any other moment, you would have rolled your eyes at him and thrown a smack at his arrogance, but in this moment, you were grateful. Despite the cockiness he was presenting, it was obvious it was all just because he was trying to make this the best experience possible for you. Luxury, indeed.

"Holy shit."

You have to take a moment to look around in awe once you get to his bedroom. It’s everything you imagined: floor-to-ceiling windows spilling the city in gold and silver, a bed big enough to swallow you whole, sheets so crisp you could swear they’ve never been slept in. He stops just inside the doorway, turning back to you, and for a second the usual cocky mask slips.

He watches you take it in—the skyline, the impossibly crisp sheets, the sheer Harvey-ness of it all—and for a moment there’s no smirk, no performance. Just his eyes on you, softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice quieter now. Not hesitant, but deliberate, like he wants you to hear the weight of the choice.

You nod, throat suddenly dry. “I’m sure.”

That earns a grin, but it doesn’t carry the same courtroom bite. It’s warmer, more private. “Good,” he murmurs, stepping in to kiss you again. This one is slow, thorough, his hand cupping your jaw while the other tugs at the hem of your blouse. He peels it away inch by inch, lips never leaving yours until the fabric falls.

When you shiver, he pulls back just enough to smirk. “Relax, Rookie. You think I’d leave you feeling anything but perfect? Not a chance.”

The banter helps. It steadies your nerves, makes the way his hands trail over your skin feel less like exposure and more like discovery. By the time he’s stripped you down to nothing but your underwear, you’re flushed but no longer frozen.

He steps back, unbuttoning his shirt easily. The fabric falls off of him, cufflinks clinking softly against the nightstand, and then he’s just Harvey in all his sharp, lean confidence, bathed in city light.

Your breath catches. “Damn.”

He chuckles, low and smug. “Don’t worry, that’s a normal reaction.”

You swat at him weakly, but he catches your wrist, tugging you forward until you’re against his chest. His stubble grazes your temple when he murmurs, “Lie down.”

The sheets are cool under your back, his weight warm as he follows. He takes his time with you, kissing down your throat, hands mapping every inch, until your nerves fray into need. His fingers slip between your thighs, stroking over the thin cotton of your panties.

“Already wet,” he mutters, more to himself than you, but the smugness is there. His eyes flick up to yours. “You trust me?”

You nod.

“Then let me get you ready.”

The panties slide away, his mouth replacing his fingers, coaxing gasps from you until your hips lift helplessly into his hand. One finger, then two, sliding in slow, deliberate, curling just enough to have your nails digging into the sheets. He keeps his eyes on you, studying every twitch and breath.

"Like that?" He asks, fingers still gently working in and out of you as he pulls his mouth away, his lips glistening with the wetness of yours.

"Not bad, yeah," you pant out, poorly feigning nonchalance.

He grins widely. "Not bad, huh? We'll see."

His mouth returns to its place, his lips wrapping over your clit, sucking it gently. His chuckles vibrate against you when your hips arch into his face, your breathing growing hot with the sensations.

His fingers continue to scissor inside of you, stretching you open in preparation for him. With one final kiss to your clit, his lips make their way back up your body, slow and wet, until his face is hovering over yours.

"How do you feel?" He asks. "Feeling good? Think you're ready?"

"Think you're ready?" You counter, your smirk settling over the expression of pleasure he had plastered on your face.

A slow grin makes its way onto his lips. "Yeah. I'm ready."

“Good,” you say, and he kisses you like a seal on the decision—slow first, then deeper until your mouth is warm and slick with him. When he breaks away, he reaches to the nightstand without looking, rips foil with a clean flick. Watching him roll the condom on does something to your pulse—clinical and intimate at once, like the moment before a verdict.

“Legs,” he murmurs, tapping your knee. You open for him. He drags his palms up the backs of your thighs, thumbs pressing into muscle, easing you higher until your heels hook behind his waist. The city lays bands of white-gold across his shoulders; his skin is hot where it touches yours, the callouses on his hands providing a layer to his touch that makes this all that much more... enticing.

“Eyes on me,” he says, not a command so much as a place to put your focus. You give him your eyes.

The blunt heat of him nudges where his fingers were, a careful pressure that makes your breath climb your throat. He doesn’t push, yet. He just rests there, letting your body understand the weight and width of him. His hand slides up your side and settles just under your ribs, steadying your breath with his thumb.

“Breathe in,” he says softly. You do. “Now out.”

On the exhale he eases in a little. The stretch bites—new, bright—and you clutch at his shoulders. He stops immediately, thumb stroking your rib again, mouth close enough that his breath warms your cheek.

“Talk to me.”

“It… burns a little,” you admit, the truth small and honest.

“A bit of a stretch,” he murmurs. “It'll fade. We go at your pace.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “You’re doing perfect.”

Another breath. Your grip eases. He sinks another inch, barely, reading your face with the same precision he uses on opposing counsel—every twitch a sentence. You let your knees fall wider over his hips; he groans, quiet and needy, like the sound was dragged out of him. It makes heat pool low in your belly in a way his fingers didn’t.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Keep—” You swallow. “Keep going.”

“You're doing great.” The praise lands low and heavy. He presses forward in small, patient glides, pausing each time your breath hitches until the hot edge blurs into a deep, aching fullness. When he’s all the way in, his forehead drops to yours, both of you breathing hard. You feel every line of him—thick, deep, seated—your body stretched around him and quickly adjusting.

“Jesus,” he says against your mouth, voice frayed. “You’re going to ruin me for everyone.”

You huff a shaky laugh. “You say that to all the rookies?”

He snorts, first. "You know that would be a massive conflict of interest and a terrible scandal," but then he smiles, real and warm. “But you also know there aren’t any others.”

He pulls out an inch and slides back, just testing the line. The first drag is strange—pressure and pull—and then his angle changes a hair and something sparks. Your mouth opens on an unplanned sound; his gaze flashes with satisfaction.

“There,” he says, like he’s marked the clause he needs. He does it again—same angle, same depth—until the strange becomes good and the good becomes heat winding tight in your spine. He keeps his hips slow, deliberate, letting you rise to meet him, letting you learn the map of him inside you. The slick sound where you’re joined is obscene in the quiet; his breath roughens and you feel it against your throat.

“Better?” he asks, and when you nod too fast he laughs softly, breathless. “Yeah. Better.”

Your hands, useless until now, find places to live—one at the back of his neck, fingers in his hair; the other sliding down to the flex of his back where muscle moves under skin with every stroke. You drag your nails lightly; the way he stutters tells you he felt it.

“Touch me,” he says, not needy, just guiding. “Anywhere you want.” It flips something in your chest—the generosity of it—and you let your palm map him: shoulder, bicep, the hard ladder of his ribs, the snap of his hip as he rolls deeper again.

The sting is gone. It’s just full and good. He knows the second that happens; his rhythm shifts, smooths, a little more weight behind each thrust. He braces your knee higher with his forearm and hits that same sweet place with merciless precision. Your head tips back; he kisses your throat, teeth scraping lightly where your pulse kicks against his mouth.

“Look at me,” he reminds, and when your eyes find his, the cockiness is there, yes, but it’s softened by something like pride. “That’s it. Stay with me.”

You’re panting now, the edge building fast and unfamiliar. “Harvey—”

“I’ve got you.” He laces your fingers and pins them above your head, his other hand slotting under your lower back to pull you up onto him, to take him deeper. The friction at your clit is perfect now—each push drags just right. Your thighs tremble around his waist; you feel yourself start to go weightless.

“Close?” he asks, voice gone low and broken in the best way.

You nod, helpless. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Not stopping.” His mouth takes yours again, swallowing the sounds you make as he rides you right to the edge, steady.... steady... steady. “Come for me.”

It hits hot and bright, a coil snapping, pleasure running out to your fingertips. Your body clamps around him hard; he grunts, loses his smooth for a second, driving deep and holding there while you shatter under him. He doesn’t chase ahead of you; he stays, letting you feel every aftershock, kissing you through it like he’s keeping you anchored to the bed, to him, to the room with the city pouring light across the sheets.

When you finally breathe again, he moves—two more thrusts, rougher now, a quiet curse against your mouth—and then he goes, heat stuttering through him, his body tightening above you. He buries a groan in your throat like he doesn’t trust the walls not to listen.

Silence after—your breath and his; the low hum of jazz from the living room; the city’s distant siren song. He’s heavy on you in a way that feels protective more than crushing. He stays there, softening, then pulls out, slowly, carefully, as if your body is something expensive he’s responsible for. He slips away, disposes of the condom, returns with a warm, damp cloth. The heat of it is a luxury you didn’t realize you needed; he’s gentle, efficient, and annoyingly thorough, like he can’t turn off the part of his brain that insists on perfection.

“Feeling okay?” he asks quietly while he wipes you clean—checking in without making a production of it.

“Good,” you say, floating. “Really good.”

“Yeah,” he says, like he knew but wanted to hear it. He tosses the cloth, pulls the covers down with one arm and you with the other, settling you against his chest. His skin smells like soap and scotch and you, the rise and fall of his breathing already dragging you toward sleep.

You trace a slow line over his sternum, nail catching on a scatter of hair. “Luxury, huh?”

His mouth tips against your temple. “Told you I don’t half-ass.” A beat. “Also, for the record? You were impossible to concentrate around for weeks.”

You smile into his skin. “You? Distracted? I should put that on a plaque.”

He huffs a laugh, then goes quiet. His hand coasts up and down your spine in long, even passes, the kind of touch that settles rather than sparks. When you shift—some small after-echo of tenderness—he notices instantly.

“Sore?”

“Not entirely, just... different.” You’re honest now that the edge is gone.

He slides a hand to your thigh and starts a slow, grounding massage, easing the muscle where it trembles. “Tomorrow it’ll feel like a good workout,” he says, voice a lazy drag. “I’ll allow you to blame me in the office. Quietly.”

“Generous,” you murmur, sleep tugging. “Are you always like this?”

“Infuriatingly competent?” he offers.

“Careful,” you counter, softer.

He’s quiet for a long second, then: “With you? Yeah.”

You let that sit between you, warm as the sheets. The skyline throws a silver line across his jaw; his thumb finds the hollow beneath your ear and rests there like a promise.

“Stay,” he says, not quite a question.

You nod against his chest. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“Good.” The word is satisfied and strangely gentle. He presses one more kiss into your hair. “Tell me you enjoyed it.”

“Was that not apparent?” You ask, already drifting.

"Of course it was," he replies. "But I want to hear you say it."

You pop an eye open, glancing up to him. "I'm not going to let you walk directly into a 'best closer in New York' joke, Harvey. You did adequate," you grin, closing your eyes and nuzzling back into his chest.

"Adequate?" he scoffs, though there's no malice in his tone. "I'm telling Louis to put you on scut work tomorrow."

"Mmm... you wouldn't. You wouldn't be able to make excuses to pull me into your office."

He sighs, playfully, fingers gently carding through your hair. "Accurate assessment, Counselor."

"Shut up."

There's a silence for a moment, supplemented only by your mingling breaths. Then, he speaks. “Donna’s going to read this all over me.”

You snort, too drowsy to open your eyes. “She’ll probably send flowers.”

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