For a guy who self-identified as a workaholic, Harvey Specter was awfully eager to get home at the end of the day.

And in every statement there are two lies and a truth.  For instance, his name had not always been Harvey Specter and it wasn’t home he was always in such a rush to get home to.  He absolutely was a workaholic (he wouldn’t be as good as he was if he wasn’t) but right now that didn’t so much matter.

Right now, what mattered was that he had been through what felt like the longest week of his life.  What mattered was that he was sore, tense, drained and exhausted.  What mattered was that he had the next five days off.  What mattered was that being stuck in traffic was keeping him from the only thing that could make everything better.

What mattered was that he was almost there.

When Harvey finally walked through his front door and closed it behind him, he was beat, sagging back against it without even the oomph left to rub at his temples the way he so wanted to.  He put half a thought into calling out his arrival, but even a shout felt like too much work, so he reached out another way instead.  There were two minds he sought, two bright souls he reached for, brushing a gentle greeting and offering only three short words.

"Evening."

Harvey glanced up from lighting his cigarette and one brow lifted above the other, arrogant incredulity written all over his face as he looked the interruption over from top to bottom and back again.  "You are not my next interview."  His eyes narrowed a little and he leaned back in his chair.  "Unless this is Louis' idea of a joke."  He wouldn't put it past that sniveling rat to throw in a plant right when he was at his most disgusted with the human race in general.