#louis litt

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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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The last scene where Harvey goes to get his boy back and Louis just looks at them SHOCKED while holding that stupid cake, it lowkey reminds me of this.(Mike being the one sitting on the guys lap)

Ik Damm well Harvey gives Louis teasing looks

“He chose me, he’s mine”

“So,” Louis said, lowering his voice dramatically, “I have to ask. Is Harvey actually as good in bed as he thinks he is?”

You nearly choked on your coffee. “Louis—”

“No, no, this is important,” he insisted. “Because the confidence level is astronomical. The man walks around like he invented sex.”

"Louis, I am not having 'girl talk' with you about my boyfriend's performance in bed," you stammered, a mix of sheer amusement and horror washing over you.

"Oh, please, we're practically sisters!" Louis scoffed, leaning in closer. "I just need to know if the Specter mythos holds up."

You smirked into your cup. “Fine. Unfortunately for your ego… he kind of lives up to the hype.”

Louis slapped the counter like he’d just lost a bet with himself. “Unbelievable."

“And weirdly personal for you to care this much,” you teased.

“I care because I work with him every day! Do you know how insufferable this makes him?”

A familiar voice cut in from the doorway. “Good to know I’m still the standard around here.”

You turned to see Harvey Specter standing there in a perfectly tailored suit, one hand in his pocket, wearing that smug grin that usually meant trouble.

Louis groaned immediately. Harvey ignored him completely as he crossed the room toward you. His hand slid around your waist naturally, pulling you against his side while he pressed a quick kiss to your temple.

“You telling Louis about our personal life now?” he murmured teasingly.

“Yeah,” Louis muttered dramatically as he grabbed his mug and headed for the door. "You're perfect at everything. It's upsetting."