#suits x reader

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.”

-----

You were the reason there was a perfectly trimmed Christmas tree standing tall in the corner of his penthouse, draped in warm white lights and understated silver-and-gold ornaments that had definitely been hand-selected by a professional decorator Harvey hired and then micromanaged to hell and back.

You were the reason there was a faint scent of pine and cinnamon in the air, blending with the familiar smell of expensive cologne and clean linen.

And you were the reason Harvey Specter had taken three days off.

No emergencies. No last-minute calls. No "just one thing" distractions.

Just you.

___

Christmas Eve Morning

You woke up warm.

Not just physically- though Harvey's arm was slung securely around your waist, his body curved protectively around yours- but emotionally. Safe. Relaxed. Content in a way that only came from being loved thoroughly and intentionally.

The penthouse was quiet. Snow fell lazily outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan softened beneath a white blanket that made even the city feel gentle somehow.

Harvey stirred behind you, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder.

"Morning," he murmured, voice still rough with sleep.

You smiled, eyes still closed. "You're awake before me. That's new."

"Christmas Eve," he said simply. "I've got plans."

That made you crack one eye open. "Plans?"

"Mhm." His hand slid up your arm, thumb tracing slow, familiar circles. "First one is keeping you in bed for as long as possible."

You laughed softly, rolling onto your back to look at him. He was already watching you, dark eyes warm, expression softer than the man the rest of New York knew.

God, you loved him like this.

"You spoil me all year," you said. "You don't have to go all out."

Harvey smirked. "I want to."

That was the thing about him. When Harvey decided something was his- when you were his- he didn't do things halfway. He loved with the same intensity he lived, and when he spoiled you, it wasn't about extravagance for show.

It was attention. It was intention. It was knowing you.

___

You eventually made it out of bed, wrapped in one of his shirts- crisp, white, ridiculously expensive- and fuzzy socks you'd brought over that he pretended to hate.

The kitchen was already alive.

Harvey stood at the counter in a fitted sweater and slacks, sleeves rolled up, moving with practiced confidence as he worked. There was coffee brewing- your favorite blend, already sweetened exactly how you like it- and breakfast laid out like a luxury hotel spread.

You blinked. "You cooked?"

"I'm offended," he said without looking up. "I can cook."

You let out an airy laugh, padding over and leaning against the counter. "You didn't have to do all this."

Harvey turned then, stepping closer, hands braced on either side of you. "You spend all year taking care of everyone else. Let me take care of you."

He kissed you- slow, deliberate, unhurried- and for a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of you and the quiet hum of the city beyond the windows.

Breakfast was indulgent and intimate. Harvey insisted you sit while he brought you everything, refilling your coffee before you even realized you mug was empty, brushing kisses into your hair as he passed.

You caught him watching you more than once.

"What?" you teased.

He shrugged. "Just like seeing you happy."

___

The rest of the day unfolded gently.

You stayed in. Harvey had shut the world out with a single email to Jessica and a turned-off phone. There was music playing softly- classic jazz and low, mellow holiday instrumentals- and the snow outside only added to the cocoon-like feeling.

You decorated cookies together, which mostly involved Harvey pretending not to care while being deeply competitive about frosting technique.

"Mine are better," he declared.

Yours were objectively cuter.

Later, you curled up on the couch, a plush throw draped over your legs as Harvey pulled you against his chest. He absentmindedly played with your fingers, pressing kisses to your knuckles as you half-watched a movie you'd both seen a hundred times.

"This," you murmured, nestling closer, "might be my favorite Christmas ever."

Harvey tightened his arm around you. "Good. Because I plan on topping it."

You tilted your head back to look at him. "You're so predictable."

"And you love me."

You did.

___

Dinner was catered- because of course- and flawless. Candles flickered softly on the table, reflecting in the windows and making the city glow.

Afterward, he poured you a glass of wine and guided you back to the couch.

"Okay," he smiled, tone casual but eyes sharp. "One present tonight."

You frowned playfully. "Only one?"

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "Trust me."

From beneath the tree, he pulled out a neatly wrapped box. Elegant. Minimal. Very Harvey.

Inside was something stunning and deeply personal- something he'd noticed you lingering over months ago, something that made your breath hitch because of how seen it made you feel.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy. "Harvey..."

He brushed his thumb under your eye. "You deserve everything."

He kissed you again- slow, deep, reverent- and when he pulled you into his arms afterward, holding you close as the snow continued to fall, it felt like the world had narrowed again.

Just you. Just him. Just... love.

when jessica had called you into her office, you’d been calm. apparently one of your cases, which had you and harvey working together, was now of fbi interest. your client was currently suing a company for faulty wiring in his home, which caused it to burn down. and it was apparently not the case at all, the home was suspected to be tied into a serial arsonist.

what you didn’t expect was for your client to be accused of being the arsonist.

“you’re sitting here,”

“uh-huh.”

“telling me,”

“yup.”

“that i’m supposed to believe that richard jeena, the fifty three year old little man, is a serial arsonist?”

you shut the file infront of you, meeting harvey’s eye, “sweetheart?” he uncrossed his legs, leaning forwards with a sweet smile, “yes?” you leaned forwards as well, “that, is exactly what i’m telling you.” harvey leaned back into his chair, disbelief riddling his face.

“and the fbi is flying here?” you nodded along, “fbi agents?” you nodded again, “probably field agents or whatever they’re called. they’ll sit in on the trial, survey the scenes, collect evidence and all.” the familiar clicking of donna’s heels brought a smile to your face, “profilers.”

your heart dropped with one word, “what’d you say?” donna made her way to the two of you, plopping herself down in the chair next to you, “it’s those fbi profilers. yknow, they look at the room and can tell you if he’s left or right handed, blonde, mommy issues and all. nice little packaged criminal profile in seconds.” you couldn’t help correcting her, having dealt with your fair share of assumptions in your years as a profiler.

“that’s not how it works,” harvey swiveled in his chair as donna looked your way, “oh?” harvey smirked as you sighed, “that’s not how it works, we don’t just walk into a room and have it speak to us. we survey the place, fresh eyes and open minds. we look for the things that everyone else seems to miss. we put ourselves in the minds of the criminals themselves, to get a better understanding of them, why they did it and all. you work your way back, start from the victim maybe, see where they’ve been, what they did in the last week, who they talk to. sometimes the killers in their personal circle but not always. every case is different, we try our best to provide an accurate, unbiased profile.”

“i want to take you on my desk, right now.” you rolled your eyes at your boyfriends words as donna stared intently, “we. you said ‘we’, as if you know what they do and their job. oh my god, you use to be one. that’s the job you had before coming here! you have a degree in criminal justice, and you said your last job you were at for what, seven years?”

“i graduated high school early, entered harvard at a young age, graduated, entered the fbi at the same time as a— friend. was also studying law, sat the exam in new york since it’s where i wanted to be. finished up at harvard, i was mid to late twenties when i left, wound up here and am now a junior partner, capiche?”

“could just say your age.” mike stood by the door with a wad of files in his hand, “i’d rather die, mike.” harvey laughed, “please don’t incentivise my lovely girlfriend to killing herself mike.”

“as nice as it is to see you all bonding, and trust me, it hits me right in the heart, jessica wants yourself and y/n in the conference room.” louis spoke from the door as you stood up, “first of all, trust with you is fickle, second, tell it to hit you in the face next time lou.” you smacked harvey’s arm as he held his arms up, “friendly fire, i’ll put it out later.” you shoved him by his back before smiling at louis, “i’m sorry about him, he’s not a big fan of the fbi.” louis nodded as he followed you, “duly noted.”

“she’s right, damn pigs.” harvey joked as you approached the conference room, “your highness,” you grinned, “you never treat me so nicely when we’re at home harvey.” he held his hand over his heart, “now don’t lie sweetheart, i’m as nice as mike.” the snort that left your lips had harvey doubling over, “oh please, nice as mike? you wish.”

your giggles were drained from your throat as you stared at half of your old team.

derek morgan, emily prentiss, penelope garcia & spencer reid. the last name, and face you’d still not looked at yet. thankfully, harvey noticed your tenseness, “y/n? sweetheart, you alright?” there it was, that word, sweetheart. spencer couldn’t help but wonder, was it just a word? you always use to call him it, before you dated, teasing of course.

“yeah, i’m fine harv.” he nodded, even if he didn’t believe you he could always ask later on. pulling out his and yours chairs, you sat next to one another. “harvey specter & y/n l/n?” emily questioned as you nodded, “the one and only. and then there’s y/n.” harvey leaned back in his chair, whilst derek stared him down.

what an ass. is what he wanted to say, it was also what he assumed emily was thinking. “emily.” she glanced over at you, surprised at you using her name, “it’s nice to see you all. how’ve you been?” and the bewildered expression was wiped clean off your face, no remnant left. you were a damn lawyer, if there was one thing you’d learned, it was to keep a straight face.

penelope smiled, “we’ve been good, y/n. but we miss you, back home. you’re a lawyer now huh?” you grinned, “the one and only.” harvey squeezed your hand, you squeezed back. “youngest junior partner, ever. my dream. just hoping to make it to senior partner soon, take the title of youngest out from under this guy. i’m happy here, i hope you are too. but down to business.”

and for the next few hours, you’d sat and listened. overlooking the case files, giving statements, reviewing security footage from surrounding houses. at some point mike ended up in the room, having met with your client and being harvey’s associate.

you’d had the pleasure of introducing spencer and mike, the two undeniably similar. you felt comfortable, even betting with penelope that if they touched the world would implode.

“and how much would he loose?”

“127,478.23.” mike and spencer rushed out as the rest of you fought to suppress your smiles, “well y/n, seems like we’ve got a genius-off.” derek laughed as the two men looked towards you, “don’t worry i’ll still love you mike.” mike scoffed at your words, “what makes you think i’d loose?”

“because i know you, and i know reid. trust me, you’d loose.”

reid. not spencer, spence, sweetheart. none of the above, you’d used his last name. as if he was nothing more than a colleague.

“okay, we’ve been here for far too long. and as much as i’d like to sit here and slowly rot, i’d rather do that at the restaurant i have booked for dinner with two lovely ladies. y/n and i have a trial date tomorrow, 8.00am. i think, we bring him along, show him what’s to happen if he doesn’t confess, than toast victory champagne when said confession rolls through. how’s that sound?” if derek’s grin was any indicator, besides a big fat yes?

spencer wanted to puke, ‘lovely ladies?’ multiple women? this man was insufferable. you gathered yourself and harvey’s files, a hand gestured towards you, the last file in said hand. “thanks reid.” he smiled, “no problem-o.” your eyebrows furrowed, “never change do you?” spencer didn’t have time to respond, his brain was too busy blowing a fuse as harvey opened the door for you. “ready for dinner lovely lady?” they all heard harvey ask as you nodded, the four watched as you walked out, his hand on your back as he pecked you on the lips.

“reid, you alright?” derek’s hand rested on his shoulder, “i’m fine, why wouldn’t i be fine? don’t we have places to be? hotch would want to know their on our side, that they reviewed all the information. they’ll help us get a confession out of him.” derek sighed, “because you just saw your ex, who you haven’t seen in years. the one you never got over, happily living in new york as comfortable as possible. a successful business woman and lawyer, happily in a relationship.”

spencer shook his head, “you don’t know that.” emily directed a sympathetic smile his way, “we sat with them for three hours. we watched them laugh, bounce off of eachother for theories, quite literally finish eachothers sentences. order food for eachother without asking, and get their meals right. they held hands when they could, he continued to call her sweetheart. and now they’re going out to dinner.”

spencer’s shoulder dropped, they were right. he’d come here excited at the possibility of seeing you again, talking to you. maybe even beginning again with you. instead, you’re apparently with some suited up asshole. he was annoyingly sweet when it came to you though.

as if the whole three hours weren’t a slap in the face, harvey’s voice rung out through the hallway, “there’s my lovely lady!” rachel, who they’d all met earlier on, was currently guiding a young girl to harvey’s arms. “daddy!” if hearts were boats, than his was sinking. he may have had a chance beforehand, but now?

“is mommy here?” your daughter was currently situated on harvey’s hip, “why don’t you hug her and find out?” your arms were out in the open as your daughter squealed before running to you, “d’you have a fun day with rach?” she nodded her head rapidly as yourself and harvey smiled, he stood behind you, chest to back. his hand rested on your waist as the other moved aside hair from her face, before moving hair from your own.

“now, my lovely ladies, it’s time for dinner.”

lovely ladies, for once, spencer had made a mistake. harvey was going out with multiple women, but not in the way he thought. his daughter and the mother of his child, you.

his words and actions meant nothing, they would mean nothing. you were happy, so happy. you had everything you wanted, a loving marriage and man, a gorgeous family. something spencer hadn’t given you. a man who knew you could hold your own. spencer knew that too, but he couldn’t help himself back then.

Especially when Harvey himself was the very reason that she didn’t work at his firm…

She stood there outside the office, in the middle of the night, the chill in the air cooling down her heated cheeks, as she tried to work out where she could go. 

Home? 

Back into the office to confront him about what he’d said?

Neither of those options seemed like a good idea right now, not whilst she was this angry. 

Although she was angry and had every right to be, she still loved Harvey, that didn’t just stop because of what he’d said….but returning to his office now after what’d just happened just seemed like a bad idea. 

It wouldn’t help anyone, it would probably just make both hers and Harveys anger’s spiral into another argument. 

No, she needed an outlet for the rage she was feeling. 

Part of her just wanted to go home, have a shower and go straight to bed and try to forget the words that were said.

But she knew sleep would not come easily to her, it rarely did after an argument with anyone, let alone Harvey. 

And his words would just continue to race around in her mind fuelling her own anger. 

She needed a distraction. 

An outlet for her anger.

That’s why she went to the gym. 

The gym wasn’t somewhere Y/n went often, after work she was normally too tired to go or her and Harvey would have plans, so the gym was never a top priority. 

She’d gone with Harvey on the odd occasion when she needed to let off some steam during or after a case; but never on her own. 

But she knew that Harvey probably wasn’t going to be coming out of his office any time soon, so that meant that she’d at least get some time to expel the anger inside of her, uninterrupted.

So she called a cab. 

The cab took her to her and Harvey’s shared apartment first, allowing Y/n the time to quickly change and to dump her work stuff on the sofa, before heading back to the cab and going straight to the gym. 

~~~~~~~~

Harvey was pissed off, more at himself than anyone else.

He hated seeing her hurt, and he certainly hated being the reason why she was hurt. 

He’d allowed his arrogance, rage, stress and exhaustion to blend together and cloud his mind. 

He knew he’d upset pretty much everyone over the course of this case, the one person he hadn’t, was Y/n, and now he’d alienated her as well. 

He knew she’d be angry, and she should be; in all honestly he was surprised she didn’t slap him for what he said.

He deserved it. 

He wanted to call her, he’d got as far as picking up his phone and having his thumb hover over the green call button next to her name. 

He wanted to apologize for what he’d said and how he’d been acting for the past few weeks. 

But an apology was just words; they weren’t going to heal the wound he knew his words had made. 

He knew she’d need some space and some time, so that’s what he was going to give her. 

He sat in his office for a while, trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his evening. 

He assumed she’d be at home so didn’t want to disturb her.

He contemplated calling his client and telling him to find another lawyer, but that could wait until morning. 

What Harvey needed was to calm down, not get more agitated; and he knew calling his client would make him more agitated instead of calm. 

Everyone else at the firm that he’d pissed off would be asleep by now and as much as he was sure they’d answer him if he called, he didn’t want to talk to them, not right now. 

Unfortunately he’d just alienated the only person that he did want to talk to. 

A long sigh left his lips as he rose to his feet, quickly putting on his suit jacket before heading towards the lift.

He didn’t know where he was going. 

All he did know was that he just needed to get out of the office; even if it was just for a short while; then he’d come back, and try to get some sleep before dropping his asshole of a client. 

~~~~~~

Y/n had her music blasting through her over the ear headphones at the highest possible volume she could have. 

It blocked out the noise from the few other people that were in the gym and allowed her to be completely focused on hitting the punching bag in front of her as many times as she physically could, in time to the beat of her music. 

She’d forgotten how good it felt to get her anger out like this, so often she just let it fester away inside of her until she broke down in tears from it. 

Her mind kept wandering to Harvey, no matter how many times she pushed the thought of him away he kept appearing in her mind. 

After five more intense minutes of punching the still bag before her; she stopped, feeling the exhaustion from releasing her anger slowly creeping in. 

As she sat down on the bench beside her to drink some water, she took her headphones out and allowed her eyes to drift to the clock hanging in the center of the gym. 

It was 1:30am.

She needed to go to bed soon, she knew she did, she could feel how drained not only her body was but her mind also. 

But despite her physical and mental fatigue, the words Harvey had spoken earlier in the evening were still running rampant in her mind, fuelling her anger.

A sigh fell from her lips as she rose to her feet, and went back to the punching bag she’d been standing at for the last hour.

The silence that surrounded her would normally be something that she hated, that’s why she’d been listening to her music so loudly, in an attempt to drown out the world around her and the words echoing in her mind; but hadn’t seemed to work, so she thought she’d try something different and embrace the silence around her. 

She thought about Harvey words; and with every thought she punched the bag in front of her, over and over again. 

She was focused in her own world, that she hadn’t realized she was no longer alone. 

That was until she heard a voice come from behind her saying, “Should I ask who’s face your imagining on that bag?”

The voice made her freeze on the spot and grit her teeth as she attempted to catch her breath. 

Harvey. 

Harvey was here. 

For a split second she contemplated turning around and using him as the punching bag instead, but she knew that would be wrong. 

And she didn’t want to hurt Harvey, no matter how much he’d hurt her with his words.

“What are you doing here?” She asked, her voice clearly displaying her anger and hurt.

“I didn’t know you were here,” Harvey explained honestly and calmly; his voice was a lot softer than when she’d last spoken to him. 

“I’m going to drop the client,” he continued, taking a step closer towards her but also being very aware that she probably didn’t want him too close to her right now, “You were right, I shouldn’t have been snapping at anyone, least of all you, I know you were only trying to help.”

Y/n didn’t say anything for a short while, allowing his words to sink in; she was happy he was dropping his client, it was about time. 

But it didn’t fix what had happened.

And neither did Harvey admitting that he was wrong, or realising that she was only trying to help. 

It didn’t erase what he’d said; nor the pain that it caused her. 

She was a good lawyer, a very good lawyer, and she could’ve gotten a job at his Pearson Hardman, Jessica Pearson had said so herself.

But there was just one problem.

The fact that Y/n was dating Harvey. 

That was why she couldn’t be hired there. 

And Harvey knew that. 

And although he’d offered to argue it with Jessica, Y/n didn’t want that. 

“What I said, about me being a better lawyer than you…I didn’t meant it…I was just…”

His words trailed off as his eyes met Y/ns as she slowly turned her head to look at him. 

“Angry?” She finished coldly, taking her gloves off and throwing them on the bench to her side. 

“You had no right to throw that in my face,” 

Harvey hadn’t thought he could feel anymore remorse and guilt for what he’d said, but then he saw the pain that was still lingering in her eyes and heard the way her voice broke towards the end of her sentence from the tears she was trying to hold back.

He wanted to reach out to her. 

To hold her.

To comfort her. 

In an ideal world, he’d have a Time Machine and he’d take those words back, but that couldn’t happen. 

“Y/n, I am sorry,” he apologised, tentatively taking another step closer to her, “It doesn’t excuse what I said, and I don’t expect you to just suddenly be okay, but I am sorry.”

She watched him, ready to pull away from any attempt of comfort he tried to give her, but thankfully Harvey didn’t come any closer to her, allowing her her space. 

She fought with herself mentally about what to say to him, or whether the best course of action was to just remain silent. 

He was her boyfriend; and she knew how much stress he’d been under. But that didn’t mean that his actions to her and everyone else in the office was acceptable.

He’d been a dick. 

And she couldn’t just forgive him like what he’d said was something small.

It was an attack on her career. 

On the job she’d worked so hard for. 

And he was going to have to do a lot more than just apologise for what he’d said.

That being said….despite all her fury towards him, she still loved him. 

Y/n took a deep breath, calming her beating heart down a little.

“I appreciate your apology, Harvey,” and she did, she knew saying ‘sorry’ wasn’t something Harvey did often so the fact that he was doing it meant a lot to her, “but it doesn’t mean I forgive you,”

“I know,” he acknowledged, trying to hide how heartbroken he was, his mind instantly going to the worst case scenario. 

That they were over. 

“I can stay at the office tonight, and start moving some of my things out during the day whilst you’re at work,” Harvey explained simply, making sure that he didn’t let any emotion show in his voice. 

This was his fault.

He knew that. 

He’d hurt her with what he’d said and it wasn’t okay. 

“What?” Y/n questioned, confusion clear in her voice.

It wasn’t until a few more moments had passed that she’d realised what he was talking about.

“Harvey I’m not breaking up with you,” she stated, taking a few steps towards him, tentatively reaching out to take ahold of his hand. 

“I love you; and yes what you said hurt me and it’ll take time for me to move on from it, but I’m not going to leave you because of it.”

She knew it was because he was stressed and overworked; there wasn’t a person in the world who hadn’t snapped at someone close to them when they were completely exhausted, and although she was still hurt; she also knew that people made mistakes.

And that even Harvey Specter wasn’t perfect.

Relief washed over Harvey as her words sunk in, he’d been so used to people leaving, that he couldn’t help but think that that’s what she was going to do. 

“I love you too,” he said, squeezing her hand softly as his eyes met hers once again, “I really am sorry, baby,” 

“I know,” she replied softly, “and I’ll move on from it, I just need some time,”

“Okay,” he nodded; he’d give her anything she wanted if it meant he didn’t lose her. 

“I think we should go home,” Y/n said, looking at the clock just above Harvey's head; it was close to 2am and she knew that they both needed to sleep. 

‘We should go home’ those words were enough to ease Harvey’s anxious heart. 

“Sounds like a good idea,” he smiled sleepily, and with that the two of them left the gym, their hands intertwined in one anothers. 

Harvey couldn’t believe how lucky he was to not have lost her because of his behaviour; most people wouldn’t give him a second chance, but Y/n did. 

And he wasn’t going to waste it. 

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