Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The list:

1. Anniversary ✅

2. Pet Sitting ✅

3. In Vino Veritas ✅

4. Set in another time ✅

5. Early Morning Walks ✅

6. Late Night Talks ✅

7. Moving Day ✅

8. Cursed ✅

9. Coming Home ✅

10. Set up by Friends

11. "Double or nothing?"

12. Blizzard or Heatwave

13. Hosting a Holiday Event

14. Stuck or Lost Together

15. "This looks fun." / "Not the word I would use, but okay."

16. Pillows, Plushies, Piles of Blankets

17. Making or Buying a Costume

18. "Is this seat taken?" – "That depends…"

19. Risky Rescue Mission

20. Fake Relationship

21. Pumpkin Carving

22. Polar Opposites

23. Group Hug

24. Letters

25. Cold Hands

26. Co-Parenting a Pet

27. Meeting in the Middle

28. "Is that my hoodie?" – "… No?"

29. Book Shop AU / Library AU

30. Sharing Earphones

31. "Stay?"

Chapter Text

Mike had always thought anniversaries were supposed to be perfect. Not in the rom-com way—roses and violins and couples gazing at each other across candlelit tables like they were the last two people on Earth—but perfect in the sense of effort. He had it all mapped out. Reservation at a restaurant he couldn’t really afford but Harvey wouldn’t blink twice at. The kind of meal with portions so small you wondered if the chef hated you, paired with wine priced like liquid gold. And afterward—well, afterward he’d planned to thank Harvey properly, with his mouth, in the very private way Harvey liked best. One year together, a whole year of navigating Harvey’s moods and Mike’s mistakes, of stolen moments in offices and smirks across courtrooms, deserved nothing less.

Except, naturally, the universe had other plans.

Five days ago, Jessica had sent Harvey out of state to deal with some client who couldn’t possibly survive without him in person. Five days of FaceTimes, late-night texts, and Harvey’s breezy assurance that Mike could crash at his place while he was gone. "Don’t miss me too much," Harvey had said, tossing the penthouse keys to him like it was no big deal. Like this wasn’t the exact week Mike had been counting down to.

Mike had tried to make the best of it. Harvey’s apartment was bigger than Mike’s entire childhood combined, so there was room to sulk. He FaceTimed Harvey every night, sprawled across Harvey’s ridiculous couch, sometimes sneaking into the bedroom just to burrow into the sheets that still smelled like him. He told himself it wasn’t pathetic. He told himself Harvey would laugh if he ever admitted how much he missed the weight of him at night. And, okay, maybe he’d gone a little overboard with the pillow situation.

But in Mike’s defense, it wasn’t just a pillow. It was Harvey’s hoodie—the gray one he wore running in the mornings, soft from a hundred washes—stuffed with two pillows and sprayed with Harvey’s cologne. He’d propped it on Harvey’s side of the bed. And if he sometimes wrapped an arm around it, pretending Harvey was the little spoon like always… well, no one needed to know.

Now it was the evening of their anniversary, and Mike was trying not to sulk into the camera while Harvey smirked at him from what looked like a busy sidewalk.

"So then," Mike was saying, trying to distract himself, "this new associate—he’s, like, fresh out of law school, barely knows which end of a brief is up—walks straight into a wall."

Harvey raised an eyebrow, adjusting the phone angle so Mike could see half his smirk and half the chaos of people moving behind him. "Into a wall?"

"Yes. Because Donna was wearing that dress. You know the one."

"The green one?"

"The green one."

Harvey chuckled, the sound low and warm in Mike’s ears, and God, Mike missed him. He missed the stupid way Harvey’s hair always looked like it was in a magazine shoot, the sharpness of his suit jackets, the way he’d roll his eyes but still reach for Mike under the table.

"He’ll learn," Harvey said, lips quirking. "They all do. Eventually."

Mike rolled his eyes, even though his chest tightened with something dangerously close to fondness. "Not everyone has your self-control."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, rookie." Harvey’s tone was playful, but Mike thought he saw something shift in his background. A blur of marble floors, brass accents.

Mike froze. Because that wasn’t just any lobby. He knew those elevators. He knew that hallway. It was the building. Harvey’s building.

Mike blinked, leaning closer to the screen as Harvey adjusted the phone again. "Wait a second."

"What?" Harvey asked, voice all innocence. Too innocent.

"You said you had a meeting."

"I do."

"In New York?" Mike pressed, suspicion rising, because the angle of Harvey’s camera tilted just enough for Mike to see the familiar vase in the corner of the hallway.

Harvey’s mouth curved like a cat about to pounce. "What makes you think I’m in New York?"

Mike opened his mouth to argue, but then there was a knock at the front door. A sharp, deliberate rap that echoed through the penthouse.

His heart jumped into his throat.

"No way," Mike whispered.

On the screen, Harvey’s smirk widened. "You should probably get that."

Mike nearly tripped over his own feet in the rush to the door. His socks slid across the hardwood, and for one terrifying second he was sure he was going to wipe out, crack his head, and be found unconscious while Harvey waited patiently on the other side. But adrenaline and sheer disbelief propelled him forward. His hand fumbled with the lock, his pulse a drumbeat in his ears, and then the door swung open.

And there he was.

Harvey. Standing in his own doorway like he hadn’t just been gone for five endless days. His suit was sharp but rumpled, his tie loosened like he’d lost a wrestling match with time zones, and his smirk was exhausted but very much intact. His travel bag dangled from one shoulder. In his free hand: a familiar gold-trimmed box of overpriced chocolates Mike had once admitted he couldn’t resist, and a small envelope that looked like it had secrets written all over it.

Mike’s brain didn’t even register words before his body was moving. He launched himself forward, arms clamping around Harvey so fast and so tight that the man barely had time to let the bag thump to the ground before hugging him back.

The embrace was fierce, desperate, and god, Mike hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed this until Harvey’s solid weight pressed against him. He breathed in cologne and airplane air and Harvey, Harvey, Harvey, and if anyone asked, he’d deny the embarrassing little noise that slipped out of his throat.

"Miss me?" Harvey murmured against his hair, voice rougher than usual from travel and maybe from something softer.

Mike pulled back just far enough to glare, though his stupid grin gave him away. "You’re such an ass."

"An ass who brought gifts." Harvey held up the chocolates, eyebrow arched like he expected applause.

Mike took them, clutching the box against his chest like a dragon hoarding treasure. "These don’t make up for nearly abandoning me on our anniversary."

Harvey smirked, tilting his head toward the envelope still dangling between his fingers. "Good thing this isn’t the only one."

Mike narrowed his eyes, snatching it before Harvey could pull some smug reveal. He tore the flap open, half-afraid it was going to be a legal brief with a bow on it because Harvey’s sense of romance sometimes bordered on terrifying. But when he pulled out two crisp plane tickets, his breath caught.

"You didn’t."

"I did," Harvey said, grin widening as he leaned casually against the doorframe like he hadn’t just detonated a bomb in Mike’s chest. "One week. No clients. No phones. No courtrooms. Just you, me, a private beach, and drinks that come with little umbrellas."

Mike blinked down at the tickets, stunned. "You blew off your client for this?"

"Correction," Harvey said smoothly. "I charmed him into flying to New York next week instead. He thinks it was his idea. That’s why they pay me the big bucks."

Mike shook his head, laughter bubbling up despite himself. "You’re unbelievable."

"Unbelievably good boyfriend," Harvey corrected, cocky as ever. "Unlike someone who didn’t even get me a gift. What kind of terrible boyfriend shows up empty-handed on their one-year anniversary?"

Mike shoved him in the chest with the back of his hand, scowling even as his heart turned to syrup. "I had plans, okay? You weren’t supposed to be here! There was going to be a restaurant and wine and—" He cut himself off before the next part slipped out.

Harvey’s smirk sharpened. "And?"

"Nothing," Mike said quickly, heat rushing to his face.

"Uh-huh." Harvey leaned in, voice dropping to that low drawl that always made Mike’s stomach flip. "Whatever it was, I’m sure it would’ve been very…memorable."

Mike turned away before Harvey could see how red he was, pretending to inspect the tickets again. "Shut up."

"I’d love to, but you make it too easy."

"God, you’re insufferable."

"You love it."

And he did. God help him, he did.

Mike set the envelope on a nearby table, still reeling from the fact that Harvey had just casually bought him a vacation like it was nothing. He turned back to find Harvey leaning heavily against the wall, smirk softening under the exhaustion. The man looked like he could collapse any second, and for all his bravado, Mike could see the fatigue pulling at his shoulders, the dark smudges under his eyes.

"Okay," Mike said firmly, stepping forward and grabbing Harvey’s hand. "Bed. Now."

Harvey raised an eyebrow. "Well, that’s the best anniversary gift you could’ve—"

"Not like that," Mike interrupted, dragging him toward the bedroom. "You look like you’re about to keel over, and I am not letting you die in your thousand-thread-count sheets. Bed. Sleep. Doctor’s orders."

Harvey let himself be towed along, grumbling half-heartedly. "Terrible bedside manner."

"You’ll live."

Mike pushed the bedroom door open and only then remembered the horrifying truth: Pillow-Harvey.

There it was, still propped proudly on Harvey’s side of the bed and looking for all the world like some creepy shrine to Harvey’s existence. Mike froze, blood draining from his face.

Harvey’s gaze flicked instantly to it, and his eyebrows shot up. For a second, Mike contemplated throwing himself out the window.

"Is that…" Harvey started slowly, smirk curling back into place. "Is that me?"

Mike’s mouth opened and closed. "It’s—it’s not what it looks like."

"It looks like you built a pillow version of me."

Mike groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face. "In my defense—"

"There’s a defense?" Harvey sounded positively gleeful, exhaustion forgotten as he stepped closer, inspecting Pillow-Harvey like it was a work of art. "You stuffed my hoodie with pillows. You even sprayed it with cologne. That’s commitment."

"You weren’t here," Mike muttered, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole. "And you’re always the little spoon. I just—I don’t know, okay? I missed you."

Harvey turned to him, something softer flickering behind the smug grin. "You missed me so much you made a pillow substitute."

"Shut up."

"I’m not judging," Harvey said, though the smirk on his face screamed otherwise. "I’m flattered. Creeped out, but flattered."

Mike shoved him lightly toward the bed. "Just go to sleep before I regret letting you in."

Harvey laughed, dropping his jacket and tie on the floor and collapsing onto the mattress with all the grace of a felled tree. He kicked off his shoes and rolled onto his side, right up against Pillow-Harvey, and shot Mike a mischievous look.

"You know," he murmured, voice rough with amusement and sleep, "this thing’s not half bad. Smells like me. Feels like me. Might even be quieter than me."

"Harvey."

"Relax," Harvey said, eyes already drifting shut. "It’s cute. Don’t ever let Donna find out, though. We’ll never hear the end of it."

Mike sighed, tugging the blanket over both Harvey and the cursed creation. He slid in beside him, pressing close until Harvey’s real warmth seeped into him, until the pillow version was just an embarrassing footnote.

"Happy anniversary," Harvey mumbled, already half-asleep.

Mike smiled against his neck, heart full. "Happy anniversary, Harvey."

Chapter Text

Harvey prided himself on two things above all else: winning and looking good while doing it. Which was exactly why he still couldn’t believe he had let Louis Litt—Louis, of all people—corner him into a bet, and worse, actually lose it. He replayed the moment over in his head for the twentieth time as he stood in Louis’ pristine condo, a tiny ball of fur glaring at him from the sofa like it had been personally briefed on his every sin.

Margo. The kitten. Louis’ "precious angel" that Harvey now had to pet sit overnight.

"How hard can it be?" he muttered under his breath as he dropped his overnight bag by the door. Cats were supposed to be independent. Aloof. Low maintenance. You put down some food, maybe scratch their ears, and they did the rest. He could handle one night.

The kitten blinked at him, slow and deliberate, before arching its back and hissing.

Harvey frowned. "Really? We’re starting with this?"

The kitten bounded off the sofa with shocking speed, darted past his legs, and disappeared into another room. Somewhere, he could hear the sound of claws skittering across hardwood.

"Perfect," Harvey muttered, pulling out his phone. He scrolled to Mike’s contact, thumb hovering before he hit call.

Mike picked up on the second ring, voice light with amusement. "What, did Louis catch you already trying to sneak the kitten into a shelter?"

"Funny," Harvey said flatly. "I’m cashing in my boyfriend privileges. You’re coming over."

"To Louis’ place? Why?"

"Because I’m not spending the night alone with Cujo’s younger cousin. Bring beer."

When Mike arrived thirty minutes later, he was grinning ear to ear, two bottles of craft beer dangling from his hand. Harvey met him at the door, already scowling.

"You’re enjoying this too much," Harvey said.

Mike leaned in, brushed a quick kiss against his mouth, and slipped inside. "That’s because it’s hilarious. You—Harvey Specter—babysitting a kitten. I’ve waited my whole life for this."

"Yeah, well, the thing’s a menace," Harvey grumbled, following him to the living room. "It hisses every time I move. I swear it tried to claw my tie off."

Mike dropped onto the sofa and clapped his hands softly. "C’mere, Margo."

Like magic, the kitten padded out from the hallway, tail straight in the air, eyes wide and innocent. It trotted directly into Mike’s lap and curled up, purring so loudly Harvey could hear it from across the room.

Harvey froze.

"You’ve got to be kidding me."

Mike scratched behind the kitten’s ears, beaming. "She’s adorable. Look at her!"

"She’s Satan," Harvey countered, pointing an accusatory finger. "Don’t let the act fool you. Five minutes ago, she was ready to reenact a scene from The Exorcist."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "So you’re saying this tiny ball of fluff tried to murder you?"

"Yes."

"Uh-huh." Mike lifted the kitten, who batted at his chin with one soft paw, then tucked her face against his neck. He looked back at Harvey, smug. "Seems to me she just has good taste in people."

Harvey narrowed his eyes, sinking into the armchair across from them. This was absurd. He was being undermined by a six-pound feline.

The rest of the evening only confirmed it. Every time Harvey so much as shifted, Margo’s head whipped around, ears back, ready to hiss. The moment Mike spoke, though, she melted into a puddle of fur, purring, kneading, gazing up at him like he was the sun itself.

When Harvey tried to explain, Mike just looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

"Look," Harvey said at one point, keeping his voice low as Margo dozed in Mike’s lap. "I’m telling you, she’s plotting. You’re falling for it."

"Plotting what?" Mike asked, grinning. "World domination? She’s a kitten."

"She’s your kitten now," Harvey said darkly.

"She’s not even ours!" Mike laughed, stroking Margo’s fur. "Admit it—you just don’t know how to handle rejection. Even from a cat."

Harvey scowled, but a traitorous smile tugged at his lips. "You’re enjoying this way too much."

"Definitely," Mike admitted. "It’s nice seeing you not in control for once."

Hours later, when they finally decided to turn in, Harvey was determined to reclaim some dignity. Louis had set up a guest room and the kitten, naturally, followed them in.

"Don’t even think about it," Harvey warned, pointing at Margo as she leapt onto the bed. "This is my territory."

Margo ignored him completely, padding up to Mike and curling into a perfect ball at his side. Within seconds, she was asleep, purring like a motor.

Mike pulled the blanket up, shooting Harvey a smug smile in the dim light. "Guess she called dibs."

"This is ridiculous," Harvey muttered, sliding under the covers on the other side. He lay stiffly, glaring at the kitten as if sheer willpower could convince her to switch allegiances.

But the longer he stared, the more ridiculous he felt. Mike’s soft laugh, the kitten’s gentle breathing, the absurdity of it all—it all softened the edges of his irritation.

He turned on his side, facing Mike, watching the way his boyfriend absently stroked Margo’s fur. Something in Harvey’s chest loosened, and despite himself, he smiled.

"Fine," he whispered under his breath, careful not to wake either of them. "You win this one."

The kitten twitched an ear, as if in triumph.

Harvey sighed, closing his eyes. "But don’t get used to it."

The last thing he heard before drifting off was Mike’s quiet, sleepy voice. "Told you she was adorable."

And Harvey, despite everything, couldn’t quite disagree.

That lasted all of two hours.

One moment he was blissfully asleep, cocooned in a bed that smelled faintly of Mike’s shampoo and the too-fancy detergent Louis probably special-ordered from France, and the next he was blinking blearily at a paw swatting at his nose. Over and over. Not gentle, either—the kind of swat that had claws barely sheathed. He cracked one eye open.

Margo. Sitting imperiously on his chest like a furry dictator, tail flicking, eyes narrowed in judgment.

"What?" Harvey croaked, voice rough with sleep. "It’s three in the morning."

The kitten swatted his nose again, sharper this time. Harvey sighed and sat up, scooping her into his arms. She let out a dramatic meow that sounded, to Harvey’s half-awake brain, like a direct insult.

"Alright, I get it. You’re hungry." He padded barefoot into the kitchen, careful not to wake Mike, who was blissfully sprawled across the bed with the blanket tangled around his legs. Harvey envied him deeply.

The condo was silent except for the soft pads of his steps and the faint rumble of traffic outside. He set Margo on the counter, found the bag of organic, grain-free, life-changing cat kibble Louis had practically given a TED talk about, and poured a neat scoop into the bowl.

"There," Harvey muttered, setting it down. "Bon appétit."

He turned to put the kibble bag away, and that was when all hell broke loose.

Margo sniffed the food, flicked her tail, and with a sudden burst of energy launched herself off the counter. She didn’t head for the bowl. No—she went for the row of wine glasses perched neatly on a nearby shelf. One paw batted, and the first glass wobbled.

"Don’t you—" Harvey started, lunging.

The glass toppled. Shattered.

Before Harvey could even curse, Margo had leapt to another counter, knocking over a decorative bowl of potpourri Louis probably dusted daily. Dried rose petals and whatever the hell else was in there scattered like confetti.

"Unbelievable," Harvey hissed, scooping her up again. She wriggled like a demon possessed, claws digging into his forearm until he had no choice but to let her down.

Big mistake.

Within seconds, she was tearing across the condo, a blur of fur and claws. She scaled the curtains like they were Everest, launched herself onto the bookshelf, and sent a framed photo of Louis shaking hands with some judge crashing to the floor.

By the time Harvey managed to corral her in the kitchen again, he looked like he had wrestled a rosebush. Scratches lined his arms, his hair was sticking up at odd angles, and one sleeve of his t-shirt was suspiciously shredded. Margo sat primly in the middle of the floor, licking a paw like none of it had ever happened.

"You’re insane," Harvey told her, chest heaving. "You are the devil in a fur coat."

She blinked at him, slow and smug.

He leaned against the counter, running a hand down his face. He could handle cutthroat clients, manipulative CEOs, and even Louis on his worst day, but this? This was warfare. And he was losing.

The hours crawled by. Every time Harvey thought he could sneak back to bed, Margo found something else to terrorize. A vase. A set of coasters. At one point she disappeared into Louis’ walk-in closet, and Harvey had to lure her out with the desperate promise of treats. By dawn, the condo looked like it had been ransacked by burglars with very specific vendettas against glassware and personal dignity.

And Harvey… well, Harvey looked worse. His forearms were a roadmap of scratches. His jaw was tight, his eyes bloodshot, his patience non-existent. He sat at the kitchen table, head in his hands, when he heard footsteps behind him.

Mike stumbled in, hair sticking up adorably, rubbing at his eyes. He froze in the doorway, blinking at Harvey.

"What the hell happened to you?"

Harvey lifted his head slowly, like a man twice his age. "Your little friend."

Mike squinted, then looked down. Margo was sitting sweetly by his feet, purring, rubbing her tiny body against his ankle like she hadn’t just reenacted The Purge.

Mike bent down and scooped her up, smiling. "Aw, good morning, Margo." She nuzzled his chin, practically glowing with innocence.

Harvey gaped. "Are you kidding me?"

"What?" Mike asked, scratching behind her ears. "She’s perfect."

"Perfect?" Harvey barked out a laugh that was two parts hysteria. "She destroyed the condo. Glass everywhere. Potpourri massacre. I look like I was mauled by a bear." He held up his arms for proof.

Mike’s lips twitched like he was trying not to laugh. "You… fought a kitten?"

"She fought me," Harvey snapped, indignant. "You think I did this to myself?"

Mike raised an eyebrow. "I think maybe you just don’t have the touch."

Harvey’s jaw dropped. "The touch?"

"Yeah. Animals can sense things, you know? They know when someone’s good." Mike gave Margo another cuddle, and she rewarded him with a loud purr.

"Oh, so now I’m bad?" Harvey demanded.

Mike grinned. "I’m not saying you’re bad. I’m just saying she clearly likes me better."

"That’s not what you were saying last night," Harvey shot back, narrowing his eyes.

Mike laughed, shaking his head. "Don’t change the subject. You lost a battle to a kitten."

Harvey slumped back in the chair, glaring half-heartedly at Margo. She blinked at him again, smug as ever.

"I’m never living this down, am I?" he muttered.

"Not a chance," Mike said cheerfully. He set Margo gently on the counter and stepped closer, brushing his fingers over one of the scratches on Harvey’s arm. "You should let me clean these up. Don’t want you getting rabies."

"It’s not that kind of horror story," Harvey shot back immediately.

Mike grinned and leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to his temple. "Shame. I was hoping for a dramatic quarantine arc."

Harvey groaned, dropping his head to the table again. "Kill me now."

But when Mike laughed and Margo purred in harmony, Harvey had to admit—just barely—that maybe the night wasn’t a total loss. Even if he’d never, ever forgive Louis for this.

Chapter Text

The bar was buzzing in that low, steady hum Harvey liked after a win—the clink of glasses, the occasional cheer from a corner booth, the scratch of jazz playing faintly through speakers. They’d just closed one of those cases that would be remembered in firm lore for years: high stakes, impossible odds, and Harvey pulling it off with his usual combination of charm and sheer ruthlessness. Mike had been brilliant too, his encyclopedic brain pulling citations no one else could find. They deserved this.

Mike leaned against Harvey at the booth, a beer in hand, cheeks warm from both alcohol and the easy grin Harvey had been flashing him all night. Kissing him openly in a bar wasn’t something they’d started out doing—too risky, too messy—but months into this thing between them, Harvey had loosened up. A hand on Mike’s knee here, a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth there. It was almost… domestic.

"Another round?" Harvey asked, holding up his glass, already half-empty.

"You’ve had enough," Mike said, laughing. "You’re already glowing."

"Specters don’t glow," Harvey replied, mock-serious. He signaled the bartender anyway, because Harvey never accepted limits when they weren’t his own idea.

Mike shook his head, amused. "You know, I think you just like proving that you can outdrink half the room."

"Half?" Harvey arched an eyebrow. "Try all."

The drinks arrived, and Harvey raised his glass in a mock toast. "To winning."

Mike clinked his glass against his. "To winning."

It should have ended there—quiet celebration, a few more drinks, back to Harvey’s place where the night would end in familiar, predictable bliss. But Harvey’s tongue loosened with each swallow, and Mike noticed the shift. The smirk stayed in place, but the edges softened. His eyes lingered longer when they looked at Mike, his hand slid from Mike’s knee to his fingers and stayed there, warm and steady.

"You know," Harvey said, voice dropping low, "you were good today."

Mike blinked. "Thanks?"

"No," Harvey said, shaking his head, insistent. "I mean it. You were damn good. You kept your cool, you didn’t let opposing counsel rattle you. You—" He paused, grinning. "You’re a natural, rookie."

Mike’s stomach twisted in that pleasant, dangerous way it always did when Harvey praised him. Harvey wasn’t stingy with acknowledgment, but he rarely laid it out so plainly.

"Appreciate it," Mike said, trying not to sound as affected as he felt.

Harvey leaned back, studying him. "And you looked good doing it. That suit I picked out for you? Perfect. Makes you look like you actually belong in the room."

Mike laughed. "So half of that compliment was actually about your taste in clothes."

"Half?" Harvey tilted his head, lips quirking. "Try all."

Mike rolled his eyes, but his cheeks burned. "You’re drunk."

"I’m honest," Harvey corrected smoothly, though there was a slur on the edge of his words. He reached across the table, brushing his thumb over the back of Mike’s hand. "You don’t get it, do you?"

Mike frowned. "Get what?"

Harvey leaned closer, his voice soft enough that it cut under the bar noise. "That I like you. Really like you. Not just the way you think, or the way you make me look better in front of Jessica. I like you."

Mike’s breath caught. They’d been dating for months, sure, but this was different. This wasn’t Harvey showing up with takeout when Mike forgot to eat, or dragging him to bed after too many hours bent over briefs. This was Harvey saying it outright.

"You’re good for me," Harvey went on, oblivious to Mike’s wide eyes. "Do you know how long it’s been since I let anyone in? Really in? And you—" He gestured vaguely, as if Mike’s entire existence was something beyond words. "You waltzed in with your dumb bike and your genius brain and somehow made yourself indispensable."

Mike swallowed hard, a lump in his throat. "Harvey…"

"You make me laugh," Harvey interrupted, eyes half-lidded now, voice softer. "And that’s not easy. You…you care, even when I don’t deserve it. You don’t back down from me."

Mike stared at him, caught between wanting to grin like an idiot and wanting to cry into his beer. He always knew Harvey cared—Harvey showed him in actions, in small moments—but hearing it out loud was something else entirely.

"You’re wasted," Mike said, voice gentle.

"Maybe," Harvey admitted with a shrug. "But drunk words, sober thoughts."

Mike chuckled at the cliché, but his chest was too full to laugh properly. He reached across the table, squeezing Harvey’s hand. "You don’t have to say all this, you know. I know."

"I want to," Harvey said simply. Then, almost childlike: "You like me too, right?"

Mike laughed, startled. "You’re fishing for reassurance now?"

"Answer the question."

"Yes, Harvey," Mike said, exasperated but smiling. "I like you too."

"Good," Harvey muttered, leaning back, satisfied. "Because if you didn’t, this would be embarrassing."

Mike shook his head, laughing again, but Harvey wasn’t laughing anymore. He was just looking at him, eyes warm in a way that made Mike’s stomach somersault. And for once, Mike didn’t try to joke it away. He leaned across the table and kissed him, slow and unhurried, not caring who saw.

When they finally broke apart, Harvey smirked faintly. "Told you I’m not a robot."

Mike grinned. "Definitely not. You’re a drunk, sentimental sap."

"Only for you," Harvey said, eyes closing briefly as his head tipped back against the booth.

And Mike thought, as he watched the great Harvey Specter unspool in front of him, that this—this was better than any win.

Chapter Text

Harvey had been the best hunter in the clan for as long as anyone could remember, and he knew it. Every morning he strutted out with his spear slung over his shoulder, every evening he came back with something impressive dangling from his grip. Deer, boar, the occasional unlucky bird—it didn’t matter what it was. Harvey always provided, and he carried himself like the whole cave system should thank him personally for keeping them fed. And they usually did. People moved out of his way when he walked by, they whispered about his skill, they sighed at his smirk.

But then there was Mike.

Mike wasn’t a hunter. Not by a long shot. His arms were strong enough from hauling baskets, but he had the kind of face that made people worry he’d get distracted by a pretty flower and walk straight into a bear. He gathered berries, dug up roots, collected water from the river in those clumsy clay pots Louis insisted on making. And every single time he came across something odd or mildly interesting, he’d trot straight to Harvey with it like an overeager wolf pup trying to impress its pack leader.

"Harvey!" Mike had said one afternoon, bounding into the mouth of the cave, grinning like he’d just invented fire. "Look at this rock. It’s shaped like a… well, I don’t know what it’s shaped like, but it’s funny."

And Harvey, still stripping fur from a deer carcass, had grunted, "That’s a rock."

Mike had smiled anyway, dropped it right next to Harvey’s sleeping furs, and skipped off to show Rachel the handful of berries he’d found. The next day, it was another rock. Then a clump of moss. Then a particularly long feather.

At first, Harvey had tried to ignore it. He was Harvey. He didn’t need rocks. He didn’t need moss. He especially didn’t need berries so sour they made his teeth hurt. But every time Mike dropped something by his furs, there was this ridiculous sparkle in his eyes, like he was handing over the lights in the sky. And Harvey—against his better judgment—kept every single gift. His sleeping corner was starting to look like a shrine to useless clutter, and God help him if anyone noticed.

Of course, Donna noticed. Donna always noticed.

One evening, as the fire crackled low and the rest of the clan chewed noisily on roasted rabbit, she sauntered over, her hair woven with flowers she’d absolutely bullied Rachel into braiding. She crouched down beside Harvey’s pile of furs, poked through the rocks, feathers, and berries with a smirk that told him she was about to ruin his life.

"So," she drawled, holding up a particularly ugly gray stone. "You starting a collection, or is someone trying to woo you?"

Harvey scowled, snatched the rock out of her hand, and shoved it back into the pile. "It’s nothing."

"Mm-hm." Donna leaned closer, her smirk widening. "You know, in some clans, giving rocks is a courtship ritual."

"Mike doesn’t know anything about rituals," Harvey muttered, trying not to look at Mike across the fire, where he was animatedly explaining something to Rachel with his hands full of roots. "He’s just… weird."

"Adorable," Donna corrected, straightening up with a satisfied look. "He’s adorable. And apparently, adorable for you."

Harvey glared at her, but it didn’t land. Nothing ever did with Donna.

The problem wasn’t just Donna, though. The problem was Louis.

Louis was the self-proclaimed shaman of the clan, a title no one had given him but one he wore like a second skin. He brewed strange concoctions out of herbs that sometimes made people sick and sometimes cured headaches. He painted on cave walls and insisted the drawings meant something deep, even if they looked suspiciously like stick figures with antlers. And Louis had eyes like a hawk when it came to Harvey.

One afternoon, Louis shuffled over, clutching a half-broken clay pot, his face solemn. "Harvey. I have seen the signs."

Harvey didn’t even look up from sharpening his spear. "Go away, Louis."

"No," Louis pressed, pointing dramatically at Harvey’s sleeping furs. "The rocks. The moss. The feathers. They are offerings. This is destiny."

Harvey snorted. "It’s clutter."

"It’s love," Louis corrected, puffing out his chest. "The ancestors are speaking. The gatherer has chosen you. You must accept or the spirits will be angry."

Harvey finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. "The spirits told you that?"

"Yes." Louis hesitated. "Well. Not in words. More in… shapes. And feelings. And I may have licked a few too many of those red mushrooms."

Harvey groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

And yet, that night, when Mike appeared with another handful of berries—sweet ones this time, staining his palms purple—Harvey didn’t tell him to shove off. He didn’t say anything at all, just let Mike drop them onto the pile and beam at him like he’d done something grand.

The worst part? Harvey felt something then. Something warm. Something he didn’t want to think too hard about.

Because the truth was, Harvey liked it. He liked Mike showing up with his stupid gifts, liked the way Mike’s grin made the cave seem less dark, liked that someone so utterly unlike him still came back to him again and again like Harvey was the only one worth impressing.

He’d never admit it. Not to Donna, not to Louis, not to anyone.

But when he lay down that night, head resting near a pile of ugly rocks, Harvey thought that maybe the gatherer with too much energy and too many roots had hunted something more dangerous than a deer. He’d hunted Harvey. And against all odds, he might have caught him.

Chapter Text

The city was quieter than it had any right to be. New York was never silent, not really, but at five-thirty in the morning, it at least remembered how to whisper. The cabs were sparse, the honking subdued, and the occasional jogger darted by like they were part of some secret society.

Harvey had always liked it. Running at that hour meant the world felt like it belonged to him for a little while. But sometimes, on the mornings when he didn’t feel like testing his lungs, he traded the run for a walk. He never admitted it out loud, but those were his favorite mornings. Because Mike came along.

It was strange. Mike would rather die than run beside him—Harvey had asked enough times, always getting a muffled curse and a middle finger shoved out from under the covers—but if Harvey said, "Walk?" Mike got up. Sleepy-eyed, hair sticking up in twelve different directions, but he got up. And every time, Harvey felt something in his chest loosen.

That morning was no different. Harvey had tapped Mike’s shoulder lightly, and Mike had groaned like it was the cruelest crime in history. But five minutes later, he shuffled out of the bedroom in sweatpants and a hoodie that wasn’t his. Harvey’s hoodie, of course. He never complained. He liked the way it looked on him.

They stepped out into the chill, hands brushing until Mike hooked his fingers through Harvey’s without a word. Harvey’s hand swallowed his, warm and steady, and they fell into step. The world around them was groggy, half-asleep, but the two of them carried on in their own rhythm.

"You know," Mike said after a block, voice still raspy from sleep, "if you told me six months ago that I’d be voluntarily walking around Manhattan at dawn, I’d have laughed in your face."

Harvey smirked, squeezing his hand. "And yet here you are. Walking and holding hands, no less. I’ve clearly corrupted you."

"Or I just love you enough to humor your weird rich-guy rituals." Mike yawned, bumping his shoulder against Harvey’s. "Seriously, who wakes up before the sun unless they’re being paid for it?"

"I do," Harvey said smoothly.

"Exactly my point." Mike glanced at him, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Though…I guess I can’t really complain. It’s…nice. The city’s not yelling yet."

"Peaceful," Harvey agreed, his tone quiet, thoughtful.

That word carried more weight than Mike expected. He looked at Harvey out of the corner of his eye. There was something softer about him at this hour, with no suit, no courtroom, no walls. Just Harvey Specter in a dark hoodie, sneakers, and a look that was almost unguarded.

Mike squeezed his hand. "You like this more than running, don’t you?"

Harvey chuckled under his breath. "Don’t push your luck."

"I’m right, though." Mike grinned, emboldened. "Running’s just…your cover story. This is your thing. Walking, holding my hand, pretending you don’t like it as much as you do."

Harvey gave him a sideways look that could have cut glass on a normal day. Right now, it was more like polished steel. "You’re very smug for someone who almost fell asleep in the elevator on the way down."

Mike laughed, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. "I’m awake now. Kind of. Thanks to the cold. And the company."

They turned down a quieter street, their footsteps echoing faintly. Mike’s stomach growled, and Harvey glanced at him, amused.

"You didn’t eat?"

"I didn’t have time. Someone dragged me out of bed before I could make cereal."

"You want a bagel?" Harvey asked, almost casual.

Mike blinked. "Wait. Harvey Specter, king of thousand-dollar dinners, is suggesting a bagel?"

"Don’t sound so shocked. I’m capable of lowering my standards when necessary."

Mike grinned. "You mean when I’m involved."

Harvey didn’t answer, but his hand tightened briefly on Mike’s, which said more than enough.

They stopped at a corner cart where the vendor barely looked awake. Harvey ordered for both of them, sliding a bill across without waiting for change, and handed Mike a steaming paper-wrapped bagel.

Mike took a huge bite, chewing happily. "This might actually be the best bagel I’ve ever had."

"That’s because you’re eating it with me," Harvey deadpanned.

Mike nearly choked on his laugh. "Oh my god. Did you just admit that this is, like, a date?"

"It’s not a date. It’s a walk."

"With breakfast. And hand-holding. That’s a date."

Harvey rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him again. Mike lived for those moments, tiny cracks in Harvey’s armor that only he got to see.

They kept walking, the sun starting to climb, tinting the buildings with pale gold. Mike felt the weight of the world stay at bay, as if this time belonged just to them. No Pearson Hardman, no Jessica, no Louis, no endless demands. Just early morning air and Harvey’s hand in his.

After a while, Mike asked, quieter this time, "How long have you been doing this? The walks."

"Years," Harvey said. He didn’t look at Mike, just kept his eyes forward. "Started when I first made junior partner. I needed the air. The quiet. Reminded me I was still…a person."

Mike’s chest tightened at that, hearing the honesty in his voice. Harvey didn’t let people in easily, didn’t share things like this.

"And now?" Mike asked carefully.

"Now," Harvey said, finally glancing at him, "it’s better."

Mike smiled, warmth spreading through him despite the morning chill. He didn’t need to say anything after that.

They looped back toward Harvey’s building, the city starting to stir more as shops opened and traffic picked up. Mike finished the last of his bagel, licking cream cheese off his thumb.

"So, once a week, huh?" he said as they waited at a crosswalk.

Harvey gave him a puzzled look.

"This," Mike clarified. "The walks. I like it. We should make it a thing. Once a week, minimum. Preferably with bagels included."

Harvey huffed a quiet laugh. "Negotiating terms already?"

"I’ve learned from the best." Mike smirked.

The light changed, and they crossed, Harvey’s thumb brushing over Mike’s knuckles as they went. It was such a small gesture, but it anchored Mike in a way few things did.

When they reached the building, Harvey didn’t let go of his hand right away. He waited until they were inside, until the elevator doors slid shut, before finally letting the connection drop.

Mike leaned against the wall, watching him with a grin. "You know you don’t fool anyone, right?"

Harvey met his gaze, unreadable for a moment, and then simply said, "Wasn’t trying to."

Mike's grin softened. It was simple, it was quiet—and it meant the world to him.

Chapter Text

The night had stretched long past the point where either of them should have been awake. The city outside hummed with its endless, muffled noise, but Harvey and Mike had tucked themselves into a pocket of stillness. Harvey was sprawled across Mike, his head pillowed against Mike’s chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing syncing with Mike’s heartbeat. It wasn’t the kind of position anyone would have ever expected from Harvey Specter—too unguarded, too openly vulnerable—but here he was, perfectly content with his cheek pressed to cotton and skin instead of starched linen.

Mike absently threaded his fingers through Harvey’s hair, scratching lightly at the scalp, and felt Harvey’s hum of approval vibrate against his ribs. It was hypnotic in its simplicity, the sort of moment Mike wanted to bottle and keep forever. And maybe that was why the question slipped out.

"Do you think what we’re doing is crazy?"

Harvey didn’t even pause. "Of course it is."

Mike’s hand stilled. "Wow. Thanks for the pep talk."

Harvey tilted his head just enough to catch his expression, one eyebrow lifting lazily. "Don’t look at me like that. You wanted honesty."

"I was hoping for something a little more…reassuring," Mike muttered, though his fingers started moving again, brushing through Harvey’s hair because he couldn’t quite help himself.

"What’s reassuring about this?" Harvey asked, his tone maddeningly calm. "You’re a fraud. I hired you knowing that. You’re technically my subordinate. Jessica would castrate both of us if she found out. And let’s not forget the looming possibility of prison." He shifted slightly, letting the words settle like they were nothing more than facts of the weather. "So yeah. It’s insane."

Mike’s chest tightened at the bluntness of it. He opened his mouth, ready to argue, to point out how that wasn’t exactly the romantic reassurance he’d been looking for, but then Harvey added, softer, "And it’s worth it."

Mike blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

Harvey angled his head back down, resting fully against him again, his voice low and steady. "All of it. The risk. The insanity. Worth it."

For a second, Mike just stared at the ceiling, his throat tight. Harvey wasn’t one to hand out words like candy, not even when it came to him. He showed affection in actions, in gestures, in the quiet way he let Mike close when no one else ever got that privilege. But hearing him say it—hearing Harvey Specter, of all people, admit something so unshakably personal—was enough to knock the air from Mike’s lungs.

Mike’s lips curved into a slow smile. "That was almost romantic."

"Don’t tell anyone," Harvey murmured, eyes closing again. "I’ve got a reputation to uphold."

Mike chuckled, but the sound was soft, careful not to disturb the peace of the moment. His hand drifted down, tracing the line of Harvey’s temple, the edge of his jaw. "You know, I think this might be the craziest thing I’ve ever done. And that’s saying something, considering my life choices."

"You don’t say." Harvey’s voice was dry, but Mike felt the smirk against his chest.

"Seriously," Mike continued, staring up at the dark ceiling. "I mean, when I first walked into that interview with you, I was just trying to not get caught. I never thought I’d end up…here. With you."

Harvey was quiet for a long moment, so long Mike thought maybe he’d drifted off. Then Harvey said, almost too quietly, "Neither did I."

Mike’s fingers paused again, heart stuttering. "You mean you didn’t picture this exact scenario? Us in bed, you on top of me, using me as your personal pillow?"

Harvey let out a low huff of laughter. "Not exactly."

"Well, I’m glad my comfort has become such a priority for you."

"Don’t flatter yourself," Harvey said, though the lazy weight of his body contradicted his words. "You just make a decent mattress."

Mike smiled, eyes closing. "Best mattress you’ve ever had."

"Now who’s crazy?"

They lapsed into silence, but it wasn’t heavy. It was the kind of silence that stretched comfortably, filled with the sound of their breathing and the faint hum of the city beyond the glass. Mike’s mind wandered, turning over everything Harvey had said. It was insane. Every second of what they were doing was a gamble that could collapse their lives in an instant. And yet, here they were, wrapped up in each other. 

Mike’s hand found its way back into Harvey’s hair, combing idly. "You ever think about what happens if we get caught?"

Harvey’s voice was muffled against his chest. "No."

"No?"

"Because we won’t."

Mike tilted his head to look at him. "That’s it? That’s your big strategy? Just pure denial?"

"It’s called confidence," Harvey said, lifting his head enough to shoot him a look before settling back down. "And it’s kept me out of a lot of trouble."

Mike snorted. "I’m pretty sure Donna’s what’s kept you out of trouble."

"Semantics."

Mike laughed again, the tension easing from his chest. He knew Harvey wasn’t one for talking things out late into the night. He wasn’t built for it. But tonight, here, pressed close with nothing between them, Harvey was giving him more than he’d expected.

"You know," Mike said, softer now, "for something crazy, it feels…pretty good."

Harvey shifted just enough to meet his eyes, and there was something in the look that made Mike’s breath catch. "That’s because it is."

For once, Mike didn’t try to ruin it with a joke. He just nodded, tightening his arm around Harvey’s shoulders, holding him closer.

Eventually, Harvey’s breathing evened out, steady and deep against him. Mike kept his hand moving lazily through his hair, staring at the ceiling with a smile tugging at his lips.

It was crazy. It was insane. But lying there, Harvey warm and solid against him, Mike couldn’t imagine wanting anything else.

Chapter Text

It had started innocently enough, with Mike offhandedly suggesting, somewhere between kisses and Chinese takeout containers, that maybe they should think about living together. Harvey hadn’t even blinked. He’d just said, "Sure," like Mike had suggested switching brands of toothpaste. Mike, naturally, had been floored—half-expecting Harvey to shoot the idea down with a smirk and some cutting remark about how he didn’t do domesticity. But no. Harvey had agreed.

That was six months ago.

And Mike quickly realized that agreeing to move in together was the easy part. Actually finding a place? That was a war of attrition.

The first apartment Mike had dragged Harvey to was in SoHo. Big windows, exposed brick, hardwood floors that squeaked underfoot. Mike had stood in the middle of the room, arms wide, grinning. "This is perfect."

Harvey had taken one slow glance around before saying, "This place screams grad student with too many opinions about coffee."

"Yeah," Mike had said dryly, "that’s called having personality."

"It’s called poor insulation and neighbors who’ll probably throw raves until four in the morning." Harvey had tugged his coat back on and headed for the door. "Next."

The second place had been Harvey’s choice, naturally. A penthouse uptown with a doorman, valet parking, marble countertops, and a view that could stop traffic.

Mike had stepped inside, taken in the sterile white and glass, and frowned. "This isn’t an apartment. This is a Bond villain lair."

Harvey had smirked. "And what’s wrong with that?"

"You want to live here? Really? Where’s the…warmth?" Mike had waved vaguely at the gleaming surfaces, the minimalist furniture staged within an inch of its life. "It looks like a magazine spread. If I spill coffee on the floor, a SWAT team will probably show up."

"Or you could just not spill coffee."

Mike had thrown him a look. "That isn’t happening."

And so it had gone. Place after place, weekend after weekend. The realtor had started to look at them like they were her personal punishment from God. Mike fell in love with cozy places Harvey thought were claustrophobic. Harvey adored sleek, high-end properties Mike thought were cold and soulless. Every time they thought maybe—maybe—they’d found a compromise, one of them spotted a dealbreaker.

"Too far from the office," Harvey would say.

"Too expensive," Mike would counter.

"Too small."

"Too sterile."

"Too noisy."

"Too quiet."

By the third month, Mike was ready to scream. "You know what, let’s just live in the file room at Pearson Hardman. We practically do anyway."

"Tempting," Harvey had murmured, lips twitching. "But Jessica would notice."

The fights weren’t real fights—they never boiled over into anything serious—but they bickered endlessly. Donna had weighed in once, arms crossed, voice dry. "You two realize you’re basically married already, right? This is just house-hunting foreplay."

Mike had turned bright red. Harvey had smirked but didn’t deny it.

Then came the morning when they stumbled on the one.

It wasn’t intentional. Mike had seen the listing online, half-awake, scrolling on his phone before Harvey dragged him out of bed. The pictures looked good but not overly staged. The kitchen had actual character. There was a fireplace that seemed too good to be true. He showed Harvey without much hope, expecting the usual dismissive glance.

But Harvey had actually paused. He’d studied the pictures longer than five seconds. "Schedule a showing."

Mike had almost dropped the phone.

The place, when they saw it, was everything neither of them knew they’d been waiting for. Big enough for Harvey’s taste, with high ceilings and clean lines, but warm enough for Mike, with wood floors and actual charm instead of showroom sterility. A balcony with a view that wasn’t the most impressive Harvey had ever seen, but it felt like New York in a way that was alive, not posed.

They’d walked through together, Harvey with his usual poker face, Mike trying not to babble about the fireplace, the reading nook, the built-in shelves that just begged for actual books.

At the end, Harvey had turned to him, one eyebrow raised. "You like it?"

Mike’s eyes had been wide, hopeful, trying to keep his voice casual. "Yeah. Do you?"

Harvey’s lips had curved, just a fraction. "I do."

And that was it. No fight, no sarcastic remark. Just two words that sealed it.

Mike had blinked at him, dumbfounded. "Wait, really? That’s it? We’re agreeing? We’re actually agreeing?"

"Don’t sound so shocked," Harvey had drawled, though his smirk was more amused than usual.

"I just—I need this on record," Mike had said, pulling out his phone like he was about to record a confession. "Harvey Specter and I agreed on something interior-design related."

"Careful," Harvey had said smoothly, "or I’ll change my mind just to mess with you."

But he didn’t.

For the first time in six months, they left a showing without arguing. Without nitpicking. Without one of them stomping off in irritation. They left hand in hand, Mike grinning so wide it hurt his cheeks, Harvey pretending not to be pleased but failing miserably at hiding the softness in his eyes.

Of course, it took weeks of paperwork, negotiations, Harvey working his magic with contracts, Mike pestering him about picking paint colors and furniture. But eventually, the keys were theirs.

And that led them straight into their current problem: the absolute chaos of moving day.

Harvey had approached it like a military operation. His boxes were stacked neatly, each one labeled in his elegant, infuriatingly precise handwriting. "Kitchen – Glassware (Riedel)," "Office – Records (Jazz)," "Bedroom – Suits (Seasonal)." Mike had stared at them, jaw slack, like Harvey had just revealed a secret past life as a professional organizer.

By contrast, Mike’s boxes were a disaster. Half were scribbled with one word: stuff. The others had vague hieroglyphics that didn’t seem to correspond to actual categories. One box had important written in Sharpie. When Harvey asked what was in it, Mike shrugged and said, "I don’t know. Important things?"

"Jesus Christ," Harvey muttered, rubbing a hand over his face as he lifted one of the unlabeled boxes. It rattled. "This is how serial killers live."

"Excuse you," Mike shot back, already red-faced from carrying two boxes at once. "I’m efficient. I didn’t waste hours making my boxes look like a stationery store catalog."

"Efficient would be knowing where your own things are," Harvey said smoothly, setting the rattling box down with deliberate care. "Not playing Russian roulette with your possessions."

Mike stuck out his tongue and kept moving.

They finally got everything into the new apartment, the living room transformed into a battlefield of cardboard. It took less than an hour for the first major revelation: between the two of them, they had somehow managed to bring thirty glasses but not a single plate.

"Wait, what do you mean you didn’t bring your plates?" Mike asked, holding an empty cupboard door open like it was a personal betrayal.

"I assumed you would bring yours," Harvey said, his tee riding up as he stretched, showing a bit of skin. Moving had reduced him to jeans and a t-shirt—something Mike would have paid to see sooner. "My plates are for entertaining. I’m not eating pizza off fine china."

Mike threw his hands up. "I thought you would bring the normal ones. Because you’re the adult here. Who even has thirty glasses?"

"People who enjoy drinking things out of something other than a chipped mug," Harvey replied, crossing his arms.

Mike narrowed his eyes. "You’re just mad because my mismatched Ikea plates didn’t make the cut in your fancy box system."

"They wouldn’t have survived one wash cycle."

"They would’ve survived me," Mike countered.

Harvey didn’t answer, just gave him that maddening half-smirk and started unpacking another box.

The second discovery came soon after: they had three coffee makers.

Mike stared at the growing line on the counter. "Okay, I’ll admit I thought you’d be the kind of guy who paid someone to make your coffee."

"I am," Harvey said, carefully placing down a gleaming French press. "But that doesn’t mean I don’t also own the best machines available. Unlike…" He picked up Mike’s battered drip maker by the cord like it was contagious. "This."

"Hey!" Mike lunged for it, snatching it out of his hands. "That’s mine. I've had it for years. It’s practically family."

"It belongs in a museum," Harvey muttered. "Under the exhibit of ‘things that should’ve been thrown out ten years ago.’"

Mike set it firmly back on the counter next to Harvey’s arsenal. "We’re keeping it. It has character."

Harvey pinched the bridge of his nose. "We’re going to have to call a truce. We’ll keep it until it spontaneously combusts, which I estimate will be in the next forty-eight hours."

Mike grinned, satisfied. "Deal."

By mid-afternoon, the apartment looked less like a home and more like a garage sale gone horribly wrong. They had duplicates of nearly everything: two toasters, three sets of silverware (but again, no plates), and an alarming number of blankets considering Harvey swore he didn’t even own one.

Mike sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes. He tugged open one labeled stuff and triumphantly pulled out a baseball glove. "See? This is why I don’t label. It’s more exciting this way."

Harvey, across the room, muttered without looking up, "Exciting isn’t the word I’d use."

"Oh, come on." Mike lobbed the glove at him. Harvey caught it one-handed, of course, and looked at it with mild disdain.

"You play?"

"Played," Mike corrected. "High school. I was good, too."

Harvey raised an eyebrow. "Good enough to impress me?"

Mike grinned. "You ever want to find out, I’ll take you to the batting cages."

"Pass," Harvey said, but the ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth.

The day stretched long, filled with more small discoveries. Like how Mike’s record collection was laughably tiny compared to Harvey’s but weirdly eclectic. Or how Harvey had somehow never owned a proper can opener, claiming Donna always handled things like that when he needed one.

"You’re a grown man," Mike said, brandishing the brand-new can opener he’d bought. "How do you not own this?"

Harvey didn’t look up from arranging his ties. "I don’t eat canned food."

"You’re impossible."

"And yet here you are, moving in anyway."

Mike rolled his eyes but couldn’t fight the grin that crept up on him.

By the time evening fell, the apartment was a mess of half-empty boxes, random objects with no home, and two very tired men sprawled on the couch. Harvey leaned back, head tilted against the cushion, while Mike stretched out beside him, feet propped on the coffee table.

"This was a disaster," Mike said, though his tone was fond.

"It was an adjustment," Harvey corrected smoothly.

Mike chuckled. "We don’t have plates, Harvey. Plates. What are we supposed to eat off of?"

"You like pizza. We’ll eat out until we buy some."

Mike tilted his head, studying him. "You don’t regret it? Moving in?"

Harvey’s eyes flicked to his, steady and certain. "No."

Mike felt his chest tighten, warmth spreading through him. He hadn’t expected Harvey to hesitate—Harvey didn’t hesitate once he made a decision—but hearing it out loud still hit different.

"Good," Mike said softly, shifting closer. "Because I don’t either. Even if we do have three coffee makers."

"Two and a half," Harvey corrected. "Yours doesn’t count."

Mike laughed, leaning in until their shoulders pressed. "We’re gonna figure this out, you know. The plates, the coffee makers, the boxes of ‘stuff.’"

Harvey smirked. "We will. And when we do, this will be home."

Mike’s smile widened as he let his head drop onto Harvey’s shoulder. The mess could wait. The duplicates could wait. Right now, the only thing that mattered was that they were here, together, in a place they’d chosen.

Home.

Chapter Text

Donna had patience. She really did. It was part of her job, after all—keeping Harvey in line required more patience than most people had in their entire lifetimes. But even Donna Paulsen, master of self-control, was not infinite. And she had officially reached the end of her rope.

Harvey and Mike had been making eyes at each other for months now. Not even subtle eyes, the kind that people might mistake for something else. No. This was the kind of thing that had Donna standing in the middle of the bullpen one afternoon, staring at them across the room while Harvey leaned a little too close over Mike’s desk, while Mike smiled a little too wide at something Harvey said, and thinking, dear God, they’re ridiculous.

And when she thought they’re ridiculous, what she really meant was I’m ridiculous for still putting up with this.

So, after another week of suffering through stolen glances, almost-smiles, late-night office visits that ended in nothing but suppressed tension, Donna decided enough was enough. If the two of them weren’t going to get their act together, she’d just… help.

Her solution wasn’t exactly conventional. But then again, when was Donna Paulsen ever conventional?

That was how she found herself one cool evening standing outside a townhouse that looked like it had been pulled straight out of an eccentric aunt’s Pinterest board. Wrought iron railing, ivy curling up the side, a door painted a shade of green that screamed "statement." The small brass plaque beside it read, simply: Elliot.

Donna raised an eyebrow but knocked anyway.

Inside, the place was… something. Beaded curtains hung in the doorways. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and something spicier—clove, maybe. Shelves lined with glass bottles, mismatched candles, jars of herbs, and at least one taxidermy raven stared down at her with judgmental glass eyes.

Donna’s lips twitched. She kind of liked it. In the same way she liked a particularly strong martini—strange, but satisfying.

"Donna Paulsen," a voice drawled from the back room before the beaded curtain rustled and a man emerged. Elliot looked exactly how you’d picture someone who called himself a witch in New York City: longish hair with a streak of silver running through it, rings stacked on nearly every finger, shirt buttoned down just enough to reveal a necklace with a charm that was either very mystical or very tacky. She couldn’t decide.

"You look exactly the same," Donna said smoothly, tilting her head.

"You don’t," Elliot replied with a grin that showed too many teeth. "You look better."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"It got me invited to prom once."

Donna rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. They’d known each other since early high school, lost touch, reconnected once in college, and then drifted apart again. But when she thought of someone who might actually… nudge fate along, well, Elliot’s name had popped into her head before she could stop herself.

He waved her toward a small table covered in fabric, the surface cluttered with tarot cards, crystals, and what looked suspiciously like a snow globe. "So. What brings you here? Fortune? Future? Protection from jealous rivals?"

Donna slid into the chair across from him. "I need you to help two idiots fall in love."

Elliot’s eyebrows shot up. "Well. Straight to the point. I like that."

"I don’t have time for your little show," Donna said. "They’re driving me insane. Everyone can see it. They can see it. And yet—nothing. Not even a kiss. It’s tragic."

"Tragic," Elliot echoed, as if savoring the word. He steepled his fingers. "Love potions are not a thing. Not the way people want them to be. But. Influence? A nudge? Sure."

"That’s all I need. A nudge. Push them in the right direction. The rest will take care of itself."

Elliot’s grin widened, catlike. "Do you have anything of theirs?"

Donna slid her purse onto the table and pulled out two envelopes. From the first, she produced photographs: Harvey looking smug at some firm event, Mike smiling shyly in a candid Donna had taken months ago. From the second, she pulled a small plastic bag. Inside were a few strands of hair, carefully sealed.

Elliot didn’t ask how she’d gotten them. Wise man.

"Perfect," he murmured, taking them gently and setting them down like treasures. "Give me a few days. Energy like this takes time to… manifest."

Donna leaned back, crossing her arms. "You’re not going to make them fall in love."

Elliot met her eyes, suddenly serious. "No. I can’t make anyone love anyone. But I can strip away the noise. The doubt. The excuses. If they feel something, it will come out. If they don’t…"

Donna arched a brow. "They do."

Elliot chuckled. "Spoken like someone who’s had to watch it unfold for months."

"You have no idea."

He gathered the photos and the bag of hair, tucking them carefully into a carved wooden box. Then he lit a candle, the flame catching with a faint hiss, and gestured toward the door. "Now you let me do my work. Give it a few days."

Donna stood, smoothing her coat, her heels clicking on the floor. "If this blows up in my face, Elliot…"

"You’ll come back here, tear me apart with words sharper than knives, and then probably make me regret every life choice I’ve ever made," he said cheerfully.

Donna smiled. "Good. At least we understand each other."

And with that, she turned and left the strange little townhouse, the smell of sandalwood and clove following her out into the crisp evening air.

It took exactly five days. Donna counted. She hadn’t intended to, but once Elliot had told her to wait, she found herself watching Harvey and Mike more closely than usual, waiting for the smallest flicker of change. And five days later, there it was.

The idiots started bumping into each other. Constantly.

At first, Donna chalked it up to coincidence. Mike wasn’t exactly graceful—his limbs had all the coordination of a baby giraffe, and Harvey liked to stride through the office like he owned it (which, to be fair, he practically did). So when Mike nearly collided with Harvey in the hallway Monday morning, dropping half a stack of briefs, Donna only smirked and went back to her desk.

But then it happened again. And again.

By Tuesday afternoon, Mike was brushing past Harvey’s shoulder at the coffee station, Harvey’s hand accidentally resting on Mike’s lower back as he reached for sugar. On Wednesday, they turned the same corner at the exact same time, colliding so hard that Mike’s pen went flying. Donna had watched Harvey bend to pick it up, their fingers brushing when Harvey handed it back. Mike’s ears went red. Harvey’s smirk had teeth.

Donna narrowed her eyes.

By Thursday, she was convinced. They weren’t just bumping into each other—they were being pulled. Like magnets. Like two stupid magnets who didn’t realize they were enchanted by forces beyond their control.

"Well," Donna murmured to herself, watching Harvey lean over Mike’s desk with one hand planted on the surface, far too close for boss and associate. "That’s… creative."

The curse—or spell, or whatever Elliot had done—wasn’t subtle, but it was effective. Every time she turned around, one was in the other’s orbit, their conversations low and private, their body language screaming something is happening even if their mouths still hadn’t caught up.

Donna found herself both impressed and irritated. She hadn’t expected results this quickly, nor this dramatic. But she also hadn’t accounted for the sheer secondhand embarrassment of watching two grown men circle each other like high schoolers at prom.

By the following week, though, things escalated.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, the bullpen humming with the low drone of associates trying to look busier than they were. Donna was on her way to the file room to drop off a folder when she stopped dead just outside the door. Because through the tiny gap, she saw them.

Mike was pressed against the cabinets, Harvey braced in front of him, their mouths locked like they’d been holding back for years.

Donna blinked. Then blinked again.

Of all the places.

For a moment she considered backing away quietly. But the sight was too good to waste. Harvey, Mr. Untouchable, Mr. I-don’t-do-emotions, kissing Mike like the world would end if he didn’t. Mike, one hand fisted in Harvey’s shirt, the other cupping his jaw with a tenderness that made Donna’s chest ache in spite of herself.

She almost applauded.

Instead, she smirked, silently walked in, and leaned casually against the wall, waiting until the inevitable moment when one of them noticed her. Which, given their track record, took a while.

When Harvey finally surfaced for air, his tie askew, Donna drawled, "Well. It’s about damn time."

Mike froze like he’d been caught shoplifting. Harvey, to his credit, didn’t flinch—he just turned his head slowly, cool as ever, though his mouth was a little swollen and his ears slightly pink.

"Donna," Harvey said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just been caught devouring his associate in the file room. "Did you need something?"

"Yes," Donna said. "I needed my sanity back. Watching you two make eyes at each other was exhausting."

Mike squeaked—actually squeaked—and tried to push Harvey back, but Harvey didn’t budge. If anything, his smirk deepened.

"You knew?" Mike hissed.

Donna’s laugh was sharp and amused. "Knew? Mike, everyone knew. You two were about as subtle as a marching band."

Harvey tilted his head, smug. "Not everyone."

"Harvey," Donna said sweetly, "the mailroom guys had a betting pool about you two. Jessica doesn’t know only because she has better things to do, but don’t flatter yourself—you weren’t hiding anything."

Mike covered his face with his hands. "Oh my God."

Harvey looked faintly amused, faintly annoyed, and very much like a man who’d just decided he didn’t care about being caught. "So what? You want to send out a press release?"

"No," Donna said, eyes glinting. "I want to enjoy this. Because I spent months suffering through your will-they-won’t-they nonsense. So excuse me if I savor the payoff."

Mike groaned again, but Harvey only chuckled.

Donna pushed off the wall and smoothed her skirt. "Word of advice, though? Maybe next time, don’t make out in the one room with no lock."

She left them there, smug as a cat with cream, and when she was back at her desk, she allowed herself a small smile. Elliot had come through. Maybe too well. But in the end, she supposed, it had been worth it.

Because watching Harvey finally, finally, drop his guard for Mike? That was priceless.

Chapter Text

The first time Mike stayed at Harvey’s place, it wasn’t planned. He’d worked late, got caught in the rain, and ended up shivering in Harvey’s office, trying to pretend he wasn’t dripping water all over a thousand-dollar rug. Harvey had raised one perfect eyebrow, muttered something about how Mike looked like a drowned rat, and tossed him a towel from his gym bag. By the time they wrapped up whatever case they were prepping, it was nearly two in the morning, and Harvey had just said, "You’re not going back to that shoebox you call an apartment in this weather. Come on."

Mike had followed him without a second thought. He remembered how it felt, walking into the penthouse—intimidating, sleek, expensive in a way that practically shouted Harvey Specter. He remembered perching awkwardly on the edge of the couch while Harvey poured them both scotch, the city glittering outside the windows like something out of a movie. He remembered the way Harvey had smirked when Mike finally admitted he didn’t have any dry clothes, then wordlessly handed him a hoodie from his closet.

That was the first time.

The second time, Mike brought Chinese takeout. It was another late night, another case, and Harvey had been too buried in paperwork to even think about dinner. Mike showed up at the penthouse with a paper bag and a sheepish grin, half-expecting Harvey to scoff. Instead, Harvey just gave him a look that said "you’re impossible" and then dug into the lo mein like it was the best thing he’d eaten in weeks. They ended up stretched out on the couch, containers balanced on the coffee table, arguing about baseball until Harvey fell asleep mid-sentence. Mike didn’t move, not even when his arm went numb, because Harvey’s head was on his shoulder, and that felt too good to ruin.

After that, it became a pattern.

At first, Mike told himself it was just convenience. Harvey’s place was closer to the office, and it saved him the trouble of catching a cab at ungodly hours. But then he realized he was packing an overnight bag without even thinking about it, tucking it under his desk in case Harvey suggested working late. He realized he was memorizing the exact way Harvey liked his coffee in the mornings, down to the brand of beans and the particular mug he preferred. He realized that he had his own toothbrush tucked discreetly in Harvey’s bathroom drawer, and Harvey hadn’t said a word about it.

The more time he spent there, the less Harvey’s penthouse felt like a showroom and the more it felt… lived in. Like Mike was filling in the gaps Harvey hadn’t even noticed were empty.

Mike started leaving little things behind—a sweatshirt here, a pair of socks there. At first, Harvey teased him about it. "Marking your territory?" he’d say with that smug smirk. But he never actually moved the things. And one day Mike noticed Harvey had cleared a drawer in his dresser. Just one. Just enough.

Mike pretended not to notice how much that meant.

They settled into a rhythm. Friday nights meant takeout and whatever old movie Harvey insisted Mike needed to see immediately, because apparently his pop culture knowledge was a national disgrace. Saturday mornings sometimes meant Harvey going for a run and Mike staying in bed, but more often than not, Harvey would come back to find Mike in his kitchen, making pancakes with jazz on the speakers. Harvey would complain about the mess, but he’d eat three stacks and lick the syrup off his thumb without shame.

It was little things. Mike coming in and toeing his shoes off without thinking. Dropping his bag by the couch because he knew he’d pick it up again in the morning. Collapsing onto the bed without asking if it was okay, because somewhere along the way, it had stopped being Harvey’s bed and started being theirs.

Harvey didn’t talk about it. Not directly. But Mike caught him looking sometimes, this strange softness in his eyes when Mike was sprawled on the couch with a book or leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee. It wasn’t smugness or amusement—it was something warmer, something Harvey never said out loud but showed in a hundred quiet ways.

Like how there was suddenly a second set of keys on the counter one night. No announcement, no explanation. Just there. Mike had picked them up slowly, heart pounding, and Harvey had said, "Don’t lose them," like it was nothing.

Mike didn’t lose them. He never would.

The first time Mike came back after a long day and unlocked Harvey’s door himself, it hit him. He wasn’t just visiting anymore. He wasn’t just crashing after late nights or weather emergencies. He was coming home.

It wasn’t about the sleek furniture or the skyline view or the way the sheets smelled like Harvey’s cologne. It was about the way Harvey’s jacket was always draped over the same chair, the way there was now a shelf with both their records mixed together, the way Harvey always left the light on when he knew Mike would be late. It was about the routine they’d built, unspoken but steady, something Mike had never really had before.

He remembered standing in the doorway one night, watching Harvey on the couch with a glass of scotch in hand, flipping through channels like he wasn’t waiting for Mike but absolutely was. Something in Mike’s chest had tightened, and for the first time, the thought hadn’t scared him. It had felt… right.

Coming home to Harvey wasn’t just a physical place. It was the steady comfort of someone who knew him, who wanted him there, who let him belong. It was the realization that Harvey’s penthouse—sleek, intimidating, untouchable—had changed because Mike was in it. And Harvey had let it.

By the time Mike finally admitted it to himself, it wasn’t even a question anymore. This wasn’t Harvey’s place with Mike as a guest. This was theirs. And every time Mike pushed open the door, tossed his keys on the counter, and heard Harvey call out from the living room, it sank a little deeper.

He was home.