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Harvey will never admit it, but taking the Aston Martin to an upstate client meeting in December may not have been one of his greatest schemes.
He peels his eyes away from the blinding wall of white where there should, ideally, be a road, and glances sideways at Mike. He hasn’t made a sound, but his eyes are wide and his cheeks have gone almost as pale as the snow pelting the windshield.
The time on the GPS has turned red and keeps climbing higher, despite the fact that they’re still moving forward. They slide a little, and Harvey calmly tilts the wheel, pulling them out of the skid.
But Mike’s fingers clench even tighter around the briefcase on his lap.
Harvey lets out a slow breath, then taps the GPS a few times to reroute them. A new ETA appears - only seventeen minutes.
Mike looks at him, one eyebrow raised, but doesn’t say anything.
It’s silent for another fifteen tense minutes. When they wind down a narrow road blanketed in snow and flanked by towering trees that block most of the blustering wind, Mike finally says, “If you’re taking me somewhere to kill me, you shouldn’t put the address in the GPS. They can subpoena those records.”
Harvey smirks. It’s a good sign that Mike’s humor is still online, even if it’s leaning dark.
“I bought a cabin up here years ago,” Harvey says. “Hardly ever used it. But it’ll be warm. And safer than driving through this.”
Mike nods, his fingers loosening slightly around the briefcase.
When they finally pull up to the cabin at the end of the lane, the snow is ankle-deep. Harvey stomps through it as fast as possible, already resigned to the fact that his wingtips aren’t going to recover. He punches in the door code and shoulders it open, Mike close behind him, holding the briefcase over his head to block the ice.
It’s chilly inside - the heat set to fifty, just enough to keep the pipes from freezing. Harvey hasn’t set foot in the place in ages. There’s a faint musty smell in the air, but at least there’s a stack of dry wood near the hearth.
He kicks off his wet, snow-soaked dress shoes and crosses to the fireplace in his socks, stacking the wood with practiced efficiency.
Mike moves more slowly, pacing the room and taking stock of the place.
“How come you don’t spend much time here?” He asks. “It’s nice.”
“It’s fine,” Harvey mutters. “Besides, when would I have the time?”
There’s a box of long matches on the mantel. He strikes one and holds it to the corner of a lower log.
Mike stands behind him, watching as the bark begins to glow orange, crackling at the edges.
“My regards to the Boy Scouts,” Mike says.
Harvey drops the match into the fireplace and turns to find Mike hovering behind the sofa, arms folded.
“Eagle Scout,” Harvey says. “Thank you very much.”
The corner of Mike’s mouth tugs up. “What was your Eagle project?”
“I talked three businesses into donating materials for the new community center and got the town to approve it in under a week.”
Mike’s half-smile cracks into a full-on grin, bringing some of the color back into his cheeks.
***
It’s not long before the warmth from the fire seeps into the air, chasing away the chill. Mike unbuttons his coat and sinks into the couch cushions with a sigh, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. His briefcase rests on his stomach.
“Alright, Rip Van Winkle,” Harvey says. “I didn’t bring you up here to take a nap. We’ve got research to do.”
Mike lifts his head and blinks at him. “Rip Van Winkle?”
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s just… possibly the oldest reference I’ve ever heard. Are you from the Victorian Era? Shall we light our oil lamps?”
“It’s a fairy tale,” Harvey says, settling at the opposite end of the couch and opening his laptop. “I didn’t realize there were time limits on those.”
“American folklore,” Mike says. “1819.”
Harvey smirks. “It’s such an uncool reference that you know everything about it, huh?”
“Maybe you’ve forgotten,” Mike says, “but I literally remember everything.”
“Then remember how to do your job.”
Mike makes an exaggerated ugh sound, and Harvey bites back another smile as the desktop flickers to life.
There are no new emails in his inbox, which has never happened before. He refreshes it anyway. Nothing loads.
Harvey frowns. The Wi-Fi icon in the corner flickers, tries again, then collapses into an exclamation point.
“Internet must be out,” he mutters.
“Pretty sure it’s the electricity,” Mike says, still fiddling with the lamp beside him.
“Shit,” Harvey mutters. He sets the laptop on the coffee table and rifles through drawers until he finds a flashlight that still works. Then he takes the basement stairs two at a time, ignoring the way they creak under his weight.
The fuse box is tucked into a cobwebbed corner. He makes a mental note to hire a cleaning service - or better yet, to sell the place and be done with it.
He flips a few switches. Waits.
“Anything?” he calls up the stairs.
“Nope,” Mike shouts back.
Harvey exhales through his nose and heads back upstairs.
Mike is still on the couch, tapping at his phone, his lower lip caught between his teeth. “I’m trying to see if it’s a known outage,” he says. “Or if there’s an ETA for restoration. But nothing will load. I’ve only got one bar.”
Harvey circles the coffee table once, then stops. “So a hotspot’s out of the question.”
“Looks like it.”
Harvey nods. He opens his laptop anyway. Closes it. Picks it back up and sets it on the arm of the couch, then shifts it to the coffee table, then back to his knees.
The fire pops.
He exhales, sharp. “I can get a signal outside.”
Mike glances toward the door. “In this?”
Harvey is already reaching for his coat.
He tries not to think about the wet-leather squelch as he slips back into his soaked wingtips and pushes out the back door, sinking ankle-deep into the snow.
It’s still coming down hard, the branches ringing the small yard bowed under heavy, clotted drifts. Dusk is starting to fall, but the snow makes it feel brighter somehow.
He fishes his phone out of his pocket and watches a second bar flicker briefly to life before fading again.
A few seconds later, the first bar disappears too.
SOS.
He stomps farther out into the yard. The snow bites at his ankles, sharp enough to register.
SOS doesn’t budge.
He lifts the phone toward the flat gray sky and squints at it like that might make a difference.
Nothing does.
Then something hits him between the shoulder blades.
Harvey turns on instinct, already half-annoyed, half-ready-to-snap - and relaxes when he sees Mike a few yards away, slacks rolled halfway up his shins, snowball already forming in his hands.
“What the hell, Mike?”
Mike grins, unrepentant. “We’re snowed in with no electricity. The rules write themselves.”
Mike tosses another one at him that gently taps his thigh and falls to the ground again.
Harvey snorts and bends to scoop up snow of his own. It packs easily, cold stinging his palms as he presses it together harder than necessary.
He throws it. Hard.
The motion feels good - the release of it, the clean line of force - and for a second, that’s all there is. Movement. Aim. Follow-through. Control.
Mike laughs and fires one back, lighter, off-target.
Harvey doesn’t slow down. He scoops again, packs again, throws again, each one sharper than the last, each one fueled by the same restless energy he’s been bleeding since the road went white and the screens went dark.
Mike flinches as one lands cleanly against his upper arm, exactly where Harvey aimed it.
“I forgot you were a baseball prodigy,” Mike says. There’s a slight wobble to his voice which Harvey decides is from the cold, so he doesn’t have to read it.
A snowball hits Harvey square in the sternum. Not hard. But the cold smarts.
So he winds up and lobs one back toward Mike’s head and shoulders.
The snowball clips him high on the cheekbone and breaks apart on impact.
Mike’s hand flies up to his face, covering his left eye.
There’s a beat of silence.
“Okay,” Mike says, laughing in a forced, shaky way. “That one stung.”
The restless energy vibrating through Harvey’s bones goes cold all at once.
“Hey,” he says, already stepping closer. “Let me see.”
Mike hesitates for half a second. He’s shivering slightly now, his suit wet and ruined, hanging too heavy on his lean frame. Then he lowers his hand.
There’s an angry red mark along his cheekbone, a shallow scratch where something sharp must’ve caught him.
“It’s nothing,” Mike says.
Harvey doesn’t answer. He takes another step closer and lifts his hand, thumb hovering - a reflex he stops himself from following through on.
Mike shifts back.
Harvey lets his hand fall. The cold inside him settles, heavy.
“Come inside,” he says. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Mike shakes his head. “It’s really fine.”
Harvey nods once. “Okay. I believe you. Just come inside.”
He turns toward the door.
After a moment, Mike follows.
***
Harvey adds another log to the fire. It crackles steadily, the sound filling the space. They stand shoulder to shoulder, close but not quite touching.
They don’t speak.
Wet socks and shoes are abandoned by the door. Harvey shrugs out of his damp suit jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair.
He doesn’t touch Mike. He just holds his hands out, expectant.
Mike watches him for a moment, then slips out of his jacket and places it into Harvey’s waiting hands.
Harvey loosens his tie next, the knot stubborn with moisture, and lays it over the coats. Then he holds out a hand, palm up.
Mike sets his tie across it. Their fingers brush, just barely, and the shock of how cold Mike’s are goes straight through Harvey.
He glances at Mike’s face. His eyes are fixed on the fire, the mark along his cheekbone already deepening in color as the warmth reaches it.
“Sit,” Harvey says.
Mike’s gaze flicks to him, puzzled.
Harvey nods once, indicating the coffee table. “Sit.”
Mike blinks, then lowers himself onto it, careful.
Harvey crosses to the kitchen and comes back with a first-aid kit he doesn’t remember buying. He sets it on the table, then drops to one knee in front of Mike like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Don’t move,” he says.
Mike stills.
Harvey opens the kit, peels back the flap, and takes out a packet of antiseptic. He tears it carefully, slower than necessary, and folds a corner of a paper towel. When he brings it up to Mike’s face, he doesn’t look at his eyes - just at the scratch, thin and angry against his skin.
“This might sting,” he says.
Mike huffs a quiet laugh. “Compared to-“
Harvey presses the towel lightly to his cheekbone. Mike cuts himself off with a sharp inhale.
“Sorry,” Harvey says.
He cleans the mark with small, controlled motions, careful not to linger. His knuckles brush Mike’s jaw once. Then again. Each time, he corrects his grip, like he’s calibrating something delicate.
When he reaches for a bandage, he pauses. His thumb hovers, then settles just below Mike’s eye - steadying, not touching the scratch itself.
“Okay?” He asks.
Mike nods.
Harvey presses the bandage into place and smooths it once, precise and brief. He lets his hand fall away immediately.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
Then Harvey shifts his weight back, still on one knee, and exhales slowly.
The room has dimmed while they weren’t looking. The light at the windows has thinned to gray, leaving the fire to do most of the work.
Mike’s fingers lift, tracing the edge of the bandage once before dropping back to his lap. Then he finally looks up at Harvey.
His eyes are pale in the firelight. Almost unfamiliar.
“Thanks,” he says.
Harvey nods once. He doesn’t trust his voice yet.
Instead, he shifts back onto his heels, then settles down beside Mike on the edge of the coffee table.
The fire pops softly.
For a while, they just sit there, shoulders angled the same way, eyes on the flames. Harvey can feel the quiet pressing in again.
“I didn’t mean to get carried away out there,” he says finally. It comes out low, pitched for the space between them.
Mike doesn’t look at him. “I know.”
That’s it. No reassurance. No minimizing.
Harvey exhales. Something loosens in his chest.
“You don’t have to hold it all together,” Mike adds, just as quietly.
Harvey’s jaw tightens. He keeps his gaze on the fire. “Someone has to.”
Mike turns then, just enough that Harvey can feel it. “It doesn’t always have to be you.”
Harvey doesn’t answer. He just lets the words sit there.
After a moment, he shifts - quietly, slowly - until his shoulder brushes Mike’s.
Mike doesn’t move.
***
For a while longer, they stay where they are. The fire settles into a quieter burn, heat radiating in slow pulses. Outside, the wind moves through the trees again, heavy enough to make the windows shudder.
Harvey notices the time first - not because it matters, but because he always does. He checks his phone out of habit. Still nothing. He lets it drop back into his hand without comment.
Mike shifts beside him, rolling his shoulders like he’s just remembered he has a body. “It’s not getting better tonight,” he says. It’s not a question.
“No,” Harvey replies.
That seems to be enough to settle it.
He stands, joints stiff. Mike follows. When Harvey starts to drag the coffee table aside, Mike catches the other end without being asked, lifting in sync. They don’t talk about it.
Harvey pulls the couch open. The mattress is thin and utilitarian, but close enough to the fire that the warmth reaches it. He smooths the sheet, then goes to the hall and comes back with two blankets.
Mike helps spread them out. They move around each other easily, practiced in a way that isn’t new. But quieter.
They strip down to boxers and undershirts, everything else still damp and heavy. Tomorrow can deal with itself.
When they finally lie down, it’s careful at first. Each of them takes his edge of the mattress, space measured and deliberate.
Harvey stares at the ceiling, listening to the fire tick and settle. His body feels heavy in a comforting way. Like an anchor.
After a minute, Mike shifts. Just enough that his arm brushes Harvey’s.
Neither of them moves away.
“You warm enough?” Mike asks, barely more than breath.
Harvey turns his head. They’re closer than he thought. Close enough to see the edge of the bandage in the firelight. Close enough that pretending not to notice feels like a lie.
“Yeah,” he says softly.
Before he can think better of it, he lifts his hand and rests his fingertips along Mike’s jaw.
Mike’s lashes flutter.
Harvey traces the edge of the bandage with his thumb, slow and deliberate now.
He leans in, unhurried, giving Mike time. Space.
Mike doesn’t take it.
The kiss is quiet. Soft. Less a question than an answer finally spoken aloud. Mike’s lips are warm, faintly chapped, yielding easily under Harvey’s.
When Harvey pulls back, Mike’s forehead stays pressed to his. His hand closes around Harvey’s wrist, steady and grounding. Harvey realizes he’s still stroking Mike’s cheekbone.
He doesn’t stop.
Outside, the storm keeps doing what it’s been doing all night.
Inside, they let go - and everything settles.