It'd only been a matter of time, and by the time Jenny had left – all doors slamming and ponytail swinging furiously, Mike was completely at a loss, and he'd remain that way for the rest of the night. He'd been distant, apparently. Distracted. Work orientated, more so than usual. It had been Rachel.

Of course it had been Rachel. Because there was no way it could have been anyone else, not in Jenny's eyes. But Mike knew the answers that had been anywhere but on the tip of his tongue as his enraged, now probably ex-girlfriend had glared at him, barraged him with questions. He'd stood there like a scarecrow, dumbstruck and a soft target for confrontation, the he'd been alone. And that was how he'd wake up for the next week before eventually throwing an entirely new spanner into the works.

It'd started out as one or two drinks, but as the hours sauntered past into an inebriated haze, the hesitation that had kept Mikes phone buried safe in his pocket was now completely gone. After his blood had turned into alcohol, he hit the pavement haphazardly as someone answered on the other end of the line. He couldn't remember what he'd said, not really. Nor could he tell you how he'd managed to pay the cabbie or find his way to this apartment door. It had only been open a few seconds before hands had found shirt fronts and annoyed demands had been replaced with unexpected kisses – all tasting of sharp booze and lacking in professional inhibition – and they lasted until Mike found himself on his back, cushions softening his landing.

He wouldn't wake up for a good ten hours, his rest a heavy one, laced heavily with foggy dreams of pounding pulses and skin against flesh and uncertain breaths all spelling out something alcohol would be blamed for tomorrow. But when Harvey didn't wake him up the next morning and Mike woke up to an empty apartment, his only indication of why he was here and why it was nearly midday was the ache that crackled laps around his skull.

Harvey would give him a stern talking to, although he couldn't quite look at Mike properly for reasons Mike would spend the rest of his day struggling to work out. Banishing himself to the file room as much as he could for the next few days, gradually things went back to normal. But as much as he tried to ignore it, the disjointed memory of how he'd ended up on Harvey's couch refused to leave him. Another week passed, he and Jenny made up. He and Jenny had another fight.

This time he didn't need alcohol to wait for another voice at the end of the line, or to pay a cabbie or to knock four times. And this time, he wasn't pushed away, and instead it was the back of the door he hit as fists pulled one closer to the other, nor was it the sofa he woke up on the next morning.