A/N: Just a little ficlet I wrote based off of the talented Nicole's (thedarvey) manip she posted on twitter! Thank you Nicole!

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okay

(an intent canon divergent ficlet)

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Feeling the door shut behind him, he pauses, head turned down, preferring to stare at his shoes than at the mess he's just made.

Fuck.

He had come over that night, at her request, with the simple intention of comforting her after everything that happened, knowing full well he hadn't had time to when they were in the midst of chaos.

He decidedly did not intend to confess something that he'd worked every day since the DA's office to keep hidden.

Fuck.

Left alone with his thoughts, subconsciously, he begins to pace. His mind running a mile a minute, he's metaphorically tracking holes into the carpet outside her door, murmuring to himself over and over again "What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?"

Then, all at once, after what feels like hours but is actually mere minutes, the pacing ceases and he finds himself once again staring down the barrel of a gun, masquerading as the numbers 206.

He should go. He knows he should. Because, there's her rule and there's history and there's the firm and there's everything and anything in between them.

But, there's also love and trust and loyalty and respect and want. There's "I can't be me without you" and there's "I need you" and there's "But with you it's different".

He should go.

He really should go, turn and leave, make his way to his apartment, pour himself a scotch and drown himself in the insanity of confessing your feelings to the only person that matters in this world that matters actually means.

He should go.

But then, he's squaring his shoulders and his hand is reaching for the know and he knows he should go but what if, what if just this one time, he didn't. What if he followed through?

Fuck it.

He's gonna swing for the fences this time, consequences be damned.

Pushing the door open, he's rushing back inside, coat and jacket being dropped to the floor in haste and he's pounding down her small hallway right back to the scene of the crime. He can tell he's startled her because she's up off the couch like something shocked her and her eyes are wide and her eyebrows are at her hairline and she looks like she did mere moments ago when he left the same way he came in.

"Harvey, what?"

But, he doesn't have an answer for her, because honestly, he doesn't even know what he's doing back he just knows he wants her and he told her because that's how he feels and he wanted her to know and he's going to follow through this time even if the floor opens up and swallows him whole.

Stomping further toward her, he's right in front of her staring down her questioning glance and then without a fleeting thought, he's grabbing the back of her neck with one hand and grabbing her waist with his other and pulling her toward his body, into his orbit and then he's kissing her.

Fuck.

His lips are pressed so tightly to hers that he swallows her gasp of surprise and it takes her a minute but then she's whimpering just a little and sinking fully into it like it's the way they've always been.

Lips meet lips over and over again and tongues trace and seek entrance and heads turn left and right attempting to find an angle worthy of the passion they have and he's still holding onto the back of her head, fingers wrapped in her hair and it takes the intense burning of a lack of oxygen before they pull back from each other.

As his hands slide from her hair to cup her jaw, her eyes are still closed and she's panting from the intensity of the moment and he's staring straight into her eyes waiting patiently for them to open and meet his gaze.

Taking a few more breaths in, she finally opens her eyes and he can see them swimming with questions. His hand traces her jaw because touching her is the only thing that can keep him sane in this moment. She always keeps him grounded.

He can feel her getting antsy for answers and even though he's just told her and he's just shown her, he really needs to explain.

"I meant it," he says, voice made of gravel.

"Harvey…" she whispers in return.

"I meant it then, I mean it now and I'll still mean it tomorrow. No matter what else happens," he utters as both his hands grasp either cheek, tilting her face up to his.

"Okay," she lets out softly.

"Okay?"

"Okay, Harvey," she says with a laugh.

And then, his brain doesn't even have time to process what okay even means before her arms are wrapping around his neck and her lips are meeting his again and again and yeah, okay.

Okay is good.

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Thank you guys for reading! Comments / reviews / criticism are always welcome!

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