Every day between Louis' get-together and their dinner is spent obsessing over every single aspect of it.

Donna spends hours on end thinking of the best dress - should she wear whatever she wore to work, to seem unpretentious? Should she go home and change to give this the importance it has? If so, what should she change into? Something sexy, something she knows he likes, something simple and sober, something casual?

Harvey offered to make the reservation, since, improbably, he's the least busy out of the two of them now. He picked a contemporary Italian place they've been to once before, celebrating signing a huge new client. There seemed to be an implicit agreement not to pick Del Posto or Carbone, because those places offer too much history and neither of them seems ready to open up that Pandora box yet. The place is nice, a good blend of fancy and casual, intimate but not romantic.

She's had to work hard not to treat it like a date. She was the one who suggested it, but she's entirely unsure of how the night will go. They have a lot of ground to cover, a lot of hurt to get past. This is not a date, it will not progress into a date - she doesn't even know if he's single, really. She wants to keep her expectations low and manageable; her sole focus here is getting their friendship back on track.

They don't talk much beyond setting the time and place and making sure it's still on. Every time he texts she curses the butterflies in her stomach for fluttering their wings madly; it's like her brain is sending a message that her body just doesn't want to understand. She dreams of him every single night. She catches herself spacing out during the day picturing their dinner and how it might go. She's restless and impatient, constantly rattling her pen against her desk or bobbing her foot.

She tries to work through every last thing she's felt these past five years, tries to figure out which parts of that she should raise, which questions she should ask, what she needs him to know. Their first encounter made it clear that rehearsing speeches is pointless, but she still wants to have things organized in her head because this dinner feels like it could make or break everything. If it goes well, they could be on a solid path towards becoming close friends again. If it doesn't, it might forever consolidate their current dynamic of being acquaintances with friends in common, and that's the last thing she wants.

When Thursday comes she's practically a ball of anxiety. She leaves work early, mostly because after a certain time she stops being able to focus on anything at all. She draws a bath and soaks in it, willing the warm water to melt her worries. By the time she needs to head out she's starving, her stomach having spent the day too sensitive for much more than a salad for lunch. He didn't offer to drive her, and she didn't ask, both probably deciding it would be better to just meet there and avoid any confusion.

When she arrives at the restaurant she's jittery, her hands trembling as the receptionist directs her to their table. Harvey is already there, clean shaven, hair naturally styled, in jeans and a navy-blue shirt that makes him look young and her heart skips a beat and her breath catches in her throat. It's not a date and yet her body doesn't get the memo because she feels exactly like she felt on the first date she ever had.

She forces the thought away, aided by how he doesn't help her with her chair, letting the receptionist do it instead. She takes some time adjusting in her seat, hanging her purse on the arm of her chair, getting her hair out of her face. She can feel his eyes on her the whole time but she resists looking back until she's ready to face him.

"Hi," she says shyly, hands clasped on her lap.

"Hi," he says, sounding just as shy, a tiny smile on his lips.

She gets a sudden mix of cold feet and nostalgia. It makes her consider apologizing and asking him to just forget everything that happened so that they can hurry back to what they used to be. But she knows that's not helpful - their tactic of sweeping things under the rug has never worked well for either of them, that much is clear; she knows they've both been hurt and they've both faced struggles during this time and ignoring all of it will only make their balance feeble. She doesn't want that. She wants to rebuild the solid structure they had, something that will last them a lifetime.

"Good job remembering this place," she offers as an icebreaker, taking a quick look around the room.

Harvey leans a back a little, seemingly trying to relax. "Yeah, I drove by here the other day and was surprised to see it was still open."

"We ordered a good burrata here that time, I don't know if you remember." She knows mentioning their past can be delicate, but it practically slips out before she can help it, her subconscious clearly desperate to bring them back to familiar territory.

"I do, it was good. We can order it again if you want?" he replies, and there's something in his voice that makes her think he's trying the same thing. Maybe they need that, some semblance of normality that will calm their nerves. They have history, it's inescapable, and maybe acknowledging that and leaning onto it doesn't necessarily mean ignoring their issues.

"Yeah, I'd like that," she smiles a little and nods, giving her blessing to more than just their starter.

When the waiter comes for them, she can tell he's refraining from ordering for her, even though they both know he'd easily be able to do it. He's probably equally as wary of making this into a date, or forcing their old intimacy and liberties with each other. She hates this awkwardness and how one minute it feels like no time has passed at all and another it feels like they're practically strangers. But she supposes that's what they're here to try to address.

They select their drinks and dishes and the waiter leaves them to themselves. There's a minute of uncomfortable silence before Harvey asks her about work. She goes into greater detail than she used to in their text messages, telling him about her new assistant, Alex's latest court win, the last time she talked to Mike and Rachel. It feels good to be able to just share things about her life with him, to let him in again and get him up to speed. There were times when they'd know about every minute of each other's days, and even though that changed long before he left, after his move they were practically cut off from each other. It's good to see that reclaiming their connection is easier than it seemed.

She asks him things too, about Chicago and his job and his move back. She tries not to pressure him in any way, but he seems okay talking about it, telling her about some of his plans and his ideas. Hearing him speak, she gets a sense that he's fully made peace with everything that happened, but she still needs to know more. He may have made peace with it, but she hasn't - especially not with the part where she barely knows what he went through.

She wonders if it's cruel to make him rehash it, but he did agree to be here and he knew what this dinner was for, and before she can question her motives too much their appetizer arrives along with their beverages. She notices the burrata is just as good - and he agrees when she makes that observation out loud - and there's some symbolism there, a connection to their past selves and past moments. It's stupid to evaluate real life based on cheese, but she can't help but feel it, and maybe Harvey feels it too because he keeps commenting on the night they came here, even though they were technically supposed to avoid sentimentality.

When they're done he looks like he's going to say something but anxiety builds inside of her and she thinks she just needs to get the words out before she loses her nerves or something else happens to prevent them from talking. So she just trusts her gut and goes with it.

"Harvey," she gets out before he can say whatever he was going to say. He seems a little taken aback, probably noticing her tone, and shuts his mouth, waiting for her. It's time.

"I'm sorry," she finally says. "I'm really, really sorry."

He swallows, shakes his head a little, maybe his fight or flight instincts kicking in. "Donna-"

"No, I just-," she closes her eyes, interrupting him again. "I just need to say this."

He acquiesces, exhaling, even though he looks cautious.

She takes a deep breath and starts again, eyes focused on the table. "I promised you I'd wait for you to handle things. I told you I had faith in you. But in the end I still broke your trust in me. I put myself above you, and your career, and Alex and the firm. And I don't even understand why I did it, even back then. I thought it was a way to prove something to myself. I spent thirteen years taking you into consideration in every choice I made and I guess I just wanted to know that I could disregard you for once. But I picked the wrong time to do it, and I endangered a lot of things. I shouldn't have done that. I should have hung on to my faith in you and let you handle it, and I'm sorry I didn't."

There's silence after that. Her ears ring as if she just left a concert, and her chest feels lighter, almost hollow, as if the weight tying her to the ground has been released and she could just float away. It's a weird feeling, it's not even like she's let everything out, not yet, but maybe she didn't realize how much she needed to say those words out loud and have him really listen.

Harvey's gaze is lost somewhere between them and she waits for him to assimilate everything she said. She needs him to take her words to heart, not bat them away.

"Donna...," he starts, voice low, like he's deciding what to say. He works his jaw and shakes his head a little, like he's disappointed in them and the mess they made.

"I wish you had waited," he shrugs dejectedly and finally looks at her, "And that you hadn't told him." She wishes the same, more than he will ever know. "But that was my case, my responsibility. I should have put an end to it when Simon told me his plan. Or I should have dropped Thomas. But I shouldn't have put you in the position of having to keep something like that from the man you were seeing. The way this ended... That was not your fault."

She wasn't looking for absolution. In fact, if anything, she was looking for punishment, for him to never speak to her again or to tell her it was all her fault. Because he had his life turned upside down, and she may have been hurt in the process but she got to keep her pretty little job and her pretty little apartment and everything else she had apart from him, and none of that seemed fair. But his absolution is like a balm to her soul.

"So you don't hate me?" she asks shyly, carefully, like a child who broke their parents' vase.

He scoffs a little, but there's fondness in it. "I could never hate you, Donna. Especially not for that."

Relief washes over her like a waterfall. She'll never stop thinking that what she did was wrong, but he doesn't hate her, he doesn't blame her, she didn't ruin his life and any chance they had at a relationship along with it.

She sighs her respite, her features relaxing, and she's halfway through offering him a little smile when something occurs to her.

"But," she stops, her face falling again, a tiny crease forming between her brows, "But then why didn't you talk to me this whole time?"

.

.

That's the million-dollar question.

Because he was afraid. Because he was angry. Because he was a coward. He can't even count the amount of times he's considered calling her, or even visiting her. Each and every time his brain dissuaded him, convincing him she was better off without him, or that seeing her would remind him of everything he lost and took so long to find again. It would wreck him, it would make him not want to go back to his new life, it would make him hate himself, or worse, her.

In the end, there's a million reasons and none for why he didn't include her in this new chapter of his life. The best he can offer is what he's always offered and she's always gracefully accepted: mangled admissions and obscure thoughts that she'll detangle and decode with her years of experience to make it into some semblance of the whole truth of his feelings, especially where she's concerned.

"At first because it was all too much," he confesses. "I woke up that next day and could feel myself slipping and I just needed to get away from everything. I left for Marcus' that same morning, didn't even pack a bag."

He remembers that feeling as if it were yesterday. The cold sweat, his heaving chest, the burn in his lungs, his unsteady hands. He remembers the green and white signs along the highway, the speedometer of his car, the roar of the engine. The way his body suddenly knew what to do, shifting gears and pedals, turning this way, taking that exit. He felt fully in control, the movements seamless and practiced, and it was such a step up from his previous state that he never stopped to question his decision.

"And then, when I was finally ready to face what I'd left behind...," he swallows the sour taste in his mouth, then shrugs, "I figured there wasn't any point. I couldn't excuse my behavior, and I just assumed you'd moved on with your life. I knew Louis would keep you updated on whatever he thought was important. And you had the firm and Thomas..."

His life had been in shambles and the last thing he'd wanted was to drag Donna down with him. He hopes she'll understand, but her frown has only deepened and taken on a tint of outrage.

"Harvey, Thomas and I broke up on the morning of the hearing," she says, stricken, and it's like a slap to the face.

"What?"

"He came to my place, we talked, it... didn't go great," she shakes her head a little, looking a little perturbed. "We made it official the next day."

His stomach drops, dread crawling up his spine. Thomas wasn't the only reason why he didn't reach out, but he was a big reason, at least at first, and to hear that he was out of the picture before Harvey even left...

"And as for the firm," she drags him away from his thoughts, "Yeah, it was still there, and there was a lot of damage control to do, but your name was still on the wall, Harvey. And every single day I walked past it I thought of you." She looks incredulous, almost like she can't even comprehend what he said.

He's always known Donna would have a hard time handling his move, especially considering he never actually told her. It's not like he thought she wouldn't care, or that she'd be relieved, or that she wouldn't notice his absence. He may wish those feelings had a different cause than friendship or habit, but he's never doubted they'd be there.

He just always assumed it would be easier for her than it has always been for him.

She's left him before, more than once, and seemed okay with it. She's threatened to walk away, or quit, or not follow him, and he understood her reasons but doing the same thing to her never even crossed his mind. He has never been able to entertain the notion of willingly separating himself from Donna - he had panic attacks the first time he was forced to - and the fact that she was able to even talk about it or contemplate that hypothesis, to him, was proof that if push ever came to shove she'd be okay.

"What, did you think I just wouldn't care?" she presses, now looking offended.

No.

"Of course I didn't," he's trying to keep his composure but he can feel it slipping, "But I thought that between your boyfriend and your friends and your job-"

"Yeah, my boyfriend who broke up with me, and my friends who weren't you, and my job that only made your absence more obvious," she counters, and she sounds disappointed, and her eyes are glistening and he's never been able to handle Donna crying.

"Fifteen years of friendship, Harvey. Fifteen years. And you thought you could just leave, just like that," Donna snaps her fingers, "And it would be easy for me to get over it?"

Easy? She wants to talk about easy? She may have been upset but he was still the one who was forced to up and leave.

"Hey, you have no idea what I've been through these past five years, what I had to deal with," he retorts, frustration and resentment coiling inside of him. He'd try to control it but Donna is clearly not pulling any punches and he's not just going to lay down and take it when he only did everything he did for his own survival.

"Exactly, Harvey," she throws her hands up, "I have no idea, and that's exactly the problem. Didn't you think I wanted to be there for you through all this?"

"I don't know, Donna, is not like my phone was blowing up with calls from you either," he jabs, and he knows it's a little petty because she was the one to both text and call first, but he's never seen Donna back down from something unless she didn't care about it.

"Yeah, because I thought you hated me. I thought I'd ruined your life and I had no clue how to talk to you after that," she insists, voice unstable, eyes even shinier, and his heart picks up its rate.

Before he can think of a retort the waiter arrives with their dishes. Donna sniffs, looks down before flashing him a pleasant smile and a thanks. To be honest, he's lost all appetite, too hung up on lost time, lost opportunities, the whole slew of feelings he went through when he saw Thomas step out of that elevator and into Donna's orbit that night, almost six years ago. But there's also resentment, and defensiveness, and self-righteousness. He's never claimed to be the most emotionally aware person, but he's had to deal with a new job, new city, new apartment, an entirely new life and do it all without her while being head-over-heels, madly in love with her.

Donna shifts the food on her plate for a moment, clearly as put off as him, before he hears, faintly. "I just missed you, Harvey. And I wanted to have those years with you."

All fight leaves him and a sense of deep sadness replaces it. "I wanted that too, Donna."

She shrugs weakly. "Then why did you shut me out?"

He swallows, staring at his fork as it twirls around itself, carrying pasta with it, before setting the object down. "Because I thought it would be too much," he finally confesses and looks at her doe eyes. "I thought you'd remind me of everything I lost. And I didn't know what to do with that when I was supposed to be building a new life."

Her face softens, saddens. He didn't necessarily mean to tell her that, because she doesn't deserve the burden of everything that happened to him, especially after he told her it wasn't her fault. But it's the only way to make her understand.

He wishes he were more articulate, less inadequate and inept. He wishes he could tell her every single thing he's feeling or thinking, and that he could be clear about what he wants with her. But he's not, and she knows that, because she knows him, and what he gave her seems to be enough to at least placate her for now.

They eat mostly in silence - though, despite it not being exactly comfortable, it's a companionable silence, a quietness born out of shared pain and a kindred need for introspection so they can sort themselves out. The food, at least, is good, and his peace offering comes in the form of a scoop of pasta and his lemon-pistachio sauce delivered to the rim of her plate. She accepts with an amused, if slightly battle-worn, corner smile, and offers him a portion of her three-cheese risotto back.

Once they're done Donna leans back on her chair and watches him, probably deciding what to do next. He takes a moment to take her in - her navy tunic dress, made of a shiny silk that makes it look like liquid sapphires against her pale skin, its V-neck demurely showing the valley of her cleavage; her hair, as silky as the fabric, straightened and falling over one shoulder; her skin, looking soft and inviting to the touch.

She is the one thing he wished he'd had over the past five years, and it pains him to consider that maybe he could have had her, even if not in the capacity he wanted. He starts wondering about what he missed, what moments she wished she could talk to him, what days she would have made easier for him. He was so eager to escape his treacherous mind and survive all the changes that he just rationalized everything he could, convinced himself everyone in New York was okay and it wouldn't be a problem if he just left and never looked back. And that might have been okay with everyone else - maybe they even expected it of him to some degree - but not Donna.

He wonders if he wasted those five years. If he could have told her how he felt before, seeing as Thomas was no longer in the picture. If, despite the distance, they could have found a way to make it work. If she would have felt the same.

He's never believed in fairy tales and easy fixes but their conversation and her revelation have him considering if maybe the only thing standing in their way was him. It's not really a plausible thought, mostly because he wouldn't have wanted to start something with her, after essentially a decade of having those feelings in some capacity, while they were living in different states without any perspective of changing that. Still, he spent way too long pushing the blame to everyone else for everything that went wrong in his life, and the downside of having learned how to stop doing that is that he sometimes puts the blame all on himself, even when it shouldn't be.

He doesn't know who's to blame here. He felt unwanted and cast aside, he felt replaceable and forgotten. But he kept her at arm's length for reasons he's struggling to justify now, and he apparently hurt her and she didn't deserve that. He takes a sip of his water, noticing how his hand trembles a little on its way to the glass, and takes a breath, focusing on the fact that she's here, he survived those years as well as he could, they have a new shot at retrieving what they had.

"I'm sorry I cut you off," he says, quiet and inadequate but it's what he has to offer.

To his surprise, Donna apologizes back. "I'm sorry for not trying harder. And for not being there for you." She pauses, then goes on, "I just want to go back to what we had."

He's not sure he wants that. He doesn't know what's on the table for them anymore. Doesn't know if she's seeing someone, if she's thought of him like that at all during these years, if there is anything he can say that will make her think of him like that.

But he hears hope in her words. And he realizes that, even if he wants something else now, something different, he'd rather have what they had than what they have right now. He just wants her, in any way she'll have him, and neither of them are prepared to explore which ways those are right now. They need time to get reacquainted, space to warm up to each other again and lick the wounds they have inflicted on themselves and each other.

So he nods once. "We can do that." Because they can, this much he trusts.

Her lips curl at the corners and her eyes twinkle. "Good," Donna whispers.

He lets himself enjoy the surge of energy that shoots through his body before she shifts and leans forward. "By the way, do not think you're getting out of splitting this caramel drizzle tiramisù I saw on the menu with me," she points an accusing finger at him and narrows her eyes a bit and affection blooms in his chest. She's making the first move, taking the first step towards the destination they just agreed on, and he follows her lead.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he raises his hands in surrender. They order the dessert and go back to simpler topics as they make their way through the dish.