By Monday she's made some good progress.

She's established that Harvey and her not getting together sooner was a mix of circumstances, his limitations and her fears.

There may have been times when she'd opened a door that he refused to walk through, but there had just as surely been times when the opposite was true and she was the one responsible for maintaining their line firmly in place. There is no point in rethinking everything that's happened between them, but it's important to her that she recognize she had a role in it too, not just because it wouldn't be fair to blame Harvey exclusively but also because she's not some damsel in distress, waiting for the prince to get his act together. She's a strong woman, she doesn't believe it was only up to Harvey to make things happen. It stings to accept that she had a hand in their shared misery, but it makes her feel better knowing that even her mistakes were her own, she wasn't some helpless like girl. She wouldn't want to look back and realize all she did for almost twenty years was wait.

She's established that she's not entirely sure she's in love with him right now - because there are too many feelings camouflaged as too many different things, and she's had too little time and space to examine them all since he came back -, but that she could easily fall in love with him again if she let herself.

It's not a hard conclusion to reach. The way her body tingles when he smiles, the way she catches herself thinking about him at odd hours of the day and night, the way his touch is electricity and his eyes are magnets, it all makes it obvious. Her body and mind are too used to him and her heart is too used to loving him - it actually took her more effort to stop loving him than it took her to start. She sometimes felt like a schoolgirl with a crush, and even though she hasn't made up her mind yet, there's a part of her that's thrilled at the prospect of finally being able to give an outlet to those feelings. The idea of kissing him, feeling his arms around her, his body on hers, all of it is too attractive to let her pretend she'd be any hard to get.

She's established that, while they can't fully be sure that he's suddenly great at relationships, especially since apparently he didn't have any in Chicago, it is undeniable that Harvey has changed for the better.

He's more mature, more open, more willing to volunteer personal information and stories, to speak his mind, to listen. It's true that romantic relationships seem to be a special field in which most of our traits don't necessarily apply - it's easy to forget all about manners and compassion and understanding when you're nursing a broken heart. But in every other aspect he's improved, and it makes her feel confident in assuming that that would at least make him more equipped to handle the hard times that inevitably came. Besides, from what he's told her, his relationship with his mother has vastly improved, and that was the main source of his previous troubles. Lily seems like a wise woman, in touch with her emotions despite her mistakes from the past, and if Harvey really is having as much contact with her as he's told Donna, he's surely benefiting from it.

The rational aspects are all there. She's run the odds time and time again over the weekend and she reaches the same conclusion every time: on paper, they have what it takes to make it work.

The problem - and that's a problem she's sadly encountered way too much to dismiss it as bad luck - is life rarely works out the way it does on paper. There is no metric or formula that can predict whether or not they indeed will make it work. No metric or formula can account for the late nights at work, the inevitable fights, the instinctual need to fall back on their tried and true defense mechanisms. She's sure that if they did try they would not lack love nor will to spend every last day of their lives together, making up for lost time. But human beings are creatures of habit and Harvey and her are especially human in that regard. What if what they nurture isn't strong enough to overcome their nature?

These are doubts she can't fully shake, mostly because there is simply no answer to them. And when they're standing at the precipice and it's her having to be the one telling them to jump, she just can't let go of the fear. It grips her in her bones and makes her question if it's really worth it. If she can really risk throwing away everything they've built, both before and, again, now, for something unpredictable. If she can really risk never finding the happiness she knows only he holds for the certainty and permanent insufficiency of what they have now.

Those questions keep her up late on Sunday night and force her to accept she won't be making a decision right now, so she lets it go, favoring sleep.

When she sees him at the office - from afar, almost opposite ends of the hallway - her heart skips a beat. He shoots her a shy smile, nodding once before making his way back to his office, probably in an effort to give her the space she asked for. She instantly misses him so much she feels dizzy, like she hasn't seen him in five years instead of just two days, and that reaffirms another conclusion she reached during her soul-searching: now that she got him back, she can no longer live without him. And, even if she could, she wouldn't want to.

It's been proven to her, time and time again, that there is nothing she can willingly do to disconnect herself from him. If she is ever to definitively fall out of love with him, to stop needing him like she needs air, it's something that will have to happen organically, on its own. Whatever she's tried so far hasn't worked at all, and it's starting to feel futile to try again.

The first decision she makes, then, is to make sure she never pushes him away again. She never wants him to go back to thinking she could ever just "move on with her life" without him.

Whether keeping him close means playing it safe with their friendship and going with what is certain, or giving them a shot and having more of him than she's ever had before, is still unclear, and this is an important decision she doesn't want to rush.

So she manufactures little encounters for them, microdoses of Harvey while she gets her thoughts in order. He seems happy to comply with her rhythm, never avoiding contact but not initiating it either. They meet at the executive kitchen, ride down the elevator together, cross paths on their way to and from Louis' office.

It's nice at first - she gets the thrill of his proximity without being overwhelmed by the need to make a decision. Monday, Tuesday and even Wednesday go fine. But she starts noticing that each encounter leaves her wanting more. She doesn't want microdoses anymore, she wants hours, she wants them close, she wants conversation and not just small talk.

On Thursday she's impatient, wondering what else she can fabricate as pretext for them to meet, and it starts getting ridiculous because they're friends, they should be able to spend as much time together as they want, but it feels unfair to give him a wider opening without knowing what she wants. But what she has now is not enough, and when she starts wondering what would be enough is when it hits her.

Nothing. Nothing could ever be enough.

Because, when she stops to really think about it, she's had complete withdrawal, she's had microdoses, she's had daily encounters and full days on end spent together. She's had everything the platonic route could give her and the truth is, she's never not wanted more. Even when she didn't actively want it, she would have gladly taken it if he'd offered.

Nothing short of everything has ever felt like enough and there has never been a better time to try for that everything. They're just going to have to find a way to make it last forever; they have to, because she doesn't know what she'll do with herself if they don't, but she can no longer pretend that she could spend the rest of her life having less of him than what she wants. It's been too long of that.

That thought and the electric current it creates in her body make Friday rush by until it's eight p.m. and she's done with work and free to tell him her decision. It's not so much a decision as it is a hunch, and she could be entirely wrong, which is terrifying, but by now she knows she wouldn't be satisfied with herself if she didn't give it a go. All she can do is listen to her heart, trust her gut and go.

And she does just that.

She lets her heart and her gut carry her to Harvey's, lets them knock her knuckles on his door, lets them root her to the spot when he opens it instead of running.

She must look like a deer caught in headlights to him, all wide eyes and nervous posture. She tries not to think of the last time she came to his door after a big revelation, desperately hopes this time will go better.

"Hey," he says, sounding almost breathless, visibly surprised by her impromptu visit.

"Hey," she replies, trying to keep her breathing in check.

"I take it you thought about our conversation," he says tentatively.

"I did," she tells him. And then doesn't say anything else, her mouth seemingly frozen.

He looks confused, worried. He nods slightly to the side. "Do you want to come in?"

"I'm scared, Harvey," she confesses in lieu of an answer. Her voice sounds unstable and all she can do is hope she won't burst into tears before she's gotten all the words out.

He freezes and she goes on. "I'm scared that there is no clear right answer. I'm scared of what this will do to us if we can't make it work," she says, voice getting lower until it's barely more than a whisper.

His face falls a little and she can see he's trying to keep it together. Her chin starts wobbling and she presses her lips together in an effort to contain her emotions. It's clear she's giving him the wrong signal when he lowers his head, seemingly to recompose himself, to take the loss on the chin, and she forgets all about containing her emotions because she doesn't want him to hurt for nothing.

"But I want us to make it work," she whispers, a tiny shrug of her shoulder accompanying her words, and he looks back up at her. "I want us," she repeats, eyes welling up at the truth of what she just said. She does want them, more than anything she's ever wanted.

"You do?" he asks, almost unsure of what he's heard.

"I do," she swallows and nods, trying to gauge his reaction. He just stands there, staring at her, his chest heaving slightly, for what feels like an eternity. And then he opens the door wider and takes a step back, giving her space to consummate her decision or hunch or fate. She takes a breath and closes their distance, crossing his threshold and landing straight in his arms.

.

.

The way she walks purposefully up to him and takes his lips in hers is the best thing that's ever happened to him, though he suspects that spot will be claimed by many other moments tonight.

The kiss itself is tame, but he senses desperation in the way her fingers cling to his jaw and she can't seem to catch her breath. As to him, he's pretty sure his heart is about to beat right out of his chest. He hasn't kissed her in almost seven years, and he didn't get to enjoy it last time because he was too stunned. He's just as stunned now but this time he can reciprocate, and kiss her back, and allow himself to feel everything that was threatening to explode in his chest last time and he suffocated.

She pulls away, panting, as if they'd just devoured each other instead of simply pressing their lips together, but he can totally relate to her reaction. She keeps her eyes closed, eyebrows slightly creased, their foreheads touching, like she's trying to commit this to memory. He enjoys the opportunity to do the same: he takes in her eyelashes, less than an inch away from his, the freckles shining through her make up, their breaths mingling, their noses brushing. He burns this very moment into his memory, because this right here is where the rest of his life starts.

He reaches for her hair, feeling the silky tresses glide between his fingers before cupping her jaw to ground them both. Donna opens her eyes, seemingly more recomposed, and looks deep into his for one piercing second before kissing him again, slow, chaste smooches they keep coming back for. It feels like this is more to reassure each other that this is really happening than to reach a certain destination, but it builds tension regardless, hands gripping each other more firmly, keeping each other close.

He dares to tug on her bottom lip gently before pulling back, taking in her disheveled appearance, her messy hair, her slightly-reddened lips. They've had their preamble but he wants more of her, so he shoves the door closed behind her and pushes her gently up against it, trapping her body beneath his and kissing her again, this time open from the start, their tongues finally tasting each other. They sigh in tandem and he hears a dull thud - presumably her purse being dropped to the floor - before her arms hook around his neck, keeping him close. He wraps his own around her waist, squeezing her a little, wanting to feel her heat and her small frame.

Their kiss betrays their urgency: messy, wet, uncoordinated but completely mind-blowing, somehow fitting perfectly together, their mouths the perfect size for each other. He could kiss her forever, let her lips consume him until his entire body is on fire, he'd gladly burn to ashes at her feet, but his lungs can't take it anymore and he pulls away, enjoying the opportunity to catch his breath and move to her jaw, chin, neck. Her hand cradles his head, keeping him glued to her. They're hugging, more than actually kissing, but the position allows him to feel her heart, the way it's beating strong and wild in her chest, just in time with his. He could never have this same synchronicity with anyone else in the world.

He reclaims her lips when he's ready, kissing her with all he's got, and when her fingers curl around strands of his hair and he hears a whimper escape her he decides it's time. He pulls her with him, walking them backwards to his bedroom, hugging her close and enjoying her body against his. They reach his bed and she steps out of her shoes and he barely has any time to marvel at how adorably short she is barefoot because she's already lying down, dress and all, waiting for him.

They'll have their time for undressing and teasing but for now he wants her bare as soon as possible, so he hurries out of his clothes and moves on to her dress, pulling the side zipper and dragging the fabric off of her almost in a rush. She snickers at his hurry but when he looks up at her to see if she's currently thinking he's an idiot he finds her eyes glistening. She sniffles and it's too much for him, his own eyes getting misty, so he focuses on removing her dress the rest of the way and stopping for a second to admire her beautiful, beautiful body.

"God, look at you," he breathes, trying to memorize her feet and her shins and thighs, her black lace underwear, her full breasts, the freckles on her shoulders. She's the most beautiful woman in the world and he's known that for a while now but the added proof is more than welcome.

Donna chuckles, "Shut up and come here." He obeys, laying kisses all over her skin as his hands roam her body on their way up to her face, which he frames, tucking her hair behind her ear, before meeting her lips again.

They start slow and build up again, and his entire body gets goosebumps when her hand finds his hip and her fingers dig in a little before she slides her palm lightly up his side, teasing in the best way. He wants to see and feel more of her, so he sneaks his hand beneath her back and unhooks her bra, peeling it off her. She bites her lip and watches him kiss a trail from her throat to her nipple and suck it into his mouth. She tastes sweet and smells amazing and he wants to lose himself in her. His hand finds her other breast and he kneads it slowly, gently, as he works her nipple with his tongue.

Her nails scrape his scalp and her body starts tensing up at the same time as her breathing quickens and it's like music to his ears. He knows what makes a woman tick, has gotten acquainted with countless different bodies and he considers himself skilled in that department, but with Donna he's going purely by instinct, unwilling to build from previous experience because no other experience compares to this one. He's eager to learn what she likes and how he can make her feel good, but he thinks they'll have time to learn and explore. He doesn't want instructions right now, he just wants the sensations.

He switches sides and she hitches a leg around his hips, pushing up into him, and she's scorching hot. He moves to suck on her pulse point as his hand travels down between their bodies, finding her center. He can feel her panties wet and his dick twitches in his boxer briefs, eager for her. He runs his middle finger up and down her slit over the lace and Donna's breath catches in her throat, her mouth falling open.

He watches her face as his fingers work her, teasing a bit longer before diving beneath the fabric and meeting her folds. She's slick and warm and his mouth waters just thinking of tasting her, but he can't bring himself to get away from her, not when her eyes are screwed shut and her face is contorting in pleasure.

This is Donna, in his bed, biting her lip helplessly and arching her back as he fingers her. He needs to keep reminding himself this is real and that she's really here, because he's dreamed of this exact scenario many times and it always ended with him waking up alone. But not this time; this time she's solid beneath him, her mewls and her nails digging into his forearm are real.

He moves to her clit, circling it softly, and she moans, her head falling back onto the pillow. She's so beautiful like this, almost agonizing with bliss, and he decides this is how he wants all his nights to go from now on, Donna moaning into the silence of his bedroom, losing her mind with need for him.

She starts moving her hips in time with his movements, bringing him closer, and he adds pressure, coaxing pants and sighs from her. She leans up slightly, blinding searching for his lips, and he meets her halfway, letting her suck on his tongue and kiss him senseless. He drags out his rhythm until she's writhing beneath him, detaching from him to pant his name. He finds that spot inside of her and rubs and she moans.

"Harvey," she says again, all oxygen, "Please."

He doesn't know if she means "Please make me come" or "Please stop" and he's about to ask when she tugs on his briefs, clumsily trying to get him out of them. So he retreats his fingers, sucking her desire off of them, closing his eyes and taking a moment to appreciate her taste, before leaning back and removing his underwear and hers.

He is achingly hard and not bothered at all by the fact that they barely had any foreplay because he doesn't think he'll last long as it is. He slides himself between her folds to get them both ready and that alone feels heavenly, her heat and her skin and her friction. She reaches for him, mindlessly caressing the head of his cock as it moves and even that is enough to make his breathing labored and electricity hum in his veins. He thinks they could both come just like this, but this is their first night together and he's not willing to prove his theory.

When he deems them ready he directs himself to her entrance and thrusts carefully, mindful of not hurting her. She stops breathing, completely frozen in place, and he's trying to gauge her reaction but she feels too good. He's distracted by how tight she feels, how her body welcomes him perfectly, how he manages to bottom out and feel her walls all around him. He hopes she's okay because he's only half-tethered to reality; the rest of his conscience is completely lost in her.

After a moment she exhales, relaxing, and he takes it as incentive to go ahead. He pulls out almost all the way and thrusts again, starting a slow rhythm to give her time to adjust. She keeps her eyes closed, letting out breathy little moans with each thrust, and he speeds up a bit, long, purposeful strokes in and out of her. He can't explain how he's feeling and he wonders if she's feeling even one tenth of the same, this feeling of utter, complete elation, of being home.

She finally looks at him, her face a mix of abandon and sharpness as her eyes focus on his and her fingers find his jaw, caressing him lovingly, locking their gazes and deepening their connection in a way he didn't think possible. She said she wants them and he's giving her all of him, every last bit, and he's doing it gladly.

They enjoy the steady pace, kissing and touching and taking their time to truly internalize that they're finally here, after all this time. Eventually Donna grabs his hip, silently asking him to go faster, and he pulls slightly back, hooking his hand behind her right knee and folding her leg against her chest. He drills deeper, afforded more room by their new position, and she cries out. He speeds up like she asked, pushing hard into her, and he has to bite his lip to be able to focus on his movements because her loud moans are driving him insane.

Her hand comes to her forehead, helplessly tangling in her own hair. "Fu-Fuck," she half-sobs, looking down at their bodies, "Don't stop."

He doesn't. Instead, he speeds up, kissing her again, roughly this time. He pinches her nipple, caresses her side, teases her clit, does anything that comes to mind that can help her get there. He needs her to come soon, because he won't be able to hold out much longer and he doesn't want to come before she does.

"Donna," he grunts and she miraculously hears his silent plea, like she's done so many other times before. Her hand covers his and guides him over to where she wants him, showing him how to press, how fast to go, where to touch. Her moans grow higher and breathier and he inhales deeply when he feels her start to tremble. When she's just about to come he focuses entirely on her, eyes intent on her face, and soon after that she crashes, eyes half closed, mouth forming a perfect pink O, her throat exposed, her hair a tangled mess. She looks like a vision, and he feels infinitely lucky to be able to experience this.

His musings don't last long. She's clenching around him when he lets go himself, his body spasming as he spills inside her. She clings to him, still trembling, still contracting, still lost to the world, and he buries his face into her neck, closing his eyes and finally diving into her.

There are minutes of silence and exhaustion between them, and among the endorphins floating in his body there's only one cohesive thought he can muster:

I've spent too many years cheapening this act. This is what it should be.

Sex with Donna - this incredible mix of sex and making love and fucking - feels like what God or the universe or the poets intended for sex to be. Transcendental, all-encompassing, so raw and human it felt like they were sharing their souls.

It's some ridiculous new age bullshit he'd never be caught dead admitting but that doesn't make it any less true. This felt like nothing else ever, and he can't be sure he won't screw everything up like he usually does but by God, he'll try with everything he has to preserve this. To hear her raspy voice calling his name, feel her nails on his back, feel her heat and her tongue. He wants to experience everything there is to experience with her.

Donna finally moves, pulling him from his reverie. She folds her arms around his shoulders, turning her head to find his gaze.

"This was... amazing," she murmurs, and the words are nothing he hasn't heard before but the fact that it's her saying them makes all the difference.

He considers joking or bragging but it doesn't quite fit the moment and his heart makes the decision for him. He brushes the tip of his nose against hers, his head sharing her pillow, his eyes trained on her lips.

"I'm in love with you," he whispers again, and it's sappy and cliché as hell and he'd be embarrassed by his admission if it weren't for the smile that blooms on her face at his words.

She hesitates for a moment and he isn't even expecting her to say it back but she does. "I'm in love with you too," she whispers back, almost just mouthing the words.

He thinks he's never been truly happy in his entire life until this moment. Lying in the arms of the love of his life, hearing she loves him too. This is happiness, the elusive happiness he sought in paychecks and firm names and power plays and random skirts, but which had resided with her all along. It's not exactly a new revelation, that Donna was the one thing he needed to be happy, but he had never truly had a taste of it.

And now he did. And he will. Forever.

A/N: The beautiful line "I've spent too many years cheapening this act. This is what it should be." is sadly not mine, it was borrowed from a House, M.D. fic you can find here: s/11027485/1/After-Joy

Thanks for reading :)