Donna smiles to herself, her last customer always making her feel that she was on the right path, while at the same time teasing her about his predictions for her future. She'd often just shake her head at his antics, until the next time he'd unexpectedly show up, dropping hints, like he was the mastermind of her fate, and she was merely following the string laid before her to the happy ending he was sure was waiting for her. A kindred spirit with a warm smile that always brightened her days.

She checks the time, counting down until her next show, and when she looks up and sees Harvey, she does a double take, a panic rising in her, checking the door before quickly looking back at him. A close call, not sure how he'd react to seeing her last customer. But he seems to be none the wiser.

She gets his usual from the bar, approaching him with a tentative step, noticing his eyes crinkle into a grin upon seeing her.

"How was opening night?" He asks, a knowing smirk on his face, one that lights up her face at the question.

"It was so good," she gushes. "I swear, I never feel more alive than when I'm performing," her hands flying wildly at the excitement radiating in her. "You missed out," and she tries to make the statement sound teasing, but there's a part of her that wishes he'd been there.

"Did I, now?" He leans back in his chair, his mouth quirking up into that crinkled grin.

"Yes, you did. I was awesome," and she swears she hears him mutter under his breath, but she can't make out what he says, and he recovers quickly, smiling into his drink. "Well you look happy today."

"Do I?" He straightens in his seat, his finger tracing the glass, looking down, refusing to meet her eyes now.

"You've got a date tonight," she can see it now, the smile refusing to leave his face, showing up to her work earlier than usual. She can feel the nerves rising in her, the kind that feels a bit like jealousy, showing up in a blush.

"It's not a date," he defends all too quickly.

She cocks her head to the side with an exasperated sigh.

"I have my first trial this week…against an old…" and he pauses like he's searching for the word to describe every relationship he's ever had.

"…lover?" She offers, knowing full well that he can call it whatever he wants, but they both know what it is.

"Friend." He corrects, looking up at her, as she shuffles on her feet, preparing her bravado to surface, armouring her with wit to pretend that she doesn't at all care how quickly he's abandoned the idea of them as anything more than whatever they are.

"So what's she look like, this…friend," she asks, hoping she comes across as curious and not desperate.

He looks up at her, as if studying her face for what she's really asking.

"Not like you," he offers, and Donna nods, biting her lip.

"Well, I'm an original, so," she jokes, a sad attempt at a laugh coming out. "So why didn't it work out?"

"Who says it hasn't?" He asks, taking another drink.

She playfully narrows her eyes, recalling the night they met and what she knows about him.

"So what happened? She turned you down? You couldn't commit?

"Stop guessing," he warns, but his tone isn't serious.

"She cheated?"

His eyes go dark, almost black at the mention, and she knows she's stepped over the line they'd drawn, but never discussed, instead choosing to bury their heads in the sand, and blindingly navigate by quick retreat whenever they got too close.

"No. If she'd cheated, I wouldn't…" He doesn't finish the sentence, instead downing the rest of his drink the clink of his glass on the table echoing through her.

"She shouldn't have done that to you," Donna nearly whispers, twisting her fingers, and she peeks up at him through her bangs.

"She didn't," he tries to assure her.

"I wasn't talking about your 'friend.'"

His slowly looks up at her, studying her, like he can't quite believe what she's implying.

"How could you possibly…"

"Know? I'm Donna," she shrugs, never revealing her sources, chalking it up to an intuitive nature to read people so she can be exactly what everyone needs, a useful tool when acting, and a defense mechanism when it comes to avoiding being unprepared for change.

"Yeah, well, everyone leaves eventually, so…"

"Not me," she says before she can stop herself, as if sealing her fate. She's not sure what made her say it, but she knows she means it. Seeing something in the man sitting before her that has her vowing to be the one stable, constant thing in a mess of their own making.

He looks up at her, and she hopes that he sees more than a painful goodbye in her eyes. The silence threatening to swallow them both.

"So…we need a ritual," she all but coughs out.

"What?" His expression shifts to one of amusement, trying to keep up with her, bouncing from one subject to another, but seemingly accepting this swerve of emotions they'd rather avoid.

"Yeah, we used to do them all the time in college before every show," she reasons, a distinct memory of throwing a rabbit's foot across the stage coming to mind.

"I'm not superstitious, I don't need a ritual," because of course Harvey would be stubborn about this.

"Come on, I'm sure your sports…people," his smirk at her complete lack of knowledge of sports making her squint her eyes and shake her head at him before she continues. "They have them before games, right?"

"I'm not wearing dirty socks or growing a beard," he says, practically cringing at the the thought.

"Why not? You'd look good with some scruff," she says with a wink.

"I could think of a few things we could do…" he tries, but she's already looking around for what they could use, when she feels his hand on her apron, and she stills, a shiver sent straight through her.

"What are you doing?" She breathily asks, her eyes fluttering closed, refusing to open until she can control her breathing, swaying unsteadily on her feet.

And then his hand is gone as quickly as it was there, and he's holding up a can-opener she'd tucked into her apron that morning while prepping.

"What are we going to do with that?" Her words coming out shaky, and she knows he can hear the change in her.

"Give me your notepad and pen," he holds his hand out, and she nearly bites her tongue not to ask him to reach for it himself, as well.

Handing it over, he quickly draws exactly what he's thinking, before passing it back, and her eyes go wide.

"Dirty."


She swirls the glass in her hand, the ice in her drink creating a clinking sound she can barely hear over the music. Smiling to herself, she thinks how Harvey would scoff at the ice in her whisky, the amber liquid creating waves in her glass. The threat of the liquid escaping, going over the lip, crossing that line, a very real possibility, but instead remains within the confines of its glass walls. But she needs the ice to add a bite, something different.

The music is loud, and she's already been approached by a couple of men offering to buy her a drink. She's turned them all down, causing her to sigh into her drink. The one she bought for herself, as she waits for her companion to arrive.

A past version of herself would've spent hours perfecting her hair, her makeup, her dress for a night out. But those days are long gone, instead her curls are pulled back in a messy bun, a few tendrils hanging in her face, whatever makeup is left from her shift clinging to her eyes that have taken on a dark brown edge to them in this lighting, and a comfortable emerald button up that she leaves several buttons undone to hang off her shoulder with jeans, her go to now. Both versions equally her, but it's as if the last decade slowly removed the soft glimmer of hope and left her chipped, revealing a glimmer of the broken pieces within her.

She taps her burgundy nails against the table, the regret over agreeing to come out hitting her. She knows she needs a break after the day she's had, but a nice long bath with her book is sounding way more appealing than sitting in this bar. Although, to be fair, nothing's interested her in a bar since that night. And given how that's turned out, she'd rather leave her regret at the door and stick to the fictional love stories between the pages of her escape.

Just as she's about to text that she's changed her mind, she's interrupted.

"Hi, I'm so sorry I'm late," Rachel says, her face the picture of sincerity.

"Please, I'm shocked you were even able to leave at this hour," Donna days, settling back into her chair, giving a genuine smile for the first time tonight.

"Looks like I've got to catch up," she points at Donna's drink with a smirk. "So which one of these guys got you this," she gestures around with a knowing look.

Donna and Rachel had immediately clicked when they'd met, seemingly only growing closer over the years as they buried themselves in denial of how their dreams were slipping through their fingers like spilt wine, a colorful display of what could've been splashed before them, but never able to clean up the mess of their own doing, staining them in regret.

"Me," Donna says with a quirk of her brow that quickly drops. "But I think I'm going to switch to wine," she grimaces at her attempt to taste him once more, a cheap version that never actually measures up, but still lingers on her lips like a tease of what might have been.

"I'm going to need something stronger," Rachel groans, putting in their order.

"That bad?"

"Louis was on the warpath today, and I was in the crossfire," she says. "But enough about work, please."

"Good, because I want to hear about bike messenger you ran into," Donna says, taking a sip of her drink with a knowing smile.

"Shut up," Rachel practically squeaks, her face scrunched in embarrassment. "It's likely to go nowhere," she says matter of factly.

"Ahh, yes, my specialty," Donna jokes with an all too knowing tone. She downs the rest of her drink, the ice wetting her lips, just as her wine is placed in front of her. "Thank you," Donna mouths.

"What about Harvey?" Rachel asks, cocking her head to the side with a mischievous smile.

Donna chokes on her wine, and Rachel laughs at her reaction.

"You're telling me you've never…you know, gone there with him?" Rachel asks, raising her brow at her.

Donna tries to recover, the alcohol stinging her throat, momentarily leaving her stunned into silence.

"I'm not his type," she shrugs, trying to sidestep the conversation.

"Oh yeah, and what's his type?" Rachel tries, refusing to let the subject drop.

The memory of the night she'd chosen him, hazily suffocating her as the blood rushes to her cheeks, his fingers brushing against the freckles like he was tracing the constellation of their fate, before getting lost in the auburn, her nails scratching against the scruff, a groaned whisper of his name escaping against his ear, a plea for what could've been, reaching for intertwined fingers and coming up with cold sheets and the space between, awaking to the reality of the overwhelming feeling of wanting more and never being enough.

She's never been his type. Brunettes, blondes, everything all wrong. She'd spent too much time believing that she'd be the exception to the rule, living for the hope that one day he'd realize that she was what he wanted, not just what he had needed one night.

Donna replies with a defeated look, knowing that she's not lying.

"Not me."


Donna nervously tucks her curl behind her ear, knowing full well it won't stay there for long. The bags under her eyes only add to the exhaustion that seems to have settled into her bones, wearing her down. She doesn't want to believe it's because she's not seen Harvey the last couple of days after he all but stormed out. But she'd be lying if she didn't find her shifts dragging, only to be disappointed when he didn't show up. Leaving to go home at the end of the night with nothing but an empty feeling eating away at her and the pages of a book to curl up with.

The halls look the same as the last, and only, time she's visited the firm. She scans the names on the offices, etched on glass, until she finds Rachel's office.

"Fancy," she knocks, peeking her head in, feeling exposed with glass walls allowing for no privacy within the confines of this room.

"Thanks," Rachel smiles, and Donna feels proud that her friend is appreciated enough to be given her own office.

"Here's your card," Donna sets it down on her desk, before taking a seat across from her, having left it in the taxi the other night.

"Oh my God, you're a lifesaver, thank you," Rachel praises.

"No problem, gives me an excuse…"

"To see Harvey," Rachel teases.

"I was going to say get a coffee before work," Donna supplies with a roll of her eyes.

"Right, of course," she exaggeratedly nods to prove her point.

"Yeah, I'm just going to go…"

"Tell Harvey I say, 'Hi.'"

Donna rolls her eyes again, as she finds herself doing exactly what Rachel had accused her of, making her way to his office, remembering how excited he'd been about finally getting that office at the end of the hall, and her having joked that it would never be big enough for his ego.

She peers around the corner, prepared to tease him about those balls proudly displayed, when she sees her. Her brown hair is curled to perfection, her dress probably worth more than Donna's entire wardrobe. It's not the first time she's seen them together. Scottie's the type that tends to pop up when you least expect her.

Donna's face falls, kicking herself for not having seen it before. That must be why he'd rushed out of the restaurant before their ritual, why he'd not shown up the last couple of nights to see her, because at the end of the day, Donna's the one he goes to when he has a problem, when he needs her, and Scottie's the one he wants.

"Who's that?" Rachel asks, having clearly followed her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Donna sadly smiles, peering through the window at everything she'll never be.

"His type."