A/N: This one's dedicated to Ana ( annnahatcher) and Cece ( cecealways_), who graciously let me use their prompt. Thank you, girls, hope it turned out how you pictured it :)
It all starts with a pair of running shoes.
It actually started with a toothbrush and some essential hair and skincare products, but Harvey doesn't really count those because Donna is way too meticulous about her appearance to even risk going one day without them. Some of his own essentials were already at her place so it didn't feel like a big deal.
So, yeah, it all really starts with a pair of running shoes. He finds them by the door of his closet one night - a night they're spending at her place, he just swung by to grab a fresh change of clothes. They're sleek and black and exactly the type of running shoes you see in department store ads.
Donna didn't use to run - it's not her preferred type of exercise - but in the past three weeks they've been together she's occasionally agreed to join him for a jog, especially on Sundays when he takes the nice route through Central Park. They end up mostly power-walking and soaking in the summer sun and talking about their week.
It makes sense, then, Harvey supposes, for her sneakers to be there. They're for running, different from the ones she wears to yoga, and she only ever runs with him. Hence them staying there, at his place. Case closed.
Except on a Tuesday, when he's getting ready for court, he opens the box that holds his cufflinks and finds an assortment of golden rings.
"Donna," he calls out into the bathroom.
"Yeah?" the sound comes off slightly warped; she's probably putting on her lipstick.
"I think you forgot some rings in my cufflink box," he notes, a little stupidly, as he frowns down at the object.
"Oh, yeah," she answers casually and he hears puttering before she walks out into the bedroom, "I couldn't think of a better place to put them."
"So you left them here on purpose?" he turns around, brows still knitted.
"Yeah. Just a few, just in case I forget to bring any with me," she explains lightly and steps into her shoes. Then, probably sensing he's still slightly out of the loop, she lifts an expert brow, teasing tone in place, "You know accessories can make or break an outfit."
He looks back down at the jewelry piling up on the little white cushion. It's just a few and she's been on a major ring vibe lately. Yeah, fine.
The next thing he finds, when he opens the freezer to get more ice to refill the ice bucket on his whisky tray, is Chunky Monkey. Like, three tubs of it.
He obviously knows Donna loves Chunky Monkey, but he doesn't remember them sharing ice cream. Actually, he doesn't even remember seeing her eat it. Three tubs is commitment. Three tubs is not for a casual eater, it's for someone who cannot stand the idea of running out.
Why would Donna have three tubs of ice cream at his place if she's not eating it?
Unless...
Unless she eats it when he's not around.
A memory springs to mind - he came home one night and found a bowl and a spoon on the sink.
So Donna lounges in his apartment when he's not there. Doing stuff she keeps to herself.
Okay.
It's not that he minds Donna using his space, not at all. He loves that she seems to feel comfortable here, and all the nights they spend together are amazing but his chest gets a little extra tight whenever he comes home to his apartment and she's there.
It's just that... this is starting to feel a bit like not just his space.
The next couple of weeks bring more discoveries: there's a new umbrella next to his by the door, even though they're hardly ever in open air; a couple of her weird mugs beside his cursory white ones in the kitchen cabinet; extra power cables in his bedroom and study; fashion magazines strewn around his fancy design books; a little notebook on the bedside table, for when she wants to write down a quote or thought like he's seen her do; red headphones in the bowl with the keys.
It's like he's seeing little signs of her everywhere. Not the big, obvious ones, like the extra dresses and shoes that have inhabited his closet for a while now. Tiny things, frivolous things.
Things that usually mean comfort, habit. Things that aren't life-or-death, indispensable. Things that just make life easier; things that make up a home.
Harvey's lived in this apartment for almost ten years now, got it right after he made partner. Except maybe for his office, no other place has embodied what he thought was his essence as well as this. This condo was his refuge from the external world, his man cave, the symbol of his bachelorhood.
This was the one place he had never associated with Donna, simply because it was the one place in his life she didn't often reach. Despite her having had his key ever since he got the place - which she helped pick out, by the way - she had only been here a few times. When she brought over the cactus, when she told him she was coming back to him, when she convinced him to go to Boston and Chicago, a handful of times before all that.
This apartment - his home - was not a place Donna had had access to.
And now he finds breadcrumbs all over, like a trail she's leaving as she tangles herself in his life in the only way she hadn't been able to before.
It gives him pause. It's not something he dislikes, not by a long shot, but it's an adjustment. It makes him realize the true depth of what it means to want forever with someone. Forever grows and evolves, it meshes lives together. Forever is not "you and I", it's "us".
And "us" is the Chips Ahoy in the pantry, the white wine in the refrigerator, the juvenile four-color pens sitting in his pen holder, the ring light on her side of the sink and the rich knit throw on the balcony chair.
He doesn't question it, never says a thing. A part of him is curious to see how far she means to take this, if he's suddenly going to come home to a new couch or something.
A larger part of him is a little embarrassed by the fact that this is the first time he's truly had a taste of sharing a home with someone. Scottie made a pointed effort to keep things separate between them, even after they started getting more serious; maybe a way to protect herself, remind them both she wasn't putting down roots because they both knew she might up and leave at any point for any reason. Paula wanted to take things slow and his suggestion for her to move in was ill-timed and ill-received.
So Donna is the first one to really make the place her own. And how fitting.
It takes him a few days to get used to it, the things in his fridge he doesn't recognize, the millions of new movies and shows he didn't add to his Netflix list, the drawer he never cleared but now overflows with lingerie and socks.
Until one day he arrives home, earlier than her for a change, and his doorman is waiting for him with a package addressed to her.
A mini popcorn machine. Sleek and red and bright.
He bursts out laughing once he opens it on his kitchen counter.
It's a little ridiculous. Despite the practicality of the thing, he cannot imagine anyone ever needing a popcorn machine.
It screams domesticity and it... it settles in his chest in a new way. She bought a popcorn machine for his place. Because she doesn't just want to make do with microwave popcorn. She wants good popcorn and she wants it often enough not to want to have to bother with the stove.
It's silly that this would be the thing that gets to him. She's already here all the time, he doesn't need an appliance to see that. But she made plans for the future, in a way. Plans for the future that involved his apartment.
When Donna arrives half an hour later, she greets him with a peck on the lips.
"Oh good, it's here!" she appraises the little robot, checking the box for the manual.
"Is there something I need to know?" he asks good-naturedly.
"Like what?" she counters distractedly, still focused on her new toy.
"Like... are you subtly trying to move in?" he poses it halfway as a joke, because despite the ease with which they settled into their house rotation, they have never actually discussed their living situation.
Donna snorts. "Yes, Harvey, I'm trying to move in without you noticing and the absolute first thing I had to have here was a popcorn machine." She turns around to mock him some more, knowing smirk in place.
He purses his lips in feigned displeasure, the way he always does when she calls him out on his silly behavior.
After a moment, Donna grins, cups his cheek and gives him a soft kiss. Then she disappears into his bedroom to change.
Okay, so she's not moving in. But maybe... hopefully, sometime soon.