beach

"Son of a bi—" He yells, frustration evident in his voice.

"Harvey!" Donna chastises.

"Beach, son of a beach," He mumbles, rolling his eyes.

He'd been trying to put this goddamn crib together for three hours and frustration was getting the best of him. The instructions, which were pure gibberish, were of zero help to him at all.

They had been looking at furniture for the nursery for weeks online and when they scrolled past this one, Donna's eyes had lit up. So, they'd ordered it and as soon as it arrived, Harvey proclaimed that he, himself, was going to put it together. Donna had laughed, then reached for her phone to call someone capable of the task when Harvey had rolled his eyes and grabbed her phone from her hand, whining, claiming he was going to do this and he would show her.

So here he was, three days and three hours later, no closer to having a crib for their daughter then when the box had arrived on their front porch.

He was really regretting the agreement they had made to start watching their language before the baby came.

"Jesus, godd—"

"Harvey Specter," Donna said, sternly, cutting him off.

"Dang it, I was going to say dang it, Donna."

"Sure you were," Donna said rolling her eyes with a smirk, hand grazing her slightly rounded belly, gliding back and forth in the rocker in the corner of the guest room turned nursery. "Listen, honey, I love you for trying to do this, but I promise you I did not marry you for your handyman skills," she responded, smiling.

"Oh, is that so?" Harvey said, turning toward her, eyebrow raised in question.

"Nope," Donna responded, teasingly, "I married you for your tools," she said, eyebrows wiggling in flirtation.

Harvey laughed, turning back toward the task at hand, mumbling, "You are ridiculous."

Donna just chuckled.

Moments later, the room was once again filled with Harvey's censored cursing and Donna's attempts to calm him down. Finally, she broke.

"Harvey—" she asked, rolling her eyes yet again at his snort of acknowledgement.

Pulling herself up from her perch, she waddled over to Harvey and placed her hand on his shoulder where he was sitting among a mess of wooden pieces. He turned and pressed his chin to her hand on his shoulder meeting her eyes.

"Harvey, not putting this together doesn't make you any less of a father," she said softly, fingers migrating from under his chin to brush over the hair above his ear. "What makes you a father is how much you love your daughter, not the tangible things you can create for her."

"Hmm," He said, reveling yet again in the way she was able to read his mind and smother his demons. "I already love her," he whispered to her.

She nodded in response, then smirked at him and teased, "Then stop pretending you're a handyman and call the guy."