I
Donna stands in Jonathan's kitchen, the morning light filtering in through the wall of windows, washing everything in a warm glow. She is still wearing the oversized t-shirt Harvey had given her the night before, the soft cotton gaping at the neckline and ending mid-thigh. Too revealing for her to feel comfortable waltzing around in her ex-husband's space, but hunger drove her out of bed. Now she rifles through pantry drawers, searching for something edible, but finds only bare cabinets.
The elevator in the foyer chimes. Donna looks up as Jonathan enters, sweaty and shirtless, with Molly trotting at his heels. Beads of moisture cling to the sharp lines of his abdomen; his dark hair curls against his nape. In his hands he holds two large bags, one stamped with a patisserie logo, the other nondescript brown paper.
"Brought breakfast," he says. "From that little French place on Church."
Donna peeks into the waxy bakery bag, inhaling the mingled scents of chocolate and yeast. Her mouth waters. She plucks out a croissant and sinks her teeth in, taking an inelegant mouthful. The first bite is still steaming. "You shouldn't have," she manages, flakes raining down from her lips onto the pristine countertop.
"It's nothing."
He moves to the fridge, the shifting panes of his back briefly holding her gaze hostage. She forces her eyes away before he catches her watching, redirecting her attention to the other bag.
"What's this?"
Jonathan cast a glance over one shoulder, bottle of water poised at his lips. "A few things. I wasn't sure how long you'd be staying."
Donna opens the bag curiously, finding several dresses nestled within. Her fingertips skim over cool silks and airy chiffon, examining each piece — an asymmetrical black sheath, an emerald green wrap dress, a burgundy silk maxi.
"Oh." The word flutters out of her mouth, a whisper of genuine surprise. When was the last time someone had given her something so precisely her taste without her having to buy it herself? "Thank you."
"Couldn't have you running around like that." He nods at the t-shirt sliding off her shoulder.
She tugs it back in place, suddenly ashamed at her own exposure. Jonathan grabs another bottle of water from the fridge and passes it to Donna before taking a seat at the island.
Donna inhales the rest of her croissant, saving a small edge for Molly who whines at her feet. She strokes the retriever's soft fur, golden in the morning light.
"I'm surprised the old girl still runs with you," Donna muses.
Johnathan's lips quirk. Subtle. Only on him would she consider it a smile. "She goes ten feet then refuses to move. I end up carrying her most of the way. Wonder who she inherited that from?"
Donna smiles, recalling the sandy shores of North Carolina. How she'd agree to run with him, only to throw herself down a mile in, refusing to go any further. He'd scoop her up gently, carrying her home. They called it his casualty evacuation training.
"Smart girl," she says, scratching Molly behind the ear.
Jonathan stays silent, staring at his water bottle, tracking dripping condensation. Donna imagines him lost in those same bright Carolina beaches. Perhaps recalling the time she begged him to take her right there in the sand, indifferent to the possibility of prying eyes. He'd refused at first, cautious of reprimand. But the moment her clothes hit the beach, his resolve crumbled.
Was she always pushing him past the limits of who he was? Urging him toward transgression with her recklessness?
Guilt sticks in Donna's throat. She runs a fingertip through the croissant crumbs, idly pushing them here and there as the silence grows.
"Have they charged me yet?" she asks at last.
"No." His voice scrapes raw. "Just me so far."
More silence. Molly whines and nuzzles into Donna's hand.
"Did you sort things out with Specter?" he eventually prods.
She bites her lip, worrying the tender flesh. Did they work it out? She isn't so sure.
"It's complicated," she murmurs. Such a useless, paper-thin word.
Jonathan's eyes pin her. "Do you love him?"
Donna is thrown by the sudden question. She looks away, unable to meet his piercing gaze.
She knows her love for Harvey has been twisted by circumstance. After Alice, she was drowning in grief, grasping for something to pull her from the depths. And there he was — convenient, easy. So she clung to him. Let herself get swept up in caring for him, needing him. But is that real love, or just some warped sense of gratitude?
"I think so," she whispers.
"If you're unsure if you're in love, then you're probably not."
His certainly irks her, an edge creeps into her tone. "As if you'd know anything about love."
"I loved you, didn't I?"
"I don't know. Did you?"
Jonathan flinches, a hairline fracture in his composure. She regrets her words instantly.
"There's a sixty-three page indictment documenting every ruthless thing I've done to protect you. Every line etched into my soul. If you need proof that my love was real, start there." Jonathan's voice is barely more than a whisper, and it is worse than if he were shouting. She wishes he was shouting. Anything would be better than this cold evisceration. "I may not have shown it well, but goddamnit Donna, I loved you. I still — "
He cuts off sharply. The room rings with silence. She sees the unspoken words swimming behind his eyes, black water rising.
"You still what?" she whispers.
Jonathan hesitates, his shoulders softening almost imperceptibly. For a breath, the man she once loved flickers through the hard exterior. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then shuts it, jaw flexing.
Donna's heart feels like it can't quite find its rhythm all of a sudden. Every beat feels painful and erratic. It's hard to breathe with the way he's looking at her, like he wants to say a lot of things that she knows he won't say, like he wants to pull her in and hold her in a way that she knows he never will.
Her heart breaks for them, for all the heavy and hurtful things that have taken what was once the safest place in the world.
Jonathan's chair shrieks against the marble as he comes to his feet. "Gotta shower."
II
Harvey steps out of the elevator and into the lobby of the firm. Before he can even orient himself, Mike comes rushing over.
"Harvey! Thank god. I've been looking all over for you."
Harvey keeps walking, not slowing his pace. "What is it, Mike? I've got a million calls to make."
"The Attorney General." Mike scrambles to keep up. "He's in your office."
"What?" Harvey comes to an abrupt stop, frowning. "The state AG? What the hell does he want with me?"
"No." Mike sighs, expression strained. "The United States Attorney General. He flew in from Washington this morning."
Harvey freezes, shock rippling through him. The highest appointed law official in the country is here? Ice pricks down his spine.
"Shit," he mutters. "Did he say what he wants?"
Mike shakes his head, glancing around nervously as if expecting federal agents to appear. "No, he just said it was urgent. But it can't be good, Harvey."
Harvey scrubs a hand over his face, mind racing. "Alright," he sighs. "Take me to him."
III
Rachel sits tense across the desk from her father, his imposing presence dominating the spacious office. She can't believe that she's here. That she's stooped to this level. But she thinks there is strength in knowing when to reach out, even if Harvey will kill her if he finds out.
"Let me get this straight," Robert Zane says, steepling his fingers. "You want me to lend you attorneys from my firm to aid in the defense of Donna Paulsen, who's entangled in an international arms trafficking investigation?"
Rachel nods. "With everything going on, Harvey's running on fumes. We need more minds on this if we're going to uncover the truth."
"And what makes you think I can spare the resources?" he asks. "Or that I'd want my people involved in this mess?"
"I know it's asking a lot." Rachel tries to keep the desperation from her voice. "But innocent people are getting railroaded. Please, the facts aren't adding up. We just need a chance to dig deeper."
Robert leans back, regarding her sternly. "Rachel, I know your heart's in the right place, but you're getting yourself mixed up in some dangerous business here."
She frowns. "So you won't help at all? Even just as a consultant?"
"I can't afford any link back to me if this goes south," he says, matter-of-fact. "And it looks poised to do just that."
"Dad, please. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important. Donna's in trouble. There's more going on than the authorities are willing to look into."
"And you think you're going to uncover the truth that trained investigators missed?" He gives her a skeptical lift of his brow. "Come on. You're not equipped for this."
Stung, Rachel sits up straighter. "I'm not some green associate. You know I can handle complex cases."
"Handle, yes. But these people play dirty. I won't have you putting yourself in harm's way on some misguided crusade."
"This isn't just a crusade!" Frustration edges her voice. "I can't just stand by when —"
Robert holds up a hand, cutting her off. "You're too close to this, Rachel. Your emotions are clouding your judgment."
"I won't abandon Donna."
His expression softens slightly. "I know you want to help your friend. But for your own good, let this go."
She shakes her head, adamant. "I can't. And I won't ask you again. But please just...wish me luck."
Her father studies her for a long moment, then nods. "Use your head. And call me if you need to."
Surprised by this concession, Rachel smiles tightly. "Thank you."
IV
The Attorney General lounges in Harvey's chair, expensive wingtips propped atop the pristine glass. Harvey's jaw clenches at this casually dominant display. The man rises as he and Mike enter, extending a manicured hand. His cufflinks glint gold.
"Gentlemen. A pleasure."
His cordial tone contradicts the predatory gleam in his eyes. Harvey feels the implied threat sink beneath his skin as their hands briefly clasp.
"I assume you didn't fly all the way from Washington for a social visit," Harvey says coolly. "So why don't you skip the niceties and get to the point?"
The AG's smile turns icy. "Very well. An indictment will be handed down against your Ms. Paulsen. Treason, for abetting the flow of arms to our enemies. A hangman's charge in less enlightened times."
Mike bristles. "Bullshit. Donna wouldn't —"
"Mr. Ross," the AG interjects, voice silken, "I advise against passionate outbursts. They do little for your client."
Chastened, Mike falls silent.
"We have incontrovertible proof of Ms. Paulsen's treasonous activities," the AG continues. "Perhaps she thought her encryption impenetrable, her digital tracks covered. But no barrier is unbreachable to those with the proper...motivation."
Harvey's hands tremble with the urge for violence. He forces them still. "I don't know what manufactured evidence you think you have, but I can promise it won't hold up in court."
"Can you?" The AG arches a brow. "My team of prosecutors will eviscerate any defense you attempt to mount. But I'm here to offer you a plea deal, as a professional courtesy. Have Ms. Paulsen testify against her co-conspirators, accept a reduced sentence. Otherwise, her fate is sealed."
"That's quite generous of you," Harvey says. "Threatening to crucify an innocent woman unless she lies to incriminate others. They teach that maneuver at the Nixon School of Law? Alongside kissing-ass and taking bribes?"
The AG's eyes flash dangerously. "Choose your next words carefully, Mr. Specter. Men who forget their place often come to regret it."
Harvey leans forward, undaunted. "Here's my careful choice of words — go to hell. You don't intimidate me with these pathetically trumped-up charges, and I won't let you bully an innocent woman into a bogus plea deal. Now get the fuck out of my office."
For an instant, naked rage contorts the AG's features. But his smooth facade quickly reasserts itself.
"A shame. I thought you were smarter than this, Harvey. Sentimentality will be your undoing." He moves to leave but pauses at the door. "Don't say I didn't warn you. What happens next is on your conscience."
And then he is gone, the echo of his polished shoes fading down the hall. In his wake hangs the silence of the condemned.
Mike scrubs a hand across his mouth. "Jesus, Harvey. What now?"
Harvey stares unseeing out the window. Clouds roil and mass on the horizon, black and bloated with rain.
"We fight," he says quietly. "As hard and dirty as it takes."
He is outmatched and unprepared, caught off-guard on new terrain. But these Washington sharks have never seen teeth sharper than his.
V
The black redaction lines cut across the page, numerous and ugly. Anita tilts the document, squinting as if a new perspective might reveal the obscured words. But their secrets remained buried beneath legislated silence.
With a frustrated sigh, she tosses the file atop the mountain of useless paperwork cluttering her desk. She sits back, regarding the mess with tired eyes. When she had requested Major Martell's military records, a frank and thorough accounting was what she had hoped for. Instead the JAG lawyer sent this — a distorted image more redaction than truth. A slap in the face of due process.
The black lines of censorship read like a personal attack. What did those government lackeys have to hide? She expects obstruction from petty bureaucrats, but not to this extent. There is serious misconduct lurking behind this state-sanctioned veil. She needs only to coax it into the light.
With renewed determination, she rifles through the chaos until she finds the number for the Department of Defense. The receptionist connects her to the Deputy Secretary, who greets her politely but without warmth. Their history from a case she took on years ago breeds caution. No matter. She will be direct.
"I requested a complete copy of Jonathan Martell's military records. What I received is all but useless, riddled with redactions." She works to keep her tone even, professional.
"I understand your frustration," he replies smoothly. "But as I'm sure you know, matters of national security necessitate discretion."
Her jaw clenches. Platitudes and doublespeak — the language of liars and cowards. "Cut the bullshit. This impedes my ability to prosecute. I need the full file, unobstructed."
A weighty pause follows. She can envision him shifting in his chair, weighing just how forcefully to deny her demand. Finally he answers, "I'll make some calls, see what I can do."
The lukewarm assurance reignites her anger, but she swallows it down. An outburst would only strengthen his resistance. "I'd appreciate that. This is about justice, after all."
"Of course. I'll be in touch shortly."
The line goes dead. She set the receiver down harder than intended. She prides herself on principled pragmatism, yet even she can't remain entirely dispassionate here. Something about this case feels personal.
VI
Harvey steps from his town car into the late summer heat. The sun slants low between skyscrapers, leaving angry clouds swelling in the wake of its descent. Another storm edges against the horizon, threatening to shower down on Manhattan. All the recent rain, the light breeze off the Hudson, and still the stink of sewer wafts up at him. Even the gilded streets of Tribeca aren't immune to the decay.
New York is a swamp, he thinks, and wonders if this is new, this lackluster atmosphere, or if he simply never came home early enough to notice the degradation under the spotlight of day.
Probably the latter. How often had his father scolded him for his long hours? Thinking of his old man, his own heart seems to skip a beat in his chest, faltering. He stops on the brick steps, sweat dampening the back of his shirt, and catches his breath. Anxiety, stress, shitty-genetics, his own ridiculous work-ethic, are all battling to put him into an early grave.
He has to sort himself out. What would it do to Donna to lose him too? He can't imagine it.
The lobby is cool. Chill seeps through his soles as he crosses to the private elevator. The doors sweep open soundlessly, spilling him onto the hushed penthouse floor.
Jonathan waits in the foyer, tumbler in hand. Amber liquid, two fingers deep. "She's upstairs," he says simply. "In Alice's room."
Harvey's jaw clenches. "Alone?"
"It's not a crime scene."
Harvey brushes past, their shoulders glancing, and takes the glass staircase two at a time, his shoes clacking against the panes.
At the landing he orients himself. Which way? Left or right? He takes the hall stretching left, intuiting.
A doorway stands ajar at the far end, leaking light. Nearing, he hears the soft whisper of pages turning. He stalls just outside. He can't bring himself to intrude.
"Harvey?"
Her voice drifts out, rough with disuse. She's heard him hovering. He is awed that she knows him even by the sound of his approach.
Steeling himself, he steps inside.
It's a child's room. Posters of hockey players adorn the walls alongside crayon masterpieces held by magnets. Stuffed animals perch around a queen bed and a rack of well-worn sports equipment stands sentinel in the corner. A life on pause.
Donna sits curled in an armchair, knees to her chest. An open book spills from her hands. She looks up, eyes rimmed red, skin taut across her cheekbones.
"Hey," Harvey manages past the swell in his throat.
Donna says nothing, only stares, eyes distant and glassy. He feels suddenly invasive, intruding on a moment not meant for him.
When she finally speaks, her voice strains thin. "I shouldn't be in here."
Harvey drags a palm down his face. Stubble pricks his skin. "No, you shouldn't."
Donna rises abruptly, already edging past him through the doorway. "Let's go downstairs. I'll make us coffee."
"Donna." He catches her wrist as she brushes by, fingers pressing those delicate bones. She stills. "You don't have to run from this."
Her mouth opens, closes. She looks down at the book still clutched in her free hand, dog-eared and worn. The cover shows two rabbits beneath a tree.
"I used to read to her at night," she says softly. "I did all the voices. She'd curl up against me and bury her face in my neck."
Harvey waits, pulse loud in his ears.
"I just keep thinking..." She pauses, a shuddering breath rolling through her. "If I could get back there, slip inside that moment, I'd have her again." She lifts the book, knuckles pale. "But it's empty. Her smell is gone from the sheets. The drawings are fading on the walls. She was here and now she's not and I'm the only one who can't accept it."
"You don't have to accept it," he says.
Donna shakes her head, a single tear spilling down one cheek. "But I should. I should pack up her things and clear out this space. I should..." She looks away, eyes shining. The fingers of her free hand flex and curl at her side, restless.
He takes the book from her, setting it gently on a shelf beside him, and pulls her into his arms. He holds her close, fingers tangling through her hair. She opens to him, pressing her wet face into his neck, her hands fisting into his shirt.
Time passes, marked only by her quiet tears turning to silence. With care, Harvey guides them to the carpet, easing her down between his legs. She settles against his chest, breaths still shaky, dampness cooling on her cheeks.
"Tell me about her," he whispers.
She stiffens in his arms. He waits, patient, chin tucked atop her head. The silence stretches between them, growing heavier by the second. He knows this is difficult for her, to revisit memories she has tried so hard to bury. But he also knows some wounds can't heal properly until they're reopened.
Finally, she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper. "She was…wild. Fearless. I never met a rule she didn't want to break or a boundary she didn't try to push. I constantly felt like I was ten steps behind, trying to rein her in. Drove me crazy."
Harvey smiles faintly. He remembers these characteristics of little Alice well — the precocious redhead bursting into his office and immediately commandeering his time and attention. Her boundless energy and curiosity, the way she peppered him with questions and begged him to take her to court. How they would walk to the hotdog stand down the street on his lunch break, Alice chattering the whole way. Watching her fist bump the mayor on the courthouse steps, even swindling an ice cream off the man. Harvey had grinned like an idiot then, something pure and almost paternal swelling in his chest.
"Sounds exactly like I remember her," he says. "Always scheming."
Donna exhales a soft chuckle. "I'm glad she had you that summer. It meant the world to her. She'd come home full of stories...how you let her sit in on a deposition, taught her about jazz and baseball, bought her books and this awful neon sports jersey she refused to take off..."
Heat pricks Harvey's eyes. He swallows past the lump in his throat. "We made a good team. She was tough as nails for such a little punk. Whipped my ass at Mortal Kombat."
"Of course she did." She shakes her head, a sad smile touching her lips. "I hope you didn't go easy on her."
"Never dared to. She would've destroyed me."
Donna turns in his arms then, her fingers coming up to skim the stubble along his jaw. Her eyes shine with tears but her expression emanates gratitude. "You have no idea what your presence meant to her. How it gave her joy and hope when she needed it most."
Harvey has to shut his eyes against the swell of emotion. When he opens them again, Donna is watching him with that look she gets sometimes — soft and full of wonder, like he's surprised her somehow. And god, she is so beautiful like this — stripped bare, eyes shining up at him.
He bends his head and captures her mouth with his. He kisses her again, then again, worshiping her lips until she softens and opens for him. He deepens the caress, losing himself in the taste of her, the heat of her mouth slanting over his.
In one smooth movement he lifts and turns her, laying her back against the carpet. She makes a small noise of surprise but doesn't resist, arms coming up to pull him against her.
He moves over her, sinking between her thighs. She arches up, hips pressing reflexively closer.
A distant part of him warns that this is too fast, too much. But he feels powerless to stop the growing need. He drags his lips down her throat, hands roaming her sides, pulling up the oversized t-shirt she wears.
"Harvey," she breathes, the rasp in her voice shooting straight to his core.
He groans, grinding his hips against her instinctively. She gasps, head tipping back. The sight of her flushed and wanting is enough to make him dizzy.
Somewhere in the distance, footsteps clatter up the staircase. Harvey freezes.
Donna's eyes fly open. They scramble to detangle, movements frantic. Harvey winces as her knee collides with a rather sensitive area.
"Shit, sorry," Donna whispers, face flaming.
There's no time to respond before Jonathan appears in the doorway. His gaze sweeps over them, still flushed and rumpled on the floor. One brow quirks upward but he makes no comment.
"I'm headed out for a bit," he says mildly. "Text me if you need anything."
"Okay, thanks," Donna manages.
Jonathan's eyes linger on her a beat longer before he turns and disappears down the hall.
Harvey releases a slow breath, running a palm over his face. Getting it on with a man's ex-wife in his dead daughter's bedroom — he's mortified at his own behavior.
When he glances over at Donna, she is already up and walking out the door. His heart sinks, saddened by the moment's loss. All the ground he gained and the walls just go right back up. He lifts himself off the floor and goes hesitantly after her.
In the hallway she stands watching Jonathan's retreat from the top of the staircase. The elevator shuts. Descends. She turns to Harvey, her expression utterly blank, as if everything that happened in the room has been zapped from her head. She walks toward him, slowly, her bare feet padding softly against the marble until she has him cornered.
"Donna—"
"Shut up," she says. Then, her hand is fisting into his shirt and her mouth crashes into his.
He responds hungrily, a scrape of teeth and clash of tongues. His hands grasp her hips to pull her flush against him. She makes a desperate sound low in her throat that nearly undoes him. His fingers dig into the curve of her ass, urging her closer. The friction is maddening, his swollen cock strains against the confines of his trousers.
Donna's head drops back, eyes shut in pleasure. Harvey finds the smooth column of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse flutter beneath his tongue. Her hands move between them to fumble urgently at his belt, desperate to free him.
Harvey hisses as she wraps fingers around his length. She strokes him firmly, expertly, until his knees nearly buckle. Wetness beads at the tip as her thumb swirls over the sensitive head.
"Fuck, Donna..." He's close already, restraint hanging by a rapidly fraying thread.
Sensing this, she releases him and takes a deliberate step back. Her smile is slow and wicked as she turns away down the hall. She glances once over her shoulder, eyes burning into him.
The invitation couldn't be clearer. Growling low in his throat, he follows.
VII
Thunder rumbles in the distance. Jonathan quickens his pace along the sidewalk. Sick of the rain and humidity, he almost craves the blood stained desert of the Middle East. Simpler times, really, when he thinks about it. You just shoot at whoever shoots at you. Here, in this towering city, he has no idea who his enemies are.
He arrives at the specified location, an unassuming diner on a side street. Pausing beneath the buzzing neon sign, he squares his shoulders before pulling the door open.
The blast of cool air offers relief from the muggy evening. Jonathan scans the mostly empty booths until he spots the man seated by the rear window. Keeping his expression neutral, he weaves between tables and slides into the booth opposite the stranger.
"Thanks for agreeing to meet," the man says without preamble. His sharp gaze bores into Jonathan, scrutinizing. "Especially on such short notice."
Jonathan nods without reply. The waitress interrupts to take his order — just coffee, black. He sips his drink, buying time to study the man across from him. He's broad-shouldered beneath an impeccable suit, with salt-and-pepper hair and a close-trimmed beard. Powerful, clearly. Although not quite what Jonathan was expecting.
The man takes a deliberate drink of his own coffee, then sets down his mug with a clink. "I understand you've had some recent dealings with my daughter. Rachel Zane."
"I wouldn't call them dealings necessarily," Jonathan hedges. "We spoke briefly regarding her involvement in my ex-wife's case."
"You provided her with details of your dismissal, I hear."
"Only select information. Nothing that poses a risk."
Zane's eyes narrow, distinctly paternal. "Did it occur to you that her involvement alone is the risk?"
Jonathan considers his words carefully. He hardly knows Rachel. Only a fleeting impression — tenacious, caring, driven by her father's discouragement. It brings forth the stinging reminder of his own failed relationship with Alice. "I can appreciate a father's concern," he concedes. "But the greatest danger lies in intervening, does it not?"
Zane's voice hardens. "Don't lecture me on protecting my child."
Jonathan lifts his hands, a gesture of deference. "My apologies. I only mean limiting her may do more harm than good here."
Zane's glare doesn't soften, but Jonathan senses him considering this perspective.
"Better to provide guidance, allow her to exercise her judgment," he continues. "She's capable of more than you realize, I'd wager."
"Too capable for her own good," Zane mutters. "The shit she's liable to get herself into." He shakes his head. But for the first time Jonathan detects a hint of pride in his voice.
They sit in more relaxed silence until Zane pushes his coffee mug away. He eyes Jonathan appraisingly. "For what it's worth, I think you're on the right side of this thing. Maybe more than you know."
Jonathan blinks, surprised. "You've heard something?"
"Just gossip from clients," he says evasively. "Who's your attorney?"
"Jackson Banks, with — "
"Banks & Wolfe." He makes a sound of disgust. "Guy's a chump. He looks good on paper, but he has no goddamn backbone in the courtroom. If you can't get a deal, you're fucked."
"Oh, I'm certainly fucked, regardless."
Zane barks a sharp laugh at that, deep and baritone. "Well shit. I guess you probably are as far as the DoJ is concerned." His face turns serious suddenly, studying Jonathan beneath the diner lights. He lets out something of a defeated sigh, then digs into his suit pocket for a business card, passing it over.
"What's this?"
"Your new counsel."
Jonathan frowns down at the name. Samantha Wheeler, RKZ.
"One of your own," he concludes, suspicious. "Why?"
Zane shrugs. "Because my daughter has a passion for lost goddamn causes, and you seem to be her latest."
Jonathan feels something loosen marginally in his chest. But he keeps his tone neutral, guarded. "I appreciate the referral."
When they part ways outside the diner, Zane's eyes reveal a new wariness. The shifting dynamic is not lost on Jonathan. No longer a wayward pawn, but a player at the table. Zane is now dipping his hands into the world of corruption most of these corporate types try to ignore, if they're not themselves neck-deep in it. He finds it admirable, the risk he's taking to appease his daughter.
Jonathan walks to his car contemplating the business card. Perhaps he is not alone in this fight after all.
VIII
Donna arches into Harvey's touch, wordlessly begging for more. She feels consumed by need, a primal ache to have him closer, deeper.
Harvey seems to share her desperation, his hands and mouth greedily roam every hollow and slope of her body. His restraint hangs by a thread, fraying with each gasp and sigh he drags from her lips.
When he finally pushes inside, the relief is exquisite. She clings to him, nails raking angry red trails down his back.
He sets a relentless pace, fucking into her with raw abandon. The headboard knocks against the wall, punctuating their harsh breaths. She urges him on with teeth and tongue, obscene encouragement spilling from her mouth.
"Harder...please, god yes..."
Harvey complies, hooking her knee over his shoulder to drive deeper. She shatters around him with a sharp cry, back bowed off the bed. He doesn't let up, fucking her through it until the sensations blur into one endless peak.
When she finally goes limp beneath him, he flips her roughly onto her stomach. His palm between her shoulder blades pins her in place as he enters her once more.
"Donna," he groans, pumping his hips. She can only whimper in response, muffling her cries into the pillow.
His fingers twist into her hair, pulling to arch her spine further. The change in angle has him hitting the sweet spot inside her that makes stars burst across her vision.
She comes again, his name tearing from her throat. He follows seconds later with a guttural groan, grinding against her as he spills inside.
They collapse in a tangle of sweat-slick limbs. Harvey kisses her shoulder, her temple, soft in jarring contrast to his rough claiming of her moments before.
She clings to him, still floating somewhere outside herself. Slowly she returns to earth, aftershocks rippling through her.
"Wow," she breathes. Harvey huffs a laugh, equally spent.
They lay wrapped together as their heart rates slow, trading languid kisses. She strokes the scruff of his jaw, memorizing this version of him — soft-eyed and sated.
Eventually Harvey stirs, mouth trailing hot kisses along her neck. She feels him hardening against her thigh as his hands start to roam once more.
"Again?" he asks, voice thick with renewed want.
She answers by guiding him between her legs. He sinks into her with a groan.
"Slow," Donna whispers, shifting beneath him.
She doesn't want this to end. Doesn't want to lose this closeness, this wholeness. Strange, unfurling panic blooms inside her chest and she wants time itself to slow, to stretch this moment indefinitely. Her nails drag lightly down his back and she sees him shudder, sees his eyes go dark.
He moves inside her with long, deep strokes that make her gasp. She wants to memorize every sensation. The slick slide of him within her, the brush of his thighs against hers, the heat of his palm cupping her face as he looks down at her with such adoration.
She draws her knees up higher along his ribs, clasping him tighter. Needing him deeper. She breathes his name and arches into each languid thrust.
Harvey's mouth finds hers, his rhythm never faltering. She kisses him softly, thoroughly, learning the shape of his lips against her own. The taste of him mingled with the salt of sweat.
When they finally break apart, her lungs are burning. His forehead drops to rest against hers, noses nuzzling. The intimacy of it brings tears to her eyes.
"Hey," he rasps, thumb catching one before it falls. "You okay?"
She nods, not trusting her voice.
He moves within her with perfect restraint, pressing sweet, wet kisses to her eyelids, her cheeks, her parted lips. She clings to him, this solid anchor amidst her swirling thoughts.
Slowly, the panicky feeling recedes. In its place blooms a shimmering warmth that starts in her center and ripples outward.
She loses track of time, wrapped up in the sensation of Harvey above her, inside her. Her climax takes her by surprise, a wave swelling gradually to crest then crash through her. She muffles her cries against his shoulder, hips lifting from the sheets.
He gentles her through it, hands stroking her sides, her hair. Waiting until the tremors pass before he resumes his measured pace.
It builds again, more slowly this time. She feels the tension coiling at the base of his spine.
"Come for me, Harvey," she urges softly.
He groans her name against her skin as he spills into her, pulsing and hot. She holds him close, stroking the damp hair at his nape, murmuring praise as he shudders through it.
After, they don't move for a long time, just trading lazy kisses as they catch their breath. She sighs when he finally slips from her body. Feels empty again.
Harvey moves onto his back and she drapes herself over his chest, leg tangling with his beneath the sheets. His fingers trail up and down her spine. She focuses on the sensations — his palms gliding over her skin, the steady thud of his heart beneath her ear. Wants to tell him that this — being wrapped safely in his arms — is the only place that soothes the restlessness inside of her. But the words stick in her throat, so she just burrows closer. Hopes he understands.
Eventually Harvey's breaths deepen as he drifts toward sleep. But her mind continues whirring. She thinks about all they still need to discuss — the case, the firm, the looming threat of prison. Her future balanced on the edge of a knife.
Panic flutters in her chest. She focuses on steadying her own breaths, matching his rhythm. But her thoughts keep spinning faster.
What comes next for them? Even if by some miracle she avoids conviction, could they really build a life together? After all the wreckage she's left in her wake?
You're a fool if you believe you deserve him, the darkest part of her whispers.
She thinks of tomorrow, then the next day. Days fading into weeks into months into years. Time always moving forward, indifferent, leaving everything behind.
Leaving her behind.
Panic surges again, more insistent. Her heart feels like it's beating out of her chest. She can't breathe.
Slipping from beneath Harvey's heavy arm, she slides from the bed, wincing slightly at the soreness between her thighs. She tugs on his discarded shirt and pads quietly across the room.
Rain streaks the glass doors leading to the terrace. The city beyond is a blur of shimmering light.
She steps outside, heedless of the downpour. Within moments she's drenched, thin shirt adhering to her skin, pelted by warm summer rain turning cool against her flesh.
She moves to the balcony's edge, toes peeking over. Far below, the city streams on, liquid and alive. Red taillights cut through rain-slicked streets. Umbrellas bob past steaming vents. From this height, it almost looks peaceful. Almost erases the grime and desperation that permeates Manhattan's cracks.
She glances back through the windowpane. Harvey is just a shape beneath tousled sheets. Oblivious to her absence. He'll wake confused, then angry. She should leave a note for him. Something to explain.
Except there's nothing left to explain, is there? No more secrets between them. He knows her now, in all her ugly brokenness, and still he stays. Still he holds her as though she's something precious.
She doesn't deserve that tenderness. She knows that with stark certainty.
Thunder rumbles, the sky flickering violet-white. The storm is moving nearer across the Hudson. She tips her face up to meet it.
"You should come inside."
She flinches, pulse racing. When she turns, Jonathan stands behind her under the terrace awning, features obscured in shadow. Rain drips from his hair, plinking a staccato beat against the stone.
"I used to do this, you know," he says when she doesn't respond. "Stand out in storms. Hoping to get struck by lightning."
She swallows. "Does it help?"
"No. You just end up with pneumonia." He extends a hand, raindrops sliding off his fingers. "Come on. I'll make tea."
She stares at his outstretched hand. His eyes catch the light — intense and otherworldly, yet achingly familiar.
Finally she nods, peeling her fingers from the balustrade. He clasps her hand firmly as she steps back inside, as if fearing she'll turn and fling herself over the edge if he lets go.
She understands his fear. She feels it too. This constant grappling with the void that lives inside them both, the one they fill with work and alcohol and anything to forget.
He leads her downstairs, their hushed footsteps striking in the stillness. In the kitchen he wraps a blanket around her shoulders and sits her at the counter. She watches him fill the kettle and retrieve mugs from the cabinet. So domestic. Almost like before, if she blurs the edges of memory.
"Chamomile okay?"
She nods mutely. Exhaustion seeps into her bones as rainwater evaporates from her skin.
Jonathan slides a steaming mug in front of her. The silence expands between them, broken only by rain pattering the windows. She avoids his eyes, sensing his mind working behind that fathomless gaze.
Finally he asks, "So you and Specter...?"
She grips the warm ceramic tighter. "I don't know what we are."
He nods thoughtfully. She braces herself for disapproval, for jealousy or resentment. But none comes.
"He's a good man, Donna." Jonathan studies his tea as he speaks. "The fact that he's here, after everything...you deserve that. Someone who stays."
Her throat tightens. She blinks back tears.
"I know it's not my place," he continues. "But don't let your guilt convince you otherwise."
When he looks up, she reads the same guilt reflected in his eyes. A mirror to her own damaged soul.
And she understands. He is not counseling her out of righteousness or indignation. They are both drowning, bound by loss, each grasping for absolution that will never come.
"I should let you get back to him." Jonathan stands abruptly, movements stiff. The vulnerable moment has passed.
She catches his wrist as he turns to leave. "Stay a minute?"
He hesitates, then settles back onto the stool. The medals and commendations he earned hang facing them through the dining room, glinting in the low light. Symbols of purpose once worn. Of sacrifices made in blind obedience.
"Was it worth it?" She asks softly.
His mouth thins, eyes narrowing slightly. He doesn't pretend to misunderstand.
A beat passes. Then, "No."
The admission lands with muted force. She absorbs it silently.
"Nothing was worth losing her, Dee. Or you." Emotion cracks his voice. "Christ, the things I've done..."
He drags a hand down his face, exhaling raggedly. And her heart aches, looking at this proud man reduced to pieces by choices long ago set in motion by forces beyond his control.
She reaches across the cool granite, her hand finding his. "It wasn't your fault," she whispers.
Jonathan shuts his eyes. He turns their hands over, brushing a thumb across her knuckles. When he looks at her again, his eyes shine bright.
"Wasn't it?"
The question hangs between them, unanswered. She clings to his hand, running her thumb along his; calloused palm and scarred knuckles she used to know better than her own.
They sit like that as the storm rages outside, two people suspended in freefall, granting each other a moment's reprieve from the plummet.
She's not sure how much time passes. Eventually Jonathan pulls away, the mask of composure slipping back into place. He presses a single kiss to her forehead before disappearing upstairs, his footfalls echoing off marble.
Alone again, she finishes her cooled tea in silence.
When she creeps back into the guest room, Harvey is still asleep. She slides beneath the covers and into the warmth of his body. He stirs, pulling her closer, lips grazing her hair.
"Everything okay?" he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
"Yeah." She twists to face him, studying his features in the faint glow. "Just needed some air."
He makes a small sound, already slipping back under. She watches him a moment more — the fan of lashes, the soft part of his lips — and marvels at the unreality of it. Him and her, here.
Finally she shuts her eyes and nestles into his chest. The rain has slowed to a patter, a gentle backdrop soothing her toward sleep.
A/N: If you have the spare time, I would be grateful to hear your thoughts/comments on this one. Thanks for reading 3