I

14 years ago, September

For the first time in a very long time, Manhattan's district attorney, Cameron Dennis, feels nervous.

The phone call came late last night—a short 'we need to talk' and an address. He didn't think of it as odd at the time—Jonathan Martell is known for being vague—but now, standing in front of the grand Tribecan penthouse complex, sweating in his best suit, Cameron realizes the full weight of his current situation; he is outside the Martell family home, an invitation rare enough to be cause for concern.

The district attorney is buzzed in without having to ring the intercom. He straightens and re-straightens his tie in the private elevator, waiting for the lift to reach the top floor. His mind circles around what this visit might entail. The Russo case is taking longer than he initially expected. Jonathan seemed tolerant of the delays last month, but that was before Alice passed away. Grief may be pressing the man toward quicker retribution and when operating along the bounds of blurred lines quickness often leads to carelessness.

Cameron can't afford to be sloppy, but he also can't afford to piss Martell off. Jonathan is not the sort of white collar the district attorney is used to working with; he is ruthless, clever, and brutally efficient. He can't be bought or bargained with. He is the kind of criminal Cameron dreamed of taking down in his legal infancy, yet here he is, by the balls, taking house calls. Blackmailed into cowardice.

The elevator chimes and the doors slide open. Jonathan is waiting in the doorway of the penthouse, his face an unreadable mask. "Come in," he says, gesturing to be followed.

The loft is not what Cameron had envisioned. He pictured something practical and lifeless, a sterile operating suite, but what he's faced with is the comforting chaos of a family home. There is a large wall-sized chalkboard in the foyer covered in a multicolored mixture of handwritings: To Do lists and calendar notes, complex math equations, a child's drawings of dogs and rocket ships and smiling stick figures.

Further in, a Rangers backpack is hanging on a hook above a name plate that says "Alice" and stuck to the plate with an elephant sticker is a math test - 100%, good job, smiley face. It smells like something's baking—vanilla cake? Passing the kitchen he glimpses a retriever puppy, asleep in a shredded pile of newspaper.

Still, something is off about the place and in his effort to pin it Cameron almost trips over a pair of silver sequin Converse, scattered in such a way that tells him the wearer was in a rush to kick them off. He thinks of the little girl they belong to, dancing to Sweet Caroline on top of his ADA's desk, these same silver shoes tapping out each ba, ba, ba.

Jonathan notices Cameron's misstep. "I keep wanting to shout at her to come down and pick those damn things up," he says, stopping at the foot of the glass staircase to look back at the Chucks. "And then I remember."

"I'm sorry," Cameron says reflexively, "I could move them…if it helps."

"The wife's not in a good way. Something like that would set her off."

Cameron nods as if he understands, but prays he never does.

They continue up to the second floor and it is the clicking of their oxfords against the glass steps that drives in what feels so odd. The house, almost alive with its vibrant homeliness, is too quiet, as if it has been put on mute, stuck in a moment of silence that never lets up.

The two men enter a large study. There is a desk at the center facing a dark leather couch, a book shelf at the rear, and all around a panoramic view of the South West corner. Sparkling beneath the mid-morning sun, the Hudson looks almost clean.

Jonathan flops down on the couch, spread eagle and slack. The posture is bizarre pared with his austere expression, somehow both threatening and unthreatening at the same time. He says, "Where are we with Russo?"

"I've drafted up a plea bargain. We can —"

"No."

Cameron folds his arms across his chest. "You won't even read the terms?"

"Legal jargon bores me. Sum it up."

"A public apology and a 4.5 million dollar penalty."

"Funny, you state these terms as if I'm meant to be impressed by them."

Cameron has to fight to keep himself from glaring. "Russo isn't an easy man to go after."

"Here's a plea bargain, fifty years in prison or a bullet between the eyes. A or B. I'll let him pick."

"Seems a little unwarranted. He's CEO of a health insurance company, not a murderer."

"Is one less criminal than the other?" Jonathan's stare levels, goes cold. "He profited off my family's suffering. Kicked us poor dumb mutts while we were down. Murder would have been the kinder option, wouldn't you say?"

Cameron lifts a curious brow. "It certainly would have been the smarter option. If you're going to kick a rabid pitbull you better make damn sure he doesn't get back up."

"Rabid?" Jonathan cocks his head. "Am I that bad-mannered?"

"I've heard rumors."

"I didn't take you as the closet gossip, Cameron."

The district attorney smiles, more sneer than grin. "They say dear ol' dad couldn't keep a lid on you. Had to lock you up in Silver Hill as a boy."

Jonathan narrows his eyes. It is the first true expression Cameron's seen out of the man. He can't help but press, "Adjustment disorder discharge—even Uncle Sam thinks you're batshit."

Jonathan is up and across the room in two quick strides. He grabs Cameron by the shirt and shoves him back against the desk. The aggression comes out of nowhere and it's all the district attorney can manage to keep himself upright.

"Tell me," Jonathan says conversationally, "are you suicidal or just stupid?"

Cameron is trying to come up with an adequate response to diffuse the situation when he hears a woman's voice, calm and superior, break through the tension. "Jonathan." Those icy eyeballs slide away from Cameron and toward the approaching click of heels. "Play nice, sweetheart," she chides, "we're not barbaric."

And the trap is let loose. Cameron's aggressor releases him and steps back, making room for a stunning redhead to fill the gap. She stands at nearly Cameron's height, dressed to the nines in a black cocktail dress. Her eyes are dark, French roast, staring into Cameron with godlike clarity as if she seeing through him, into his soul and out the other side, and she's not impressed.

"You'll have to forgive my husband, Mr. Dennis," she says, reaching toward him, her gentle hand motherly in its absent need to adjust his skewed tie. "He's been strong for so long, sometimes I think he forgets how to be anything else."

Cameron, entranced, can hardly speak. At her mercy. "Huh," he manages. "Here I was thinking that was just his abrasive personality."

She inclines her head and smiles at him, albeit with some disdain. "You're a funny guy. Must be how you found yourself halfway into being strangled. Sadly, Johnny isn't easily amused. It's pulling teeth to get him to smile."

"My mistake," the district attorney says. "I'll have to remember that the next time I try for a joke."

The redhead steps back and looks toward her husband expectantly.

Jonathan explains. "He wants to do a plea bargain."

"Oh?" Her gaze shifts back to Cameron. "And I'm sure it's been made clear to you that we have no interest in bargaining."

"I think Jonathan was in the middle of making that known when you showed up."

"I see," she says, still with that amused, slightly cold smile. "You have a different opinion, then?"

In the hushed, closed door whispers that circle about the Martells, Cameron has heard nothing but mixed reviews regarding the wife. On one hand, she is the victim of a bad marriage, the mourning mother, locked up in her glass castle. On the other, she is the puppeteer, the 'man' behind the curtain, a devil in Versace pumps. Seeing her now, dark eyes pressing him for a response, he understands without a doubt. She's the boss.

"I don't have enough to build a solid case," Cameron tells her sincerely. "A plea bargain is the best I can do."

There is a tense silence. Keeping her face carefully blank, Mrs. Martell gives nothing away. Cameron feels the need to elaborate, "I can't take a case to court on the tax payer's dime without a reasonable chance of conviction."

The redhead nods and looks away, as if giving herself space in which to be disappointed. The window light falls softly against her profile, brightening her irises into a less intimidating shade of almost-green. The sun's rays strike her amber hair, setting it aflame. At her back Lower Manhattan looms, a captured thought floating above her head.

"Alice was three when she got sick," she says at last. "The doctor thought it was Mono, but there was this strange lump on her lower left side. Probably a reactive lymph node, but he ordered an ultrasound anyway, for my peace of mind. The insurance company—I'm sure you can guess which—refused to authorize it. They said a relatively healthy 3-year-old doesn't need medical imaging. So they sent us home. Rest and plenty of fluids. She'll be okay." She pauses here, a far-off look in her eyes. Cameron imagines her hesitating on a 'what-if' she'll never have the answer to and feels deeply sad for her. When she resumes her voice is surprisingly curt and businesslike. "We got the ultrasound four months later," she says, "and by that time the lump had grown to the size of a softball. They Medi-flighted us to Mount Sinai for her surgery, but again the insurance refused to give authorization. They considered part of the operation—the Whipple procedure— experimental when done on a pediatric patient. We told them to do it anyway. Eighty-five thousand – what's more debt to a couple of twenty-year-olds, right?"

"I can't imagine," Cameron says. He doesn't want to sympathize with the people that are blackmailing him, but he can't help the tightness he feels in his throat. Strangely, he wishes there was more he could do.

The wife must sense his empathetic thoughts because all coldness and severity leave her. "We know seeing Brandon Russo in prison won't bring our daughter back," she tells Cameron plainly. "It won't make us happy or whole or healed, but it's something we need." Her gaze shifts to Jonathan and she gives him a small nod, go on then, her expression seems to say.

Jonathan reaches into his suit jacket and Cameron goes rigid with fear, thinking gun, but out comes a plain white envelope. He breathes out in relief and with healthy caution takes the document presented.

Inside the envelope Cameron finds the legal equivalent of a silver bullet. An Affidavit signed by Russo's right hand, Preston Connor, alleging that Russo repeatedly admitted to receiving kickbacks from pharmaceutical companies. He begins to feel a little nauseous at the prospect of taking someone like Russo down. It could be the highlight of his career and here it is, just handed to him.

"How did you get this?" Cameron asks, not even attempting to mask his awe.

"Wise monkeys don't ask questions," Jonathan says and Cameron hears blackmail. Connor is caught in the web too. He wonders who else these cold souled Martells have in their grips.

"Is this enough?" The redhead asks.

"We'll have to find evidence establishing quid pro quo, but yes," Cameron tells her. "It should be enough."

"Good," Jonathan says abruptly. He walks across the study and stops at the open door, adding, "Perhaps the next time you visit we won't be so disappointed."

Feeling dismissed, Cameron makes to exit, but hears at his back, "Oh, and Mr. Dennis. One more thing."

Cameron turns to Mrs. Martell slowly, slightly suspicious of her nonchalant tone.

"You're not trying the case. Harvey Specter is."

"Harvey?" Cameron glances at Jonathan, who quirks a mildly surprised eyebrow at his wife. "My ADA?"

The redhead nods as if her demand is perfectly reasonable.

"Harvey's never even been to trial," Cameron argues, his face heating into an alarming shade of red. "The kid wouldn't be able to tell his ass from his elbow and you want him taking on a heavyweight like Brandon Russo?"

"I heard he's your golden boy."

"Sure, he's smart. But he's also hard-headed and can't follow directions for shit." Again he glances at Jonathan—talk some sense into her his eyes plead.

"Donna, are you sure about this? I know Alice liked—"

"Harvey gets the case," she repeats, and then out she walks, heels clicking with punctuating finality, making it clear to both men that there will be no argument.

Jonathan watches his wife's retreating figure, an uncharacteristic softness on his face that disappears so suddenly Cameron thinks he may have hallucinated it.

With the wife out of earshot, Cameron asks incredulously, "How do you think it will look if I hand a case this big to my assistant?"

"How it looks isn't my concern," Jonathan says, "winning is. So that Golden boy of yours better not fuck this up."

II

When Mike and Harvey return from the balcony, the apartment is too quiet. The music has been turned off. Rachel, Gretchen and Louis are in the kitchen, talking in low voices. Donna is sitting in the living room with her back to everyone, an open magazine in her lap and her eyes fixed out the window.

Harvey leans against the counter next to Rachael and asks in a whisper, "Why aren't you in there with her?"

"I'm helping clean," Rachael says defensively, and as if to prove her point she picks up a sponge and gives the counter a blind swipe.

"Go sit with her."

Rachael hesitates, her eyes darting toward Donna. "I keep saying the wrong things," she confesses. "I really don't want to upset her any more than I already have." Her brown irises are swimming in teary-eyed guilt, looking into them Harvey feels the odd sense of looking into a mirror, his own feelings of uselessness and shame reflecting back at him. "Can't you go sit with her?" She asks.

At his back, Gretchen mutters, "The last thing Red needs is this fool bringing her down more."

"What's with Donna anyway?" Louis butts in. "She's been a total drama queen all night—which normally I would appreciate, but I'm feeling really heartbroken over Tara and she hasn't even offered me her arms to delicately weep into."

"What are you talking about?" Mike says to Louis, confusion weighing his features. "You were sobbing all over Donna when I got here." From the large jar of peanut butter he holds in his hand he lifts out a spoon and points it at the redhead's back. "She probably still has your snot prints staining her dress."

Louis nods with enthusiasm, his torso swaying to the rhythm of his bobbing head. "Donna is contracted to give me one uncontrollable sobbing session and three delicate weeping sessions in my moments of crisis." He pulls out his phone and hands it to Mike. "The agreement is in my iBooks as a PDF. You may notice a clause that states: if a weep turns into a sob, unused weeps must be forgone, but I'm telling you this was not the case tonight. I've been gypped."

"I'm sure Donna intends to be there for you, Louis," Rachael offers consolably. "She's just going through a lot right now."

"Yeah, you can't really blame her," Mike says. "I mean, she's being accused of con—"

Harvey elbows Mike in the side, but not quick enough to keep Louis from latching on.

"Donna's being accused of something?"

"Withholding information," Harvey says casually, which isn't a lie necessarily but he still feels like shit for it. "Gibbs' is on a crusade. I'm fixing it."

"You're goddamn right you're fixing it," Louis snaps. "I can't believe you're letting her get dragged into your bullshit again. She's not some sacrificial lamb."

Louis' words sink to the pit of Harvey's stomach leaving behind a residue of nausea. He fights to keep his calm, telling the angered partner, "The last thing I want is Donna in jeopardy, you know that."

This seems to appease Louis enough to relax his posture. He asks, "How much trouble is she in?"

"Hard to say."

"Do you have a defense?"

This question panics Harvey because he's nowhere near building a defense, mostly because he still doesn't know what he's defending Donna against. She hasn't specified her role in this Arms Scandal and he's worried she might play a bigger part than she's letting on. And worse, what if Gibbs finds out before him? What if she already knows? He thinks of the attorney's smug smile, her voice when she said she was going to drag his secretary out from beneath him—no, this is still a vendetta to her. Donna is a small fish, but he's afraid this new witness Gibbs has might change that.

"I'm fixing it," Harvey repeats, but he directs his response at Rachel, knowing the first step to fixing this is undoing the damage he's already done.

He grabs a bottle of cabernet and makes for the living room.

III

Harvey strides into the living room and Donna knows he's high just by his gait, which is no longer surefooted and deliberate but tentative and uncertain, like maybe he's taken a wrong turn somewhere and gotten himself lost. Facing away from her, he pulls out his phone and links it to the sound system. A smooth jazzy melody fills the apartment with soft electric strums, while outside thunder rumbles and rain falls heavy against the window. Donna feels sealed in, as if she's sitting inside the delicate calm of a storm cellar, knowing just beyond the door waits the wreckage.

With obvious reluctance Harvey turns to her, lips slightly parted as if he's about to speak but something causes him to hesitate. Donna feels him searching, trying to pull the right words and phrases from her pupils, like an actor who has forgotten his lines and is looking to his fellow actress to cue him in.

And because her love for him is a sheltering love, she sacrifices for him. Takes the first hit, puts the first foot forward, however you want to look at it, and as always she doesn't feel like the bigger person, only the one who is more desperate.

"Hey," she whispers.

He gives her a small smile; it is equal parts grateful and relieved. "Hey."

"Did you draw the short straw?"

He glances at the group in the kitchen. "Exiled," he says, shifting his eyes back to her. "They're all pitted against me in there."

"You can't let them run you like that." She tries to put some form of animation in her voice, but she's so tired the effort is almost too much. "You're managing partner now."

"What do you think, then? Pay cuts all around?"

It's Donna's turn to break eye contact. She looks over her shoulder at the individuals in her kitchen; Gretchen, Louis and Rachael immediately turn away from her, bumping shoulders in a fury of movement, trying to make it look as though they weren't eavesdropping. Mike waves shamelessly. Donna winks at him.

"I don't know," she says, turning back. "They seem to be getting along better than they have in a while."

"That's because they're all on the same side for once. You should hear them in there, rallying at your back— if I didn't know any better I'd say I'm the worst boss in Manhattan."

Donna smiles fondly. "They'd eat their words if they saw my pay stubs."

"You're worth every penny."

"Oh, I know."

They share a smile. It feels good, lighter, but there is still too much burning beneath the surface for either of them to relax.

Donna points to the bottle of wine in Harvey's hand. "Is that for me?"

"My peace offering." He picks up her empty wine glass from the coffee table and refills it. When he offers it to her, he says with sincerity, "I don't want to fight anymore."

Donna hesitates, a dark eyebrow raised in suspicion. "I thought we were just getting started. You haven't even broken anything yet."

"You're going to make this hard for me?"

"After that apish tantrum you threw last night, you expect me to make it easy?"

"Come on, Donna," he coaxes, and his voice is that soft rasp that she hates because it is too much like a caress. Goose bumps glide up her arms, probably spelling out to him in braille: god, just touch me. Moved to chivalry, he jokingly confesses, "You know I only reacted like that because I'm in love with you."

Her heart sinks, weighted by an inexplicable sadness. It shouldn't hurt this bad to hear him say those words, especially since she knows this teasing admission is deserved. It was a low blow blind-siding him with the "you're in love with me" accusation, asserting it on him, but she was desperate and backed into a corner and if she's completely honest she knew it would send him running. How manipulative. Weird, how some traits just trickle right back.

She yields to good humor. "You stole my punch line."

"You might have to get a new one. Mike's taken a shine to it."

"Or you could be less obvious."

He takes a seat next to her on the couch. The distance he keeps between them is careful, almost calculated. No less than 6 inches between their thighs, hands settled in his lap, clutching at her unaccepted glass of wine. He asks, "What gives me away?"

"How about that cactus you threw at my back?" She intended to keep the joking tone alive, but bitterness has seeped into her voice.

Harvey at least has the decency to look ashamed. "I was an asshole last night."

Donna doesn't disagree.

"I could have hurt you."

You did hurt me, part of her wants to tell him. Don't you understand? But there is a larger part of her that convinces herself she deserved it – on his side, as always. She hates herself for letting her past fall onto him like this and she thinks he's being too kind, holding her close (figuratively, of course) instead of holding her accountable. She should have told him the truth a long time ago, because now she's thirteen years in and still doesn't know how to begin to explain herself. She can't find the words to tell her story in a way that won't make her sound half-mad.

Anxious to make him feel better, she plays his ego. "You have a strike-out average of 10.54. I figure if you were trying to hit me, you would have."

Harvey smiles, but his lips don't quite let go of their weariness. "I thought after my father passed away there wouldn't be anyone left to quote my baseball stats."

Donna's unsurprised to find herself grouped in with the proud parent. There was a gaping hole inside of her after Alice passed away and illogically she filled it with Harvey. She took his hand and led him through life, put hers on hold – which is a blessing, really, when she thinks about it, because she panics, literally hyperventilates at the idea of having Christmases and anniversaries and birthday parties, falling in love and having an genuine relationship, the potential of another child.

Building a new life terrifies her. She's already messed it up once and sadly when it comes to life there's no quota to fill. Surviving one storm doesn't mean there isn't another waiting just over the horizon. And when she's tossing and turning in her half-empty bed, thinking maybe tomorrow she will walk into his office and just kiss him, these are the thoughts that put her to rest.

"How do you think I know your stats?" Donna grins, plastering cheerfulness over her growing disquiet. "Your father was like a broken record when it came to you and baseball. I swear I probably heard that Benny Villarreal story five hundred times." She puts on the voice she reserves for Gordon, raucous and passionate, with a slight Bay Stater accent. "I'm telling you Donna, this kid was the best hitter in Boston. He could pop a fly straight into left field with his eyes closed. So when the coach tells Harvey to walk him, no way he's gonna strike this kid out, what do you think my boy does?"

"He throws a fastball," Harvey continues, sounding so much like his father it gives Donna chills, "straight down the middle. And Benny swings."

"Misses."

"That cocky little shit probably spun 'round three times."

"Like a damn ballerina."

They both laugh. Harvey says, "God, he did tell that story a lot, didn't he?"

"It makes me feel like I was there."

"I wish," he whispers, so quietly it must be a thought Donna overhears.

A few seconds of significant silence pass. The music continues through to its closing chorus, outside thunder booms.

Finally Harvey says, "Listen," and his eyes meet Donna's with a softness she wasn't expecting. She goes rigid, holds her breath, as if a rare bird has landed in front of her and she doesn't want to scare him off. "I know I haven't exactly been supportive – but I'm here for you. You know that, right?"

Donna feels her throat constrict. She can only nod.

"That doesn't mean I'm not mad as hell, just…"—his eyes shy away, drawing words from his feet—"you being okay takes priority."

Guilt surges through Donna's chest. That protective part of her wants to tell him off for being an idiot – I don't deserve this, I've lied to you – but instead, she says, "I appreciate that, Harvey."

More silence follows. They both sit quietly as if waiting for the words to fix everything to flow off their tongues. But none come.

The track changes. Michael Kiwanuka's, Cold Little Heart, flows out of the speakers.

Harvey stands up, sets the glass of wine on the table and offers Donna his hand, palm up. "Dance with me," he says.

Donna stares at him, feeling as though his words have come out of an alternate universe where such things can be said so casually. "You're not serious…"

"Why not?"

She gives him a silent wry look that says, you know why, but adds to it a reminder of the group at their backs. "Louis forgot to take his blood pressure medication. It'll give him palpitations."

Harvey rolls his eyes. "I know being close to me gives you urges—"

"The only urge I get when I'm close to you is to punch you in the face."

"It just takes a little willpower, Donna."

"Harvey—"

"Fine, Fine. I'll let you touch my butt, but that's where I draw the line."

"Oh Jesus Christ," she mutters, resisting the impulse to laugh. He flashes her a broad grin and she's reminded of every four AM spent sitting in the DA's office listening to him talk about how he could probably survive off hotdogs alone, how he stole a Casio calculator watch from Martin Owens in the second grade and still loses sleep over it, how all he wants in life is to help people. "Strange," she says, "you sound just like this arrogant ADA I used to know."

"Was he as handsome as I am?"

"Definitely less gray."

His smile doesn't waiver. "Come on. One dance, just to liven things up," – he nods his head toward the kitchen – "get those hens in there gossiping."

She sighs, feeling her reservations subsiding. He must sense her surrender because he further extends his hand and she is reaching for him before the better part of her can convince her not to.

The moment her hand slides into his all of her apprehension dissolves. The world goes quiet; her surroundings melt away until it is just him, his deep brown eyes, and her hand and his hand, like two awkward shapes that fit together with such ease it seems unnatural that they were ever separate.

"Are you sure about this?" she asks, standing up to face him. Her bare feet give his tallness a daunting quality and she finds herself using the old stage trick of biting the inside of her lip to keep herself from blushing. "Could be a long dark road back from here."

She feels the warmth of his other hand through the fabric of her dress as it settles against her hip. "As long as you walk it back with me," he tells her softly.

Her teeth sink further until she is tasting blood. Suddenly she's terrified that she will never get over him, that she will be seventy years old with the same ache in her chest and itch under her skin…

But if the alternative is never again seeing that Cheshire cat grin, or hearing him quote Thelma and Louise for the umpteenth time, or missing out on those 2 AM phone calls because he can't sleep and the alphabet game is no fun solo (he does car makes, she does designers – Ashton Martin, Burberry, Chevrolet, Dior – he always falls asleep thinking about 'O'), then the dull ache she endures daily is nothing compared to what life would be like without him.

"I'd go anywhere with you, Harvey," she says, laying her free hand on his shoulder. "You know that."

Harvey closes his eyes briefly, peacefully. As if he expected her response to be something else entirely. When he opens his eyes again, he seems about to say something but a distant popping noise interrupts him.

The electricity cuts out.

A gasp erupts from the kitchen, not an inhale of surprise but one of utter disappointment. Rachael.

Donna forces a soft chuckle. "Well, if this isn't divine intervention…"

Harvey's hand moves, she expects to release her, but it slides around to the small of her back, drawing her in.

Then, absurdly, in an impressive baritone, he picks up where Kiwanuka left off.

His voice drifts through the darkness and is greeted, first, by silent awe. Then someone in the kitchen, probably Mike, takes up an encouraging drumbeat - a shake of the silverware drawer, a palm slapping a wooden cabinet. Another someone joins in as the counter-harmony - Gretchen, her voice soulful and lifting.

Then Louis, bless him, enters with the high-pitched soprano; the words are irrelevant to him, he might as well be singing something else entirely. Mike and Rachael "Ooo and Ahh."

Harvey, with the confidence of the choir at his back, doesn't let himself be put off by Donna, who, in a seizure of surprise can only marvel mutely, stuck between amusement and deep affection (it is one of the most beautiful and ridiculous thing she's ever heard), he leads her suavely to the intermittently rhythmic beat.

"I think Louis has stolen the show," Harvey whispers, dropping out at the chorus. The others continue on without him. "What's that he's singing? U2?"

"Shakespeare's Blow, blow, thou winter wind." Donna hears herself say. Her voice seems to come out of a void – maybe she's dreaming. Hallucinating? How much wine did she drink? She can't remember.

"Damn him," Harvey mutters. His arm encircles her, inching her closer until she feels his body, warm and solid, pressed against hers. "He's always gotta one up me."

Moved by impulse, Donna glides her hand up Harvey's shoulder. Her fingertips brush the skin of his neck, further, through the fine hairs at his nape, the strands like water slipping through her fingers; there isn't enough of him to hold on to.

Harvey dips down, touches his nose to hers. His breath stirs against her lips, and a voice inside of her shouts, for god's sake, kiss him. But she realizes with heartbreaking clarity that that is a dead end. That is him on her doorstep saying 'let's not make a big show of it' before he turns his back. It's 'you know I love you' and 'I only said it to make you feel better.' It's a wound that doesn't heal.

She steps back, knocking the coffee table with the back of her knees. The wine glass topples. Clatters. Spills at her feet. She says, "Shit," and he whispers, "Leave it," as he tries to pull her back to him.

But she can't leave it because the rug is white and the wine is red, and even in the dark she can picture the horrendous stain it'll leave. A constant reminder: what if, if only, why not, it's not fair.

"I can't," she says, and again, "I'm sorry, I can't."