Twenty (One) Questions

Harvey's low laugh rumbles around the inside of his tumbler, his grin stretching as he swallows another mouthful of whiskey. He hasn't felt this comfortable in his own skin for a while. Not since before his breakup with Paula. He cared about her and wanted their relationship to work, but her insecurities and ultimatums fuelled his instincts that they weren't right for each other. And now, sitting across from Donna, both of them more inebriated than they probably should be, a familiar comfort settles deep inside his bones as she finishes telling her story.

The one thing he does regret is how he handled things with her during the downward spiral of his relationship. He took a lot out on her that wasn't fair. But when he lifts his gaze, her soft eyes and humorous smirk silently tell him they're okay. That this is them from the ground up—a foundation that's weathered its fair share of storms, but they built this thing to last and are still standing. He appreciates that more than she'll ever know, but doesn't search for the words to tell her, instead, chuckling again. "I can't believe you did that."

"I can't believe we didn't get caught." She beams a smile, kneeling up and hunching over for another refill. Her cheeks are warm from the embarrassing story that slipped out, and she probably—definitely—doesn't need any more to drink, but a hangover tomorrow is unavoidable at this point. If she's going to suffer, she may as well rinse the most out of Harvey's company now they're back on solid ground. He pours them both a generous share, and she sits back on her bare feet, leaning into the soft leather and propping her head in her palm. "You turn. Embarrassing story from college. Spill."

Her gaze prowls over him in search of an answer, but he just rolls his eyes. "This isn't 20 Questions."

"Ooooo… what if it was?" she teases, flashing him a grin. "Afraid to play?"

He chuckles, not scared. But aside from admitting how he really got his shoulder injury, he doesn't have anything else left to tell. "You already know everything about me. Doesn't that take the fun out of it?"

She hooks up an eyebrow, watching as he leans back, his wrinkled shirt pulling beneath his loose tie. But the truth is she doesn't know everything he's been going through recently, and instead of issuing a fast retort, she ducks her head, swirling the light amber liquid between her lacquered nails.

When he showed up at her door two weeks ago, tearing up her resignation and declining her invitation inside, she didn't expect a conversation to follow. In fact, with an open bottle of wine and the still silence of her apartment, she grew angry, annoyed with herself for giving in so easily. She convinced herself that her job was the most important thing moving forward. But then the next morning he showed up in her office with her favorite coffee, looking battle weary and devastated, but forcing his lips around a genuine smile as he thanked her. In that moment she realized he may not have handled the situation brilliantly, but he sacrificed his relationship to keep her in his life.

As hurt, and as isolated from their friendship as she felt, she knows he tried hard to make things work with Paula. Maybe she could have been more supportive, curiosity spilling from her loose lips. "What happened?"

A knot forms in his stomach, the reaction determining she's referring to Paula, and he leans forward, hunching over his drink with a lazy deflection. "I thought we weren't playing 20 Questions."

"Forget the game." She uncurls her feet, planting her glass down on the table, and brazenly sitting next to him. She can feel the heat from his thigh beside hers, and even though he doesn't look up, he doesn't pull away, either. "Tell me something." Her voice falls out in a breathy whisper. "Something you shouldn't."

Her exposed legs rest under his low gaze, and he swirls the last few sips of whiskey in his tumbler. "That dress isn't work appropriate." The observation is a valid protest within his hazy thoughts. But he still drags his gaze higher, passing the hem to her flushed cheeks, and he smirks to himself. She blushes too easily. When she's angry, if he's teasing her, and the one time his hands and mouth laid claim to her body, her pale skin flushing beneath his touch He rarely lets himself access the memory of that night around her, because those thoughts are dangerous, but they're always present no matter who he's seeing. That's his guilty secret and something she doesn't know about him. "I think about you," he expels the shameful confession. "When I'm with someone else, you're the person I imagine being with."

He isn't sure what compels the truth out of him. It's most likely the whiskey, but he doesn't take it back, and when she peels the glass from his fingers, he lets go, watching her set it safely aside. His fear and hesitation follow the same path of abandonment, his palms clutching her waist as she gingerly climbs across his lap, and his hands find a momentary home at the base of her spine. Then they find their next destination, threading through her hair and pulling her down for a searing kiss that's vigorous, drunk, messy, and perfect. Because even like this, especially like this, they just work. But he wants more for them than fumbled sex in his office, and he pulls back with a heavy pant, his eyes conveying that he wants the real thing this time.

Her gaze reads him, silently asking if he's sure, and he clutches her hand, sliding her off his lap with a warm smile.

He's positive.

And he's going to take her home, and spend the rest of the night making sure she knows just how sure he is.

.