Saturday

Harvey stretches his arm across the bed searching for the warmth of Donna's body. It's their first Saturday together as a couple. No alarms, no workouts or rushing to get ready. He sometimes goes for a run out of habit, but he got plenty of cardio last night and isn't looking to move anytime soon. But when his hand bunches empty sheets his mouth dips in a frown.

One of the first intimate things he's learned about Donna—something he didn't already know—is that she's not a morning person. So far he's had to coax her up each day, leading him to wonder how she managed to show up to work on time for the past fifteen years. When he has a schedule he's an early riser, but as he glances at the clock on his nightstand, he isn't surprised to find it's 10am. The sleep in is normal, his body catching up, but he has no idea how Donna likes to spend her Saturday mornings, and the thought jolts him further awake.

Wondering if she's even still in the apartment, he pushes up onto his elbows, listening for a sign she hasn't left to do a yoga class or some other activity he doesn't know about yet.

A sudden clang followed by a curse puts his confusion at ease, and he chuckles to himself, throwing the bedding aside and grabbing his slacks off the floor. With both legs in, he pulls the elastic around his waist, and goes to investigate what all the noise is about.

"Stupid—I know you think this is funny " Donna glares at the coffee plunger. "But I will end you."

He stops in the doorway wearing a stupid grin. There isn't that much space between his bedroom and the kitchen, and he doesn't want to interrupt the first time he's caught her attempting to be domestic in his apartment. Watching her disheveled, wearing his t-shirt as she berates the appliance is a sight worth saving. He's had other girlfriend's, and he learned to adjust and share his space with them. But Donna is different. The only thing he would consider a sacrifice is denying his feelings for so long, but that mistake is behind him now. She's right where she belongs. At least as a permanent presence in his home, not necessarily as his batista. "Need a hand?" He fights his amusement as he steps toward her.

She winces, her plans of showering and waking him up with fresh coffee spiraling down the drain—literally—as she turns around to pour out the sludge. He comes up behind her, his palm catching her waist, and she can feel him smile as his lips brush her neck. "No. But you need a real coffee machine," she answers with a huff. "This plunger has too much attitude."

He smirks, reaching around her. "It just needs a little finessing." His fingers curl around the handle as he places another chaste kiss against her temple. "Like someone else I know in the morning."

She swats his shoulder, but takes note of how he heaps in his favorite dark roast and the combination of water he uses.

He swivels the stirrer, making sure he gets the consistency right before leaving the brew to settle. "You just need to be patient, let it sit for a while."

She cocks an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest."You're giving me a lecture on patience?"

"Some things…" He steps forward, clutching her hips and tugging her closer. "Are worth the wait."

"Well, in that case… maybe I should go take a shower and get dressed." She teases him back, smiling up at him.

His gaze soaks in the sea of freckles on her nose, spots usually hidden by concealer, and he's overcome by the sudden urge to spill all the feelings swelling in his chest. As beautiful as she is with makeup on, he loves this side of her—fresh faced, hair hair thrown up in a careless bun. It's moments like this he spent too many years denying himself of. Getting to see the real Donna Paulson who scrunches wet towels over the railing, has a shelf full of poetry books, doesn't know a skillet from a wok, and has no idea just how effortlessly stunning she is without even trying.

But the last time he uttered the three little words begging to escape, it almost broke them, and an irrational fear keeps them at bay. Instead, he lifts his hand, sweeping the stray hairs away from her face with a smile. "I was actually thinking we should downgrade your wardrobe. I like you wearing my t-shirts."

Her cheeks warm under his gaze. She knows how precious he is about his things, his plunger included, but since her first night staying over, she hasn't felt anything except welcomed into his home. He might not be ready to say the words yet, but his actions speak louder, and she circles her hands around his neck, breaking the ice with a confident whisper. "I love you, too."

His mouth curves winder, because the undeniable truth is that she gets him. For all his faults, with all his baggage, she's the person who knows him better than anyone else. And he gets to spend all his weekends like this from now on, showing her just how grateful he is. "You know what else I love?"

His lips descend on hers, and she squeals a laugh into his kiss as he hoists her up onto the counter.

This new side or their relationship is something they both love, and he isn't expecting an answer, his mouth too busy against her skin for either of them to form a coherent response. He enjoys waking her up with a languished kiss.

But he likes her waking up first, more.