I
Eleven Years Ago
Donna takes a deep breath as she steps into the waiting room of Senator Harding's district office. The proposal she spent weeks drafting is clutched tightly in her hands, and her palms are so sweaty that the paper is beginning to stick to them.
This is her last shot to save the theater on Dock Street from being torn down. The Brooklyn development company has already bought the property and the demolition permits have been approved. But Donna refuses to give up without a fight. The historic building has been a cornerstone of her community for generations, and she can't let it be replaced by yet another soulless office building or boutique hotel. She won't let that happen.
She had tried going through all the official channels – pleading with the community board, rallying supporters for petitions, even contacting the mayor's office. But it was no use. The developers had too much money and political clout. Her only remaining hope is to somehow get the proposal in front of Senator Harding and convince him to intervene on their behalf.
The secretary, an older woman with a kind smile, glances up from her computer. "May I help you, sweetheart?"
"Yes, I'd like to speak with the senator," Donna replies. Her voice comes out stronger and more confident than she feels.
"Okay. Your name?"
"Donna Paulsen. I'm from Brooklyn and I'm working on the Dock Street theater proposal. I just want a few minutes of his time to–"
The secretary holds up a hand, cutting her off mid-sentence. "I'm afraid I don't have you listed..."
"No, I know. I'm not an official appointment or anything. It was a last minute decision on my part. I just really need five minutes of his time to discuss this, please."
"I'm sorry, honey, but Senator Harding is booked all day, and I don't see any openings until–"
"Look, I don't mean to be rude, but this is important to me." She pauses, trying to regain her composure. "The senator is one of the only people in this city who can save this project, and I need to make sure that happens. Please."
The secretary gives her a sympathetic look. "I understand that, hon. But the Senator has a very busy schedule. If you'd like to submit your proposal through the proper channels, I can make sure it gets filed and routed appropriately."
Donna's heart sinks. She knows what that really means – her proposal will disappear into a black hole of bureaucracy, never to be read or considered.
"Please, there has to be some way to–"
Donna's interrupted by the sound of a door opening. A tall, handsome man with warm blue eyes, tousled brown hair, and a sharp gray suit emerges from the inner office.
Donna's mouth goes dry, those vibrant eyes landing on her with an amused expression. He's easily the most beautiful man she's ever seen in the flesh, and she has to make a concerted effort not to gape.
"Everything okay out here?" His voice is rich and melodic, and there's a slight teasing note to it as his gaze moves to her and settles on her face.
"Senator Harding," the secretary says. "This young woman is insisting on speaking with you. I tried to explain that you were fully booked, but she's quite...persistent."
Those blue eyes stay locked on Donna, a faint smile on his lips. "Is that right? Well then, we'd better hear her out." He gestures towards the door he just exited. "Please, come in, Ms..."
"Paulsen," Donna finishes for him, already moving forward in a daze. "Donna Paulsen."
Is this really happening? Did he just agree to meet with her, just like that? She had been prepared for a fight, ready to dig in her heels and plead her case until security was called to remove her. And now he's ushering her into his office, all but guaranteeing that her proposal will be seen, if nothing else. It feels like a dream come true.
Weston Harding's office is surprisingly understated for someone in his position of power. It's furnished simply with a dark wood desk and matching chairs. The walls are lined with shelves filled with books, and there's a single window with a view of the cityscape below. Framed news articles and photos of him shaking hands with important looking people line the walls, reminding her just how prominent of a figure she is dealing with. He's barely in his mid-thirties, yet he's already one of the most powerful senators on Capitol Hill – a rising star in the Democratic party.
Donna can't help but feel self-conscious and underdressed in her wait staff uniform, a black collared shirt and slacks. Her red hair is twisted into a neat ponytail, her makeup minimal. She feels hopelessly outmatched in this refined environment. Especially when she's standing so close to him, breathing in his sophisticated cologne, noting how his tailored suit accentuates his lean frame and muscular build. It's hard not to be in awe of him, to not feel intimidated by his presence.
He leans against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. His demeanor is kind but somewhat bemused, as if he can't quite figure out why a twenty-something-year-old woman has barged into his office unannounced. Clearly, this isn't the norm.
"Alright," he says, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen between them. "What can I do for you, Ms. Paulsen?"
"It's about the theater on Dock Street," she says quickly, eager to get straight to the point. "They've been serving our community for over a hundred years, and they're set to be bulldozed for some big development deal."
The senator nods. "Yes, I've seen the reports. It's a tragic loss, I agree. But the developers already have the permits in place, and the building's been declared structurally unsound."
Donna shakes her head. "I'm well aware of all that," she replies. "I'm just asking that you put your influence in their direction and get the city to reconsider, maybe even delay the demolition for a few years so that they have time to revitalize the space."
"Ms. Paulsen –"
"The city's zoning codes require preservation of historic landmarks," she interrupts, determined to get her point across before he dismisses her. "The theater meets the criteria, it has for over two decades now, and they are blatantly ignoring that by handing out the demolition permits."
She launches into her well-rehearsed speech. She lays out the historical significance of the theater, the renowned performers and acts it has hosted over the decades. She highlights its importance as a community arts center, providing a refuge and creative outlet for the city's youth. She presents a detailed business plan for how to restore and reopen the space, turning it into a self-sustaining source of cultural enrichment.
As she speaks, Senator Harding's expression shifts from polite interest to genuine surprise. He nods along with her words, his eyes fixed intently on her. His attention makes her slightly breathless, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. When she finally finishes, he stares at her in amazement, the corners of his mouth curving into a smile.
"My god," he says. "You are something else."
His tone is awed, almost impressed, and her cheeks burn even more at the unexpected compliment.
He runs a hand through his hair, a boyish expression of excitement and enthusiasm taking over his features. "I must admit, you have given me something to think about here," he continues, moving to his desk and opening a drawer. He pulls out a small card, jotting something on the back, and hands it to her.
"This is my cell," he tells her, the faint smile on his face making her weak at the knees. "I'd like to stay in touch. I can't promise anything at this point, but I can open some doors and get your proposal to the right people, and I think that's the most important first step. This is...a great thing you're doing here, Ms. Paulsen. You should be very proud."
The sincerity in his voice sends a rush of warmth through Donna, and she beams at him. "Thank you, Senator Harding, really, I–"
He raises a hand. "Weston, please."
She blinks, then nods, "Thank you, Weston."
He holds out his hand to her. She hesitates a moment, then reaches out, clasping his hand in hers, and oh. It's bigger, more powerful than she imagined, but smooth and soft at the same time, the faintest of calluses brushing her skin as his hand closes around hers.
She is struck by an overwhelming need to not let go. And suddenly, all the nervousness and anxiety that she was feeling seems to melt away, and all she feels is a strange, almost inexplicable sense of comfort. A feeling of being seen and heard. She knows it's ridiculous and silly and not even remotely realistic, but in this moment, she can almost picture him becoming a sort of hero, the one to save her theater.
"What's your profession?" he asks casually, almost conversationally, as if he didn't just shake the foundations of her existence. "If I may ask. I assume you have some sort of legal or business background..."
"Oh, um, no," she says, letting go of his hand as she stumbles for something to say, "No, I'm an actress. Well, trying to be. Waitressing pays the bills. I work at The Osprey. In Brooklyn."
The corner of his mouth lifts. "A woman of the arts," he says with a soft laugh. "That explains your passion, at least. However, it does not explain your extensive knowledge of zoning and code compliance regulations. And I have to admit, that proposal of yours was better researched and argued than half the policy briefs my aides put together. Who did you have helping you?"
Donna stares at him for a long moment, unsure how to answer his questions. He looks genuinely interested, even curious, his gaze fixed on her face as if trying to figure her out.
"Just me," she says finally. "I guess I have a lot of time to kill between auditions and waiting tables."
His eyes are filled with amusement. He seems almost...enamored with her. And she can't for the life of her understand why, or even if it's real. He's an elected official. She's an out of work waitress. She must be imagining it. He must be a master at flirtation. That's the only reasonable explanation.
"Interesting," he murmurs.
After a long moment, Donna breaks the tension by reaching into her bag and pulling out another copy of the proposal.
"Here," she says, handing him the neatly bound document. "If you'd like to look over it and...pass it on or whatever."
He takes the folder from her, their hands brushing again, and he gives her that same, charming smile.
"I will do that, Ms. Paulsen," he replies, his voice warm. "Let me walk you out."
He holds out his hand, guiding her out the office and toward the lobby of the building. The secretary shoots them both a look as they pass, but Weston doesn't seem to notice. He escorts her all the way to the elevators, and when they arrive at their destination, he pauses.
Donna glances up at him, a bit startled to find that he's already looking at her, his expression unreadable. She searches her brain for something to say, some way to end this meeting that doesn't seem totally and utterly pathetic, but all she can manage to get out is another quick, breathless thank you.
He smiles at her. "The pleasure was all mine, believe me. I wish all of my constituents were as passionate about their causes as you."
The elevator doors slide open and Donna steps in.
"Until next time," he says softly, giving her one final, lingering look before the doors close between them.
And for the rest of her ride down, she feels like she's floating. She doesn't understand what just happened. It's almost surreal, the whole exchange, the way Weston treated her. So different from the dismissiveness and arrogance she received from everyone else she's come across in his line of work. So much more personal. So...genuine. And she can't shake the feeling that she made an actual difference today. That maybe she helped him see the value of what she's trying to save. It feels like she's won. Not the entire fight, but this one battle at least.
II
The smell of pancakes and fresh coffee is strong in the air when Donna opens her eyes, blinking slowly as her consciousness returns to her. Her head throbs, her throat is sore and there's a deep, almost dull ache in her lower body, one that she recognizes all too well. But despite it all, she can't help but feel a twinge of relief, knowing that she is, in some ways, safe. She's forgiven. And everything can go back to the way it was before.
She sits up slowly, taking stock of herself. She's still naked, of course, the silk sheets pooling around her hips. And the sight of her body, covered in bruises and bite marks, brings back the memories from last night, the feeling of Wes' hands and mouth. How he had punished her and rewarded her in turn, the lines blurred between pain and pleasure, the shame and desire, her own powerlessness. The duality of it all.
She pulls herself out of bed and makes her way into the bathroom. The sight of herself in the mirror makes her grimace, her reflection looking battered and exhausted. But she knows, after all this time, that she can fix it. She can make herself look normal. Beautiful. Perfect, even. She's a master at it now.
She leans in closer to the mirror and runs her fingers along her neck. There's already a faint shadow there, dark enough to be noticed but not so obvious as to raise suspicion. She can hide it with concealer. A long sleeved, high-collared dress should easily cover the rest. Wes was careful. He always is.
She showers quickly, then applies her makeup and blow dries her hair, leaving it hanging loose and soft around her face. When she's done, she inspects her handiwork in the mirror. Good, she thinks, no one would be the wiser.
Satisfied, she wraps herself in a robe and makes her way to the kitchen. She can hear the faint sounds of the news on TV and Wes moving about, the clink of silverware. She's not sure what to do with herself; she doesn't want to ruin his good mood, so she hesitates in the hallway, and he must sense her because his voice calls out, calm and warm and a little teasing.
"Come out here, woman, and help me with this food."
She breathes out a small sigh of relief and pads into the kitchen. Wes is standing in front of the stove, his back to her. He's already dressed for the day, but his shirt is still unbuttoned, his tie undone and draped around his neck, and he's barefoot.
She approaches him, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind, burying her face against the soft material of his suit jacket. She feels him still, just for a moment, and then he relaxes into her embrace, one of his hands reaching down to squeeze her forearm gently.
"Morning," he murmurs, his voice casual and affectionate, as if nothing at all had happened the night before. As if they haven't been dancing around each other for the better part of the last month. "Sleep okay?"
"Mmm," she mumbles into his shoulder, tightening her arms around him. She wants to savor this moment, this closeness, the feeling that everything is fine, even though she knows it isn't. She knows they'll be back to the tense, distant version of themselves soon enough. So she lets herself hold him, breathe him in, her face pressed into his back.
They stand like that for a few long minutes, his hand gently stroking her arm. It's quiet and comfortable, and she doesn't want to ruin it, but eventually, Wes' voice cuts through the silence again. "So, what'll it be?" he asks, nodding toward the stove. "Pancakes? Eggs? Coffee?"
He turns to face her then, and the smile on his face is warm, his eyes full of something she hasn't seen in weeks. Love. Affection. Understanding. He tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his fingertips trailing over her jawline. She leans into the touch, letting her eyes fall shut, allowing herself this small bit of indulgence.
"Just...this," she murmurs, not opening her eyes.
"Okay," he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. And then she feels his lips press against her forehead, gentle and loving.
His hands move to her hips, pulling her closer, and she wraps her arms around him once more.
"Why are you up so early?" she asks, her face pressed against his chest. "I figured you'd sleep in a bit this morning."
He shrugs, his hand stroking her hair. "Couldn't sleep. Decided to get up and make breakfast, instead. Wanted to do something nice for you."
His voice is soft, tender, and she knows he means it, that it's more than just a show, that this is how they always are after a night like last night, when she's paid for her transgressions. When she's reminded of just how much she needs him, and just how little she deserves him. He'll be affectionate, generous, until she gives him another reason not to be.
It makes the shame of last night feel worse somehow, more visceral, knowing that this is all so cyclical. Knowing that there are always two versions of her: the one that makes him happy, that he wants to spoil, and the one that he has to discipline, the one that's worth nothing. The one he can't wait to be rid of, until she earns back his favor, which is becoming increasingly difficult as his temper grows shorter with her. It's all a terrible game, one she's desperately trying to win. One that has become more and more about survival and appeasing him than actual happiness and contentment.
"Thank you," she whispers, not trusting herself to say more.
She can feel the weight of Wes' gaze on her, as if he knows what she's thinking. What she's feeling. His grip on her tightens slightly, and he tilts her chin up so that their eyes meet. There's a flash of concern in his expression, something like empathy. Or maybe it's pity. It's hard to tell anymore.
"How are you feeling?"
"A little sore," she answers honestly.
"You're okay though, right?"
He's trying to be entreating, but it still comes off a little condescending. He's reminding her that he's the one who decides if she's okay or not. That's the point of last night, isn't it? Her submission, her surrender, her agreement that she doesn't get a voice or agency. That all of her belongs to him.
"Yeah," she replies, ignoring the small twinge of bitterness. "I'm okay."
"Good." He presses another kiss to her forehead and steps back. "Come on, let's eat."
The breakfast is a pleasant affair. They talk about mundane things, their day, what needs to get done around the apartment, plans for the weekend, Wes' trip to D.C. for a legislative vote. It's like they've slipped back in time, like last night was nothing more than a bad dream.
When they're finished eating, Donna helps Wes with his tie and his cufflinks. He zips the back of her dress, his lips pressing softly against the nape of her neck, making her shiver. She smooths down the lapels of his jacket, a smile on her face. And oh, how easy it is to forget. To pretend. To hide in plain sight.
They share a ride downtown, and when they get to Pearson Wheeler Paulsen, Wes gets out with her, taking her hand in his, twining their fingers together. They walk through the lobby hand-in-hand, Wes greeting everyone by name as they go. He's all charm, and she can't help but marvel at the ease of it all, at how effortless he makes everything appear to be. No one would suspect, not for a second. And really, why should they?
In the elevator, Donna checks her phone. Harvey emailed her. Another subpoena for Wolcott, requesting his personal files and all work related correspondences. God, that man. He's so predictable. Everyday a new subpoena, a new request. She knows what he's doing, trying to tie her up with paperwork, wasting her time. She'll give him his stupid personal files, of course she will. But only after she makes him wait for it. She might even make him wait long enough that he grows impatient and just shows up to take the files himself. Not that she wants to see him again. No, definitely not. But it will be worth it to watch his frustration.
"What's that smile about?"
Wes' voice pulls her from her thoughts. He's watching her with amusement, a slight quirk at the corner of his lips.
She gives a shrug and slips her phone back in her bag, suddenly self-conscious about her distraction.
"Nothing, I was just thinking."
"About?" he asks, nudging her playfully with his shoulder.
"Harvey. He keeps sending me subpoenas, and I've just had it. I can't wait to bury him."
"You know," Wes begins, a contemplative look on his face, "if he's being such a pain in the ass, I could phone up the DA's office, tell Dennis to get a handle on his prosecutors..."
There's no mistaking the meaning in Wes' words. This is what power is, Donna thinks to herself. The ability to influence, to shape the outcome. To be above reproach. And she doesn't want any part of it.
"No, it's fine," she says, waving a hand dismissively. "I can handle it. I just need to give him a taste of his own medicine, is all."
The elevator doors slide open with a ding, revealing the quiet of the mostly empty lobby.
"Alright," Wes says, reaching out to grab her hand and twine their fingers together again, "but if it gets too bad, just let me know. I don't want you stressed."
"I'll be fine," Donna promises. She tugs gently on Wes' hand, pulling him towards her for a kiss, his free hand settling at her waist, holding her close.
"What time is your flight to D.C.?" she murmurs against his lips.
"Eleven."
She hums in acknowledgment, not wanting to pull away from him just yet, wanting to hold onto this moment of closeness. It feels fragile, delicate, as though it could shatter at any second.
He must feel it too, because his hand tightens on her hip, pulling her closer. And then, the hand wrapped around hers moves to cup her jaw, his gaze sweeping over her face, as if he's memorizing every detail. She feels seen, known, treasured in this moment. She wants to freeze it in time, keep it forever, like a photograph, this moment before it all falls apart again.
"I'll miss you," she whispers.
His lips quirk into a soft, almost boyish grin, his thumb tracing along her cheekbone. "I'll miss you, too," he says. And then, almost hesitantly, he adds, "I'm sorry, Donna. Last night was... It wasn't what I wanted for us. I hate fighting with you."
She can see the regret and the sincerity in his expression. She believes him, she always does, because in moments like these, it's impossible not to. It's impossible not to love him. Not to want to love him, despite it all. Despite herself.
"I'm sorry, too," she whispers.
"It'll be different when I get back," he says softly. "Everything will be different, I promise."
His words hang between them, full of possibility. It's not the first time he's said them, and it won't be the last. She wonders how long she'll be able to hold onto this promise, this idea that they'll get to a point where they don't need nights like last night. She wonders how much longer she'll let herself be drawn in, time and again, by his sweetness, by the brief flashes of tenderness. How many more times she'll allow herself to be convinced that things will change for the better.
She wants to believe it. She wants it so badly it aches. She wants to believe in Wes. In his ability to change. In her ability to keep him happy. But there is a nagging sense of doubt and apprehension. It's hard to stay optimistic in the face of the inevitable. An inevitable that always comes too soon, always arriving faster and faster each time.
The elevator dings and the doors open behind them. Donna takes a deep breath and steps back.
"I love you," she tells him. "Call me when you land?"
He smiles. "Of course. I –"
"Senator Harding. Just the man I've been looking for."
They both turn, finding Jessica Pearson striding towards them from the opposite end of the lobby.
"Jessica," Wes says. "Never a good sign to hear someone like you is looking for someone like me. What is it this time – another one of your corporate leeches upset about my environmental bills?" He grins and opens his arms, inviting her into an embrace that Jessica accepts without hesitation.
"Your bills certainly lack the usual loopholes to exploit. You know we hate when you play fair with us. It takes all the fun out of the game." Jessica shoots Donna a smirk, then steps back and smooths down the front of her skirt, her tone shifting to something more professional and less friendly.
"The bill you're voting on tomorrow will impact several of my clients, and I wanted to make sure we've had the chance to talk about it before the vote," she says. "If you have time, of course."
"And if I don't?"
"You'll make the time," she says matter of factly.
He laughs dryly. "Well, then. After you." He steps back, allowing Jessica to board the elevator first, then he shoots a wink at Donna before the doors slide closed, cutting them off from view.
She stares at the closed elevator doors, trying not to think too hard about what's about to transpire between them. Jessica and Wes' relationship has always been a complicated one. They have a history, but the extent of it has always been a bit of a mystery. She knows they went to Harvard together. That Wes helped Jessica out of a tight spot when she was starting out, and that she's always been grateful to him. Loyal, even. She also knows that whatever's happening now isn't simply an old friend doing a favor for a friend. It's business, politics, something with an underlying strategy she doesn't know or understand. All she knows is that Jessica has made her allegiance to Wes clear. And if Donna ever falls permanently from Wes' good graces, she will find no allies here.
"Looks like someone's out of the doghouse."
Donna turns, surprised to see Samantha standing behind her, watching her with curious eyes. Rachel's beside her, biting her lower lip to keep her grin in check, the relief palpable on her face.
"So, Wes really is okay with you postponing the wedding?" Rachel asks.
"Yeah. We're really okay."
Donna's surprised to hear how natural the words sound on her lips. And despite the truth behind them, there is something bittersweet to it all, the weight of what happened last night pressing down on her once more. The reality that nothing will ever be okay. Not really.
"God, he's perfect," Rachel says dreamily, looping her arm through Donna's, leading her toward the conference room they've recently dubbed 'The Wolcott War' room. "To support you in something like this when he has so much riding on the appearance of things. I bet you didn't even have to try hard to get him to agree. He's always putting you first."
Donna forces a smile. "Yeah. He's one in a million."
Samantha catches her eye, an odd expression crossing her features. It's only for a moment before her expression shifts again, back to her usual bored detachment. But it leaves Donna feeling uneasy, as if she revealed more than she intended to in the face of her friends' naivete.
No. Surely not. No one suspects. And certainly not Samantha, of all people, with her complete disregard for other people's emotions or the domesticity of their lives. She must've imagined it.
"Anyway. Enough about me," Donna says, dismissing the moment. "Let's get to work. It's going to be a long day, treading through all the shit Harvey's trying to drown us in."
III
"You're distracted," she pants. Her nails dig into his ass and he lets out a groan.
"You think so?" Harvey slides a hand between their bodies, finding her clit. Her breath hitches and her nails dig in even further as he circles his thumb. "Why would you think I'm distracted?"
Avery opens her eyes, looking up at him with a heavy-lidded expression. "You keep losing your rhythm. Your thrusts are all over the place." She slides a hand into his hair, tugging lightly. "Not your usual MO."
"What do you care, so long as I'm making you feel good?" He rolls his hips into her and her eyes flutter shut, another soft moan falling from her lips. "Seems like I'm doing just fine."
She lets out a breathy laugh and pulls him closer. "You are, but I know when you're in the mood and when you're...off. And tonight, you're off."
She arches a brow, challenging him, but he doesn't bite. He presses his lips to hers and picks up the pace. He feels the pressure building at the base of his spine and he quickens his thrusts, chasing the release he desperately needs to get the image of Donna out of his mind.
Donna and those legs, those freckles. Donna, with the arch of her brow. Her foot against his calf, moving slowly upward, taunting him.
Don't think about that.
But it's there. The feel of her foot against his skin. The way she'd held his gaze as it climbed up, up, up...
Fuck, he can't stop it, can't stop it, can't...
He comes, harder than he wants to, his mind swirling with visions of the woman who is doing nothing but distracting him from where he needs to be. Avery shudders beneath him as she comes too and he has to look away, because all he sees is red hair, freckles, and that sly, satisfied smirk.
He slows, and finally collapses onto Avery's shoulder. Her arms go around his back, stroking slowly up and down. And then she tugs at his hair again, forcing him to meet her gaze, and says the name of the very person he's been trying to exorcize from his thoughts for weeks now, as if reading his mind: "Donna."
He stares at her. He knows his shock is apparent. It has to be. "What?" He asks, trying to sound unaffected, but his voice comes out wrong, all strained and sharp.
"That woman who's with the senator." Avery props herself up on her elbows and watches him, amusement clear in her voice. "Your opposition."
"How..."
"I was reading an article about their wedding being canceled and it mentioned you were her opposing counsel," she says with a shrug.
He rolls off her, the mood thoroughly ruined. "Yeah."
"And she's who has your attention tonight?"
He wants to deny it. Wants to say it's none of her business what's gotten into him. But he doesn't, and that makes him wonder why, what's keeping him from lashing out the way he usually does when someone's prying. "You have a very vivid imagination."
She laughs. "Maybe, but I think my imagination is spot on."
"And what exactly are you imagining?"
She doesn't respond immediately, but after a beat she sits up, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. He's struck by how beautiful she is. How kind her blue eyes are, how easy the whole thing is with her, the lack of drama and expectation. They're not exclusive. He doesn't have to explain where he's been, why he hasn't called in days or what he's been up to. And she doesn't expect him to. There's no depth. He knows nothing about her besides what she's willing to share, and the same goes for him. And that's all he really wants with a woman.
"That you've got the hots for the Senator's fiancée," Avery says eventually. "And it's distracting the hell out of you."
"I'm not interested in her," he lies, "and she's engaged. You know my rule. Married women, engaged women..."
"Off limits, I know. And you've never been the one to break that rule for anyone. Ever."
Harvey says nothing. There's nothing for him to say. For all the lines Harvey will cross, and does, regularly, he'd never go there. He's not about to play that role – that guy. Not after infidelity tore up his parents' marriage and the subsequent years of tension and resentment it brought with it. It's too close to home.
Avery gives him a knowing look, clearly seeing through his denial, but she doesn't call him on it. She never presses him, not once in the four years they've been doing whatever it is that they've been doing.
"Well." Avery leans in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "I better get going. Jacobs was the attending today and I just know the ER is going to be a shit show because of it. I'll call you."
He nods. "Yeah." He watches as she gathers up her clothes from the floor and dresses quickly. He should get up, put some clothes on himself. Offer to cook her something to eat or something before she heads out the door, but he doesn't.
His thoughts revert back to Donna. He emailed her a copy of the subpoena they served to Wolcott this morning and he's yet to hear a reply. That was twelve hours ago. It's unprofessional for sure, not to respond to something as important as him. She's trying to keep him in limbo, on edge. Waiting. And the longer she takes, the more anxious he gets, and the more he finds himself thinking about her and that goddamn foot and all the ways he should've pushed back and –
"Harvey."
"Hmm?"
"You're staring off into the distance again, with this intense, broody expression on your face."
Avery is dressed by the time he looks up. She stands beside the bed, staring down at him. "I know I've got no right to an opinion, but it's clear that this woman's getting to you, and this...whatever it is...this tension? It's only going to get worse the more you deny it. At the very least, you need to find a way to get it out of your system."
"There is nothing in my system to get out," he says. His voice is light and amused, but he can't bring himself to look at her. To let her see the turmoil inside him, the feelings he doesn't even understand. "And even if there was, she's not worth it. She's nothing to me, Av. Just a woman on the opposite side of the courtroom."
Avery looks as if she wants to say something more. But she doesn't, merely nods. "Okay then."
"Okay then," he echoes, turning his gaze back to her. "Now, go on. Save some lives."
He watches as she lets herself out of his condo, closing the door softly behind her.
When he hears the click, he turns onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, letting out a deep sigh. He has no idea what time it is. Eight? Nine? He'd left work earlier than usual, agitated and restless. Unable to sit still. He'd phoned Avery on the drive back and she'd come over right away. Her presence and her body always did something for him, but today he'd been a mess even for her. It hadn't done much for his mood either. He'd wanted to lose himself, to stop thinking about Donna. And he'd done a half ass job at both.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand beside him. He glances at it and sees a new email. Donna, he thinks. Finally, her response. It has to be. He grabs the phone and sits up. But it's some bullshit meeting reminder from Mike. He ignores it. He should take a shower, change his sheets, make the bed, something.
He's about to set his phone back on the nightstand when a careless impulse comes over him. And before he knows it, his finger is tapping Donna's contact card, pulling up a message box.
Harvey: I sent you a subpoena. FYI.
His finger hovers over the Send button, and he pauses, a battle of wills ensuing in his head. What is he doing? He can't send that. It's ridiculous. It's childish. Not to mention he's lying in bed, naked, and half-hard, and thinking about her...and...
Jesus fuck. He hits Send.
Donna: Yes. I saw your email. Texting me is redundant.
His lips twitch at her curt response. He shouldn't enjoy this. But he does.
Harvey: It's not redundant if it pisses you off.
Donna: Right. How's that bruised ego of yours doing?
Harvey: Still riding that high, huh?
Donna: Oh, I will be riding this high for a very long while.
His mind wanders at that, at the idea of her riding someone – him, preferably – for a very long while. He should put his phone down. But he can't bring himself to. It's the late hour, he reasons. And the whiskey he'd drank earlier, and his annoyance, and that goddamn foot. And his half hard dick. And the fact that he can't get her out of his mind. It's a bad combination for his ability to control himself, to stay professional. He knows that.
Still. He can't resist.
Harvey: Little cocky, aren't you?
Donna: No more so than usual.
Harvey: I wouldn't go around patting yourself on the back too hard, it was only an impasse, remember?
Donna: I only called it an impasse to save you further embarrassment.
Harvey: You wanna talk about embarrassing? How about how unprofessional your tactics are.
Donna: What is this about, Harvey? I'm busy and you're starting to piss me off.
Harvey: Just checking in.
Donna: Is that your professional, lawyerly duty? Checking in on opposing counsel?
Harvey: A chore, for sure. I hate you so much, every message that pings with your name makes me sick.
Donna: Same.
He laughs as he reads that. God, he doesn't want this to be over. But what is there to say, really? There is no excuse to keep this conversation going, not a professional one, anyway. But he doesn't care. He doesn't want to say goodnight. Not yet. Not when he can feel her attention.
Harvey: Alright. Jokes aside. I need those files I subpoenaed. Can you give me an ETA?
Donna: I have them here at the firm. I'll have one of my associates deliver them to you in the morning. Fair?
Harvey: I'd prefer to get my hands on them sooner.
He's being unreasonable and he knows it, but he's enjoying pushing her buttons, seeing how far he can get.
Donna: Fine. Come and get them. I'll let security know to let you up.
He stares down at his phone for a long moment, reading those words, and re-reading them. This is dangerous. He shouldn't be going there. It's after nine at night. There is absolutely no professional reason for him to go to her firm, not right now, when most of her team will be gone for the day. He should end this exchange. Tell her he'll stop by tomorrow and they can settle things then. But instead...
Harvey: I'm on my way.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Next chapter...well, I think you can tell by the cliffhanger what's in store ;)