I

Cameron scowls at Harvey from across his desk, and Harvey can tell by his sour, pissed off mood, his encounter with Harding had not been a pleasant one. He tries his best to look interested and professional, but his mind is on other things. On Donna. The trial. On Weston – that look, that fucking look. He knows what that look means. It's one that says, 'I see you and I am going to fuck up your life'. But he doesn't let the anxiety at that look – and what may have provoked it – show.

"You've really shit the bed, haven't you?" Cameron finally murmurs, a trace of awe mixed with a hint of anger and incredulity in his tone. Harvey is silent, not really seeing what reply could be offered to the statement.

Cameron is clearly expecting some response, though. When he's met with silence he leans back and steeples his fingers in a classic pose, the pads of them pressing into each other as the clock ticks.

"I told you not to play games with the redhead. I told you not to lose control of this situation."

"You did," Harvey acknowledges calmly, refusing to take the bait or let the conversation escalate into a fight.

"And instead of heeding my warnings, instead of focusing on our end goal – the goal we all agreed upon before proceeding – you've instead decided it's wise to...what? What's going on exactly, Harvey?"

"What do you want me to tell you?"

"You know what? Nothing. The less you share with me about your...indiscretions, the easier I can wash my hands of the inevitable shit-show this will bring down."

"I've got it handled." He can hear how empty and hollow that sounds even to his own ears.

Cameron's scowl deepens. He stands, shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and walks over to look at his view of the Manhattan Bridge.

"If Senator Harding decides to throw a wrench into all this – which, let's be honest here, Harvey – it's a foregone fucking conclusion at this point – do you think I have it in me to go down for you, and your idiotic, juvenile choices?" Cameron turns, leans back, crosses one ankle over the other. He looks, suddenly and entirely, like the threat he is. Harvey watches him from the chair and feels a flicker of fear in his heart.

"I will deny, and decimate and do what's in my own personal best interest. Don't for a moment believe I will protect you from the wolves at your door. I don't owe you a goddamn thing," he warns. "Senator Harding has the power to bring down a firestorm on our office. Don't think you'll walk out of here in one piece if that happens. Not when he could easily implicate all of us in the fallout."

He pushes away from his window, walks back to his desk and sits heavily.

"And I've worked too fucking hard, Harvey." The man's eyes glitter dangerously. "To put away the scum and the liars and the criminals in this city. My career isn't going up in flames. So I will ask you one last time." Cameron stares at him intently, his voice steely and cold. "Can I trust you to fix this situation?"

Harvey hesitates, just for a moment – Donna's smile flashing in his mind and a pang in his heart – a moment of weakness. He could just let all of it crumble, everything he has fought so hard and so many years for – the prestige and power – for her.

He could follow this feeling, chase it, and find a home with her – somewhere far away from New York and her fiancé. Somewhere like Montana. A place with mountains and air and space to think. They could open a private practice and build something – a life – together.

He can picture it in perfect, tantalizing detail in that second's worth of consideration: his arm draped lazily across her abdomen in a messy bed on a sun-soaked Sunday, a kiss, a sigh, and no cares in the world.

The thought is so startlingly beautiful that his heart stutters a beat. But he blinks, the image fades. And the reality of the world they live in, the world outside of the one in his mind, returns. The world of consequences.

He exhales. "You have nothing to worry about," he tells Cameron. "I'll fix it." He's not sure if the lie is to convince his boss or himself.

Three hours later she texts him a picture of the fish tank fully set up in her new apartment. It stands tall and elegant next to the window, surrounded by the light of the evening sun and a backdrop of the midtown skyline. It's a nice picture – but what's even nicer is the reflection of her on the tank's glass surface, posing provocatively in a pair of underwear and nothing else. He can see her bare chest, her full breasts, the curve of her hip, the lacy waistband of her panties. And fucking hell, if it doesn't make him instantly, achingly hard.

Donna: Just waiting on a sizable aquatic mammal to plunge into the depths and live out his whalean fantasy.

Donna: If you catch my drift.

And goddamn it, he's grinning, head falling back against his chair in his darkened office, thumb grazing over the screen and tracing the slopes of her body, unable to tear his eyes away.

Okay – so he doesn't have a handle on it. Not even slightly. But he's in too deep to stop now, and fuck it if he can't find the willpower to do the right thing. He can do the right thing tomorrow. Tonight, he's going to let himself have this – her – before the whole damn world falls apart around him.

II

The bathtub water steams gently around Donna, the scent of lavender wafting in the air. Her hair is pinned atop her head in a loose bun, her skin flushed, and her limbs laid out languidly. The candles she'd lit flicker in the darkness, casting a soft glow over the bathroom. In the quiet of the night, with her mind as blank as she can manage, she attempts to relax, but her thoughts continue to drift and spiral. The notes she'd intended to pore over lay to her right on a stack of folded towels; the moisture making the edges of paper curl.

Sighing, Donna leans forward and pours a second glass of chardonnay.

She hasn't heard from Harvey.

All day long, her phone stayed silent; no messages or emails. No witty one liners or banter.

At first, it was fine.

At least, she'd pretended that it was – that the lack of communication was a necessary consequence of their busy lives. After all, between prepping for the case and dealing with Wolcott, she was barely in control of her own schedule, and Harvey's days were likely just as jam-packed, full of his own meetings and court sessions. It was only reasonable that there hadn't been time to connect.

But then she sent the picture. A taunt, an invitation, an olive branch, all rolled into one provocative image. A clear, "Hey, I'm still here. Are you?"

That picture should've stirred him out of whatever work-induced coma he's in.

It didn't.

And now, in the quiet and peaceful haven of her bathtub, with her heart aching for things she knows she'll never be able to hold onto in the long run, she can admit to herself how foolish it had been – the fantasy of it all. The sheer recklessness and stupidity of thinking that she and Harvey could have ever been anything more than a fleeting, beautiful, doomed mistake. That the intimacy they'd found, and shared, would last beyond that one stolen night in Montana.

She picks up her wine, draining the remainder in the glass in a desperate, ill-conceived attempt at distraction. Then she reaches over, past the files and grabs her phone.

Donna: You must be busy...

The moment she sends it, her cheeks flush with humiliation. Too needy, she tells herself. Desperate.

The ellipses of his reply start, stop, restart. And finally stop altogether, and she exhales and closes her eyes. She sets the glass aside and leans into the porcelain back, slipping down deeper until the warm water is lapping just beneath her ears.

God, what is she doing?

How did she get here, putting so much emotion and trust in this relationship that's about nothing else but pleasure and physical attraction? How did she ever think she could indulge herself in a fling that didn't lead to some version of this very moment – tears in a tepid bath, heart on the verge of breaking, pain and disappointment carving little pieces out of her with every tick of the clock.

Donna pulls the plug with her toes and stands, grabbing her towel and drying off. As she rubs the towel down her body, she glances at the bruises that still decorate her skin, so much lighter now than the weeks before. Just the faintest mottling remains of the darker purple bruising from where the leather had struck, leaving the edges tinged with yellow and brown. The deeper stripes, the ones that had cut, are still present. The skin around these wounds, she notices with a sinking feeling, is thickened and raised – scarred.

She traces one, her fingers running down her thigh, imagining for a fleeting instant it's Harvey's touch. Imagines he's there to witness, and understand, and share the burden of the violence that shaped her. Maybe if he saw these scars and realized...

Realized what?

That she's broken? That she doesn't know how to be in love and not afraid anymore? That there's a darkness inside, a twisted desire to be controlled, to be hurt. That sometimes, late at night, when she's all alone in the silence, a part of her craves, with an almost unbearable longing, for that violence – the cathartic, almost holy, obliteration and ecstasy of it. It whispers to her, calling like an old friend she should never revisit. But it's so, so familiar.

Would Harvey ever understand? Does anyone deserve to be saddled with the fucked up, messy person she is?

No. They don't. She wouldn't wish herself on anyone.

And it's probably a good thing, she reflects, that Harvey isn't coming tonight. Because now, there is no chance of him ever finding out. Of ever glimpsing her imperfections and rejecting them – and her, in turn.

But maybe this is all the Wes in her head talking. That poisonous voice that tells her she's not enough. Not smart enough. Not strong enough. Not deserving of love. That it's all her fault, that she's the one to blame. He'd tell her she wasn't enough for him, either. For Harvey. And look, he'd be right.

She tosses the towel on the bathroom tile and heads to her bedroom. As she reaches to switch on her bedside lamp, her phone lights up with an incoming message.

Harvey: Never too busy to take a dip into that aquarium of yours. Are you hungry?

The breath she's holding rushes out of her and she sinks to sit at the edge of her blow-up mattress, the sudden surge of joy so sharp and poignant she doesn't know how to make sense of it. All that self-loathing and pain, just...gone.

The smile she can feel tugging at the corners of her mouth spreads wider. She wants to laugh with relief. Instead she replies with shaky, excited fingers.

Donna: Just a dip?

Harvey: You know damn well that I will be drowning in that pussy tonight.

Harvey: Get the lifeguard on stand-by.

Harvey: All hands on deck.

God – there it is – the love, so strong it's making her heart feel as if it's bursting inside of her.

Donna: We're just casually dropping pussy in our texts, now? I approve. Keep it coming.

Harvey: You like it when I'm crude?

Donna: I do. I think you could say it does things to me...

Donna: And, yes. To your earlier question. I could eat.

Her mind immediately leaps into a mental inventory of her fridge, a litany of shortcomings and deficiencies. There's wine. And the leftover lo Mein that she never got around to finishing two nights ago.

She starts to type that she can order in – that is something casual sex partners can do, isn't it? Have dinner together? – when another message arrives from him:

Harvey: Perfect. I'm outside your front door.

She stares at her phone in confusion, the message not registering, until it does, finally, and she flies up off the bed and scrambles, panicked and cursing. She spots her robe – white and silk and definitely not something casual sex acquaintances greet one another in – and she turns in a full circle, looking for any alternative to the ridiculous, short and sheer garment.

But then there's a knock.

"Damn it," she mutters, and jams her arms through the sleeves anyway.

She rushes to the mirror and scrubs her hand across the glass to dispel the fog.

"You're fine," she assures herself, her reflection wide-eyed and desperate looking. "Just fucking chill."

She lets her hair down from the clip on top of her head, which looks even more deliberately sexy, which in turn, seems even more insane, but there's nothing for it, is there? It's all insane, from inviting him into her life to her own inability to control herself where this man's presence is concerned, and...

God.

She takes a deep breath and goes to open the door. And there he is.

Hair tousled, wearing a dark shirt and jeans, and carrying two brown paper bags with a bottle of wine sticking out of the top, his gaze is warm, affectionate and amused, the corners of his lips curling up in that slow, devastating smile of his, and her heart just stops.

Their eyes lock, and the way his body responds to the vision she is – wearing nothing but a thin piece of silk that barely skims her upper thigh – sends heat shooting through her veins.

"Jesus," he murmurs. And the hunger on his face is the sweetest validation imaginable. "Wow..."

"I—was having a bath."

"Yeah." He pushes himself forward and she retreats, backing away as they cross into the entrance of the apartment. She hears the sound of bags hitting the floor and the soft snick of the front door sliding closed.

And then her back is up against a wall and he's leaning in, caging her between arms, and the kiss is...god. The kiss is so sweet and slow that her heart trips and swells and she moans, reaching to clasp at his shoulders to steady herself.

The kisses deepen, slow, sensual brushes of lips and tongues, growing heavier, and hotter, and her hips tilt into him, pressing close, his arousal nudging into her. He pulls back for air and he laughs – his breath warm and delicious on her cheek – and she feels him shake his head. "God. I can't even think when I'm around you."

She smiles. "It seems we share this affliction."

"I had this whole plan..." he murmurs, his lips, so soft, brushing the edge of her jaw, trailing kisses just below her ear and down, down to the slope of her neck and her shoulder. He tugs at her robe's neckline with his finger and follows the exposed path of her skin there.

"Oh?" She's having trouble remembering what words even are, nevermind how to form them. "A...plan, huh?"

"Yeah..." His mouth is open, tongue hot, tracing the curve of her breast. He nudges at the robe, impatient, and slides the fabric to the side and catches her nipple with his mouth and she trembles. He sucks and it's like his mouth has a direct connection to her clit – every pull on that hardened point is a sharp, aching tug between her legs and her hips rock against his in an instinctive, mindless search for friction.

"What...what was the plan?" She's breathless and panting, and her hands are frantic, pulling and tugging at the fabric of his shirt until it gives and she can slide her hands beneath and touch skin and the firm, muscled shape of his back and waist.

"Romance you," he explains as his mouth drags across to the other nipple. Another tug and she's on fire for him. "Wine you," another kiss, another long suck of her nipple into his hot and heavenly mouth, "dine you..." and she thinks that this, what he's currently doing with her breasts and his mouth, this alone might finish her, might make her come, right here, up against a bare wall.

"I see." She tries to sound nonchalant, and fails. "And this—"

"This," he interrupts her, as he kisses his way lower down her belly, "was not part of that plan." He sinks to his knees before her and her robe is shoved the rest of the way aside as his large, strong hands wrap around her thigh, sliding upward. "This," she thinks she might die as the first touch, gentle and searching, slides between her slick folds. "God," his forehead hits her stomach. And then his tongue, oh god his tongue. "This was supposed to wait," and she's shattering, spinning out of control, her head falling back, her crown thumping on the wall, her hands grasping, tangling in his hair. "Until at least the third course," he mumbles and she can feel his smile, "at least."

"Third course," she agrees, and then her eyes are squeezing shut as he licks and laps, the flat of his tongue wide and moving over and over, torturously slow, up and then down, again and again. He slides his fingers, one and then two, deep and long into her and she gasps. He groans, and the reverberations of his pleasure, his enjoyment of her and her body and what he is doing to it, makes her head spin.

"Oh... Harvey…" She's shaking, her hips rocking, chasing his mouth. He curls the fingers he's thrusting into her and her body clenches hard around them and her leg bends at his urging, hooking over his shoulder. His pace quickening, his mouth opening wider over her, sucking her into that warm, soft tongue that flickers faster, faster and—

"Oh, oh god—"

It starts in her toes and shoots through every nerve ending she possesses, every atom singing with her release. She cries his name. It's inescapably embarrassing but she can't seem to stop doing it. And then the crest hits and she's trembling, and quaking and begging for him to – please, god, never, ever stop doing exactly this – until her body can no longer take it, the stimulation bordering pain, and her hands, still buried in his hair, tug his mouth away.

He rests his forehead once more against her belly and his breathing is labored and ragged, matching hers, his fingers still gently stroking where he's buried inside her. His thumb reaches and caresses over her sensitive and raw nerve-endings and she twitches in his hold.

"I love feeling you come," he tells her, his mouth and nose pressed into her. "God. Your body..."

"Mmmm," is her reply. What else is there? He has her reduced to a state of non-verbal bliss. She can feel herself still pulsing around his fingers, the last throes of her orgasm slowly fading.

His hand slides away from between her legs and he wraps both his palms against her ass, holding her there, as he stands.

She watches with some amusement as he adjusts the press of his cock in his jeans. It looks uncomfortable – a rigid, thick bulge – trapped in a downward curve in the denim, straining against the zipper.

He leans forward to rest his forearm above her and she reaches out and cups his cheek, running a soothing stroke along its line, feeling the slight burn of the day's stubble on the edge of her finger and her thumb. He turns into the caress, his eyes fluttering closed for a heartbeat.

"I've wanted you all day." His smile is wry. "All fucking week."

She tries to smile back, to brush off the seriousness of her need and desperation in favor of some light, witty remark, but she feels tears threaten – stupid tears, because he is so perfect, and she loves him, and she's terrified that's she going to lose all of this to her own fucked up mess – and, for just this once, in this singular moment in the timeline of their lives together, she allows the words she needs to say spill out, unchecked.

"I was afraid you wouldn't come." She hates how vulnerable it sounds. But it's too late, she can't unsay the words. Can't take back her own insecurity and need and her feelings – all the goddamned emotions. She looks away. He cups her chin. Brings her gaze back.

"It was never even a choice. You know that."

"Do I?"

"Yes." His tone leaves no space for dissent. His eyes, intense. His hand slides to wrap around the base of her skull, holding her, and she exhales slowly, and he says: "Look. Let me feed you, and fuck you properly." His smile, when it comes, makes the corners of his eyes crinkle and she feels herself melt, just a bit, at the sight.

She grins back, her arms twinning behind his head. "Oh?" A suggestive tilt of her hips into the hard ridge in his trousers. He closes his eyes again at the sensation of it and groans softly in her ear. "You have something specific in mind?" Her lips skim his ear and down the column of his throat, her voice dropped low and sultry, and his body shudders in her grasp.

"I—" His words break into a rough exhalation as she presses harder. Then his hands reach, cupping either side of her jaw and he pulls back to look her square in her eyes. He seems about to say something. She can read the shape and size and weight of the words forming in his eyes. Something that's been hanging in the space that separates them. His lips part. Her heart skips. She feels the syllable form.

Then he swallows.

"Let me feed you," he repeats instead and drops a kiss, one that's far, far sweeter than any of those before. Then he disengages. Turns to retrieve the bags he had discarded by the front entry and Donna's left leaning on the wall, watching him retreat and wondering if her heart will survive this man. If her soul can possibly endure all that he brings to it.

III

They make pasta from scratch.

It takes a little coaxing from Harvey before Donna even agrees to the endeavor. At first she looks at the bags and the ingredients he's laid out and shakes her head. "I'll just order in," she tells him. "I can't cook." But he dangles a glass of red wine under her nose and says, "Trust me," and, for whatever reason, she does.

So they make pasta. And it isn't terrible. The dough is too dry and Harvey has to add water. They knead it together, and Donna's hands are so delicate, and warm, and small beneath his own, and her head tips back, and she laughs at his stupid jokes and stories of his early days at the DA's office. Of his hiring of Mike without a legal degree, and Cameron's rage. She's laughing and her head falls onto his shoulder as he works the dough, and she sips from the wineglass, and he thinks that no one, not a single woman he's ever been with, has ever felt this perfect in his arms.

They roll the dough out with an empty wine bottle and cut the pasta with a plastic knife, and the result is uneven and not at all like the uniform noodles they'd get at a restaurant, but when he drops them into the boiling water he's strangely proud, and she is, too.

He chops vegetables while she simmers tomato sauce. They talk and flirt, moving around one another with an effortless synchronicity. He finds a way, several times, to sneak behind her and circle his arms around her waist and pull her in. Kiss the curve of her shoulder, and her exposed neck. He loves how she melts into him. Loves the ease and grace of her body as she curves into his touch. He thinks about how he could do this every evening for the rest of his life, and the thought is so startlingly clear, so suddenly vivid, that he wonders if it's been there, in the back of his mind, all this time.

After the food is done, they improvise a dinner set up on the hardwood floors of the empty living area, eating directly off the pots, sitting cross-legged, knees brushing knees. Donna had insisted she's not sitting on the floor and "not dressed", and so she had disappeared into the bedroom and had come back in an outfit that Harvey's fairly convinced was put on to torment and entice him as thoroughly as possible: lounge pants – silky and loose and light gray – that drape on her long, slender legs like liquid, and a camisole top, white and transparent enough to make out her nipples through the material, but not sheer, which, in some strange way that Harvey can't fathom, just makes it all that more provocative and enticing and erotic.

So he sits, and eats, and tries to keep his gaze from straying to her breasts, to the outline of those nipples, to the way her body moves and shifts as she eats, and he wonders if it's possible to die of longing. If it's possible to want, and want, and want until your heart just...stops. Gives out.

But she's there. She's right there. And he can touch her. And so he does. His palm drapes along her shin, and he plays, absentmindedly, with her ankle and her toes - the goddamn toes that started it all. She smiles at the tickle of his fingers, a private little smile, and he can see the delight in her eyes. It's so easy to please her. And, god, he loves that.

They make small talk as they eat. About the trial. The jury selection. The witnesses. The judge. But not about them. And not about the man who stands in the shadows of her life, just behind her shoulder. And not about the fear, and pain, and doubt, that he sees in her eyes sometimes. That he's beginning to realize, with a slow and sickening certainty, that he can never displace or heal or take away.

"You wanna know something crazy" she says, when they're done eating and have shifted, stretched out on the floor, side by side, facing each other. She's tucked her hands beneath her cheek and she's studying him, her gaze serious and contemplative.

"What?"

"I almost took a job at the DA. As a secretary."

He can't help his surprise at the revelation. He props himself on his elbow and leans in, curious. "Really? When?"

"A decade ago."

She's quiet, reflective, her gaze thoughtful and inward, and he finds himself wanting to know more, to know everything there is about her life before this moment. "What happened?" he asks.

"The day of the interview..." She pauses, her eyes darkening, growing distant. "Wes asked me to move in with him. And it's so strange, because when I think back it's that interview – the moment I chose not to go to it – that's like a fork in the road for me. And now I wonder what my life would've been like if I'd taken a different path. If I just had some common goddamn sense and saw the warning signs of the kind of man Wes really is and walked away."

He imagines a different world. A world where, maybe, their paths would have crossed in a different context. Where they could have been colleagues. Or friends. Where he could have been there for her, to protect her and keep her safe from the Weston Hardings of the world. He imagines a different reality and it's beautiful and full of promise and it's so fucking tragic that he feels a physical ache in his chest at its absence.

"Sometimes," he says quietly, "we're not in a position to make the right choice, no matter how much common sense we have. Sometimes we're not in a position to walk away, and we can't blame ourselves for that." He thinks of his mother. Of the years he spent keeping her secrets. The guilt he's carried since childhood for his own complicity in her betrayal, however inadvertent. For his own weakness. "Sometimes, the best we can do in the face of impossible situations and impossible choices is to just...survive."

She looks up, her gaze meeting his, and there's understanding in that look.

"The panic attacks..." She starts softly and then stops. He tries not to look alarmed, or apprehensive, or nervous at what's coming. Her brow pinches and a crease appears and she's quiet for another moment.

"What about them?"

Her eyes fall, her lashes sweeping downward. Her gaze now fixed at the small space that separates them, that tiny gap of a few inches that seems to symbolize the larger, looming, insurmountable distance between them.

"It's stupid," she laughs, and she doesn't move, just keeps her attention focused away. "I know this is all..." A wave of one of her arm in the general space of their makeshift dinner setup. "...a casual thing. Friends, I guess, now." A smile that doesn't meet her eyes, and it stabs a sharp jolt into the center of him. "Who fuck on occasion. But...you've been so kind to me, about all of it, and so supportive, and I'm sorry you have to witness these—these...bursts of crazy—" Her smile is brittle. The words rushed and self-deprecatingly amused.

"You're not crazy."

"I feel pretty insane, sometimes, I'm not going to lie. The anxiety," she pauses. Her eyes lift to meet his.

"God," she breathes, a little sigh, the word so full of sadness. And he can't stand being this apart from her.

He reaches, his fingers tracing down her face, catching the edge of her jaw, and her eyes close and her lips part and he sees her body relax, just a little, as if the touch is grounding.

He wonders what would happen if he gave in, and simply followed the truth in his heart – spoke words like: 'you are the most amazing person I have ever met. You're strong and beautiful and intelligent. And the way I feel when we're like this is not 'casual,' none of this could be construed as 'casual,' in the history of that fucking adjective's use in any language,'...and Jesus, it terrifies him, that impulse.

And, for one fleeting moment of insanity and foolishness and weakness – it is so close to coming out of his mouth. It rises from somewhere deep within him, almost like a physical sensation, a pressing upward into his chest, his throat, the weight and gravity and import of this revelation. He watches her eyes close at whatever is showing in his, sees the sudden tear on her lashes and knows he can't do this.

It isn't fair.

She's already too tied up, and he won't be another complication in her already fractured domestic life. She doesn't need the guilt or the pressure of knowing he's falling apart, that his emotions are so unbalanced and out of hand around her. He doesn't want to put the burden of his love onto the fragile equilibrium that she's worked so painstakingly hard to establish to keep her life together.

"I started having my panic attacks just after my father died," Harvey offers, a truth given freely in lieu of the ones that must remain buried for now. "I was lead prosecutor on this child abuse case against an on-duty cop. The case was a mess from the beginning – the kid was a juvenile offender and had a criminal record that could fill a book. The cop, he had a spotless record and was married with three children of his own."

He pauses. Donna's lashes sweep upward and her eyes search his own, surprise flickering in the soft lines of her face and his thumb slides, caressing her cheek. "We didn't have too much. So I ended up having to depose the kid and –" he exhales sharply, and his breath stutters on an old pain – one long worn into him now, an accustomed groove in the fabric of himself, but one that's not without its sharp edges still. "It broke something inside of me, to have to ask all those questions, over and over. Make that kid relive it, her pain, just to prove her trauma."

He watches her eyes go liquid and soft. Her face is a heartbreaking blend of affection and sadness, and he wonders, suddenly, if it's his words, or her own pain and memories that have brought forth this reaction. He dips his head to kiss her, because it feels as if it's been a millennium since his mouth was on her and her lips part beneath his.

"I was a mess, for months," he admits as they pull apart to draw air, their foreheads still touching and eyes closed. "Panic attacks. Insomnia. Irritability. I became this...person that was barely me. I think a big chunk of that case broke something off and shook loose whatever grief had been waiting inside of me since I lost my dad. Coupled with the weight of what would happen to that kid if I tanked the case."

When he looks into her eyes, he finds them bright with concern.

"What happened?" She swallows. And there's a flicker there in her gaze – as if her own fate depends on his answer and it's more than curiosity that has her hanging onto every word he utters, the edges of her question jagged. "To the girl, to her abuser? Did you..."

His mouth spreads into a slow grin. "Win? Who the hell do you think I am? Of course, I fucking won."

And her laugh is startled, a surprised exhalation at his arrogance and his confidence and the sudden lightness of his words, but there's relief, too. An almost palpable sense of gratitude in that sound, and he feels his smile spread wider.

"God. You are..." She shakes her head and he watches, delighted, as she bites her lip in a futile effort to hide the curve of her amusement at his cockiness. "A real life superhero, aren't you?"

"The one and only."

She pushes him, and then, in a move so swift and graceful and fluid that it leaves his mind reeling, she's straddling his lap, her legs wrapping around him and his palms automatically come to rest on the small of her back, fingers spreading, pressing down, and her hips rock once, and his cock, which hasn't exactly settled into a state of calm and peaceful slumber since his arrival here, goes rigid.

"And your panic attacks," she murmurs, her eyes heavy-lidded, her hips starting to move in a slow, deliberate grind, "they just...went away?"

"No," he says, and the word is a gasp, a hushed, strangled breath. "Needed therapy." He slides his palms down, over the curve of her ass and squeezes, and she makes an appreciative little moan and her eyes flutter shut.

"Therapy?" Her voice is a breathy, aroused murmur.

"Yeah," his words are muffled into her shoulder, his teeth tugging on the strap of her camisole, pulling it down until it slides to reveal her breast. And, Jesus Christ, her body, the soft, smooth flesh of her breast, the nipple, pink and peaked, begging for the slide of his tongue.

He sucks, hard, the flesh taut in the warm embrace of his mouth, and she moans and her body arches into him, her pelvis grinding down harder, faster, and his hands grip and knead her ass, encouraging the movements.

"And it..." She inhales, a long, shuddering gasp of air. "It helped? The therapy?"

"Eventually." He pulls off the nipple, the word spoken against her skin. And he wants to add, 'maybe it can work for you, too,' but he doesn't. It doesn't seem like the right moment. Instead, his palms slide lower, hook under the backs of her thighs and tug her closer, the friction between their bodies intensifying. "I can refer you." Another kiss, to the other nipple this time. Another suck, and he can hear the soft whine that the suction elicits, and the sound sends another thrill down to his already aching dick. "If you want."

Her fingers, god, those fingers, they're on his fly now. His cock is released from its prison of denim and she's wrapping that hand around the base and his heart is going to explode with the force of his arousal. He can feel his pulse in every part of his body and she's stroking him, and he's thrusting into her hand and she's so fucking beautiful and he's not going to last. She leans down, her mouth to his ear, her voice a whisper, a breath, as she says: "Yes. Please. I'd like that."

He reaches, his own hands searching for the waistband of her lounge pants, pushing down, and his fingers slide between her legs, and he finds her underwear already damp and he groans at that, as her hand keeps pumping and squeezing and his fingers slip beneath the cotton panel and slide between the folds of her and her head falls to his shoulder.

"Harvey." Her voice breaks on his name, a sob, almost.

He's rubbing her clit and her body is shaking, and her mouth is pressed into his shoulder, and the hand on his dick stutters and stops, and her hips rock, and he can feel her thighs trembling on either side of his. He can feel her growing wetter, can feel her getting closer, her breath coming in shorter, faster, frantic little bursts of air that caress his neck.

"Condom," she says. She's riding his fingers now, and he's watching the sight of her moving on him, her eyes closed, her head tipped back, her mouth parted, and that nipple, still wet from his mouth.

He doesn't want to move, doesn't want to stop looking, stop watching, stop feeling the sensation of her coming apart in his arms.

"Wallet," he manages.

She shifts, fumbling for it, reaching for his jeans and her face is lowered over him, her hair, those soft red waves, brushing the tops of his thighs. And he thinks that it's not possible to be more aroused than he is, but then she looks up. And her eyes lock onto his, and she smiles, a slow, seductive, sly little curve of her lips.

His heart thunders to a sudden, jarring halt.

She leans forward, and the smile still lingering, licks the head of his cock, a quick little flick of her tongue. He can't stop his hips from jerking, from thrusting, from his hand burying into the silk of her hair and urging her closer. She opens her mouth, her head dipping lower, and her tongue slides on the underside of him, along his shaft and he groans. "Jesus. Donna. I can't…" He's going to lose it, and he has to pull his eyes away, has to think about baseball stats and court motions and the most boring, mundane shit he can conjure in his mind to keep from coming.

He hears the crinkle of the condom wrapper, feels her mouth slide away and the loss of that wet heat. He closes his eyes, tries to focus on anything but the sensation of her hand sliding the rubber onto him, of her thighs straddling his and her hands on his shoulders, of the brush of her breasts, the press of her pelvis and the sudden, tight, fucking perfect clench of her as she slides onto him.

"Fuck," he whispers, his eyes flying open, and she's there, her eyes inches from his own, her hair falling in waves over her shoulders, a curtain around them. She's smiling, a breathy little laugh, and his hands reach and wrap around her waist. "Fuck," he says again, and she laughs again, a soft, sweet chuckle.

She starts to ride him. Slow, languorous movements of her hips. Her fingers are in his hair, her mouth on his. Soft kisses. Tender. Achingly gentle brushes of her lips. She whispers his name, over and over, and her eyes, they never leave his.

And this – whatever the hell this is – this isn't just sex. This is something so far beyond the realm of the purely physical, that he feels his mind, and heart, and soul, spinning with the enormity of it all.

Her hips rock, and he's thrusting up, and they are moving in perfect harmony, a dance that's so effortless and natural that it feels like they've been doing this forever. He feels her tighten around him, her movements losing their rhythm and growing erratic, and he's right there with her, his body shaking, on the edge, waiting, wanting nothing more than to fall with her.

"Harvey," her voice is a sob, her forehead pressed to his.

"Let go," he murmurs. His hands tighten on her waist, pulling her down, urging her on, and she's panting, and shuddering. "Come for me."

And she does, her entire body clenching around his. Her nails digging into his shoulders. And she's sobbing and he's right there with her, his orgasm a sudden, powerful, surge of pleasure that seems to radiate from somewhere deep in his soul. He hears himself cry her name, a broken, shattered, whisper.

They come down together, and the silence is broken only by their heavy, panting breaths. He's still inside her, and he can't bring himself to pull out. Her head has dropped into his shoulder, her body draped over his, and he's holding her, and he's kissing her hair, and he's stroking the line of her spine. He closes his eyes. He can feel her heartbeat, her breath, the press of her soft breasts into his chest. And he thinks that this must be what heaven feels like.

"Donna..." he whispers. And the syllables are a plea, a desperate, hopeless entreaty to some god somewhere to give him the strength to walk away, if this can't possibly last. If she can't be his. If this is all borrowed time, and every second they share, every heartbeat they synchronize, every touch, is a gift, stolen from another life, one where there's no Weston Harding. A life where they're free, and she's his. A life he can't possibly fathom.

"What...?" she whispers. His silence had grown too long.

"I have a gift for you."

She pulls back to look at him and there's a little, almost imperceptible smile that plays at her lips. "You mean...other than the one you just gave me, right?"

He grins and rolls them both and she's pinned beneath him, and he's sliding out of her and his forehead drops to her own, and he kisses her; a soft, gentle kiss that he hopes conveys all that he's not saying.

"Yeah, smartass." He smiles into the kiss. "Not that I mind your interpretation of gifts, by the way."

She wiggles, a little shimmy beneath him, and his dick, despite having just emptied itself, gives a twitch.

"Me either. But I'm intrigued," she says, her palm stroking down his cheek. "What did you get me?"

He rolls off and onto his knees, peeling the condom off and wrapping it into a napkin. Then he's standing, tucking himself back in, and he sees her gaze, dark and heated and still full of desire, watching him. "Where are you going?" she asks, and she sounds disappointed.

"I left it by the door."

She smiles, her brow arched, and she stands, too, adjusting the camisole and the lounge pants, and he watches her move to the kitchen to dispose of the condom. He walks to the entrance, and he can hear her washing her hands in the kitchen sink, and then she's beside him.

It's a small, rectangular package, and she's eyeing it, her expression full of humor, and he can see the way her lips are lifting, as if she's trying not to smile too widely.

He leads her to the bedroom, to the fish tank – the only light source in the room – her expression growing puzzled, then amused, as Harvey opens the box and reveals the contents.

"Harvey," she murmurs. And there's a soft, bemused laugh. "You didn't."

"Oh," he answers, and his grin is wide and teasing. "I did."

Inside, a small, black, and white tropical fish he'd spent forty minutes at the local pet store debating over, swims in a circle, once, twice, before settling at the bottom of the plastic bag, blowing lazy bubbles into the water around it.

"A cichlid," he explains, as he deposits the fish into the aquarium. "They are supposed to be resilient and adaptable."

"Jesus." Donna exhales the word. Her eyes are on the small, darting shape, her head tilting, her smile widening. "These innuendos have taken on actual life."

She looks up at him and he's laughing, and she's laughing and he wraps his arm around her waist and draws her closer.

"Congratulations. You're a fish mom," Harvey tells her. Donna's smile is warm and wry. Her eyes roll, but her hand reaches for him, and her palm settles on his bicep. Her fingers squeeze lightly.

"You know I can barely take care of myself," she says, her head shaking, but her smile remains. "What are the odds that this fish survives in my care?"

Harvey's hand reaches. Tilts her jaw. His mouth settles, soft, on her own, and the kiss, when it starts, is languid, and sweet and slow, a leisurely exploration of her mouth. Her tongue touches his, tentative, at first, and his own flicks against hers, coaxing. She opens to him and the kiss deepens. He feels her body, the subtle, graceful curves of it, press closer to his, her breasts brushing his chest, nipples pebbled beneath the fabric. His body stirs and hardens and he pulls back. His eyes seek hers.

"I'll help you keep the fish alive," he promises. "I can do the tank maintenance."

"Tank maintenance, huh? Is that something you'd be doing often, then?"

Harvey can feel the curve of her mouth spreading into a grin beneath his own.

"Daily," he tells her. His voice is a husky rasp. "I'm very serious about aquatic animal welfare."

"Mmmm. I see. What else is on this daily routine of yours?" Donna's voice is teasing. Her eyes are dancing, the question playful, but he can sense the vulnerability there. He can feel the hope, and the wariness. She's testing the waters. Trying to feel out where this stands.

"Let me show you," Harvey whispers, his lips brushing hers as he speaks. And he's leading her to the bed. They tumble together, mouths, and tongues, and limbs, all intertwined, and he's shedding clothing, and so is she. And then, they're skin on skin, bodies pressed close. And her legs are parting, and his fingers are touching, and her breath is hitching.

It's slow and tender, and he spends a lifetime mapping the peaks and valleys of her pleasure, and when she comes apart, it's in a long, quaking, shuddering climax that seems to last forever. And when she finally stills, her body flushed and damp with sweat, his own arousal, unfulfilled, is the farthest thing from his mind. He's holding her. And the weight of her body, draped over his, and the way she's tucked into him, her face pressed to his neck, her breath soft and warm on his skin, it's more than enough.

He can't get over how much he loves her.

And he knows, and there is absolutely not a shred of doubt in him, that he wants to be in this. No half measures. She may not have figured out whether this is serious or casual or someplace between for her, but for Harvey, there is nothing except certainty and clarity.

Whatever it takes.

Whatever pieces of hers need to be healed, or soothed or accepted or loved to move on, that's what he'll do.

He's so fucking committed. The inevitability of it, the sense of predestination of this moment – of falling, and tumbling and not even knowing it was happening before it's too late to prevent it, or turn aside – it's staggering in its intensity. He is so irrevocably, completely and stupidly hers.

He watches her drift into sleep, her lashes sweeping downward, her eyes fluttering shut. He watches her features go lax, and soft, her breathing deepen and lengthen. And he wonders if she has any idea what she's done to him. How, in just a few months, she's completely upended his world. He can't even remember what it felt like not to love her. Maybe he was born with it in him – this certainty of her, and her importance and significance, waiting, dormant, all these years, for her to enter his life, and to awaken this part of him.

He shifts and reaches to pull the comforter up around them, and as he does, he catches sight of something in the dim lighting of the room. He stills. His fingers, on the fabric, twitch.

He can barely see, and he wants to dismiss what his eyes have registered, but he knows he hasn't imagined it, that the shadow that he thinks is a bruise on her skin isn't just a trick of the low light. He pushes up on one forearm, careful not to wake her, and looks down at her bare back.

His heart thumps.

His stomach roils with a sick, angry heat, because the shadow that he thought was a bruise isn't just one, but several. They're spread across her lower back and ass in a series of lines, as if she'd been hit repeatedly with some sort of switch or belt. They're faded, and yellowed, but still visible, and he can imagine how they looked fresh, and he wonders how he hadn't seen them, how he's never noticed them when they've been together like this, but he thinks it must be because she's been careful and deliberate about not showing them to him. And now, in the haze of sleep, and the comfort and ease she feels in his presence, she's slipped and her guard has dropped and he's seeing what she's been hiding.

His fingers shake and his chest tightens, and his throat constricts with a helpless, choking rage that burns and eats away at his insides, and he wants to kill the motherfucker who did this to her. He wants to rip him apart with his bare hands.

He slides out from under her body and she stirs, and mumbles, softly, but she doesn't wake. He gets off the bed and he moves to the bathroom and he shuts the door. He braces himself on the countertop and drops his head and closes his eyes and tries to calm his breathing, but his vision is swimming with red. His heart is pounding and he grips the edge of the sink and he fights the urge to put his fist through the wall.

He can't get the image of her, marked like that, out of his head. It's branded into his retinas. The way those bruises looked on her skin, the way they stood out, dark and ugly and he can't stop thinking about how they got there. He can't stop thinking about the pain that she must have felt when they were made and how scared and alone and helpless she must have felt and he can't fucking stand it.

He looks up, and he sees his reflection in the mirror. He looks pale. His eyes are wild and wide and there's sweat beading on his forehead. His body is trembling, and his knuckles are white with the force of his grip on the sink. His chest is rising and falling rapidly and he feels like he's going to explode.

He has to do something. He can't just stand here, and let this go. And maybe it's not his place. But the rage he feels – the burning, acidic fury – he can't contain it. He can't bear to live in this moment, in the knowledge of it, and let this go unanswered.

IV

She hears the rustling of a belt and it startles her from her sleep. For a brief, terrifying moment, she thinks that Wes has come for her. That he's going to punish her. That he's here to drag her back home. Her eyes snap open and she jerks upward, the covers pooling around her hips and her heart thumps wildly as her eyes try to adjust to the dim light.

"Hey. You okay?"

It's Harvey, standing by the foot of her makeshift bed, and relief, and then embarrassment, floods through her. He's looking at her, his expression concerned, and she realizes that he's getting dressed and he's leaving. She can't help the sudden wave of sadness that sweeps over her at the thought. She doesn't want him to go. The five minutes of sleep that she managed to steal in his arms was the most restful and peaceful that she's had in weeks. Months. She doesn't even know.

"Sorry. You were moving around and it startled me, I guess. I was half-asleep. Are you leaving?" Her fingers curl on the comforter, twisting the fabric. Her voice is small and her heart is in her throat, and she can feel his eyes on her, and he's quiet for a long moment. His gaze is inscrutable in the low light, and she can't make out his expression.

"Yeah," Harvey murmurs. "It's getting late."

"Okay." She swallows. Nods. Forces a casual shrug that doesn't betray the crushing disappointment that's descending on her. "Right, of course."

She rises, pulling the sheet and dragging it with her, wrapping it around her naked body.

"I'll walk you out," she offers. "Let me just –"

"No. Stay." His words are abrupt. Sharp. His hand waves in a dismissive gesture and she freezes. She watches him finish the loop of his belt, his fingers quick and precise, and her stomach sinks. There's a distance between them that wasn't there a mere half an hour ago. Something has changed, and she feels a creeping dread that it's something to do with her, or something she's done. Or not done. Or something that's wrong with her, that's driving him away.

Harvey finishes with the belt and he zips his pants and he's quiet and he won't meet her gaze, and her heart sinks even lower. He reaches for his shirt and shrugs into it and the silence between them grows, and expands, and it's heavy and oppressive and it's making it hard for her to breathe.

"Harvey?" she whispers. Her hand reaches for his forearm. His muscles flex under her fingers and he stills. His eyes flick to her own, finally, and they are dark. And hard. "What's wrong?"

He hesitates. His jaw works. His throat bobs with a hard swallow.

"I—" he starts. Then stops. His fingers curl into a fist, and his knuckles are white and bloodless. "Nothing. Just...Mike called, while you were asleep. There's something I have to take care of, that's all. I'm sorry." His apology is stiff and awkward and she can feel the lie in his words. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Okay," Donna says. She steps back. Her fingers fall away from him, and she wraps her arms around her middle, suddenly cold.

His gaze holds hers. He seems about to say something, but whatever it is, he decides against it. Instead, he brushes past her and walks out of the room. She follows after him, watching as he picks his jacket off of the kitchen floor, where he'd left it. He shrugs into the material. He's still quiet. Still distant. And it hurts, and it's confusing, and she doesn't understand what happened to change him like this. Maybe it's because she fell asleep before she could take care of him and now he's pissed at her? God, she's so stupid. So selfish. Why did she fall asleep? He's been nothing but generous and giving, and she couldn't even return the favor. It's no wonder that he's upset.

"Hey," she says, as he reaches the door. She can't let him leave like this. Not with things between them feeling so weird, and tense. "Harvey, wait. Please."

He stops. His hand is on the knob and he looks back at her.

"I—" she starts. Then stops. She has no idea what she wants to say, only that she needs to say something. "Look, I'm sorry about falling asleep on you. I know that was..." she trails off. She doesn't know how to finish that sentence. Rude? Awkward? Embarrassing? All of the above? "I guess I'm more tired than I realized, and tonight, after everything with the trial, and...well, it's been a long week. A long day."

Her heart is thumping. She takes a step forward, and then another. He's watching her. His eyes track her movement, but he remains silent. His jaw clenches, and then relaxes, and his fingers flex on the knob.

"I'm sorry," Donna whispers, and she's close to him now. Close enough that she can reach for him, and she does. She rests her palm on his chest, over his heart, and she looks up at him, and she can see the way his expression changes. Softens. "I didn't mean to ruin the night. I wanted –"

She doesn't get to finish the sentence, because he's kissing her, and his arms are around her and he's holding her close, and she can feel the way his body is trembling, and she wonders at that, but then he's kissing her harder and his hands are in her hair and his tongue is in her mouth and all thoughts flee from her mind and she's lost.

When he finally breaks the kiss, his breathing is ragged and uneven. He rests his forehead against hers and his eyes are closed and he doesn't say anything, and she doesn't say anything either, and the moment stretches out, long and heavy, until he pulls back. He looks at her and his eyes are dark and serious and intense, and his hand comes up to cup her cheek and his thumb brushes against the line of her jaw.

"Get some sleep, okay?" His voice is a low rasp. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She nods, and then he leans forward, and his mouth presses against hers again, softer this time. Gentle. A brush of his lips, and it's over as quickly as it begins. He straightens. His eyes hold hers for one more heartbeat, and then he turns, and he leaves.

The door closes behind him and she stands there, staring after him, wondering what the hell just happened.

She thinks about the way his body trembled when they were close. The way his heart was racing under the palm of her hand. The way his eyes were dark and stormy, and his jaw was tight, and he was holding something back. Something big.

Donna doesn't know what it is. Doesn't know if it's about their relationship, or the trial, or something else entirely. But she knows one thing for sure: whatever it is, it isn't good.


Author's note: Probably not the reaction you were hoping for from Harvey, but as we all know, these two aren't the best communicators. Next up: Harvey confronts Wes... Need I say more?