Author's note: When I started writing the epilogue for The Rivalry I realized I couldn't write something unrealistic. Ya'll want babies and engagements, and I really wanted to give you that, but I thought about Donna's past trauma and the fact that these two crazy idiots are starting a law firm from the ground up, and it just didn't seem feasible to paint it all into a rainbow happy ending. And the more I got to writing, the more a plot started to develop. So here we are, with a sequel. Jesus Christ lol.
Trigger Warnings: past abuse, trauma, discussion of infertility and miscarriage, pregnancy complications, financial hardship
Chapter 1: Fragile Ground
I
Three things were keeping Donna Paulsen awake tonight: the firm's books that refused to balance, a strange queasiness in her gut, and the relentless certainty that success was going to suffocate her before she ever got the chance to enjoy it. The headlines called her brave. A revolutionary. The woman who'd brought down a giant. But bravery felt a lot like terror at three in the morning, with nothing but fish tanks and spreadsheets for company.
The numbers blur together on Donna's laptop screen, an endless parade of red and black that refuses to resolve itself into anything resembling good news. She blinks hard, trying to force her tired eyes to focus, but the gesture only serves to remind her how long she's been sitting here – long enough for the sky outside to shift from pitch black to that peculiar shade of blue that exists only in the moments before dawn.
Her stomach rolls unpleasantly, a sensation she's been attributing to stress and poor eating habits. She reaches for her tea – ginger, because coffee has been making her inexplicably nauseated lately – and finds it cold. Again.
The headlines in her other browser tabs beckon like sirens, impossible to resist. "One Year Later: The Speech That Changed Everything." "Donna Paulsen: Voice of a Movement." "From Political Scandal to Female Empowerment: How One Woman's Courage Sparked a Revolution."
She clicks through them mechanically, each article more grandiose than the last. They paint her in broad, heroic strokes – the brave whistleblower, the feminist icon, the woman who dared to speak truth to power. None of them mention how she still sometimes wakes up gasping from nightmares where Wes's hands are around her throat. None of them talk about the way she still occasionally catches herself monitoring her tone, measuring her words, a decade of learned behavior refusing to die.
And none of them, thank god, know about the current state of Paulsen Specter's finances.
She minimizes the articles and returns to the spreadsheet, but the numbers haven't magically improved in her absence. The firm is growing faster than they'd anticipated – too fast, maybe. The client list is impressive, the win record even more so, but overhead is bleeding them dry. Harvey's impulsive hiring of Mike Ross (brilliant though he may be) hadn't helped matters.
A familiar splash draws her attention to the massive tank that dominates one corner of what was supposed to be a home office but has somehow evolved into an impromptu aquarium. Lysander and Lady Lazarus's descendants – now numbering in the dozens – dart through the water in their endless underwater ballet. The sight usually soothes her, but today it just adds to her growing anxiety. They need another tank. Another heating and filtration system, more food, more maintenance...more money.
Donna sighs, rubbing her eyes and leaning back in her chair. She can feel a tension headache gathering steam behind her temples. She knows she should sleep, that staring at these numbers until they're burned into her retinas isn't going to change anything, but she can't bring herself to crawl back into bed just yet. It's not that she's avoiding Harvey – their relationship has never been stronger, despite the constant pressures of the firm. But something about his unwavering optimism, his determination to see the glass half-full at all costs, grates against her current mood. She needs to wallow in reality for a bit longer before she can paste on her "everything's peachy" smile and go about her day.
The fish flick and flutter in their tank, oblivious to her internal turmoil. Lysander and Lady Lazarus circle each other in a graceful dance, their offspring darting around them in a chaotic swarm. She wonders idly if they recognize their parents, if their strange little cichlid brains are wired for familial bonds, or if it's all just instinct and self-preservation. She hopes they know – that somehow, amidst the noise and chaos, they still find a quiet space for love.
Her desk chair creaks softly as she swivels back and forth, her gaze lingering on the tank. It's funny, she thinks, how quickly the impossible can become ordinary. A year ago, the thought of working beside Harvey every day, of calling him her partner in every sense of the word, would have been unthinkable. A secret, treasured dream, perhaps, but never something that could actually happen. Yet now, their names hang together on the lobby wall, the firm they've built a testament to what happens when the unthinkable collides with the unavoidable.
Paulsen Specter. She still gets a thrill seeing it. It's everything she's ever wanted – the independence, the authority, the power to control her own destiny. The ability to decide which cases to take, which fights are worth fighting. And the knowledge that, at the end of the day, she doesn't have to do any of it alone. Harvey will be there, whether to challenge her or support her, to argue with her or to simply sit in companionable silence, working through their respective piles of paperwork.
Her heart twists at the thought of him. He's sleeping in the other room, sprawled out on his stomach, his face half-buried in a pillow, unaware that she slipped out of bed hours ago. He'd been exhausted after a long day of depositions and settlement negotiations – not that he'd admit it. She knows he would have rallied if she'd asked, would have opened tired eyes and pulled her close, whispering words of love or strategy, whichever she needed more. But she'd let him sleep, preferring to wrestle with her worries in solitude. Old habits, apparently, die hard.
A soft noise makes her turn, and there he is, Harvey, standing in the doorway, bare-chested and tousle-haired, his sweatpants riding low on his hips. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, his expression drowsy and confused. "Donna?"
"Hey," she says, surprised at the relief she feels just seeing him. "Did I wake you?"
He shakes his head, stepping further into the room. "No. But when I reached for you, you weren't there." His gaze flickers over the laptop screen and the scattered paperwork on her desk before returning to her face. "And now I see why."
She smiles ruefully, gesturing to the mess before her. "Just...trying to figure some things out."
"Mmm," he hums, moving to stand behind her chair. His hands settle on her shoulders, his thumbs finding the knots in her muscles with uncanny precision. He presses his thumbs firmly into her tight flesh, and she can't help the soft groan that escapes her lips. "What things?"
She leans back into his touch, allowing herself, just for a moment, to surrender to the comfort he offers. "Money. Clients. How to pay our staff without going under." Her voice is quiet, weary. "How to make sure this all isn't one gigantic mistake."
Harvey's hands still momentarily before resuming their gentle massage. "We can take out a loan to cover the expansion. It's a temporary cash flow issue, that's all."
"A loan." She doesn't bother hiding her skepticism. "On top of the one we already have?"
"If that's what it takes."
She huffs out a tired breath. "Then where does it end? More loans, more interest, more debt?" Her eyes drift back to the computer screen, the numbers still stubbornly unchanged. "At some point, Harvey, reality has to kick in. You can't just will success into existence."
He says nothing, his fingers continuing their slow, methodical work on her muscles. His silence is eloquent – a combination of understanding and acceptance that she finds maddening.
Donna sighs, letting her head drop forward, her hair falling in a curtain that hides her face from his view.
"Look," Harvey says after a moment, his voice low and soft, "we knew the first year would be tight. But we're building something here, Donna. Sometimes that means taking risks."
"Like hiring Mike without consulting me?"
The words slip out before she can stop them, sharper than intended. His hands drop from her shoulders.
"He's bringing in more than enough to cover his salary."
"That's not the point and you know it."
She starts to say more but her stomach lurches suddenly, forcing her to swallow hard against a wave of nausea. Harvey notices – of course he does – and his irritation immediately shifts to concern. "Are you okay? You look pale."
"It's nothing," she mutters. She closes her eyes and breathes through her nose until the sick feeling abates. When she opens them again, Harvey is crouched beside her, his brow furrowed in worry.
"Hey," he says softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "I'm sorry for hiring Mike unilaterally. It wasn't my place." He pauses, his expression earnest. "But I'm not sorry for having him on board. He's brilliant. And he'll bring in even more revenue as he gets his feet under him."
She looks at him, this man who has become the center of her universe, who challenges and infuriates and loves her in equal measure. And she knows, as surely as she knows the sound of his footsteps in the hall, the scent of his aftershave, the taste of his lips, that he will always push her. That together, they will always strive for something just out of reach – whether it's professional success or personal happiness or the perfect slice of pie on a Saturday afternoon.
And she loves him for it. For his unwavering belief in her, in them, and for the quiet strength he offers when her own begins to falter. She reaches out, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the scratch of his stubble against her fingertips.
"I know," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. She wants to say more, to explain about the nausea and the headaches, the way her emotions swing wildly from one extreme to the other, but the words lodge in her throat. Maybe later, after a full night's sleep and a fresh perspective. For now, she settles for a small smile. "I trust you, Harvey. Even when I want to throttle you."
He grins, a quick flash of teeth that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "I'll take it." He reaches for her hand, lacing their fingers together. "Come back to bed."
She hesitates, glancing at her laptop, at the numbers still stubbornly refusing to add up. Then she nods. "Alright." Because sometimes, stepping away from the problem is the only way to find a solution.
She lets him lead her back to bed. They climb in together, Donna curling into Harvey's side, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder. His arm settles around her, heavy and warm. The room is quiet, the only sound their breathing and the distant hum of the fish tank.
"Harvey?"
"Hmm?"
"Promise me something?" Donna says, her words muffled against his skin. Her eyes drift closed, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear lulling her towards sleep.
"Anything."
"Promise we'll never let this job come between us." She's not sure why she says it. It's been a fear lurking in the back of her mind since they started this – that the pressures and stresses of building the firm would eventually tear them apart. That they would forget, amidst the legal maneuverings and financial headaches, why they had started this in the first place. Why they had chosen each other, above all others. She needs to hear him say it, needs that reassurance to quiet the doubts that always seem to whisper in her ear lately.
Harvey pulls her closer, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "Never," he murmurs, his lips brushing against her hair. "You and me, Donna. We're the constant. The firm, the cases, none of it matters if we don't have each other. I won't let that happen."
She nods, feeling the truth of his words settle something deep within her. "Good." It's all she can manage before sleep finally overtakes her, pulling her down into a place where there are no numbers to tally, no clients to impress, just the two of them, entwined together in the dark.
II
Harvey leans back in his chair, tie loosened just enough to suggest casual confidence, and flashes his signature smile at the trio of startup executives seated across the conference table.
"Look," he says, spreading his hands in what he knows is a disarmingly open gesture, "I get it. You're worried about the SEC filing. But trust me, I've handled dozens of these pre-IPO transitions. This is kid stuff."
The CEO – some twenty-something in a hoodie that probably costs more than Harvey's suit – doesn't return the smile. Neither do his co-founders. Out of the corner of his eye, Harvey catches Donna's subtle head shake, but he's already committed to the approach.
"Kid stuff?" The CEO's voice is flat. "Our entire Series C funding round is at stake here. We're talking about a potential valuation of –"
"Two billion, minimum." Harvey cuts him off, leaning forward. "Which is exactly why you need someone who can play hardball with the big boys. Someone who knows how to navigate the regulatory landscape without getting bogged down in the details."
The CTO – a woman with electric blue hair and multiple piercings – exchanges a look with her colleagues. "The details are kind of the whole point, Mr. Specter. Our AI platform operates in a legal grey area. We need someone who understands the technical complexities –"
"And you think I don't?" Harvey feels his smile tighten at the edges. He's losing them, but he can't seem to stop himself. "Ms. Ramirez, I assure you, no one understands those complexities better than me. I practically wrote the book on them."
"Really?" The CEO's eyebrows lift. "You have a background in machine learning? You understand the ethical implications of our work in predictive policing?"
The silence stretches for a beat too long. Harvey maintains eye contact, but he can feel Donna's gaze burning into the side of his head. She'd prepared a brief on their potential client's background – had probably included exactly this kind of information – but he'd been too busy with the Morton case to read it thoroughly.
"The specifics aren't important," he recovers smoothly. "What matters is the strategy. And my strategy is to go aggressive. Push back hard against any regulatory overreach. Show them we mean business."
The third founder, who hasn't spoken until now, closes his laptop with a decisive click. "That's exactly the opposite of what we need. We came to you because we heard Paulsen Specter specializes in creative solutions. In finding the middle ground. Not in throwing gasoline on the fire."
Harvey feels his jaw tighten. "Sometimes the middle ground is the wrong ground." He can still salvage this. "We need to send a message that you won't be bullied –"
"We're done here." The CEO stands, and his co-founders follow suit. "Thank you for your time, but this isn't going to work."
"Hold on–" Harvey starts to rise, but Donna's hand on his arm stops him.
"We understand," she says, her professional smile masking what Harvey knows is pure fury. "Thank you for considering us. Louis will show you out."
They watch in silence as Louis leads the trio from the conference room. The moment the door closes, Donna's smile vanishes.
"What the hell was that?"
Harvey loosens his tie further, suddenly feeling strangled. "They were never going to sign anyway. Too green, too idealistic–"
"They were going to sign. They were practically begging to sign, until you started throwing your weight around like you're god's gift to corporate law." She stands, gathering her files with sharp, angry movements. "Do you even know what their company does? Did you read a single page of the brief I prepared?"
Harvey's silence is answer enough.
"We needed that client, Harvey. The Morton settlement barely covered our expenses last quarter. We're running out of runway, and you just–" She breaks off, pressing her lips together. "You know what? Never mind. I have a pro bono meeting in ten minutes. Try not to alienate any more potential clients while I'm gone."
She's at the door when Harvey finally finds his voice. "Maybe if we took less pro bono work and focused on paying clients, we wouldn't have to worry about things like runway," he snaps, instantly regretting the words.
Donna turns slowly, fixing him with a glare. "Right. Because only cases that pay the bills are worth our time. God forbid we take an interest in anything beyond the bottom line."
"You're the one who brought up the financials."
"To make a point! To show you that we can't just ignore the practical side of running a firm because it doesn't suit your ego." She steps closer, her eyes blazing. "This isn't about pro bono vs. billable hours. It's about the fact that you still think you can just steamroll over people and problems without bothering to understand the bigger picture."
"I'm doing the work of three goddamn lawyers to keep this firm afloat, Donna!" His own temper flares in response. He stands, hands braced on the table. "Excuse me for not having the time to research the latest Silicon Valley pipe dream."
"Because your time is so much more valuable than mine, right?" Donna's voice wavers, and suddenly Harvey feels like an ass. She's been working nonstop for weeks, handling twice her usual caseload while he's been tied up with the Morton case. He knows the pressure she's under, the stress of juggling the finances and keeping the wheels turning. He also knows that her comment about their runway isn't just about the firm. It's about them – about their own shaky fiscal health, the line of credit they've had to extend, the sacrifices they've made. The dream house in the suburbs that keeps getting further and further out of reach.
"Donna..." He moves around the table towards her, but she steps back.
"Don't." She takes a steadying breath. "Just...don't. I can't do this right now. I have a meeting."
Harvey watches her walk away, the door clicking shut behind her with a sense of finality that leaves him feeling hollow. The conference room seems suddenly cavernous without her. He sinks back into his chair, letting his head fall back against the leather. His hands itch to reach for the ring, a constant, nagging reminder of a moment that never seems to arrive. He's been carrying it in his pocket for three months. Three long months of waiting for the perfect opportunity. But every time he's on the verge of popping the question, something comes up. A client crisis, a financial setback, a looming disaster that demands his full attention. And in those moments, when he's buried under work and stress and responsibility, the thought of adding another layer to their already overburdened life seems insane. Selfish, even.
But then there are the other moments. The quiet evenings when they're both sprawled on the couch, Donna's feet in his lap as they talk through a case. The lazy Sundays spent wandering through the farmers' market, arguing about the merits of heirloom tomatoes. The times when it's just the two of them, and the world outside feels a million miles away. Those are the moments when he knows, with a bone-deep certainty, that she's the only partner he could ever want by his side. Those are the moments he longs to make permanent. But then work intrudes again, and the cycle restarts.
Harvey runs a hand over his face. He can see now how badly he's misread the room. Not just with the client, but with Donna. Her anger is more than professional frustration – it's worry. Worry about the firm, about their relationship, about whether they're strong enough to withstand the pressures bearing down on them from all sides. The weight of that uncertainty sits heavy on his shoulders, a tangible reminder of how far they still have to go. How far he has to go, if he ever hopes to make her his wife. A vision of a red-haired toddler flashes through his mind, a dream that grows more distant with every day he fails to take the next step forward. They haven't even talked about kids yet. But sometimes he catches her looking at a passing mother and child, her expression soft, and he wonders. He wonders and wants, and aches in a way he never knew was possible. But until they can get their footing, can feel at least some semblance of stability, those wants and wonders will remain unspoken.
He looks down at the table, at the stacks of papers and legal pads scattered across its surface. He can still see the faint impression of Donna's handwriting, the loop of her 'y' trailing off the edge of her yellow notepad. Her notes always seem to sprawl beyond the confines of the paper, as if her thoughts are too big, too expansive to be contained by something as mundane as a ruled edge. He's often thought that's the perfect metaphor for their relationship – always pushing boundaries, testing limits, straining against the bars of whatever cage they find themselves in, together or otherwise.
He sighs and reaches for his own notepad. Time to regroup and figure out a way to salvage the situation. Or at least minimize the damage.
III
Donna stares at the pile of thank-you letters on her desk, each one handwritten by the elderly tenants they've just helped avoid eviction. The words blur together as she blinks back tears, her emotions threatening to overwhelm her for what feels like the hundredth time today. Lately, it seems like her moods are on a hair trigger. One minute, she's fine; the next, she's on the verge of tears or rage over the slightest provocation.
The symptoms are getting harder to ignore – the nausea, the mood swings, the bloating and constant exhaustion. If she didn't know better... but no. She forces the thought away. The IUD is still firmly in place, and besides, after what happened with Wes... the doctor had been clear about the cervical scarring. About what it meant for her chances of conceiving. And she had her period, right on time. Spotting, but still a period. The blood continues to flow, off and on, even now, three weeks later. That should probably be concerning, but right now it's the only evidence supporting her denial. Stress and long hours, nothing more.
She closes her eyes and breathes deeply. It's fine. Everything is fine.
"And that's the last of the paperwork filed," Louis announces, striding into her office without knocking. "Though I still think we could have gotten more concessions from the landlord if we'd—"
"Louis." Donna shifts uncomfortably in her chair, fighting the urge to unzip her dress, which suddenly feels several sizes too small. "We got them everything they needed. Sometimes good enough has to be enough."
He purses his lips but doesn't argue, perhaps sensing her mood. She watches him bustle around the office, straightening already immaculate stacks of paper and adjusting knick-knacks by millimeters until he's satisfied. Her stomach rolls, the smell of his pungent aftershave mixing unpleasantly with the stale coffee in her mug.
"You okay?" Louis asks, finally settling in a chair across from her. "You look... peakish."
"Yeah, I'm not feeling so great," she admits, deciding to skip her usual deflections and bluffs. "I was wondering. Do you still drink those... prunie things?"
His entire face lights up. "Are you finally ready to embrace the cleansing power of prune juice? Because I have to tell you, Donna, it's life-changing. The digestive benefits alone are worth ten times the cost, which, if you get the store brand, is actually quite reasonable–"
"Yes, yes, Louis," she sighs, rubbing her temple. "Just. I've been a little..."
"Backed up?" He leans forward conspiratorially. "You should have come to me sooner. It's nothing to be embarrassed about. Everyone gets irregular from time to time. Why, just two months ago, I myself had a bit of a–"
"Louis, please—"
"No need to be embarrassed! The body is a temple, and sometimes that temple needs a good plumbing service." He's practically vibrating with excitement now. "I have my special blend in the break room. But if you really want results, you need the full protocol. First, there's the morning yoga sequence – I call it 'Intestinal Awakening' - which is designed to activate your digestive muscles. Then, you'll want to drink the juice on an empty stomach, preferably just after sunrise, when the body's natural cleansing rhythms are at their peak..."
Donna lets him ramble on, half-listening as she tries to focus on anything besides her roiling guts. She catches something about colonics and juice fasts, which makes her stomach turn even more violently. Finally, Louis runs out of steam, looking at her expectantly. She realizes she has no idea what he just asked her. Something about yoga mats, maybe? Or plunger types?
"Sure?" she ventures, hoping it's an acceptable answer.
"Harvey's a real sport, getting his hands dirty like that. He's not the type I'd picture elbow-deep in a stopped-up U-bend. But you know Harvey. Never shies away from a challenge. And I'm sure he's surprisingly handy with that wrench of his."
"Do I even want to know?" Harvey's voice comes from the doorway, making them both jump.
"No," Donna says quickly, just as Louis announces, "Donna has agreed to try my new colon cleansing protocol, and I was suggesting she might enjoy having you join her. The bonds formed through shared intestinal experiences can be quite powerful, I've found. Many marriages have been saved by the mutual struggle against impaction."
"Uh-huh." Harvey's gaze meets Donna's and holds it. She feels a jolt run through her, as it always does when their eyes lock. She can read him so clearly, can see the mixture of concern and love and exasperation in those warm brown depths. He gives her the tiniest of nods. You okay? it asks, and she responds with the barest tilt of her head. Yes. Don't worry.
"Well," Louis claps his hands, oblivious to their exchange, "I'll leave you two lovebirds to it. Donna, a word to the wise? You may want to postpone any... nocturnal activities tonight. While the colon cleanse can have a powerfully aphrodisiac effect, the resultant emissions can be... well, let's just say, not conducive to romance."
With that pearl of wisdom bestowed, Louis finally, mercifully, leaves, humming to himself as the door clicks shut behind him.
Harvey turns to her, his eyebrows lifted nearly to his hairline. "What was that all about?"
She sighs. "It's a long, disgusting story. One that probably doesn't need to be rehashed."
He crosses the room and settles on the corner of her desk, his eyes never leaving hers. "How did the pro bono case go?"
"Fine. We got them the settlement they wanted." She hesitates, then adds, "And an apology from the landlord."
His smile is soft, almost sad. "Of course you did. You always do." He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from her forehead, his fingertips lingering on her skin. "Donna, about this morning–"
Her phone rings, interrupting him. She glances at the caller ID and the number makes her blood run cold.
Otisville Federal Correctional Facility.
Harvey must see something in her expression because he draws back slightly. "What's wrong?"
"Wes."
She stares at the phone, her heart pounding. Five rings. She has five rings to decide. To pick up or let it go to voicemail. To open this door or keep it firmly shut.
Ring.
"You don't have to take it," Harvey says softly.
Ring.
She knows that. God, does she know that. She can just let it go to voicemail. Delete the recording without listening. Pretend like he doesn't exist, like this part of her past isn't still haunting her.
Ring.
Or she can answer. Hear his voice. Let him back in, if only for a few minutes. Maybe... maybe there's some closure to be found here. Or maybe she just needs to hear him say it – that he was wrong, that he made a mistake, that he's sorry for what he put her through.
Ring.
Harvey is watching her, his face carefully neutral, but she can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches with each ring of the phone. He won't tell her what to do. He never would. But she can feel his worry, his anger on her behalf. His desire to protect her from any more pain, even if that means protecting her from herself.
Ring.
The phone falls silent. Donna lets out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, her fingers still hovering over the screen. The missed call notification blinks accusingly.
Harvey moves closer, his hand finding her shoulder. "You made the right call," he says quietly.
"Did I?" She leans back in her chair, suddenly exhausted. "What if it was important? What if he—"
"Then he can write a letter." Harvey's voice is firm but gentle. "You don't owe him anything, Donna. Not your time, not your attention, and definitely not the chance to mess with your head again."
She nods, covering his hand with hers. The warmth of his touch grounds her, pulling her back from the spiral of what-ifs and maybes. He's right. She's spent too long trying to make sense of Wes, to find a pattern in the chaos he left behind. But there is no sense to be made. There's only the wreckage, and the slow, painful process of putting the pieces back together. Of rebuilding a life from the scraps of the one she thought she had.
"Thank you," she whispers, her throat tight.
He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Anytime, partner." He leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead before standing up. "Now, as much as I'd love to stick around and hear more about Louis's colon cleansing regime–"
"Wait." She pulls him back down. He looks at her, a question in his eyes. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, "for earlier. I was—"
"Stressed and tired and probably hungry?" He gives her a small smile. "I get it. And I'm sorry, too. For... all of it."
"No more big man macho bullshit?"
"Scout's honor."
She raises an eyebrow. "You were a Boy Scout?"
His smile widens. "For about a week. Until they found out I'd stolen the cookies and run up the credit cards."
"Sounds about right." She stands up and steps into his space. He slides his arms around her, drawing her close. Her ear finds the familiar spot on his chest, right over his heart. She closes her eyes and listens, letting the steady thump-thump anchor her in this moment, in the truth of what they have. Of what they are, together. No matter what else may be uncertain, this is her bedrock. The ground beneath her feet that will never crumble.
"You know I love you?" she whispers.
"Yeah." He kisses the top of her head. "I know."
IV
Harvey steps from the cab and a barrage of camera flashes hit him, blinding him momentarily as he rounds the vehicle to open Donna's door. He offers his hand, helping her out of the car, and he feels her grip his fingers just a little tighter than usual. The photographers shout their names, clamoring for pictures and sound bites, and they pause, Harvey's arm slipping around her waist, her body fitting seamlessly against his side. They've done this before – posed for the cameras, smiled through the chaos – but it's been a while. They've been keeping a low profile lately, avoiding the spotlight that used to follow them everywhere. But tonight, it seems the world wants a piece of them again. Or rather, a piece of Donna.
"You okay?" he murmurs in her ear.
"Fine," she says quickly, but he can feel the tension in her shoulders, the subtle stiffness that only he would notice. He presses a reassuring kiss to her temple before they start walking toward the restaurant entrance, the photographers following in a wave of clicking shutters and flashing bulbs.
It's a fancy place – all dark wood and crystal chandeliers and hushed conversations murmured over linen tablecloths. The maître d' leads them to a secluded corner table, where Avery and Samantha are already waiting. Donna pauses, tugging on the hem of her dress, smoothing a hand over her stomach. Harvey raises an eyebrow at her, and she gives him a small, tight smile.
"Just need a minute," she whispers, and he watches her disappear in the direction of the restrooms, a frown creasing his forehead.
"What's up with her?" Samantha asks as he approaches the table, her tone deceptively casual. She's sipping a martini, the olive skewered neatly on a silver toothpick.
Harvey shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. "She's fine."
"Uh-huh." Sam sets down her glass and leans back in her chair, crossing her legs with a whisper of silk. "And you're a terrible liar."
He glares at her, but Avery steps in before they can start bickering. "How's the firm?" she asks, her voice gentle, her eyes kind.
"We're managing," Harvey says, accepting the menu the waiter offers him. "Things have been... a little tight, but we're getting by."
Sam snorts, taking another sip of her drink. "You mean you're drowning, and you're too damn stubborn to admit it."
"Aren't we all?" Avery murmurs, her gaze darting between Harvey and Sam. She's always been the peacemaker, the bridge between their respective sharp edges. Harvey can't help but wonder how she ended up here, sitting across from him in this upscale restaurant, looking like she belongs in Sam's world of power and privilege. There's a story here, he's sure of it, but he's never quite sure how to ask.
Donna returns, looking a little pale but otherwise composed. She slides into her seat, her hand immediately finding Harvey's beneath the table. He laces their fingers together, giving her a reassuring squeeze, then leans over and whispers, "They think we're broke."
"We are broke," she whispers back, and they share a fleeting smile – one of those quiet, intimate moments that they've perfected over the months, where entire conversations can pass between them in the span of a heartbeat.
When the waiter comes, Donna orders sparkling water, and Sam's eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously?"
Donna shrugs, her expression carefully neutral. "Just not in the mood for wine tonight."
"Since when are you not in the mood for wine?" Sam asks, her eyes narrowing.
Avery intervenes again, redirecting the conversation before it can escalate. "Sam was just telling me about her latest case. Some kind of environmental lawsuit, right?"
And just like that, the tension dissipates, the table falling into an easy rhythm of conversation and laughter. They talk about work, about life, about the things that matter and the things that don't. They order food – Donna getting some kind of quinoa salad that Harvey knows she won't eat, so he makes sure to order extra fries on the side – and they share bites off each other's plates. It's comfortable, familiar, and Harvey finds himself relaxing into the evening despite the nagging worry at the back of his mind. He can almost forget about the financial strain, the pressure of trying to keep their little firm afloat. He can almost pretend they're just two regular people out on a regular date night.
Until the check comes. And the reality of their situation crashes back down around him. He's reaching for his wallet, trying to do the mental math of how many credit cards he can split the bill between without raising eyebrows, when Sam plucks the little leather folder from his fingers.
"My treat," she says firmly, pulling her designer wallet from her purse. "You two need to save your pennies."
Harvey bristles, but Donna places a hand on his arm, silencing his protest before it can leave his lips. "Thank you, Sam," she says, her voice soft and sincere. She's always had a knack for navigating these social currents, for knowing when to push and when to let go. Harvey's never quite mastered that particular skill. He's always been more of a bulldozer, charging forward regardless of the obstacles in his path. It's what makes them such a good team, he supposes. She's the rudder, and he's the engine. They balance each other out. At least, most of the time.
He can hear Avery and Sam talking, but he's not really listening. His attention is focused on Donna, on the way her hand lingers on her stomach, the subtle crease between her brows. He wants to ask, wants to pry, wants to crack open her skull and peer inside at the thoughts he knows are swirling around in there. But he can't. Not here, in this crowded restaurant, with Sam and Avery watching their every move. So he sits, and he waits, and he tries not to let his worry show.
"Maybe you should relocate the firm upstate," Samantha is telling Donna. "Cheaper overhead, and if you guys are thinking of having kids –"
"We're not."
Donna's voice cuts through the conversation like a blade, sharp and sudden. Harvey's head snaps up from where he's been staring at his half-eaten steak, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. Across the table, Samantha and Avery blink in surprised unison. "You're not what?" Samantha asks, recovering first.
"Thinking of having kids."
The words hit Harvey like a physical blow. He must make some sound, some slight intake of breath, because Donna's eyes snap to his face. What she sees there makes her expression soften, but she doesn't take back the words.
Sam changes the subject to a recent Supreme Court decision. Harvey barely hears her. His mind is stuck in a loop, replaying the moment over and over again. The way Donna had said it, so matter-of-fact. As if it were obvious. As if they'd ever actually discussed it. Which they haven't. Not once. And suddenly, the future that had seemed so clear, so inevitable, is shifting beneath his feet, turning murky and unfamiliar.
The rest of dinner passes in a haze. They say their goodbyes outside the restaurant, exchanging hugs and promises to do this again soon. When Avery pulls him aside, her hand resting lightly on his arm, he can barely summon the energy to respond. "Is everything okay?" she asks quietly, searching his face with her gentle, knowing gaze. And he wants to tell her, wants to unload all of his confusion and hurt and fear, but the words stick in his throat. He can't even begin to form them into sentences, let alone say them out loud. So he just nods and forces a smile that he's sure doesn't reach his eyes. "Yeah," he says, his voice rough. "Fine."
She gives him a look that tells him she's not buying it, but she doesn't press. Just gives his arm a squeeze and joins Sam, who is waiting by the curb. They stand close, and he wonders briefly at the dynamic between them – at the familiarity and ease, the subtle touches and shared looks – before Donna slips her hand into his, and they turn away, walking toward their waiting cab.
They don't speak on the drive home. Harvey can't. His mind is spinning, trying to make sense of what just happened, trying to reconcile the life he thought he was building with the reality that's now staring him in the face. The cab pulls up to their building, and he follows Donna inside, still lost in a fog of shock and disbelief. They ride the elevator in silence, the space between them filled with all the words they're not saying.
The elevator doors open, and Harvey follows Donna into her apartment. They move through their familiar routine – shoes by the door, keys in the dish, jackets hung on the hook. It's all so mundane, so normal, and yet everything feels different. Everything has shifted, subtly but irreversibly. He can feel it in the air between them, a new kind of tension that wasn't there before.
His mind keeps circling back to that moment at dinner, the casual finality in her voice. We're not thinking of having kids. Like she was commenting on the weather, like she hadn't just demolished the future he'd been quietly building in his head. A future with red-haired children running through their home, their laughter filling the rooms. A family. Theirs. It's something he never knew he wanted so badly until it was taken away from him. And now it's gone, and he doesn't know how to even begin to process that loss.
He needs to talk to her. To ask her why, how, when. To try to understand how they ended up here, in this place where their paths diverge so sharply. But Donna is already disappearing into the bedroom, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Harvey loosens his tie, the knot suddenly tight enough to choke him, and sinks down onto the sofa. He runs his hands over his face, trying to clear his head, to think through the fog of shock and hurt. He needs answers, needs to know why Donna would just dismiss the idea of children so easily. Needs to know if she even realizes how much this means to him, how much it's always meant to him, even if he's only just realizing it himself. He stands, determination filling him. This conversation can't wait.
He finds her standing at the dresser, removing her earrings, her back to him. Harvey clears his throat, his heart hammering in his chest, and she turns, her eyes finding his in the reflection of the mirror. For a moment, neither of them speaks, the weight of the unspoken words hanging heavy between them. Then Harvey takes a step closer, and another, until he's standing behind her, his presence reflected in the glass. He watches as Donna lowers her earrings to the dresser, her hands shaking slightly.
"Sam means well," he says finally. "With the suggestion about moving upstate."
Donna's hands move to her necklace clasp. "We're not moving upstate."
"It would cut our overhead in half. Give us some breathing room—"
"And kill the firm in the process." Her voice has that dangerous edge to it, the one that means he's stumbled into a minefield without realizing it. "We'd lose half our clients. Everything we've built would just—"
"Everything we've built is drowning us!" The words explode out of him. "And you're making decisions about our future without even talking to me!"
He sees her freeze, her body tensing. She turns slowly, facing him. He's never raised his voice like that to her before. Has always been so careful, so gentle, afraid that if he pushes too hard, she'll shatter. But now, in this moment, she's the one who's pushing, and he can't just let her bulldoze him, can't let her make a decision that will affect their entire lives without even discussing it.
"What future, Harvey? What exactly are we building toward? Because from where I'm standing, we can barely keep our heads above water as it is."
"So we're struggling right now. That doesn't mean—"
"It means everything! It means we can barely pay our staff. It means we're living on credit cards and hope. It means we can't even afford a proper house, let alone—" She breaks off, running a hand through her hair.
"Let alone what?" He pushes, taking a step closer. "Say it, Donna. Let alone a family?"
"Yes! Okay? Yes!" Her voice rises. "Because that's what responsible adults do. They look at their situation realistically. They make hard choices."
"Without consulting their partners?"
"Oh, that's rich coming from you. Mr. 'I'll just hire Mike Ross without telling anyone.'"
"That's different and you know it."
"Is it?" She huffs a laugh, but it's a hollow sound. "When have we ever actually talked about what we want? When have we had time? We work eighty-hour weeks, Harvey. We're drowning in debt. I'm thirty-seven years old—"
"Age doesn't matter—"
"Of course it matters!" Her voice cracks. "It matters because every year increases the risks. It matters because after what Wes did—" She stops, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "The scarring... the complications if I did manage to get pregnant..." She meets his gaze, her eyes bright with tears she's trying not to shed. "I can't. I can't put myself through all of that. The treatments, the disappointments, the fear... I just can't. Not on top of everything else we're dealing with. It's too much."
Harvey stands there, feeling like a fool. Of course, it's all so clear now, in a way that makes him feel like an absolute ass. Of course, Donna has her own reasons, her own fears and concerns. He'd been so caught up in his own shock and disappointment that he hadn't stopped to consider what was really behind her declaration. Hadn't even considered that maybe she wasn't dismissing the idea of a family outright, but was trying to protect herself, and their relationship, from yet another heartbreak. And he'd shouted at her. Raised his voice in a way he never has before.
Shame floods through him. He takes a step towards her, reaching for her hand, but she pulls away before he can get to her, her face pales and she bolts into the bathroom. A retching sound comes from within, and Harvey stands frozen for a moment, a cold, sick feeling twisting in his gut. He follows her, finds her on her knees in front of the toilet, clutching at the porcelain rim. He kneels beside her, gathering her hair back from her face, holding it until she finishes, until her body stops shaking, and then he's drawing her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead, her temple, her cheek. She's crying now, silently, her head tucked beneath his chin, her fingers curled into his shirt.
"Donna..." His voice is hesitant. "Are you... Could you be..."
She looks up at him, her face tear-streaked, her eyes red-rimmed, and shakes her head. "I'm not."
"But –"
"I'm not," she repeats, but there's no force behind it, just a weary resignation that makes his heart ache. She pushes herself upright, brushing past him to rinse her mouth at the sink. When she's done, she leans against the counter, her gaze focused on a point somewhere over his shoulder.
"How do you know? Did you take a test?" He can't help himself, can't stop the questions from tumbling out, can't stop the seed of hope from taking root. Donna doesn't answer, doesn't look at him.
"If you are..." he begins carefully, knowing he's treading on fragile ground, "that's okay. We can figure this out."
Donna looks at him then, her eyes filled with a sadness he can't fathom, can't bear. She shakes her head slowly. "I'm bleeding, Harvey," she whispers, and his stomach drops. "It's too early. It's too... everything. If I were, it would never work." She chokes on a sob. "It would never work."
And then she's in his arms again, and he holds her as tight as he dares, as though he can somehow keep her from breaking apart. His mind is spinning, his thoughts a tangled mess of emotions, but the one that stands out above the rest, the one that keeps circling back to the forefront, is how desperately he wants this with her. Wants a family, a home, a life. He knows the timing is all wrong, the situation impossible, but that doesn't change what he wants, doesn't make him want it any less. But Donna's right, too. They're struggling. They're barely making it. The firm is hanging on by a thread. Adding a child into the mix, especially now, would be a monumental task. And that's assuming she is pregnant, and that the pregnancy sticks. Which she can't be, because she's bleeding. And that's not normal, right? If she is pregnant? It would mean the unthinkable. So why is he still clinging to this sliver of hope, this impossible, foolish dream? Why can't he let it go? He doesn't have an answer.
So, for now, he just holds her, letting her tears soak his shirt, offering what little comfort he can as their lives, their futures, their hopes and dreams and fears, all collide in a storm of uncertainty.