Lunchtime
Harvey has been impossible all morning, barking at associates and pretending he isn't stressed about the upcoming trial. She's spent the last two hours putting out fires and listening to Louis rant about Harvey's bad mood. By the time lunch rolls around, the idea of staying in the office feels unbearable.
She heads to one of her favorite spots, a small café tucked inside the performing arts complex. She likes the atmosphere here—the posters of upcoming shows, the low hum of conversation, the faint sound of a distant piano rehearsal. It's exactly what she needs to reset.
She's sipping her coffee absently, when a familiar face catches her eye. She recognizes him instantly. The kid from Harvey's case. She's only met him once, briefly, in Harvey's office. Red hair, freckles, sharp eyes that take in everything but give away nothing.
He was polite, if not a little wary, but she could tell he was smart. Too smart for a sixteen-year-old who got himself caught up in an SEC investigation. Right now, though, he isn't giving off the same self-assured attitude she's seen before.
He's sitting alone at a corner table, shoulders tense, eyes staring ahead. At first, she doesn't think much of it, until she notices what he's actually looking at, his gaze locked in on a nearby table where someone left his wallet behind.
Donna doesn't hesitate. She moves before he can, closing the short distance between them and sliding into the seat across from him. "Stealing in a place like this?" she says, her expression soft, and the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. "Rookie move."
Eli's head snaps up, startled, before he masks his feelings with a glare, narrowing his eyes at Donna. "I wasn't gonna steal it."
"Right. And I only drink decaf." Donna smirks, arching an eyebrow. "You hesitated just a second too long before saying that."
Eli rolls his eyes, but doesn't argue.
"Look, I don't know much about you," she continues, softer this time. "But I do know what someone looks like when they feel like they're out of options."
Eli exhales sharply, looking away. "You don't know anything about me."
"True. But I know people. And I know that sitting here, debating whether or not to swipe a wallet? That's not who you are."
Eli scoffs. "You don't know that either."
Donna studies him, a nagging feeling stirring in the back of her mind. She focuses on it, tries to bring it into clarity, but it remains just out of reach. Still, there's something familiar in the intensity of Eli's expression, something she recognizes all too well. It reminds her of someone who lingers in her thoughts more often than she'd care to admit.
"Fine. Tell me I'm wrong," she finally says.
Eli opens his mouth, but no words come out. He huffs in frustration and turns back to the poker chip in his hand, rolling it between his fingers.
Donna watches him for a second before sighing. "Are you hungry?"
He glares at her again, but it lacks real heat. "What's it to you?"
"Just answer the question, kid."
"I'm not a kid," he snaps, his voice low and edged with something defensive, something wounded even.
"Hey," Donna says gently. "I'm not your enemy." Her smile is thin, stretched between sadness and compassion, as if she's trying to hold something fragile together.
He looks so vulnerable, so uncertain, so lost. Scarred by a life that has clearly given him too many reasons to stop trusting. She wonders if those scars will ever fade or if he'll carry the marks all the way to his grave. The world has failed him, over and over again. And now, he expects everyone else to do the same. She could pull him from a fire, and he'd still believe it's only to watch him burn.
Donna flags down a passing barista and orders a sandwich, not even needing to glance at the menu. Something simple, something filling. Something a kid who's spent too much of his life fending for himself wouldn't turn down. While they wait, she watches him—not just in the casual way people do, but really watches him.
His fingers move with practiced ease, twirling the poker chip between them like it's second nature. The rhythmic motion is almost hypnotic, the way he spins it, then sets it upright on the table with a controlled push. It whirls on its axis, spinning and spinning, until it falters, finally falling with a clonk against the wood.
Then, without a word, he does it again. This time, with even more precision. It spins longer. She can't explain it, really, but there's something in the movement that draws her in. The control. The repetition. The need for something steady.
"You play?" she asks with a faint smile.
Eli shrugs, not looking up. "Sometimes," he mumbles. He hesitates, just for a second, before adding, "At the group home."
Donna's smile softens. It's a small thing, just a few words, but it feels like something real. Like a door cracking open.
She leans forward slightly, resting her elbow on the table. "Yeah?"
Eli nods, still focused on the chip in his hand. He flicks it up, catches it, and then rolls it over his knuckles—seamless, effortless. "But we don't play…" His eyes lift briefly, just a hint of eye contact before they dart back down. "We're not allowed to play for money."
Rules. Restrictions. Donna wonders how many of them have been drilled into him over the years. How many times he's been told what he can't do, what he shouldn't be, instead of being given the freedom to just be.
"I see," she murmurs, her voice soft, the smile she wears bleeding into it. "You know, Harvey is quite the poker player. But don't tell him I said that, or I'll never hear the end of it."
Eli huffs a quiet laugh, small, almost imperceptible, but real. And God, does it warm her heart. It's nothing more than a flicker of something, but it makes her let out a slow, relieved sigh.
When the sandwich arrives, Donna doesn't say anything at first. She just slides it across the table toward him. She watches the way Eli's fingers twitch as he hesitates, the way his jaw clenches visibly, like accepting help is physically painful for him. Like taking something freely given is harder than going without.
"You don't have to do that," he growls, his voice low.
Donna doesn't flinch. Doesn't waver. "I know, buddy," she says simply. "But I did it anyway. Now, eat."
Eli mutters something under his breath, too quiet for her to catch, before reluctantly unwrapping the sandwich. Even then, there's a split second where he just stares at it, like he's trying to decide if this is some kind of trick. Then, finally, he takes a bite.
They sit in silence for a while. Donna doesn't push. She just lets the quiet settle between them, lets him have the space he clearly doesn't know what to do with. Then, in a softer voice, she asks, "You worried about the trial?"
Eli snorts. "Nah, I'm good."
The confidence is effortless. Too effortless. It comes quick, automatic. Like a reflex, a shield. And that's when Donna sees it. It isn't just the way he leans back, the easy smirk. It's the way his shoulders tense beneath all that bravado, like he's holding himself together through sheer force of will. It's a vivid, almost uncanny reminder of Harvey.
Something in her chest tightens at the realization. She doesn't know why she didn't notice it before. Maybe because Harvey's had years—decades—to perfect the act. He wears his armor so well, so convincingly, that most people don't even think to look past it. But Eli? He's still a kid. He hasn't learned how to hide it completely yet.
Donna's voice drops just a little as she says, "You know, pretending you're not scared doesn't make it true."
For a second, just a second, Eli's smirk falters. Then, just as quickly, he shrugs, forcing nonchalance. "Who says I'm pretending?"
Donna tilts her head, giving him a knowing look. "A guy I work with pulls the same act. He makes it look real convincing too." A small smile touches her lips, but there's something sad underneath it. "But I know better."
Eli turns his gaze away, suddenly more interested in peeling at the edge of the sandwich wrapper than looking at her. "Maybe I really am fine," he mutters.
"Maybe," Donna allows. Then she says in a gentle tone, "But if you weren't? That wouldn't make you weak." His fingers still. She watches his throat bob as he swallows, the tension in his shoulders loosening ever so slightly. "Being scared doesn't mean you don't handle your business," she continues, her voice quiet, steady. "It just means you care what happens next."
Eli doesn't respond, but Donna can see something shift in his expression, a flicker of something raw and unguarded before he locks it down again. She doesn't push. Doesn't pry. Instead, she stands, reaching into her bag and dropping a few bills onto the table.
"Stay out of trouble, okay?" Her voice is light, but there's an underlying warmth to it. A quiet sincerity. "You've already got enough going on, don't you think?"
Eli doesn't answer right away, and for a moment, she wonders if he's going to ignore her completely. But just as she turns to leave, he mutters, "Thanks… for the sandwich." So low she almost misses it.
Donna stops. A small smile tugs at her lips as she glances back at him. "Don't mention it," she says, her eyes twinkling just a little. Then, with a teasing smirk, she adds, "Literally—don't. I have a reputation to maintain."
Eli huffs a quiet, barely-there laugh, shaking his head, and Donna lets it sit between them for a second longer before finally turning to go. As she steps outside, the cool air hits her, but it does nothing to dispel that odd, nagging sense of familiarity. She exhales, shaking it off. One step at a time.
Eli leans back in his chair, staring at the spot where Donna stood just moments ago. He sighs deeply, his fingers absently spinning the poker chip between them again. He doesn't really get it—why she cares, why she even bothers. Most people don't. But she does. And somehow, she's managed to slip past every wall he's spent years building, even if only for a moment.
His gaze flickers to the table, to the few bills Donna left behind. He hesitates, glancing toward the door like she might walk back in and take them with her. When she doesn't, he snatches the money up quickly, slipping it into his pocket before anyone else can notice. Just then, Melinda plops into the chair across from him with a sigh, setting her bag down.
"Good, you're still here," she says, pulling a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer from her purse.
Eli snorts, tossing his chip onto the table. "Like I have anywhere else to go."
Melinda hums in response, distracted as she rubs sanitizer between her palms. While, technically, the court ordered house arrest, meaning Eli's supposed to stay at the group home, they agreed to let her take him out for supervised outings. Even kids with restrictions need air, need a break from four walls closing in.
As she glances up, her brows furrow. "Where'd you get that sandwich?" Eli freezes for half a second before quickly taking another bite, chewing as if that'll somehow erase the evidence. Melinda folds her arms, narrowing her eyes at him. She knows that look. Knows when he's being cagey. "Elijah?"
He shrugs, swallowing. "Someone left it on the table over there. I wasn't gonna waste it." Melinda doesn't buy it for a second, but she lets it go.
Still, as she watches him, she notices something different. Something small, but noticeable if you know what to look for. The way he's eating, not like it's just food, but like it's something more. Something that means something. And the way his fingers tighten slightly around the wrapper, holding onto it like it's important. Like he's holding onto the moment itself. Whoever gave him that sandwich… Somehow, they got through to him.