In Her Defense

by Spectographer

When her teenage daughter is assaulted by a local football star, single mother Donna Paulsen blackmails prestigious New York attorney Harvey Specter into taking her case by threatening to expose his associate's fraudulent credentials. What begins as a forced partnership evolves into something deeper as Harvey becomes increasingly invested in helping Donna's family heal.

8. Sharing Burdens

Chapter 8: Sharing Burdens

I

Before

Downstairs, the kitchen smells of garlic and onions. Tyler's already at the table, playing some game on his phone. Donna stands at the stove, hair pulled back, stirring something in a pot. She looks tired. Always tired these days.

"There you are," Donna says, not turning around. "Set the table, please."

Madison grabs silverware from the drawer, glancing at her mom's rigid back. She hasn't exactly asked permission to go to Ethan Carter's party. But it's not like she's some irresponsible kid. She's fifteen. Old enough for... things. Life. Experience. Maybe her mom won't be so bad about it.

She places a fork and knife by each plate, her movements slow as she gathers her courage. "Hey Mom," she starts, the words sticking in her throat, "there's this party tonight..." she trails off, watching for her mom's reaction.

Donna's stirring falters. She looks up, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Party?"

Madison swallows her hesitation, straightening her spine as if bracing for impact. "Just a small thing Ethan's having."

"Who's chaperoning?"

Madison rolls her eyes. "I don't know. His parents, probably." A lie. Everyone knows Stan and Karen are in Aspen until Tuesday.

"What time would you be home?"

"Midnight?" she suggests, trying to keep her tone light.

Donna turns now, studying her daughter. Madison meets her gaze, defiant. They've perfected this dance over the years — Madison pushing, Donna pulling back, neither willing to give ground.

"No," Donna says finally. "Ethan is two years older. His friends are two years older. This is their last big weekend before senior year. I don't need to spell out the risks, do I?"

"Mom!" Madison exclaims. "Jenny's going. I can't be the only one stuck here all summer."

"I said no." The finality in her mother's voice cuts deep.

Anger, disappointment, a fierce need to prove she's not a child anymore, surge inside her. "God, you never let me do anything. It's always no, no, no. Just once, why can't you act like you trust me?"

"This isn't about trust. It's about protecting you. You forget your father was one of those football idiots, and the stories –"

"Don't. Don't bring him into this."

"I will if it keeps you safe."

Madison slams a hand on the table, rattling the plates. Tyler jumps. "Why does everything have to be so dramatic with you? It's just a goddamn party!"

"Mads," Tyler says, but she ignores him, glaring at her mother.

Donna draws a breath, holds it, lets it out slowly. When she speaks, her voice is quieter but no less firm. "I know what happens at these things. I don't want that for you. You're only fifteen. The answer is no."

Tyler shifts uneasily, caught between his mom's rigid principles and his sister's fiery rebelliousness. They've had this dance before. A million times. Around and around, in some endless, dizzying tango that always ends in slammed doors and silent dinners. Madison doesn't know why she pushes so hard, doesn't know where the anger comes from. It feels like a beast in her chest, growing and expanding, feeding on every 'no', every restriction, every fear her mother projects onto her.

She wants to break out of this life. This suffocating town. This house. She wants to scream, to cry, to burn this place to the ground. But she doesn't. She swallows it all—the frustration, the longing, the suffocating pain of wanting something more than her mother's walls around her. She looks at her mom, sees the exhaustion in those hazel eyes, and for some reason, it just makes her angrier, more desperate.

"You know," she starts, her voice low, controlled, "sometimes I wish you had been the one who died. Not Dad. He would've known how to let me live my life."

As soon as the words escape her mouth, she wishes she could snatch them back. She can see their impact on her mother's face: the shock, the hurt, the slow, dawning pain of a wound that will ache for a long time. There is no way to apologize, to explain. There is only retreat. Madison spins on her heel and runs, half-expecting her mother's voice to call her back, to demand an apology. But the house is silent except for the sound of her own ragged breath.

Back in her room, Madison collapses onto her bed, her hands balled into fists, pressing into her eyes until colors explode behind her lids. Her chest constricts painfully around a heart that is too heavy, too full of things she can't say. She wonders, not for the first time, if life will always be this way. If the walls will always feel too close, the sky too low, her own skin too tight. She yearns for release, for freedom, for the feeling of open space and possibilities stretching out before her like an infinite highway. Maybe one day, she'll find it, and with it, the courage to say 'I'm sorry' and mean it.

Outside her window, the sky darkens to deep blue. From downstairs comes the sound of dishes being washed, Tyler's voice asking something, Donna's quiet response. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. Madison should go down, should apologize. The words form in her mind: I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I love you, I just miss him.

But the words stay locked inside, alongside the grief that's calcified into something harder, sharper.

Her phone buzzes. Shane: You coming tonight?

Madison stares at the message for a long moment. Then she types: Yes.

II

Harvey Specter believes in exactly three types of fury: the kind that makes you stupid, the kind that makes you dangerous, and the kind that makes you precise. As he strides through the hallways of Riverstone High School with Mike half-jogging to keep pace, his anger falls decidedly into the latter category. Sharp, cold, focused.

The hallways stand eerily vacant except for a few students who have the misfortune of bathroom passes during this unfolding drama. They stare as Harvey passes, this strange man in expensive clothes who doesn't belong here, moving with the purposeful stride of someone who knows exactly where they're going in a place they've never been.

"Slow down," Mike says from somewhere behind him. "I'd like a moment to consult with council before we unleash unholy hell, please."

Harvey doesn't slow down. He doesn't need a consultation. What he needs is to show this podunk town just how sharp the big-city lawyers really are. What he needs is for them to understand that no one touches his clients, Donna's children, without facing the consequences.

What he needs is to wipe Ethan Carter and his entire bloodline from existence.

Harvey doesn't knock when he reaches the principal's office door; he simply throws it open with such force that it slams against the wall behind it. The secretary, a woman with glasses that hang from a beaded chain around her neck and who has probably watched generations of Riverstone teenagers shuffle through their awkward years, rises half out of her chair when he enters.

"Sir, you can't just—"

But Harvey is already past her desk, pushing through the inner door. And he's in, scanning the scene in one quick sweep of his gaze. Principal Thomas Delaney is there, an overstuffed man in his forties who is desperately trying to fit his out-of-shape girth into the football hero of his youth. To his left, her leg jittering nervously, sits Madison. And beside her, slumped with an ice pack to his swelling cheek, Tyler.

Ethan Carter, for once in his pathetic life doing something right, isn't present. His father, however, is. And at the sight of Stan Carter, with his seething, puffed up aggression, Harvey feels another layer of anger harden inside him.

Harvey doesn't like the math of this room. Two kids versus two men who should know better.

"This is a closed session," Principal Delaney declares, but it's half-hearted. He is no doubt trying to decipher why this strange, hard-faced man has materialized in his office. "You can't just—"

"I can, and I did," Harvey interrupts him, his tone frigid enough to make Madison's head snap up. Their gazes lock for a brief moment, and he offers a minute nod before shifting his attention back to the others. "I'm assuming you're all familiar with Title IX's federal protections?"

Delaney pales. Stan Carter sneers and steps forward. "Now, listen here—"

"No, you listen." Harvey moves closer, his eyes never leaving Stan's. "Your son assaulted my client's daughter. Then he cornered her in a cafeteria. And when her brother tried to protect her, your son attacked him too." He pauses, letting the gravity of each statement settle into the air. "And you have the audacity to sit there and declare me out of bounds?"

The office seems to shrink around them. Mike positions himself near the kids, almost like a bodyguard. Madison is watching Harvey with an unfamiliar intensity. Beneath the bruise, Tyler's cheek twitches in a smirk.

Delaney clears his throat. "Mr. Specter, there are procedures—"

"Let me tell you what's going to happen now," Harvey continues, talking over him. His gaze stays locked on Stan, his words sharp. "You're going to contact the county superintendent's office and inform them about the Title IX violation that has taken place under your watch. You're also going to suspend Ethan Carter immediately, not only for his actions towards Madison but also for assaulting Tyler. Failure to do so will result in immediate legal action against the district. Am I clear?"

The room hangs on his words. Stan is glaring at him, eyes dark and filled with a bitterness that could choke a man. Delaney is stunned, still processing. The clock above the desk ticks.

Madison, though, she's looking at him in a way he can't quite decipher. Admiration? Surprise? Maybe even gratitude? Or it could just be relief at being defended for once in this damn town.

As for himself, Harvey doesn't really give a shit. All that matters is making sure these kids stay safe and justice is served. And if it means crushing a few small-town egos along the way, then all the better.

"I told you my kid hasn't done anything wrong," Stan spits out. He's no longer the invincible football captain from his glory days. He's just a bully on the verge of a tantrum. "You outsiders think you can just come in here and throw your weight around. It's not happening. Not on my watch. You hear me?"

Harvey steps closer. He can almost see the fires burning in Stan's eyes. Behind them, he sees Principal Delaney slowly reaching for the phone, as if he's ready to call the authorities.

"Oh, I hear you, loud and clear," Harvey says. His voice is dangerously soft. "And I think it's time you hear me. I'm going to tear down everything you've built, piece by piece. I'm going to eviscerate your son's college prospects. I'm going to sue the school board, the state, and everyone in between. By the time I'm done, there won't be a corner of this town you'll be able to hide in." He pauses. The room is a tomb. Somewhere, in the hall outside, a locker slams.

Harvey leans in, so only Stan can hear. His words are like ice. "I don't lose."

He turns to Delaney. "My client is going home. We'll expect your call in 24 hours confirming that all our requested actions have been taken. If not..." He leaves the threat hanging in the air, jagged and unfinished.

Stan Carter, for the first time since Harvey entered the room, turns to look at Madison. And, God help him, Harvey thinks the fucker is about to say something, maybe to try to convince Madison to call off her dog. The idea that this prick still thinks that he and his delinquent spawn can reason their way out of the consequences of what has been done, of how Madison has been treated, enrages him. His jaw tightens painfully, his fingers clench into fists.

"Do not even fucking think about it," Harvey hisses. "I swear, you utter so much as a fucking syllable in her direction, I will—"

Delaney stands abruptly, placing himself between them. There's an edge to him now, a realization that this situation has spun far beyond his control, that maybe his entire life in this small town depends on de-escalating before the entire district goes to hell around him.

"Mr. Specter," Delaney begins, and it's evident that his 'tough-guy routine' has gone. "There's no need for more hostility here. We're all adults. And Mr. Carter," —he glances sharply at the burly, silent man— "I can assure you that we will conduct an investigation, starting now. We won't sweep any violations under the rug. If Ethan...acted improperly, he will face the appropriate disciplinary measures. We will follow the letter of the law."

"Twenty-four hours," Harvey reiterates. "If I do not receive written confirmation of your investigation and immediate suspension, we will begin proceedings."

Delaney swallows hard, nods curtly. His hand rests on Stan's arm, holding him back like a leash, and as Harvey stalks towards the door, the defeated, simmering anger of a small-town king being forced to concede ground burns through him. His gaze sweeps over the kids. Madison's still watching Harvey, and it might be his own ego seeing what he wants to see, but there's no mistaking the faintest hint of a smirk. Tyler's bruise is still angry, his lips split. But the look in his eyes, one part awe, and three parts savage delight, tells Harvey that if given the opportunity, he would go again.

He can't help but think that, in many ways, these two kids are like feral kittens, scrapping to defend their small corner of the world against an enemy they could never truly hope to beat. He can admire the bravery. It doesn't make it wise. But bravery often comes at the expense of wisdom, especially in teenagers who feel they have the whole damn world on their shoulders and are prepared to carry it to prove a point. They're scrappy, stubborn, fierce.

Just like their mom.

When he reaches the door, Madison is at his side. She leans close, her words a whisper as they pass into the hall, "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me for doing my job." Harvey tries to brush off the gratitude. Because that's what he's been telling himself this entire time — he's just doing his job.

But Madison shakes her head, stopping in the empty hall. Her eyes bore into his. "Not just for your 'job'," she emphasizes, air-quoting the word. "For storming into that room and actually giving a shit."

A strange warmth starts to creep up the back of his neck. Harvey pushes it down. The way he sees it, she's right: he did give a shit and maybe he shouldn't have. In his experience, giving a shit makes people vulnerable, it compromises their objectivity, and more often than not, it clouds judgment. Yet here he is, his anger a palpable presence behind him. He tries not to dwell too deeply on that. "Let's get out of here before I'm the one who needs a lawyer."

Madison smiles. Not broadly, but enough to crinkle her nose. Harvey finds it unexpectedly pleasing, that small shift from somberness to something lighter. He decides not to dissect that too thoroughly either.

Tyler approaches from behind, his walk half-limp, half-strut, like a cowboy after a gunfight. The gulf of their ages is clear, and Harvey suspects he sees a kind of hero-worship brewing in Tyler, or at the very least respect for the kind of man that would throw a grenade at the local authorities on behalf of a couple of kids he barely knows. "That was badass."

Mike claps a hand on Tyler's shoulder. "It was. Now, let's vacate before they call the cops."

III

Tyler is trying really hard not to stare. But it's a lost cause: he keeps sneaking glances at Harvey from his position in the back seat of the rental car. He watches the older man's hands, strong but controlled, as they grip the wheel.

There's a part of him that still can't believe someone like this — dressed like that, talking like that — is here. In Riverstone. On behalf of their family.

Beside him, Maddie is also in her head, staring out at the fields and forest flashing past. The quiet is tense, uncomfortable. So, in typical Tyler fashion, he breaks it.

"How are we going to tell Mom?" he asks, looking at his sister's reflection in the window.

She doesn't move, her response a tired mutter, "You're asking me?"

"We kind of need a game plan here," Tyler persists. "She's already so stressed. I don't want her to worry anymore."

Madison rolls her eyes. "She brought this on herself when she decided to blackmail Mr. Bigshot here." The tension in her jaw betrays the lightness of her words. "She wants a fight. She doesn't care if it wrecks our lives."

Harvey shoots her a disapproving look from the front. But Madison isn't looking at him, so it's lost.

"That's not fair, Maddie," Tyler says. "She's doing her best."

"Her best?" Madison turns to him now. There's a new fire in her eyes, a spark of the old Maddie he's missed lately. "Her best is dragging our entire life through the mud when she could have just let it go."

"But you were assaulted! How could anyone 'just let it go'? That's bullshit!" He catches Harvey's warning glare in the rearview mirror but continues. "Mom's protecting you. If you ask me, she's a goddamn hero for what she's doing. Not many parents would fight like she is, not with Stan fucking Carter."

"I didn't ask for any of this!" Madison's voice rises. "I didn't ask for lawyers and lawsuits and everyone knowing! I didn't ask you to throw yourself at Ethan like some kind of... I don't know, deranged bodyguard! What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that he hurt my sister and no one was doing anything about it!" Tyler shouts back. "That he's a bully, that he thinks he can get away with whatever the hell he wants! He needed to be put in his place."

"Put in his place? You're thirteen, Tyler!"

Harvey sighs heavily. "Can you kids cool it back there?"

Both teens ignore him. Mike, in the passenger seat, looks half ready to dive out the window.

"You could have been seriously hurt," Madison says, quieter now. "He's twice your size."

"Yeah, well," Tyler huffs, "I got a few good shots in."

Madison's expression softens then, her exasperation giving way to a rueful affection. "You did not."

"Yeah," Tyler says, sitting up. "Totally rocked his world. Knocked the smug right out of him."

"Uh huh," Madison drawls, unconvinced.

"Fine. Maybe he won. But not in spirit." Tyler slumps back again. "I'll get him next time. Gonna start working out, eat my greens. Get shredded. No one's gonna push a Paulsen around then."

Maddie gives a small chuckle at that. "Whatever you say, Bruce Lee." But the humor doesn't linger. Her gaze falls back out the window, retreating into herself again.

Tyler studies her profile in silence, recognizing her need to disengage. Their arguments are infrequent but fierce. She's so smart and witty. He loves keeping up with her, making her laugh, making her think. He's missed that. They used to fight over the TV remote or the last slice of pizza. Before the assault, everything was always a competition with them, even the dumb stuff.

Not anymore. She's just not...in it. And it's killing him.

"We should talk to her together," he suggests. "I mean, if that's cool."

"Whatever," Maddie mumbles. "Won't matter anyway. It is what it is."

The silence swallows them again. The snow-capped fields slide by outside. This fight with his sister isn't really over; it's just paused. And at the root of it all, at the foundation of this whole messy situation, lies the big one: their mother and her war. She's fighting Stan and Ethan and a whole town of bystanders. But what is she really trying to protect? Is it justice for Maddie, or something bigger? And are her battles destroying the thing she's trying to save?

Tyler turns away from the window. Looking again at Harvey. He wonders what this guy is getting out of all this. He seems so serious, and maybe angry too. But why would an ace city lawyer care about two small-town kids and their problems? Why would a guy like him come all the way to a dump like Riverstone and storm the gates of their crappy public school to kick some local butt?

Something about it all strikes Tyler as...nice. Maybe it's the idea that there are still adults out there that'll actually take a stand when you really need them. Adults who'll put their bodies between you and whatever threatens you. There was a time his father would've been that guy.

He can still picture his old man: his strong shoulders, the dark mop of his hair. How tall and tough and sure he was, like an old movie cowboy or a warrior out of legend. Everything about his dad had seemed larger than life when Tyler was younger, and he'd worshipped him openly. Back then, Dad was a rock they'd clung to, weathering every storm.

Back then.

That rock's gone now, turned to dust. And Tyler realizes he's staring. Harvey looks back, one eyebrow raised in silent question, but Tyler just shakes his head and stares at his sneakers.

A few minutes later, they're turning into the farm. Home. For the first time today, he thinks about that: what 'home' really means. Once it was safety and laughter. Now, with their father gone and this Ethan bullshit looming over them, the word tastes like a lie in his mouth.

They pull up. Maddie's out of the car almost before the wheels stop moving. Eira comes bounding out, barking with the enthusiasm of a creature that lives entirely in the present. The dog heads straight for Harvey, jumping up to lick his face as soon as he steps out of the car.

"Damn it, girl," Harvey says, wiping his cheek with his hand. His scowl isn't very convincing. "What'd I say about the jump-lick thing? That's a two-strike offense."

"Three," Mike says with a grin. "Technically."

"Whatever."

They watch as Maddie disappears into the farmhouse without so much as a glance backwards.

"How's the lip?" Harvey asks.

Tyler touches his mouth, feeling the dried blood crusted at the edges and the tender swell beneath his fingertips. He tries not to wince.

"Looks worse than it is," he replies, dropping his hand and squaring his jaw. He wants to look strong in front of this man, not like some punk kid who got his ass handed to him in the school cafeteria. But then again, wasn't that exactly what happened?

"Did you at least get some good hits in?" Harvey asks.

Tyler shrugs, looking at the snow-covered ground. "I don't really know how to fight."

"But you jumped in anyway," Harvey observes. His voice carries a note of respect. Or so Tyler thinks. Wishes. "Brave move."

Harvey doesn't need to say the last part; it hangs in the air. But stupid.

Tyler kicks at a lump of snow. He tries to look disaffected, like the weight of today doesn't crush his shoulders. "Ethan hurt my sister."

"He did," Harvey says.

"It's not right."

"No," says Harvey. "It's not."

They stand in silence. The dog runs circles around Harvey's legs, panting. Tyler shivers a little, feeling the cold. His left knee is sore, and it throbs when he leans on it. Maybe he wrenched something tackling Ethan. Wouldn't that be the cherry on top of this whole shitty day?

Harvey is watching him. Tyler can feel it.

"You want to learn how to throw a punch?" the lawyer asks.

Tyler blinks, thinking he's misheard. "What?"

"I said," Harvey repeats, looking as serious and cool as he did at the school, like a model from a cologne ad, "do you want to learn how to throw a punch?"

Tyler pauses, a flurry of emotions welling up inside him. Relief. Excitement. Nervousness. Shame. Hope. Anger. But most of all, anger, smoldering in the pit of his stomach. It's been there for months, festering. Growing. Now, it flickers into flame.

"Yes," Tyler says. His fists tighten. "Hell yeah."

IV

It is 3 am.

Donna's eyes are heavy with fatigue as she trudges up the front steps of the farmhouse. She's exhausted, her feet aching from a double shift at the diner followed by a grueling night behind the bar. The world is quiet here, save for the rustling of the wind through the trees and the crunch of her boots in the snow. She pauses for a moment, letting the cool night air wash over her, hoping it might chase away her weariness.

The door creaks open, and she's greeted by the familiar warmth of home. The lights are dim, the house silent. She hangs her coat on the rack and slips off her boots, trying to make as little noise as possible.

She makes her way to the kitchen, intending to grab something quick to eat before collapsing into bed, only to find that she's not alone. Harvey is there, sitting at the table, papers spread out before him. The sleeves of his Henley are pushed up to his elbows, all three of the buttons open at the top. His hair is a little disheveled, a product of a restless night, she thinks. There's something oddly comforting about the sight, this man in her house, just existing. He looks up when she enters.

"Hey," he says quietly. "Thought I heard the door."

Donna leans against the doorway, studying him. "You're still up?" she asks, surprised.

Harvey waves a hand at the papers. "I couldn't sleep, so I figured I'd get some work done. How was your shift?"

"Long," Donna replies with a sigh. She crosses to the fruit bowl on the counter and grabs an orange, peering into the living room to see Mike asleep on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, the other dangling to the floor. She makes a mental note to rearrange sleeping quarters in the morning.

"Please tell me that's not dinner?" Harvey says, eyeing the orange in her hands.

Donna shoots him a look. "Breakfast technically."

"Here," he says, getting up from his chair. "Sit. I'll cook you something better than that." He gestures towards the fridge. "We made pizza earlier. I can heat you up some."

Donna starts to protest, but he's already moving, pulling open her fridge and grabbing the leftovers. She watches him, a flicker of gratitude mingled with something warmer blooming in her chest.

"So," Harvey begins, turning on the oven, "this double life of yours—working all hours of the day and night—it's not really what I'd call a sustainable model."

"What about you?" Donna counters, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "From what I've seen, you're not exactly taking it easy yourself."

"Ah, but that's different," he says, fixing her with a smug look. "I'm on the offensive. Every waking moment is a strategic strike against Stan and his army of...how do I put this politely? Hicks?"

Donna arches an eyebrow, her voice flat. "Please, don't hold back on my account. Tell me how you really feel."

He grins at her, wolfish. Then he grabs a wine glass from the cabinet and fills it, sliding it towards her. "Here, this might help soften my blunt city boy opinions."

Donna takes the glass, letting the red liquid swirl before taking a sip. "Oh, Harvey. Your blunt city boy opinions are my new favorite guilty pleasure."

They share a small, tired laugh as he puts the pizza in the oven. Donna leans back in her chair, letting the wine and the promise of food melt some of the tension from her muscles. "You said 'we' made pizza. Who's 'we'?"

"The whole gang," Harvey says, pouring himself a glass. "Mike, Maddie, and Tyler. We even drafted Eira's help, although I think she might've been more of a liability. Apparently pepperoni is one of her favorite things after me."

"That big floozy – where is she now?" Donna asks, looking around as though the giant dog might materialize.

"In a food coma. In my bed." He says this last part pointedly, with a playful raising of his brow.

"I see," Donna hums, smiling into her wine. "She likes them mouthy, then. Soft hands. High IQs. Prada-shoes she can chew on."

"If by all that you mean devilishly charming and unfathomably handsome, then I'd agree. Except for the shoes part. They're actually Brioni and she knows the difference."

It's her turn to smirk. "Of course. How crass of me." The clock ticks. The wine slips down. He joins her at the table, close enough to feel his presence. After a few moments, she puts down her glass, sobering. "How did you manage to rope Maddie into a group activity? She usually keeps to herself."

"Well, she spent the first twenty minutes watching from the doorway, scowling and itemizing all the ways we were doing it wrong." Harvey pauses, a faint glimmer of humor in his eyes. "She's inherited your frankness, that's for sure."

"It's her best quality," Donna replies. "When she's not using it to mock me, that is."

"We did most of the heavy lifting – rolling out the dough and all that. She just offered commentary. Oh, and the most delicate pizza tossing you've ever seen." He makes a graceful motion with his hand, miming a flick of the wrist. Donna chuckles at his over-the-top gesture.

She pictures the scene, trying to imagine her two serious children in the kitchen cooking with these men she's hired – well, blackmailed – into being here. They must've been so eager for any morsel of family time they could snatch. That Harvey would do that for them, on top of his legal battle, makes her feel things she's not sure she's ready to explore, especially with him – with anybody really, but definitely not with him.

"I bet that was quite a sight," Donna says. Then, her voice quieting a bit, she adds, "Thanks for looking after them."

He brushes off her gratitude with a wave of his hand. "It was Mike's idea, actually. He figured they could use a distraction after the day they had."

Concern flickers across Donna's face, her brow creasing. "What do you mean, 'the day they had'? Did something happen?"

He swallows. His eyes, suddenly, won't meet hers.

Donna sets her wineglass down a little harder than necessary, her whole body tensing up. "Are they okay?" she demands, half-rising from her chair as though ready to bolt up the stairs.

"They're fine, they're fine, it's nothing serious." He hesitates, and that's enough to keep her frozen in place. "Madison..."

"Madison," she repeats, her throat tightening. "What about her?"

"She was approached in the cafeteria by Ethan today," Harvey says carefully. "And Tyler came to her aid."

"Approached—" She breathes out sharply. Her mind races through all the worst-case scenarios, each one more horrifying than the last. "Did he touch her? Is she hurt?"

"No." Harvey shakes his head quickly. "Nothing like that. But they argued, and then Ethan got physical with Tyler."

"He what?" The anger flares up so quickly she almost chokes on it. Donna grips the edge of the table, knuckles white.

"It's okay, they're both okay," Harvey says, his voice cutting through the roar in her ears. "Mike and I took care of it. We went to the school and laid down the law." He wets his lips. His eyes search hers. "If that was even something you wanted, I mean – it kind of happened in the moment, and—"

"No, no," she reassures him quickly. "I appreciate you stepping in. God, of course I do." Donna lets out a shaky breath, sinking back into her chair. "He shouldn't have been allowed within a hundred feet of her," she says. The sudden spike of fear is receding now, replaced by a familiar simmering resentment. A ball of helpless anger. "What is wrong with people in this town? The football fanatics, the teachers, the principal, Stan Carter—the whole lot of them make me fucking sick."

"They're idiots," Harvey agrees. "Brainwashed by some backward, two-bit small-town hero worship. Can't think for themselves and wouldn't know the truth if it smacked them in the face." He reaches over to refill her glass. She looks up at him, a mixture of frustration and gratitude in her eyes. His jaw tenses. "Your son has heart," he says softly. "But I can't say the same for your town."

"Yeah, well, heart isn't going to keep them safe," she mutters, more to herself than to him. The pizza has vanished from her mind completely now; what little appetite she had feels a million miles away. Instead, all she can focus on is Tyler—her beautiful, brave, reckless, kind-hearted Tyler. Thirteen. All knees and elbows and uncoordinated hands.

Thirteen. Four years younger than Ethan. At least half his weight. But still he'd thrown himself between his sister and her attacker. Donna wants to laugh; to rage against this entire town; to break down in exhausted, overwhelmed tears.

But instead she just sighs, bringing the wine to her lips. She takes a long sip. Harvey watches her. When she swallows, she leans back, her head tipped against the chair's top rail.

Harvey breaks the silence first. "They need you, you know."

She lowers her gaze to meet his. The tired lines around his eyes seem deeper than before, but they crinkle softly as he regards her.

Donna chews on her lip. "I'm doing my best," she murmurs, voice catching. The words hang between them, heavy with emotion. She clears her throat and continues, "But I have a mortgage and bills, two kids and a dozen farm animals to feed—hell, I still owe $15,000 for a degree in 'Fine Arts' that has failed me every goddamn step of the way. There's no wiggle room. Even with two jobs..." She shakes her head. "I'm just barely staying afloat." The helplessness she feels surges up like bile. She swallows it down. Hard. But not quite completely, and a dry sob breaks from her. Her head falls forward into her hands, her fingers sliding upward to grip her hair as though that might somehow anchor her in place.

A single finger – Harvey's – touches lightly under her chin and draws her gaze back up.

"You're not alone in this anymore," he says softly but firmly. His eyes bore into hers, a silent pledge that something has irrevocably shifted. He's still with her. Still here. And now, from the looks of it, by choice.

Donna nods, throat too tight to speak. He gives her the moment she needs to collect herself, his hand falling away from her face. The place where his skin touched hers tingles slightly, warmth spreading from that one point of connection. She didn't think she'd wanted this, that she'd needed it, until right now, as relief fills her from head to toe. Someone else is here to shoulder some of the weight, to draw the proverbial short straw so that she can breathe – if even for a moment – and do the real work of mothering her children, nurturing them while she can, replenishing the reservoir of herself so she can meet the next obstacle and then the one after that with even a whisper of the strength her children have come to expect from her.

"We'll figure something out," he reassures, voice still low. "That's what I'm here for. New tactics. But this 3am diner-bartender-late-shift-super-mom shit ends now. You can't help them like this."

He's right. Of course he's right. But even just admitting that is exhausting in itself, on top of everything else. Donna raises the wine to her lips and drains the rest of the glass. It sits warm and heavy in her stomach, but fails to wash away the churning mass of emotions rising up her throat.

"I don't know where to start," she confesses. "I feel like I'm drowning in all of—" she gestures widely, vaguely, at everything and nothing in particular— "this."

"Didn't Nate get a pension from the Fire Department when he died?" Harvey asks delicately, averting his eyes in an unusual display of discomfort. "I'd assumed you were living off that."

"No. No pension." Her jaw tightens. "The fire was on the Indian reservation, not in town limits. There was some red tape bullshit about jurisdictions and town boundaries. So Riverstone's station wasn't technically considered first responders, just volunteers. That made the fire an 'unofficial call'. By the time it was all sorted out and the investigation concluded... we got nothing." She looks up at him then, with an exhausted sort of apathy. "It's a mess of government stupidity and Catch-22s."

A shadow of anger flickers across Harvey's face, his eyes hardening at the injustice of it all. His fist clenches on the table before he pushes the emotion down. Donna watches him quietly, recognizing his silent fury. She feels it too, every day. Every time she pays a bill, runs the farm, or watches the heart-breaking anguish of her children. She wonders sometimes if she should feel more of it: more anger, more bitterness, more fight. Or whether her accepting their normal is part of the problem. Is acceptance just another form of defeat?

After a moment, Harvey seems to compose himself, his face relaxing again into something more neutral. He turns to her, "Let me make some calls to the pension board," he says. "That decision was complete crap; we can at least get the state's Firefighters' Association involved on your behalf. We'll go over all the relevant statutes and get you a second opinion on that ruling. Your family deserves that money. I'll make sure you get it."

Donna's mouth opens in surprise, but she finds herself unable to formulate words. Again, emotions rise up, constricting her throat. When did she become such a pushover, on the verge of tears at the smallest gesture? With her free hand, she makes a little bit of a wave in the air, trying to disperse the onslaught before she truly falls apart. But in typical Harvey fashion, he offers a sudden change of topic that both yanks her out of her internal war and saves her the embarrassment of weeping like a child at the kitchen table.

"You said your degree was in Fine Arts. Sorry, but where the hell can you get a degree like that in a place like this?"

"It's from Yale, thank you," she says indignantly.

"Yale?" Surprise registers on Harvey's face. He straightens a little in his chair, assessing her in an all new light. "Wow, I did not expect that."

"What? You thought you were the only Ivy League showpiece in this backwater town?" Donna says dryly, unable to resist teasing him. "I didn't grow up on a farm, Mr. Big City." Her tongue trips lightly over the words. The lingering effect of the wine, no doubt.

Harvey seems to perk up at that. He leans his elbows onto the table, interlocking his fingers, his chin coming to rest atop them. His gaze on her is... It's intense in a way that makes her chest tighten. "Then where did you grow up?"

"Upstate New York." Donna's finger, still restless, trails up and down the stem of her glass. "Cortland, if you know it."

The right side of his mouth twitches. His eyes narrow a fraction. He doesn't believe her. That's fair. She's not sure she would either.

The oven beeps. Startled, Donna moves to rise.

"I got it." His voice stops her. Standing, Harvey says, "Keep talking. You were in Cortland...then Yale? What the hell brings someone from Ivy League glory to a literal cow town?"

"Nate," Donna breathes out, hesitating now. How much to share? How much to omit? "We met at Yale –"

"So he's an Ivy Leaguer, too? This just gets better and better."

She rolls her eyes. "He was there on a football scholarship. A big dumb cowboy from Nowhere, Montana." The memories bring a hint of a smile. Her gaze unfocuses as she wanders down that distant road, a place where the sun shines ever bright, and the cool autumn wind doesn't carry the heavy scent of loss. "Everyone loved him. You couldn't not love him. He was..." she exhales, long and slow. "So full of life. Vibrant. Ridiculously charming. A better person than I'll ever be, in a thousand different ways."

The sadness has crept in now, the subtle ache in her chest twisting and pulling. Harvey has returned with the pizza, setting it onto the table in front of her. For a moment she just stares at it. "Where was I again?"

"Madly in love," he offers. His mouth tugs to one side in a faint grimace of understanding.

"Yeah, that." She laughs. It's a cracked thing. But her eyes are clear when she finally drags her gaze up to meet his. No tears. Just the weight of a world without Nate in it, that too-familiar bleakness she carries every day. "His scholarship was at risk because of his grades. Someone set us up to have me tutor him our sophomore year." The scene paints itself behind her eyes. Those slow, sultry smiles of his. The charming twinkle in his dark eyes. He'd swept her up and away before she'd even realized it, before her cautious heart could muster a defense. He'd slipped past all her barricades. "One date, I promised. If he could get an A."

"Did he?"

"Oh God, no," she scoffs, finally reaching for the pizza. "He was hopeless. Could not tell you Hamlet from MacBeth if you put a gun to his head." Another laugh. This one is warmer. Almost affectionate. "But I never regretted that date. Not once. Every moment from that day onward..." Her breath trembles. Her chest hurts. How can a memory still be so sweet and so excruciating at the same time? How is she meant to speak of their first hello when the last goodbye tears her apart? "I got pregnant with Madison a few months shy of graduation and we moved back here to get married and take over his parents' place." Donna snorts, derisive now. "You can imagine how well that went down with my folks. Ivy League legacy be damned, I guess."

"You were happy," Harvey says. It's not a question. There's no need for it to be. But for him to recognize it... Her gaze lifts to his again, surprised to find an echo of melancholic understanding in those brown eyes.

"Yeah. So much so it was stupid, in retrospect."

"Don't do that. Don't diminish your happiness."

Her jaw tightens. For a moment, she tries to resist his admonishment, stubbornness urging her to dig her heels in and retort with all the ways she'd failed them. But his sincerity gives her pause. Slowly, the fight goes out of her. She nods. "Yeah, alright, Mister Fix-It." The jab is feeble, lacking any real bite. She takes a sip of wine. "Guess that about wraps up my pitiful saga. Surely that's more than enough personal exposition for a simple pizza pity party." Her lips stretch into a mirthless line. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

Donna gestures in his vague direction with her glass. "We covered all my tragedies, surely you have a tale of woe or two of your own? I feel like an emotional exposé and you're, what, still sitting there a big zero in the 'laying it all out there' department?" Her teasing is gentle but insistent, and she watches as he ponders it, turning her question over in his mind.

"I could lay it all out there. Wouldn't make great dinner conversation, though."

"Why, is it dark and brooding? Evil family history? Who did you kill?" She nibbles at her pizza as his eyes roll heavenward. The taste is finally returning to her food. Her exhaustion and frustration are ebbing too, slowly, replaced with a quiet, aching, amorphous something. She chases it. "Oh, come on," she urges. "You have me dying of curiosity now. Gimme just a hint." She bats her eyelashes at him. His sigh is audible.

"Well, let's see." He sips his wine. "Childhood trauma: check. Trust issues: double check. Abandonment hang ups: you betcha. Borderline sociopath since I was old enough to understand what a winning streak felt like and I wanted to make it never end." He frowns at himself, flicking at the stem of his glass with one finger. "Wow. Guess it is a little dark."

"Mmm, nothing light about those dirty little skeletons, that's for sure." Donna points a finger at him. "Not done yet, though, Mr. Mysterious. Your story is lacking a lady love. Please, do go on, don't hold back this juicy bit of deets."

"Please tell me you don't actually say 'deets' in normal conversation."

"I'll have you know there's a fifteen year old in this house. My street cred is immaculate. Now talk, dammit."

His laugh is short and quiet. "You're going to be disappointed, I'm afraid." At her doubting look, he gestures to himself, expansive and almost mockingly. "I'm the textbook playboy."

"Oh, my."

"Stereotypical commitment-phobe with an ever rotating parade of suitably hot arm candy. One woman a month if I'm working hard on myself. God forbid she gets clingy."

"How hetero of you."

"Terribly." He eyes her, suspicious. "So now that you know I'm a heartless asshole, are we even?"

"I'm too tipsy and tired to make an educated judgement."

"I guess you can weigh up the evidence tomorrow."

"But for the record," she adds, poking him lightly in the arm with a finger, "the asshole shtick is totally overplayed. The Great Lawyer 'O Gloom, vanquishing dragons and defending maidens fair, all whilst flying his Big-Ass City Slicker flag to protect my kids from their own town. Nah, I don't buy your bull anymore, Harvey Specter. But don't worry" – another prod to the arm – "your secret's safe with me."

"That's some pretty low standards you've got there." He shakes his head in exaggerated self-disgust. "Save a kid from the school bullies and suddenly I'm Prince Charming."

"Oh, absolutely. Disney's kicking down your door any minute now." Donna's smile grows as she says this, all lopsided and fond and more than a little inebriated. The wine and food sit in her belly, warm, heavy. Her limbs, once rigid with anxiety and long hours on her feet, have loosened into something far more comfortable. That elusive, half-formed something still hovers just out of her reach. What is it? Relief at not being alone? Gratitude for an unexpected comrade-in-arms? It must be something like that, surely. Right?

He watches her over his own drink, his brown eyes calm, observant, gentle in a way that's almost tender. When did he get so close? Sometime during dinner. Yes, he'd moved his chair to help serve her pizza, and never bothered to return it. She doesn't mind. For all that she loves her children dearly, the chance to connect with an adult — with another living soul as old and wise and wary as herself — is a rare treasure these days. It's easy, she's learned, to lose sight of that. To forget how isolating motherhood can be.

But that's not quite right, is it? The way her chest aches suddenly, this new, deep sensation of yearning... there's something more to this. She sits back from the table, trying to bring some distance. This needs unpacking.

In the sudden, heavy silence, his eyes snap down. To her jeans. Hers follow.

There's a great, big red splodge of pizza sauce on her lap. When did that happen?

"Here," Harvey offers, moving without warning. He snatches up a napkin and leans across, already scrubbing at the stain before Donna has time to protest. She sucks in a sharp breath at the warmth of his fingers — brushing against her jeans in his enthusiastic attempt to save them — and something catches in her throat. Catches and sticks. Triggers a low, thrumming thing in the pit of her stomach that she's not felt for so long.

Sex. That's it. That's what's missing. Not with Harvey, surely – but in general? Yes, she decides. She hasn't touched a man since Nate's death. Had barely thought of it, overwhelmed by single motherhood and bills and her crumbling household. What else is the cause of this odd sensation but abstinence?

She exhales, slowly. The hand still working her jeans makes her breath shudder. This isn't a good feeling to have. Attractive as he is — objectively, of course — she does not need the complication of having even the suggestion of sex with Harvey Specter in her head. How would she even—? It's impossible to imagine. He's hardly going to be interested, either, no matter what...this is.

Nevertheless, he's taking an extraordinarily long time trying to get that damn sauce stain out.

Why is his hand still there? Why can't she pull away?

Jesus, what's in this wine?

But then his thumb curls under the edge of the denim, his knuckle sliding far too close to something a lot more sensitive than her thigh. She jolts at the contact. A fresh flood of warmth rushes her groin. Time to put an end to this, whatever it is, before it can build into anything even more humiliating.

She stops his hand. Wraps her fingers around his to halt his movements and, as she does, swallows thickly. A tingling spreads from her head to her toes, a hundred thousand nerves all suddenly very, very awake.

He pauses. Looks up at her.

Did his eyes always look so soft?

For one long, humming moment they stare at each other, his fingers lingering between her thighs. His tongue darts out to lick his lower lip. Oh, God. Oh fuck. Did she imagine that?

"I, uh, think that spot's a lost cause," Donna breathes eventually. She yanks his hand off her crotch and shoves it back at him. As far away as possible. He'd touched her and now her entire pelvic area is screaming at her: more! Her thighs shift. More. Her breathing quickens. More. Donna shoots to her feet.

"You alright?" he asks, staring at her like she's lost her damn mind.

"Great! Just tired, is all. And drunk. The wine's good. Where's it from?"

"The pantry."

"Mmm," she says, backpedaling fast out of the kitchen. "That's great. Good job. Wine, I mean. Big fan. Well. Bed's calling so. Night!"

And then, because no amount of dignity could salvage this flaming dumpster fire of a social interaction, she turns and sprints straight to her bedroom, shoves herself inside and locks the door. Not that any actual threats exist. Unless you count her own traitorous body.

His hand.

Firm. Confident. Teasing across her jeans.

No, no. Teasing isn't a word she's going to touch with a ten foot pole right now. Something else. Not teasing. Well-intentioned.

Jesus. It doesn't matter what the descriptor is, the end result is the same. A part of her that's been silent for years has sprung back to life, and it is positively, definitely hungry. Shit. This isn't what she needed right now. Her attraction to Harvey is probably no more than proximity and lack of release anyway, a purely biological response to all his tall-dark-and-handsome-ing in her very lonely vicinity. It'll pass in an hour.

Once she's shoved a few of these horny demons back in their cages where they belong.

Stripping off her clothes, Donna changes into the least sexy pajamas she owns and huddles under the bedcovers. If the kids were awake this would be easy. But even a frantic middle-aged mother with a hundred other responsibilities to distract her can't escape the temptation of a good, hard fuck fantasy on a quiet night like this. Even a hundred miles away, she'd be thinking about it, imagining what it might feel like, skin to skin, two warm bodies entwined after years of starvation. And now...

He's downstairs.

No.

Stop it.

Don't think about it.

Sleep now.

Eyes shut, she counts sheep, chants a soothing mantra and does everything she can to purge her brain of this intrusive, thoroughly inconvenient and, honestly, straight up pathetic arousal. Whatever excitement had lurked between her thighs slips away over time. Relief creeps in. That's right, Donna. No stupid, torrid fantasies. There's nothing to the feelings you had downstairs and you'd never act on them anyway.

After all, who is she kidding? It's been too long; she's sure to be terrible at sex; a complete fumbling moron with not a single clue and she's far too old for fumbling, foolish shame alone would kill her. Hell, forget shame. Why would he even look twice at her anyway, when all he needs is Tinder and a picture of his Porsche to have all the one night stands he could possibly dream of? Women like Donna – nearly forty, emotionally and financially strapped, widowed with two kids – are about as high on any man's wish list as a damn meteor strike.

Shame squashes the last remnants of need in her belly. A shame she knows is unreasonable but cannot shake nonetheless. She shouldn't want this. Not with him. She shouldn't be able to feel desire anymore; there isn't room for it. Better to tamp down any inconvenient impulses before they can truly take root. And what would Nate think?

Hell, he'd think it was hilarious, actually. And, 'Good for you, darlin',' in that slow, warm drawl of his, so kind and accepting that the first tear surprises her when it spills over her cheek.

By the time the next one drips, she realizes she's not just failing to stem them: she's barely holding back sobs. Oh, for God's sake. Crying in bed? Over her own hopeless libido? Because she thought an attractive man might've sort of kind of suggested... what, even? A little half-hearted, unthinking flirtation? Christ, this is rock bottom.

"Shut up," she whispers to her treacherous inner monologue as she rolls over, burying herself under the covers. "God, just shut the hell up."

Sleep doesn't come easy, but in the end, it comes.