Mike Ross: Nocturnal
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He groaned without opening his eyes, blindly reaching to reclaim his half of the comforter from the human furnace that was currently stealing it.
"Mike," he muttered, voice rasped and soaked in sleep. "If this is a sex thing, I swear to god—"
"Would you still love me if I were a worm?"
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Or, exactly what it says on the tin, Mike asks Harvey hypothetical question, Harvey suffers (from lack of sleep)Series
- Part 1 of Mike Ross: Nocturnal
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Harvey was dreaming about something important. Something that probably involved expensive cars, closed deals, and him walking away from an explosion in slow motion while Metallica played in the background. It was good. It was peaceful.
Then the poking began.
First soft. Then insistent. Then unmistakably intentional.
Harvey Specter opened one eye, and it was war.
"I swear to god, if you say the word ‘worm’—"
"I’m not gonna say ‘worm,’" Mike whispered like a man who absolutely was not to be trusted. "But listen. Just—just hear me out. What if—okay, what if cats are actually running the Internet?"
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Or, Harvey, naively, thought that the If I Were A Worm debate was a one time fluke. He was so, so wrongSeries
- Part 2 of Mike Ross: Nocturnal
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The third week was when Harvey accepted—really accepted—that he was in a relationship with a man who had the energy of an unsupervised Tumblr blog. He’d lived through late-night worm metaphysics and feline world domination theories, but tonight was something else entirely. Tonight wasn’t poking. It wasn’t urgent talks about global furball conspiracies.
Tonight was... whispering. Continuous, deliberate, tender whispering.
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Or, Harvey learns what ASMR is thanks to his boyfriend, who apparently never sleepsSeries
- Part 3 of Mike Ross: Nocturnal
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It was 2:37 a.m. when Harvey shot upright in bed, the sound hitting him like a gunshot in the quiet—a sharp, wet, unmistakable sob. At first, he thought he might have imagined it. Maybe it was a leftover echo from a dream, some stupid courtroom dramatization with a weeping witness and dramatic lighting.
But no. There it was again. Muffled, choked, heartbroken.
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Or, another week, another night of Harvey losing sleeping because of MikeSeries
- Part 4 of Mike Ross: Nocturnal
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Harvey woke to the kind of sound that wasn’t loud, but still managed to punch him square in the chest.
It was soft. Too soft. Like someone was trying not to be heard.
At first, he thought it was just Mike doing that thing again—watching something tragic in the middle of the night and ugly crying like it was a sport. Maybe Pixar had dropped a new short, or maybe he’d stumbled into a Humans of New York rabbit hole again. But then came the sob. The real one. The kind you don’t fake. The kind that tries to hide in the back of your throat but slips out anyway.
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Or, Mike had a nightmare, Harvey comforts him.Series
- Part 5 of Mike Ross: Nocturnal
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He blinked awake, squinting at the faint city light creeping through the blinds, and turned toward the source. Mike was right there, lying on his side, blanket half-off, hair in chaos curls. And, miracle of miracles, he appeared to be asleep.
Harvey frowned. That didn’t track.
Then came the mumbling.
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Or, Mike sleep talks, Harvey suffers.Series
- Part 6 of Mike Ross: Nocturnal
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Harvey had been telling himself for days that this trip to Chicago was going to be a relief.
A break.
Seven nights of uninterrupted sleep without a blue-eyed chaos goblin waking him up at one in the morning to ask if he’d still love him as a worm, to sob over pink elephants, or to switch from court kink to horror movie mid-dream.
He’d told himself it would be great.
Except—
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
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Or, Harvey goes on a business trip and thinks he will get some proper sleep for once. He is wrong.Series
- Part 7 of Mike Ross: Nocturnal
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The first thing Harvey noticed when he woke up was the weight.
A heavy, warm, dead-to-the-world kind of weight pressing against his back, pinning him in place. Not unusual. In fact, he’d missed it when he was stuck in Chicago with nothing but sterile hotel sheets and a silence so oppressive he’d resorted to FaceTiming Mike in the middle of the night like some teenager in a long-distance relationship.
But now, back home, reunited with the barnacle he called his boyfriend, Harvey remembered that there was a flip side.
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Or, Harvey decides to sleep on the couch, Mike is very dramatic about it.Series
- Part 8 of Mike Ross: Nocturnal
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Harvey woke to the distinct feeling of being watched.
Not in the casual, Mike-snoring-beside-him way. No, this was different. He could feel the weight pinning him down, the slow rhythm of breath hitting his face, and that unmistakable sixth sense that told him something was deeply, profoundly wrong.
He cracked one eye open, cautiously, like maybe if he caught it early enough he could shut it down before it got worse.
And then he flinched.
Because Mike was sitting directly on top of him.
Nose to nose.
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Or, Harvey gets reminded about an anniversary—and Mike has opinions about numbers.Series
- Part 9 of Mike Ross: Nocturnal
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"Hey—hey, hey," Harvey rasped, instantly upright, grabbing Mike’s wrists to still them. "What’s wrong? What happened? Did someone die? What is it?"
Mike shook his head violently, tears dripping onto the sheets. "It’s so sad," he choked out.
"What’s sad? You’re gonna have to narrow it down."
"The dinosaurs."
Harvey stared at him. "The... dinosaurs?"
Mike nodded, sniffing hard, voice cracking like a teenager’s. "They didn’t deserve that, Harvey."
Harvey blinked a few times, trying to reboot his brain. "I’m sorry, I feel like I missed about sixty million years of context here."
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Or, another night of Mike being a menace to Harvey's sleep schedule, this time with dinosaurs.Series
- Part 10 of Mike Ross: Nocturnal
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Mike woke with a violent oof, all the air punching out of his lungs as a full-grown corporate attorney collapsed across his chest. His eyes flew open, disoriented, heart pounding, adrenaline firing like he was being attacked by a very well-dressed bear.
Then he smelled it.
Whiskey. Scotch. Something aged longer than some countries. And Harvey’s cologne—stronger than usual, more of a fog than a scent, like Harvey had marinated in it before leaving wherever he’d been.
Mike blinked. "Harvey?"
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Or, Harvey turns the tables for once.Series
- Part 11 of Mike Ross: Nocturnal
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Harvey woke up to light.
Not the gentle, ambient kind that meant dawn was creeping in through the windows. Not the soft glow of the city bleeding through the curtains. This was sharp. Targeted. Personal. A white-hot beam aimed directly at his retinas like an interrogation tactic.
He groaned and rolled his head to the side, which did nothing except drag the light along with him.
"Mike," he said hoarsely, the word more of a warning than a greeting. "If that's a gun, at least have the decency to finish the job."
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Or, another night of Mike being a menace to Harvey—this time with carrots.Series
- Part 12 of Mike Ross: Nocturnal
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Harvey woke to a sound that took a few seconds to register.
It wasn’t light. That alone was disorienting. No phone beam boring into his skull, no harsh glow cutting through the dark. The room was dim, the city outside muted and distant, the clock on the nightstand casting a faint red blur he didn’t bother to focus on.
The sound came again. Soft. Wet. Broken.
Sniffling.
Harvey’s body went still in that particular way it did when his brain was already sprinting ahead of him, cataloguing possibilities he didn’t like. Mike didn’t cry quietly. Mike cried with hiccups and sharp breaths and a complete lack of shame. This was restrained. Contained. Like he was trying very hard not to be noticed.
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Or, Mike read a study, Harvey deals with the consequences.Series
- Part 13 of Mike Ross: Nocturnal