Chapter Text
Harvey’s condo is dimly lit, the glow from the city filtering through the massive windows. Mike is sprawled out on the couch, one leg hanging off, the other bent at the knee. Harvey is half on top of him, his weight pressing Mike into the cushions, hands under his shirt, fingers dragging up his ribs. Their kisses are lazy, messy, punctuated by breathless chuckles when one of them moves too fast or gets too enthusiastic.
Mike tilts his head back, eyes heavy-lidded. "You’re a terrible kisser when you’re drunk."
Harvey huffs against his jaw. "Lies."
Mike grins, looping his arms around Harvey’s neck, pulling him back down. "Okay, maybe just lazy."
Harvey nips at Mike’s bottom lip in retaliation, and Mike groans, arching up into him. The air between them is thick, charged with something that’s been simmering for too long. It should be weird, should feel like crossing a line, but it doesn’t. Not with the way Harvey’s hands are moving, not with the way Mike is gripping the back of his shirt like he’s afraid Harvey will stop.
But it didn’t start like this.
Oh no.
It started earlier that evening.
--
They’d won. Of course, they had. Harvey had strutted out of the meeting like he owned the place (because he might as well have), and Mike had trailed behind, grinning like an idiot, his tie loose, his hair a little disheveled from running a victorious hand through it.
Dinner was the obvious next step. A celebration. Steak, expensive wine, something off a menu that Mike pretended to understand.
"So," Mike had said, slicing into his overpriced entrée, "how does it feel knowing that you’re stuck with me for another big win?"
Harvey smirked. "Like I should be charging you tuition."
Mike rolled his eyes. "You’re just mad that I got that clause in without them noticing."
"I’m mad," Harvey said, sipping his drink, "that you still don’t know how to pronounce half the stuff on this menu."
Mike narrowed his eyes. "I know how to pronounce most of it."
Harvey smirked. "Say ‘Coq au Vin.’"
Mike hesitated. "Coke...o—"
Harvey shook his head. "Pathetic."
Mike huffed, stabbing his fork into his food. But when he looked back up and saw Harvey’s small smirk, he smiled too.
It should have ended there. A perfect night. A win, a meal, some smug banter.
They should have said their goodbyes.
They didn’t.
Mike took one look at Harvey, the way he leaned back in his chair, content, loose from the wine, and said, "I’m in the mood for a drink."
Harvey didn’t even pretend to debate it. "My kind of thinking."
Bad decisions, meet Harvey Specter.
They found a random bar, slid into a booth, and started ordering like they had nothing better to do. The conversation stayed sharp, filled with inside jokes, work talk, and Mike’s insistence that Harvey was getting old.
At some point, their knees touched. At some point, Harvey’s gaze lingered too long on Mike’s mouth.
At some point, this stopped feeling like just another night.
Mike noticed it first—the way Harvey’s fingers tapped the table, restless, the way he leaned in just a little too much when he laughed. It was subtle, but not subtle enough.
He licked his lips, watching Harvey watch him do it, and suddenly, the air between them was charged in a way neither of them could ignore.
Harvey exhaled, shaking his head slightly, like he was debating something. Then, voice low, he said, "My condo’s closer."
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even an invitation, not really. It was just a fact, spoken into the space between them.
Mike swallowed. He could say no. Should say no. But he didn’t.
"Then let’s go," he said, and just like that, they were in a cab, the city flashing by in a blur of streetlights and bad decisions.
By the time they stumbled through Harvey’s door, the tension was unbearable.
Harvey barely got the door closed before Mike was on him, fingers curling into his shirt, dragging him down. It was awkward, fast, half-laughing, half-desperate.
They crashed onto the couch, Harvey on top of Mike, their limbs tangled. Shirts were pushed up, fingers ghosting over skin, mouths sliding together in a way that felt reckless and overdue.
And now, here they were—two men who should know better, making out like teenagers, completely unwilling to stop.
Mike runs his hands through Harvey’s hair, grinning against his mouth. "So, uh... we talking about this in the morning?"
Harvey kisses him again, slow and deliberate. Then, pulling back just enough to meet Mike’s eyes, he smirks.
"Only if you can pronounce ‘Coq au Vin’ by then."
Mike groans, dropping his head back against the couch.
Harvey laughs against Mike’s mouth, and it should be a sign to slow down, to think, but they’re both too far gone for that. Instead, they kiss like they have nowhere else to be, like this isn’t the worst idea they’ve ever had.
When Harvey pulls back, Mike is grinning up at him, lips swollen, slick with spit, his cheeks flushed. He looks like he’s having the best night of his life. And maybe he is. Maybe Harvey is, too.
"God, look at you," Harvey murmurs, running a thumb over Mike’s lips, dragging the lower one down just enough to make Mike shiver.
"Looking at you," Mike fires back, but his voice is breathless, a little wrecked already.
Harvey lets out a low chuckle before pressing their mouths together again, deeper this time, heat coiling between them.
Yeah. They’re doing this.
Harvey pulls Mike up with him as he stumbles off the couch, dragging them both toward the bedroom. He’s already mentally composing the excuse he’ll give Jessica in the morning when he inevitably rolls into the office late, looking a little too pleased with himself. Allergies? No. Power outage? No. He settles on something vague—urgent personal matters. That’ll do.
Mike is right behind him, fingers skimming over his sides, his stomach, impatient and eager. The moment they reach the bed, Harvey falls back onto it, tugging Mike down on top of him. Their bodies press together, warm, solid, the weight of Mike over him sending a jolt of something sharp and electric down his spine.
Clothes are shed in a lazy, haphazard mess—shirts tugged off, belts unbuckled, pants kicked to the floor with all the coordination of two drunk men who care about nothing but each other. And then they’re naked, skin against skin, and it should feel strange, unfamiliar. It doesn’t. It just feels inevitable.
Mike, perched over him, is practically vibrating.
"So, uh—" He waves a hand between them. "How far are we—what are we—like, are we actually fucking? And if so, who’s doing what, what’s happening next, what’s the—"
Harvey just stares, watching Mike’s brain spin out like a malfunctioning computer.
He waits. And waits.
And then, when he’s had enough, he reaches up, takes Mike’s hand, and guides two fingers into his mouth.
Mike’s rambling dies instantly.
Harvey doesn’t break eye contact as he drags his tongue over Mike’s fingers, slow and deliberate, hollowing his cheeks just slightly as he sucks. Mike’s pupils blow wide, his breath hitching audibly.
"Holy shit," he whispers.
Harvey lets his fingers slip from his mouth, a thin string of saliva connecting them, before he moves Mike’s hand between his thighs.
And that’s when it hits Mike.
Harvey fucking Specter wants him to—
"Oh my God."
Harvey just raises an eyebrow, smirking like he’s completely unbothered by the fact that Mike looks like he’s about to pass out. He reaches over, grabs a small bottle from the nightstand, and tosses it at Mike.
Mike catches it, barely. "Are you serious?"
Harvey levels him with a look. "Do I look like I’m joking?"
Mike stares at the lube in his hands, then at Harvey, then back at the lube.
"I—" He scrubs a hand through his hair, eyes darting all over the place, his brain firing in a million different directions. "I just—are you sure? Like, really sure? Because I have so many follow-up questions. Like, have you done this before? How often? Who with? Do I need to—"
Harvey sighs, grabs the back of Mike’s neck, and drags him down into a kiss that effectively shuts him up.
Mike gets the message.
Shaking his head in disbelief, he slicks up his fingers, and when he presses the first one in, Harvey exhales sharply, his body tensing just for a second before he forces himself to relax.
Mike watches, fascinated, his earlier babbling forgotten. He pushes in another finger, twisting his wrist slightly, and Harvey makes a sound—low, quiet, something close to a moan, and Mike actually forgets how to breathe for a second.
"Oh, fuck," Mike whispers. "You—okay, wow."
Harvey, looking dangerously close to wrecked already, cracks one eye open. "Stop narrating."
Mike doesn’t. "No, because—because you sound—" He angles his fingers just right, and Harvey’s head tilts back against the pillow, a sharper noise slipping out.
Mike goes still, watching, listening.
Harvey tries to regain control, to say something cutting, something cocky, but his voice comes out rough, soft around the edges. "Don’t—don’t just—" He hisses when Mike curls his fingers slightly.
Mike grins. "Lost your train of thought there, buddy?"
Harvey glares at him, but it’s utterly ineffective when his dick twitches against his stomach at the same time.
"Oh my God," Mike breathes. "This is actually happening."
"Mike," Harvey warns, but his voice isn’t sharp enough to be convincing.
Mike presses his forehead against Harvey’s, grinning like he’s just been handed the keys to the universe.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "This is happening."
He’s grinning like an idiot. He knows it. He can’t help it. He’s on top of Harvey Specter, Harvey is flushed and panting beneath him, and Mike is about to fuck him. It should feel surreal, should make him nervous, but it doesn’t. It feels like the best goddamn decision he’s ever made.
But as much as he wants to go for it—right now, immediately, no further preparation—he’s not an idiot. He wants to do this right.
So he adds another finger, watching carefully for any signs of discomfort. He takes his time, making sure Harvey is open and relaxed, that he won’t hurt him. The way Harvey responds, though—Jesus. His body shifts restlessly against the sheets, his chest rising and falling with each sharp breath, his hands flexing where they’re gripping Mike’s arms.
"Condoms?" Mike asks, his voice rough with restraint.
Harvey blinks at him, his brain clearly moving at half-speed, which is both hilarious and weirdly endearing. It takes him a second, but then he reaches over, pulls open the bedside drawer, and tosses a foil packet at Mike.
Mike catches it, chuckling. "Wow. That was an impressively delayed response."
"Shut up," Harvey mutters, his voice still slightly wrecked.
Mike presses a soothing kiss to his lips. He doesn’t mean it to be anything more than comforting, but Harvey makes a sound—something soft and needy—the second Mike withdraws his fingers, and it damn near undoes him.
"Jesus," Mike murmurs, sucking in a breath. "You’re really—"
"Finish that sentence and I’m kicking you out," Harvey warns, but it’s barely a threat when his voice is trembling with something else entirely.
Mike smirks but doesn’t say anything. He rips open the condom, rolls it on, slicks himself up with lube, and then—carefully, steadily—he pushes in.
And he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care how snug it is, how warm and tight Harvey feels around him, how goddamn perfect it is. No.
What gets him—what truly, truly gets him—are the sounds Harvey is making.
Mike has never had a partner this responsive. Never had anyone who sounds like this. And the fact that it’s Harvey—disheveled, high on pleasure, completely wrecked Harvey Specter—only makes it more intoxicating.
Harvey moans Mike’s name, breathy and desperate, and Mike’s brain short-circuits.
"Holy fuck," he gasps, gripping Harvey’s hips like a lifeline.
Harvey arches beneath him, nails digging into Mike’s back, leaving stinging trails that Mike will definitely feel tomorrow.
Mike wants to make this good for him. He needs to.
So he adjusts, angling his hips, searching—
And then—
Harvey gasps—his head tilting back, his entire body shuddering, his nails scraping even harder against Mike’s skin.
Mike grins.
"Oh," he breathes. "There it is."
Harvey glares at him, but it’s utterly ruined by the way he whimpers when Mike hits the spot again.
And then again.
And again.
Harvey is coming apart beneath him, moaning and twisting, his hands gripping and pulling and clawing at Mike’s back, his noises getting higher, needier, and Mike is going to remember this for the rest of his fucking life.
Harvey Specter, completely lost in pleasure, mewling for him.
Mike swears he’s going to make this feel amazing for him.
So he keeps going, keeps hitting that spot, over and over and over until Harvey is gasping, panting, trembling apart beneath him.
Harvey comes suddenly, his body going tense for half a second before he shudders, a moan breaking from his throat, his release painting both of their stomachs.
The sight of it—the sound of it—sends Mike over the edge immediately.
Three more thrusts and he’s gone, a choked noise leaving his throat as pleasure crashes over him, his hips stuttering as he buries himself as deep as he can before he stills.
For a moment, neither of them move.
Then, finally, Mike collapses onto Harvey, completely and utterly wrecked.
The only sound in the room is their combined breathing, heavy and uneven, the aftershocks still thrumming through their bodies.
Mike lies there, still breathless, still half-drunk, still coming down from the high of what just happened. Harvey is beneath him, boneless and utterly wrecked in a way Mike has never seen before. He wants to make a joke, something cocky and ridiculous, but for once, he doesn’t. He won’t ruin this.
Instead, he presses a slow kiss to Harvey’s jaw before carefully pulling out. Harvey makes a noise—small, whimpery, completely unfair—and Mike soothes him with another kiss, murmuring something he can’t even remember a second later. His hands move instinctively, gentle and careful as he disposes of the condom, grabbing a cloth from the nightstand to clean them both up.
Harvey lets him. That’s what gets Mike the most. The Harvey Specter, the man who never lets anyone take care of him, just lies there, pliant and trusting, letting Mike wipe him down with slow, lazy movements.
When he’s done, Mike tosses the cloth aside and stretches out next to him, taking in the sight. Harvey’s eyes are half-closed, his hair is a mess, his chest still rising and falling in uneven breaths. Mike has never seen him like this.
"You okay?" Mike asks softly.
Harvey makes a vague noise, somewhere between mmhmm and shut up, and shifts onto his side, tugging Mike with him until Mike is tucked against his chest.
Mike lets out a small, surprised laugh. "Oh, we’re spooning now?"
Harvey just huffs a breath against the back of Mike’s neck, pressing the softest kiss there.
Yeah. Okay. This is nice.
They fall asleep like that.
--
Harvey wakes up alone.
For a few blissful seconds, he’s just warm and comfortable, his mind still foggy with sleep. But then reality sinks in, and he reaches out—only to find cool, empty sheets beside him.
His stomach drops.
Mike is gone.
And just like that, Harvey's brain goes into damage control.
Fuck.
He blinks at the empty space next to him, his mind scrambling, still heavy with sleep but already racing toward the worst possible explanations.
Mike left.
Mike regretted it.
Or... or worse—Mike regretted that it was with him.
The thought is enough to send a sharp, awful feeling through his chest, and he sits up too fast, his pulse hammering as his brain goes into crisis mode. Fix it. Smooth it over. Find a way to make it okay.
His fingers dig into the sheets as he tries to pull himself together. He doesn’t panic—Harvey Specter doesn’t panic—but his throat feels tight, and something ugly and unfamiliar is clawing at the back of his mind.
The bedroom door swings open, and Mike walks in, completely oblivious, carrying a plate of fruit and two bottles of water.
"Okay, so I know we burned through, like, half our body’s hydration last night, so I figured—" He stops mid-sentence the second he sees Harvey.
Mike knows what Harvey looks like after a loss, after a bad case, after a fight. This is none of those things. This is something worse. Harvey looks wrong. Too still, too closed off. His eyes are red-rimmed, and his fingers are clenched into the sheets like he’s trying to hold something together.
Mike has never wanted to punch anyone as badly as he does at this moment. Not Harvey, obviously. No, the person who made him like this. The person who made Harvey think—even for a second—that he wasn’t enough.
"Hey," Mike says, setting the plate down and moving toward the bed. Harvey is already schooling his features into something unreadable, but Mike sees through it.
"You good?" Mike asks, though he already knows the answer.
Harvey shrugs, looking away. "Yeah. Just—wasn’t expecting you to be gone."
Mike frowns, climbing onto the bed, sitting cross-legged in front of him. "Okay, see, that? That’s bullshit. Say what you actually mean."
Harvey lets out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. "It’s nothing, Mike. Forget it."
Mike doesn’t move. He just sits there, waiting, refusing to let this slide.
When Harvey finally looks at him, there’s something raw in his expression, something vulnerable he clearly hates showing.
"I thought you left," Harvey admits, voice quieter than Mike has ever heard it. "Thought you regretted it."
And just like that, Mike’s heart breaks.
There are few things in the world that could truly shake Mike to his core, but the idea that Harvey—his Harvey, the man who walks through life like he owns it—thought, even for a second, that Mike regretted last night?
Yeah. That’s unacceptable.
Mike swallows, forcing down the immediate surge of anger, because none of that is for Harvey.
Instead, he reaches out, placing a hand over Harvey’s, squeezing once.
"Harvey," Mike says, and his voice is softer now, careful but firm. "I didn’t leave. I was getting us food. Because we had, you know, a lot of sex, and we probably needed something besides whiskey in our systems."
Harvey doesn’t respond, just watches him, guarded but listening.
"And as for regretting it?" Mike continues, squeezing Harvey’s hand again. "That’s insane. Like, actually insane. I’ve wanted this for so long that if I thought about it too much, I’d probably embarrass myself."
Harvey’s fingers twitch beneath his, and Mike presses on.
"I woke up and you were still asleep, looking like the most relaxed, happiest version of yourself I’ve ever seen. So I thought, ‘Hey, let me do something nice for him. Let me bring him some water and breakfast so he doesn’t get out of bed and immediately go full Harvey Specter on the world before he’s had time to enjoy this.’"
Harvey blinks at him, his expression softening, his grip tightening on Mike’s hand.
Mike exhales. "You seriously thought I’d regret this?"
Harvey hesitates for half a second too long, and that’s all the confirmation Mike needs.
And god, that—that makes him furious.
Not at Harvey. Never at Harvey. But at whoever the hell put this doubt in his head, made him think he wasn’t wanted.
Mike forces himself to calm down, to keep his tone light, but there’s no missing the intensity in his voice when he speaks.
"Well, you’re an idiot," he says simply.
Harvey lets out a short, surprised laugh, and Mike leans in, pressing their foreheads together.
"You really think I’d sleep with you and then just—what? Walk away?" Mike murmurs, voice softer now. "Harvey. Come on."
Harvey’s lips quirk, the tension in his shoulders easing. "...You do have a tendency to disappear when things get complicated."
Mike sighs dramatically. "Yeah, well. This isn’t complicated. You. Me. Last night. It’s the easiest thing in the world."
Harvey studies him for a long moment, and then, finally, he nods. Just a little. Just enough.
Mike grins, pulling back. "Now, eat the damn fruit I brought you before I start questioning your life choices."
Harvey rolls his eyes but reaches for the plate, and when Mike settles beside him again, Harvey doesn’t hesitate to loop an arm around his waist, tugging him close.
Mike smirks. "So we are cuddlers now."
"Shut up."
Mike just laughs, leaning into him, and pops a grape into his mouth, chewing lazily as he sprawls against Harvey’s side, comfortable as anything. Every few bites, he leans over to steal a kiss—just quick little presses of lips, nothing urgent, nothing hungry. Just nice. Harvey huffs but doesn’t stop him, doesn’t roll his eyes or tell him to focus on his food.
Yeah, okay, this is really, really nice.
They should have done this sooner.
Mike’s just reaching for a strawberry when Harvey’s phone starts buzzing on the nightstand. They both glance at it, and when Harvey sees the name flashing across the screen, he groans.
"Jessica," he mutters, like it’s a death sentence.
Mike smirks. "She probably just wants to congratulate us on yesterday’s big win."
Harvey throws him a look before answering. "Harvey Specter." His voice is a little rougher than usual, and Mike bites down on a smile, watching as Harvey clears his throat.
Jessica doesn’t waste time. "Don’t even try to lie to me. You’re not coming in today, are you?"
Harvey rubs his temple. "I, uh—yeah, I think I came down with something. Stomach bug."
Jessica sighs long and slow. "Stomach bug. Right. And let me guess, Mike has it too?"
Harvey doesn’t even hesitate. "Terrible case."
Jessica makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh before composing herself. "I should make both of you drag your hungover asses into the office. But since you did just close a multimillion-dollar deal, I’ll allow it. This time."
Harvey exhales, relieved. "Appreciate it."
"Don’t push your luck."
She hangs up, and the second Harvey drops his phone back onto the nightstand, Mike loses it.
He laughs, full-bodied and bright, clutching at his stomach. Harvey glares at him, pinching his side, which only makes Mike wheeze harder.
"You are such an asshole, rookie," Harvey mutters, but his lips twitch, betraying him.
Mike wipes at his eyes, still grinning. "A stomach bug? That’s your go-to excuse?"
"Worked, didn’t it?"
Mike hums, nudging Harvey’s shoulder. "Jessica totally knows we’re hungover, by the way."
Harvey shrugs. "She knew the moment she called."
Mike shakes his head, still grinning, but then his gaze flickers down, and he suddenly remembers something very important.
Harvey is still naked.
Mike’s eyes darken with interest as he shifts, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles on Harvey’s thigh.
Harvey raises an eyebrow. "What do you think you’re doing?"
Mike glances up at him, his expression downright sinful. "Just appreciating the view."
He moves lower, fingers wrapping around Harvey’s half-hard dick—but before he can do anything, Harvey swats his hand away.
Mike pouts. "Hey!"
"You’re insatiable," Harvey says, shaking his head.
Mike scoffs, sliding a little closer. "Can you blame me?" His hand tries again, but Harvey catches his wrist, pinning it against the sheets.
Mike’s eyes gleam with mischief. "I really want to put my mouth on you."
Harvey snorts. "This is the first time someone’s ever begged to blow me."
Mike gapes at him, offended. "Harvey. Come on." He gestures vaguely. "You’re you."
Harvey smirks, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "I never said it hasn’t happened. Just that you’re the first one who sounded this desperate about it."
Mike narrows his eyes. "Well, clearly they didn’t know what they were missing."
Harvey watches him, amused, but there’s heat in his gaze now, something interested, something considering.
Mike grins. "So?"
Harvey tilts his head. "Convince me."
Mike groans, pressing his forehead against Harvey’s shoulder. "Harvey."
Harvey just laughs, but he lets go of Mike’s wrist, settling back against the pillows, one eyebrow quirked.
Mike wastes no time.
Mike settles between Harvey’s legs with all the confidence of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. He takes his time, letting his hands skim over Harvey’s thighs, thumbs pressing into the firm muscle, dragging slowly upward.
Harvey watches him, his usual smugness still intact, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there a moment ago.
Mike grins.
He lowers his head, but instead of taking him in all at once, he teases. He focuses just on the tip, flicking his tongue over it, mouthing at it lightly, barely giving Harvey what he wants. He sucks, slow and deliberate, pulling off with a wet pop just to do it again.
Harvey exhales sharply, fingers clenching in the sheets. His cock twitches, leaking against Mike’s lips, and when Mike looks up at him, Harvey’s bravado is slipping.
Oh, this is good.
Mike leans back slightly, resting on his elbows. "If you want more," he murmurs, "you’re gonna have to beg for it."
Harvey blinks.
Then, without hesitation, Harvey grips Mike’s hair and tugs him up. Hard.
Mike makes a surprised, wrecked noise, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps as he’s forced to meet Harvey’s gaze. His lips are wet, and parted slightly, his pupils blown wide.
Harvey takes a slow, steady breath, his fingers tightening in Mike’s hair, grounding himself, owning the moment.
"You don’t get to boss me around," he says, voice rough, low, wrecked.
Mike swallows, his throat bobbing against the pressure of Harvey’s grip. His hands are resting on Harvey’s thighs, steadying himself, but his eyes are burning with something that looks a lot like want.
Harvey shifts, tilting Mike’s chin up further.
"Tap twice on my thigh if you need to stop."
Mike nods, mouth dry, eyes glued to Harvey’s. "Got it."
Harvey watches him for another beat—sees the way Mike’s fingers twitch, the way he’s already leaning forward slightly, waiting, wanting—and then, none too gently, he shoves Mike back down.
Mike groans, heat flooding his body, thrumming under his skin as Harvey takes what he wants.
Harvey’s hips roll up to meet his mouth, no hesitation, no waiting.
It’s raw. Filthy. Unapologetic.
Harvey doesn’t think. He doesn’t want to think. He just feels. The wet heat of Mike’s mouth, the slick drag of his tongue, the way his lips stretch around him.
He doesn’t hold back.
Doesn’t care about the way Mike chokes when he pushes too deep, doesn’t care about the way he’s shaking slightly from the force of it.
He’s using him.
Like a toy, like something to be fucked and ruined.
And fuck, Mike finds it obscenely hot.
He loves it. Loves the way Harvey is unraveling above him, loves the sharp, wrecked noises slipping past his lips.
Harvey’s grip tightens, holding him exactly where he wants him, keeping him still as he thrusts, again and again, fucking into his mouth.
Mike’s hands dig into Harvey’s thighs, fingers clenching, his nails pressing into his skin, and Harvey groans, deep and guttural.
It builds faster than he expects, pleasure coiling tight in his stomach, his body tensing, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.
He barely has time to brace himself before his thrusts stutter, his entire body going rigid, and then he’s coming, groaning Mike’s name, his fingers tangling in soft brown hair as he spills down his throat.
Mike swallows as much as he can, his lips still wrapped around him, but some drips down his chin, slick and hot.
Harvey watches, chest heaving, something dark and unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
Mike slowly pulls back, dragging his tongue over the tip before sitting back on his heels. He licks his lips, then wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb, smirking up at Harvey like he just won something.
Harvey exhales, hard, his pulse still pounding.
Mike grins up at him, smug as hell. "Well. That was fun."
Harvey tugs Mike up roughly, pulling him into a heated kiss, tasting himself on Mike’s tongue. It should be weird, but it’s not. It’s filthy and intimate and right.
Harvey’s hands skim down, slipping beneath the waistband of Mike’s borrowed sweatpants. His fingers wrap around Mike’s dick, stroking him with practiced ease.
It’s embarrassingly quick.
Mike barely gets out a gasped "Fuck—" before he’s coming into Harvey’s hand, his entire body shuddering. His face flushes with the kind of post-orgasm shame that only happens when you come too fast, and Harvey? Harvey grins.
"Well, that was pathetic," he says, looking far too pleased with himself.
Mike groans, hiding his face in Harvey’s shoulder. "Shut up."
Harvey chuckles, wiping his hand on Mike’s discarded shirt. "I mean, really. That fast?"
Mike smacks his chest. "You just came down my throat like a minute ago."
"And I lasted longer than that."
Mike pulls back, squinting at him. "You’re impossible."
"And you’re terrible at pacing yourself."
Mike sighs, flopping onto the bed dramatically. "I hate you."
Harvey smirks, stretching like a cat. "You wish."
They stay like that for a while, catching their breaths, basking in the lazy glow of the morning. But eventually, they decide they should probably get up and do something that doesn’t involve more sex—at least for a little while.
"Movie?" Mike suggests, sitting up.
Harvey shrugs. "Sure. But I’m picking."
Mike rolls his eyes, already predicting some overly dramatic legal thriller.
They get dressed—well, Mike steals another pair of Harvey’s old sweatpants and a Harvard T-shirt that’s way too big on him.
Harvey just raises an eyebrow. "Really?"
Mike grins. "What? I look good."
Harvey shakes his head, but doesn’t argue.
As they head toward the living room, Mike catches something—Harvey, walking just the tiniest bit stiffly. He tilts his head, watching closely.
"Oh my God," he breathes, barely holding back a laugh. "You’re limping."
Harvey freezes. "No, I’m not."
Mike grins. "You so are."
"Shut up, Mike."
Mike crosses his arms, looking smug. "Admit it."
Harvey glares. "I will throw you out."
Mike cackles, plopping onto the couch. "I wrecked you yesterday."
Harvey groans, flopping down beside him. "I hate you."
Mike smirks and shoots Harvey's own words back at him. "You wish."
They settle in, flipping through movie options, casually betting on how long before Donna notices something’s off when they go to work tomorrow.
Mike snorts. "I give her two hours. Max."
Harvey shakes his head. "She’s not psychic, Mike."
Mike smirks. "You think that."
As if on cue, Harvey’s phone buzzes.
It's Donna.
They both stare at it.
Mike grins. "Oh, this is gonna be good."
Harvey groans, ignoring the call. "We’re ordering food."
Mike hums. "I want dumplings."
"You always want dumplings."
Mike shrugs. "They’re good."
Harvey rolls his eyes but orders them anyway.
--
For a while, they just eat and watch the movie, comfortable, easy. But then, inevitably, Mike’s curiosity gets the best of him.
He turns to Harvey, expression thoughtful.
"So," he starts casually. "How many men have you been with?"
Harvey sighs, already looking exasperated. "Seriously?"
Mike shrugs. "I have to know."
Harvey rolls his eyes but humors him. "A few."
Mike frowns. "That’s vague."
"Intentionally."
Mike narrows his eyes, studying him. "Wait." He tilts his head. "Was I... your first?"
Harvey doesn’t even blink. "Of course not."
Mike watches him for a long moment. "You’re avoiding the question."
Harvey sighs again, setting his drink down. "Mike, why does it matter?"
Mike squints at him, brain working way too fast. "I was your first. Holy shit."
Harvey scoffs. "Don’t be dramatic."
Mike stares. "Harvey. What the fuck."
Harvey shrugs, unbothered. "I’ve had sex with plenty of men."
Mike crosses his arms. "Yeah, but you never bottomed before, did you?"
Harvey shrugs again. "So what?"
Mike gapes. "So what? So everything! If I knew, I wouldn’t have—" He waves a hand vaguely. "—taken your virginity while we were both half-drunk."
Harvey laughs. "Jesus, Mike, I lost my virginity decades ago."
Mike shakes his head. "You know what I mean."
Harvey smirks, sipping his drink. "Relax. I wanted it."
Mike still looks like he’s spiraling. "Yeah, but if I’d known—"
"What?" Harvey arches an eyebrow. "You’d have lit some candles? Put on some Barry White?"
Mike points at him. "Yes."
Harvey snorts. "Mike. It was good. I don’t regret it. And if you do, we have a problem."
Mike blinks. "No! I don’t." He runs a hand through his hair. "It’s just—fuck. I would’ve—I dunno. Taken my time."
Harvey hums, looking amused. "Made me fall apart?"
Mike exhales. "Yes."
Harvey just smirks. "Well. Guess we’ll just have to do it again, then."
Mike gapes.
Harvey grins, leaning back, smug as ever.
Mike narrows his eyes. "You planned this, didn’t you?"
Harvey shrugs. "I’m always planning."
Mike groans, flopping back onto the couch. "You asshole."
Harvey just laughs, throwing an arm around him.
Yeah.
This?
This is dangerously easy.
But as the day drags on, the easy rhythm they found earlier starts to shift. The light outside dims, the last remnants of daylight slipping through the windows, casting long shadows across Harvey’s condo. The movie they put on ended a while ago, but neither of them made a move to put on another. Their takeout containers sit abandoned on the coffee table.
It’s creeping in now—the weight of what happened, the inevitability of the talk.
Harvey knows it’s coming.
And he hates it.
He hates talking about things. He hates picking apart emotions like they’re another contract to negotiate. But more than anything, he hates what he already knows is coming.
Because this won’t last.
Nothing ever lasts.
And if that’s true—if this is going to end, because it always does—then he’s going to be the one to end it first.
He stands up abruptly, stretching like it’s no big deal, like he’s just moving for the sake of it. But his chest is tight, and his stomach is twisting, and he feels like he’s bracing for impact.
He turns to Mike, his voice deliberately light. "So, here’s what’s gonna happen."
Mike blinks up at him, already frowning. "That sounds ominous."
Harvey ignores him. "You’re gonna fuck me again."
Mike straightens slightly. "Uh."
"And then," Harvey continues, his voice smooth, practiced, detached, "you’re gonna go back to your place, and tomorrow, we go back to normal. No weirdness, no drama. We pretend like nothing happened."
The words taste awful in his mouth.
Something deep inside him recoils at the thought, at the idea of waking up tomorrow and acting like Mike’s hands weren’t all over him, like Mike’s mouth wasn’t on his skin, like Harvey wasn’t completely undone beneath him.
But it’s the right move. It’s the move.
It has to be.
Because the alternative is worse.
The alternative is getting attached.
The alternative is hoping.
And Harvey Specter does not hope.
Mike just stares at him. Then, slowly, he says, "No."
Harvey blinks.
Then his mind does the worst possible thing.
It spirals.
No? No?
Mike doesn’t want to?
Mike isn’t interested in fucking him again?
Harvey clenches his jaw, looking away. Of course. Of course.
Fucking idiot.
He should have seen this coming. Should have known that this was a one-time thing. That Mike just wanted to try it, that it didn’t mean anything to him.
God, Harvey feels sick. His chest is tight, his throat dry, his skin hot and itchy like he’s being watched.
His voice is flat when he speaks. "Right. Got it."
Mike frowns. "What?"
Harvey takes a breath, keeping his face carefully blank. "You don’t want to. That’s fine. No big deal."
Mike gapes at him. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Harvey shrugs. "You said no."
Mike makes a strangled noise, suddenly moving forward, grabbing Harvey’s face with both hands, forcing their eyes to meet.
"No, you idiot," he says, exasperated. "Not no, I don’t want to fuck you again. No, I don’t want to pretend like nothing changed."
Harvey stares at him, brain still catching up. "...Oh."
Mike groans, thumbs brushing over Harvey’s cheekbones, grounding him. "Jesus, Harvey."
Harvey swallows. "So you do want to—"
Mike squeezes his face slightly. "That’s not the point here."
Harvey exhales shakily, his hands coming up to grip Mike’s wrists. His skin is warm beneath Harvey’s fingers, solid and real, and Harvey doesn’t understand why he feels like he’s shaking.
Mike softens then, his face open and so goddamn honest it hurts to look at. "Harvey," he says, quiet now. "What the hell happened to you?"
Harvey tenses. "What?"
Mike shakes his head slightly, like he’s putting something together, like something is clicking in his brain. "How many times did someone burn you before this became your default?"
Harvey hates this. Hates how much Mike sees.
So he tries for a smirk, tries for something sharp, but Mike just sees through him, like always.
And Harvey... doesn’t know what to do with that.
Mike exhales, thumb brushing along Harvey’s jaw. "I don’t regret this." His voice is steady as he says it again. If Harvey needs him to say it hundred times, he will. "And I’m not leaving just because you think that’s what people do."
Harvey’s chest aches.
He doesn’t know what to say.
So he doesn’t say anything.
Mike just watches him for another long second before nodding slightly, like he’s made a decision.
Then, still holding onto him, he tugs.
Harvey lets himself be pulled, lets himself be led, lets Mike guide him toward the bedroom with slow, steady steps.
Mike nudges him toward the bed, hands still gentle, still grounding. "Come on."
Harvey doesn’t fight it.
He could. He should, probably. But his body moves anyway, settling onto the bed, watching as Mike climbs in beside him, still holding onto him like he’s afraid Harvey will disappear if he lets go.
Harvey exhales shakily, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Mike—"
"I know," Mike murmurs, shifting closer, pressing their foreheads together. "I know."
And just like that, the tension in Harvey’s shoulders eases, his body sinking into the mattress, letting go in a way he never does.
Mike shifts after a moment, rolling them over so Harvey is on top, straddling his hips. He watches as Harvey blinks down at him, guarded, already calculating his next move, his next deflection. Mike knows what’s coming. He knows Harvey will try to take back control, to act like none of this means anything. God forbid he stays vulnerable for more than a minute.
So Mike grins, tilting his head. "You know," he says, voice warm, teasing, "I dreamed about this."
Harvey raises an eyebrow, immediately latching onto the distraction. "Dreamed about me riding you?"
"Yep."
Harvey chuckles, taking the out for what it is. "What, like some teenager?"
Mike smirks. "Exactly like a teenager."
Harvey hums, rolling his hips just enough to make Mike’s breath stutter. "Well," he muses, pretending to consider, "if teenage-dream-Mike was this desperate for me, I think I should do him a favor."
Mike groans. "Please do."
Harvey leans down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to Mike’s lips. "Since you asked so nicely."
Mike lets out a breathless laugh but quickly refocuses. His hands skim down Harvey’s back, settling on his hips, steadying him. Then, carefully, he starts prepping him again, pressing slick fingers inside, working him open.
And fuck, Harvey is gorgeous like this.
He rocks against Mike’s fingers, enjoying it, mouth slightly open, eyes fluttering shut as he chases the stretch, the pressure. It’s obscene how effortlessly he falls into pleasure, how quickly he lets himself feel.
Mike is mesmerized.
"You’re so good at this," he murmurs, voice filled with awe. "You take it so well."
Harvey shudders.
Mike grins. Oh.
Oh, he likes that.
And Mike, being Mike, immediately weaponizes it.
"That’s it," he whispers, sliding another finger in, pressing deeper. "You’re perfect like this, Harvey. Look at you."
Harvey glares at him, but it’s utterly wrecked, his body trembling slightly as he grinds down on Mike’s hand.
Mike just keeps talking, keeps praising him, watching with something close to reverence as Harvey completely melts for him.
He’s never, sans yesterday, seen him like this. Never imagined he could.
And the fact that Harvey is letting him—choosing to let him—makes something fierce settle in Mike’s chest.
"Condom," Harvey mutters, voice rough. "Now."
Mike fumbles for it, his hands slightly shaky as he rolls it on, slicks himself up, and lines them up.
Harvey doesn’t wait.
He sinks down in one slow, smooth motion, taking Mike in all at once.
Mike gasps, hands gripping Harvey’s hips as he feels the tight, burning heat around him.
Harvey groans, his fingers digging into Mike’s chest for leverage, his head tilting back.
"Holy fuck," Mike breathes.
Harvey just rides him.
And God, the sounds—
Mike’s brain refuses to shut up. He can’t stop talking, can’t stop babbling praise, because fuck, Harvey sounds so desperate like this.
"You’re so fucking beautiful," Mike murmurs, eyes wide, devouring him. "Look at you, Harvey. Taking me so well. You feel so good."
Harvey shakes, his rhythm faltering slightly, his body betraying him. He’s pissed at his own emotions, at how much he feels, but Mike won’t let him hide.
Mike sits up, wrapping an arm around him, kissing him deep. Their bodies move together, the rhythm shifting into something slow, something intimate.
Mike reaches between them, wrapping a hand around Harvey’s cock, stroking him in time with their movements.
And Harvey?
Harvey breaks.
The noises he makes—desperate, helpless noises—are the best thing Mike has ever heard.
He comes first, body clenching around Mike, his voice breaking on a wrecked gasp.
Mike follows, pulling Harvey close as he buries himself deep, coming with a shuddering moan.
After, Harvey collapses against him, his head tucked into the crook of Mike’s neck, breathing deeply.
Mike slides a hand into his hair, stroking slowly.
Harvey exhales, and then, voice smug, says, "So. Still going to be dreaming about me?"
Mike laughs, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Every damn night."
--
Mike wakes up to the sound of rustling fabric. He blinks against the morning light, stretching out with a lazy groan, only to pause when he sees Harvey already half-dressed, buttoning up a crisp white shirt.
Mike watches, unabashed, eyes trailing from the sharp lines of Harvey’s shoulders down to his belt as he fastens it.
Harvey catches him staring in the mirror and snorts. "Enjoying the show?"
Mike grins, propping himself up on one elbow. "Immensely."
Harvey rolls his eyes. "You need to get up. Unless you want Jessica to have both of our heads."
Mike sighs dramatically. "Fine, fine. But only because you asked so nicely."
He drags himself out of bed, stretching again just to be obnoxious before grabbing his clothes. He gets dressed at an infuriatingly slow pace, throwing jokes Harvey’s way between yawns.
"Think she’ll bring up that we both had a stomach bug yesterday?" Mike asks, smirking as he pulls on his shirt.
Harvey just shoots him a flat look.
Mike laughs, then shuffles toward the kitchen to grab something to eat. He takes a bite of toast, then casually steps into Harvey’s space, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw.
Harvey glares. "Stop that."
Mike grins. "What? You got to wake up first and watch me get dressed, so I think it’s only fair—"
Harvey sighs and nudges him toward the door. "Out."
They take a cab together, slipping into the backseat. It’s early, the city still waking up around them, but Mike barely notices because Harvey’s hand is resting against his own.
Mike shifts slightly, fingers brushing against Harvey’s.
Harvey doesn’t pull away.
After a moment, Mike just takes his hand, threading their fingers together.
Harvey lets him.
The ride is quiet, comfortable. But as soon as they step out of the cab, it’s like a switch flips.
Harvey pulls his hand away smoothly, adjusting his cufflinks like nothing happened. Mike smirks, but he gets it. Inside the walls of Pearson Hardman, they’re professional.
(Which means barely professional, but still.)
Mike heads to his desk in the bullpen while Harvey disappears into his office.
The morning passes quietly.
And then.
Donna walks by Mike’s desk, pauses, looks at him for exactly five seconds, and grins.
Mike barely has time to react before she turns on her heel and marches straight toward Harvey’s office.
Mike’s stomach drops.
"Oh, shit."
Harvey looks up when Donna enters, already bracing himself.
She closes the door.
Shit.
"Donna," he says, carefully neutral.
Donna leans against his desk, arms crossed, smirking like she already knows everything.
"You have something to share?" she asks, all fake innocence.
Harvey looks at her flatly. "No."
Donna grins wider. "I think you do."
He exhales, leaning back in his chair. "I don’t have time for this."
"Oh, I think you do."
Harvey glares. Donna beams.
"I mean, finally," she says, exasperated. "It only took you a year to figure out you’re in love."
Harvey chokes on his own breath.
"Excuse me?"
Donna blinks at him. "You heard me."
Harvey scoffs. "We are not in love."
Donna tilts her head. "No?"
Harvey shakes his head. "No. We’re just—" He waves a hand vaguely. "Hooking up."
Donna laughs.
And that? That’s never a good sign.
"Oh, Harvey," she sighs, shaking her head. "You’re so dumb."
Harvey’s glare sharpens. "I am not—"
Donna leans forward, resting her hands on his desk. "Okay. Let’s play a game."
Harvey sighs. "Donna—"
She ignores him. "Do you want to wake up next to him?"
Harvey opens his mouth—then closes it.
Donna smiles. "Do you want to take him out for dinner?"
Harvey shifts in his chair. "...Maybe."
Donna raises an eyebrow. "Do you want to buy him things? Little gifts? Coffee in the morning? Something dumb but meaningful?"
Harvey clears his throat. "Hypothetically."
Donna grins. "Do you want to spend time with him outside of work? Do you want to kiss him without it leading anywhere?"
Harvey stares at her, silent.
And then.
Oh no.
Oh fuck.
His stomach flips. His throat goes dry. His brain short-circuits.
Because he does.
He wants all of that.
He wants Mike.
Not just sex—not just something fleeting—but Mike. His presence, his warmth, his laugh. The way he never backs down, the way he sees Harvey in a way no one else ever has.
Holy shit.
Donna watches his entire realization unfold in real-time.
Harvey’s eyes flick up to hers, something panicked in them.
Donna’s smirk softens. "There it is."
Harvey swallows. "I’m—"
"An idiot," Donna supplies.
Harvey exhales, pressing his fingers to his temples. "Jesus Christ."
Donna chuckles, patting his shoulder. "So. What are you gonna do about it?"
Harvey stares down at his desk, mind racing.
Then, hesitantly, he glances back up at her.
Donna grins. "You’re gonna ask him out."
--
Well.
Easier said than done.
Much easier said than done.
Which is insane, really, because Harvey has literally had Mike’s dick inside him twice in the last twenty-four hours. Twice.
If he could handle that, asking the guy on a date should be nothing.
But, apparently, nope.
Harvey glares at his phone like it’s personally offended him.
It’s fine. He’s just going to text Mike. Because doing it in person would be—well. He has his reasons. Completely sane, rational reasons. Reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with his attachment issues or the fact that asking in person makes it real in a way he’s not quite ready to deal with.
So. Text it is.
He drafts something simple. Casual.
Drinks tonight?
Then he stares at it for a full minute.
And deletes it.
Okay. Maybe less casual. Maybe something that actually acknowledges the whole sex thing.
We should get dinner. Not just food-in-my-apartment dinner. An actual dinner.
Stares at it.
Deletes it.
Okay, fine. Fine. Maybe he should just be direct.
Let’s go on a date.
His finger hovers over send.
Then he deletes that, too.
This is so stupid.
He’s just about to try again when Donna’s voice crackles through the intercom.
"Harvey."
He presses the button with a sigh. "What?"
"You’re overthinking."
Harvey blinks. "I’m—what?"
"You heard me."
He glares at the intercom. "I don’t—"
"You are." There’s a smile in her voice, damn her.
Harvey exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. "Do you just know everything now?"
"Oh, Harvey," Donna says sweetly. "I’ve always known everything."
Harvey shakes his head but fine. Whatever. He’s just going to do it.
He drafts another text.
Dinner tonight?
And before he can think about it, before he can analyze or edit or obsess—
He sends it.
Then, immediately, he slams his phone down and focuses on work.
Totally normal. Totally rational.
Well.
An hour later, and Mike still hasn’t answered.
Harvey doesn’t panic. He doesn’t.
He just—casually checks his phone every five minutes. And maybe refreshes the screen once or twice. Or twelve times.
He’s not spiraling.
Except.
He kind of is.
Because what if—what if—Mike read it and didn’t know how to say no? Or what if he did want to say yes but didn’t want to make things weird? Or what if he was—
No.
Harvey refuses to spiral.
He’s Harvey Specter. He does not spiral.
Mike shows up at his office before he gets the chance to prove himself wrong.
"Hey," Mike says, stepping in with a folder. "Got those contracts you wanted."
Harvey exhales, nodding. "Thanks." Then, as casually as possible: "Did you see my message?"
Mike blinks at him.
Then—grins. Sheepishly.
"Oh," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, uh. I forgot my phone at your place."
Harvey closes his eyes.
Takes a deep, measured breath through his nose.
Right. Of course.
So he has to do it in person after all.
Fine.
He can do this. He can. He’s not going to stammer. He’s not.
He looks at Mike, expression schooled into perfect nonchalance. "Dinner tonight?"
Mike tilts his head, smirking. "Are you asking me on a date?"
Harvey glares. "Don’t make this weird."
Mike laughs. "Too late."
"So?"
Mike grins. "Yeah. Dinner sounds good."
Harvey nods, like this is a completely normal exchange and not the first time he’s ever actually asked someone out while feeling like this, not that he knows what 'this' actually is. "Good."
Mike’s smirk lingers as he heads for the door. "Pick me up at nine, my place?"
Harvey rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. "Fine."
Mike winks and disappears down the hall.
Harvey exhales, rubbing his temple.
And then—
"Oh, that was painful," Donna groans, stepping into the office like she’d been waiting for this.
Harvey groans. "Donna—"
"I mean, my God, I think I aged ten years watching you struggle."
Harvey glares. "Did you actually need something, or are you just here to be annoying?"
"Oh, I need something, all right," Donna says, smirking. "I need to know how many times you were planning to rewrite that text before I interrupted you."
Harvey looks away. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."
Donna hums. "Right, right. Totally normal behavior to sit frozen at your desk for forty minutes, staring at your phone like it personally offended you."
Harvey opens his mouth, closes his mouth, and then just sighs.
This is going to be a long day.