Chapter Text
Harvey had thought showing up would make it better. That if Mike could just see him, see how hard he was fighting for him, then maybe he’d remember that there was a world beyond concrete and steel. A world that still needs him in it.
But the closer Harvey tried to pull him in, the harder Mike pushed back. It wasn't long before their conversations shrank until they were barely words. “How are you holding up?” “Fine.” “You eating okay?” “Yeah.” Sometimes Mike wouldn’t even look at him; his gaze would slide past Harvey like looking hurt too much.
Harvey kept going anyway. He kept telling himself that Mike seeing a familiar face mattered. That all those conversations across a cold steel table bolted to the floor in a room half the size of one of his closets meant something. He told him, again and again, that he was doing everything to get him out early. It was true. Every waking hour was spent on calls, files, favors; every sleepless night ended with a bottle and a new plan that wasn’t ever enough.
Ever since Frank Gallo had said it: Every time your phone rings, you're gonna ask yourself is this the call where you find out that the guy who's in here for you is never coming out. Harvey’s heart had learned a new reflex. The sound of a phone ringing could tear him open. Sometimes he even imagined it ringing, swore he heard it echo through the quiet of his apartment. He’d wake up gasping, pulse crashing through his chest, half sure it was already too late.
And when he visited, Mike would notice the dark circles and the worry carving deeper into his face, and he’d say nothing. Always that same faint nod, that same empty, Okay, Harvey.
Mike had stopped believing he deserved help. He admitted it once, quietly, when Harvey pushed too hard about his case.
You shouldn’t be wasting your time. I did this. I’m supposed to pay for it.
It gutted Harvey, because there wasn't an argument to win. Mike wasn’t defending himself anymore, he was condemning himself, piece by piece.
When Rachel broke up with him, the silence really found its fangs. He didn’t even tell Harvey; Donna did. Mike refused to talk about it, he wouldn’t let her name even graze the air between them. After that, something in him folded in on itself. He wore guilt like a second skin. Harvey tried filling the space with noise; strategies, updates, jokes that never worked, but it was like talking to a wall.
Still, he fought. Hard. He fought until there was nothing left to give. Until sleep was an accident and food an afterthought. Until every drink tasted like failure and every mirror looked like a man who’d traded his life for a cause he couldn’t quit.
Every time he thought he’d found the way out, another wall went up. Every deal fell through, every favor burned too fast. He kept going anyway. Cashing in everything he had, and begging for the things he didn’t.
And then, finally, he did it. With a lot of help from Sean Cahill. After nearly ten months, they had found a loophole, a leverage point, a miracle stitched together out of exhaustion and desperation.
Getting Mike to take the deal had been another fight entirely. Mike hadn’t believed he deserved it, not after everything that had happened, not after the lives he thought he’d ruined. Harvey had tried reasoning with him, threatening him, promising him, until there was nothing left to say. In the end, he’d just looked at him utterly defeated and said, Please, Mike. For me.
And it was only then that Mike had agreed.
A way out.
Harvey told himself that once the gates opened, it would all start to make sense again. That freedom would fix the things prison had broken and that maybe, finally, Mike would see what Harvey had been trying to prove all along: that he wasn’t alone, that someone still believed he was worth saving.
But when the moment came, standing there waiting for him to walk out, Harvey realized he’d never really understood how deep Mike’s punishment went. The gate might open, but Mike? Mike didn’t believe he deserved to be on the other side of it any longer.
-----
Mike used to count the days between Harvey’s visits. At first it gave him something to hold onto, proof that the world outside still existed, and that there would be something to go back to when this was over. It meant someone was still fighting for him. But somewhere along the line, that had started to feel worse. Because Harvey would walk in looking like he hadn’t slept and trying to find him a way out was consuming him. Mike couldn’t stand it.
He hated the way Harvey still looked at him like he mattered. and was somehow worth all this chaos and hurt.
It wasn’t fair. Harvey had everything to lose, and Mike had already lost everything that mattered. He didn’t want to be Harvey’s crusade, and he sure as hell didn’t want his redemption bought with someone else’s ruin. So he stopped making it easy. He kept the talks short, the eye contact shorter. He let Harvey think he was angry instead of broken beyond repair.
He told himself it was better this way. That Harvey needed to get tired of saving him. Sometimes he’d sit on his bunk after Harvey left, staring at the wall where the paint had started to peel, replaying every word he didn’t say. He thought about how badly he wanted to thank him and how much he hated that he couldn’t.
The guilt was constant. Not the guilt of the crime, he could live with that, but the guilt of being someone worth destroying yourself over. He’d seen what it was doing to Harvey. The shadows under his eyes, the tremor in his voice when he said Soon, Mike. I’m getting close. Just hang in there. It made Mike feel like a burden.
You don’t have to come here every week, he said once, in the middle of Harvey explaining his next move.
Yes, I do, Harvey said.
And that was the problem.
Harvey didn’t know how to stop, and Mike didn’t know how to make him.
After Rachel left, it got worse. People gossiped about it, they talked about how she couldn’t handle the waiting, the distance, or the uncertainty. Mike couldn’t even blame her. He’d barely been present in their last few calls. And if he's being honest, he'd probably checked out even long before that. When Donna told Harvey, he knew Harvey would look at him differently now, and that thought made him nauseous.
So he shut it all down. Every mention of her name. Every question about how he was holding up. The less he said, the less he had to watch Harvey pretend he could fix it.
But Harvey still came. Multiple times every week. Sometimes talking like he could fill the silence back into something that felt alive. Sometimes sitting there quietly, eyes tired, hands folded like he didn’t trust himself to not reach across the table to offer comfort.
Mike thought that if he pushed hard enough, maybe Harvey would stop trying. He never did.
So Mike started punishing himself in ways Harvey couldn’t see. He started skipping meals, volunteering for extra shifts, letting himself fade. Because maybe, if Harvey ever looked at him and saw someone beyond saving, he’d finally stop bleeding himself dry for him.
He still never did.
Harvey kept showing up, slept-in suits and sleepless eyes, making impossible promises with a voice that never could quite disguise the desperation beneath it. And every time he walked out again, Mike would sit there in the remnants of that silence and wonder how love could feel so much like a sentence.
-----
The morning of Mike’s release was too cold for August. The sky was cloudless and gray, ominous in a way. Harvey had been standing outside the gates for nearly an hour, coffee gone cold in his hand, pulse stuttering every time the doors clanged from the inside.
He’d imagined this moment so many times. The gates opening. Mike stepping through. Maybe a small smile, maybe even a joke about how Harvey being a relentless pain in the ass had finally paid off. They’d go get breakfast, sit somewhere quiet, and maybe talk about anything other than the past year.
Freedom was supposed to mean something. It was supposed to put everything back the way it had come apart.
When the doors finally opened, it didn’t feel anything like that at all.
Mike came out slowly, carrying a paper bag of his things, the same clothes he’d worn going in hanging loose on him now. He looked thinner, older somehow. His hair was almost as long as it had been going in, but it did nothing to hide the exhaustion written across his face. He stopped just past the gate and blinked against the light like it was something foreign.
Harvey wanted to go to him, wrap him in a hug, and hold him just long enough to know this was real. But something in the way Mike stood, shoulders tight and head down, stopped him. He wasn’t ready. Harvey knew that. The last time he’d touched Mike’s shoulder on his way out from visiting, Mike had startled like he’d been caught doing something wrong. Harvey still thinks about that.
“Hey,” Harvey said, voice cracking a little more than he meant it to.
“Hey,” Mike said back. No smile. No relief. Just a word, flat and careful.
Harvey tried again. “You ready to get out of here?”
Mike nodded, though it didn’t look like he was.
They walked to Harvey’s car in silence. Every few steps Harvey opened his mouth, searching for something safe to say, but everything felt wrong. The last time they had stood outside these gates, Mike had told him that even knowing how it all turned out, he would do it again. And Harvey had agreed.
Now, walking beside him, Harvey wasn’t so sure. He wondered if Mike still believed it, because he didn’t.
When they reached the car, Harvey opened the door for him, waiting for some flicker of emotion--gratitude, relief, anything. Mike just stared at the seat, then shook his head.
“Can we just… walk for a bit?”
“Yeah,” Harvey said. “Of course.”
They walked without direction, past the parking lot, down the stretch of road that led toward the highway. The air smelled like rain. Harvey wanted to ask a thousand things; how he felt, what he needed, if he’d slept at all last night, but the silence between them had grown too heavy, too quick.
He settled on, “You’re free, Mike.”
Mike stopped walking. For a second, Harvey thought maybe that was the wrong thing to say. Then Mike said, without looking at him,
“This doesn't feel right. I don’t feel free."
He wanted to tell him it would pass, that freedom took time to settle into. He wanted to tell him that he’d done everything to give him this moment. But Mike was staring out at the empty road like there was still a wall in front of him, one Harvey couldn’t tear down no matter how many deals or favors he’d burned through.
“Come on,” Harvey said softly. “Let’s get you home.”
Mike didn’t move. His voice was quiet, almost lost to the wind that had picked up. “I don’t even know where that is anymore.”
Harvey had no answer. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, heart breaking for a man who was free and still trapped all the same.
When Mike finally agreed to get in the car, Harvey watched him through the glass--the way he sat stiffly, eyes fixed out the window. He’d expected relief, tears maybe, a release of all the pressure that had built between them. Instead, it felt like something ending.
Harvey started the car and drove, chasing a line of asphalt that felt more like avoidance than direction.
He told himself it would get better. That this was just the first day, that time would do what he couldn’t. But deep down, something cold settled in his chest.
He’d won the fight, cashed every chip he had to pull Mike back into the world and somehow it felt like he’d lost him anyway.
-----
Harvey drove him back into the city, the silence filling every inch of the car. He’d turned the radio on once, trying to make it feel less like a hearse, but even that had felt wrong. The sound of it only made the distance louder.
When they finally reached Mike’s building--the apartment he’d once bought for his grandmother, the one she never got to live in--Mike just stared at it through the window. The lights from the street caught on the glass, blurring the edges. It looked smaller than Harvey remembered, lonelier somehow.
He’d come by yesterday, just to make sure the place didn’t feel completely empty. He stocked the fridge with basics. Milk, eggs, bread, coffee. A few frozen dinners he’d told himself were just to make things easier, even though he knew Mike would see right through it. He’d done it anyway.
Now, watching Mike clutch that paper bag like a lifeline, Harvey wished there was more he could give him.
“You don’t have to go up yet,” Harvey said. “We can grab lunch. Or coffee. Or just sit out here for a while.”
Mike shook his head. “Thanks. But, I’m tired.”
Harvey nodded, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. Of course.”
He waited, hoping Mike would at least glance at him before getting out. But Mike’s focus stayed fixed on the building, on the life waiting for him inside, or maybe the ghost of the one that wasn't.
Harvey’s hand twitched on the steering wheel. “Hey,” he said suddenly, words catching in his throat. “You shouldn’t have to spend your first night back alone.”
Mike hesitated, hand half on the door.
“I’ve got the space,” Harvey went on. “You can stay with me for a bit. Just until you’re settled. No firm stuff, no pressure. I just-” he took a breath, steadying himself. “I don’t want you to be alone.”
For a long moment, Mike didn’t answer. The city noise swarmed in around them, a horn blaring somewhere close. Then he looked at Harvey, eyes tired, voice quiet.
“It's okay, Harvey. I’m used to being alone now.”
Harvey didn’t flinch, but something inside him did.
It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Harvey had been right there. Every visit, every sleepless night, every deal he’d begged for. He’d burned himself down to keep Mike from disappearing, and still Mike looked at him like he’d been gone the whole time.
Harvey forced a nod, his throat too tight for anything else. “Right. I get it.”
Mike gave him a small, polite smile. “Thanks for the ride. And...everything else.”
He stepped out, shut the door gently, and started toward the building. Harvey watched him go, every step heavier than the last, until Mike disappeared inside.
He waited there until a light flicked on in the apartment above. It should have been a comfort, proof that Mike was home, safe. Instead, it felt like proof of something else entirely.
Mike was home.
And Harvey had never felt further away.
-----
Harvey showed up at the office the next morning, though no one had expected him to. His name wasn’t even on the calendar for the day--Donna had cleared it weeks ago when the deal to get Mike out had been finalized, assuming he’d want time with him.
He sat at his desk, staring at a file he hadn’t turned a page of in twenty minutes. The blinds were open, sunlight glaring against the glass, but everything still looked dull. His tie was the same one he’d worn yesterday. The same one he’d worn to pick Mike up.
He didn’t even notice Donna at the door until she spoke.
“Why do you still look like that?”
He blinked, looked up. “Look like what?”
She stepped inside, crossing her arms. “I don't know...grumpy. Like you didn't just successfully get Mike out of prison early against all odds.”
“I just thought I’d get back to work. I’ve missed enough as it is.”
“Harvey, you should’ve taken the day off. I thought you’d want to be with Mike.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just flipped another page over from the stack in front of him. “He’s settling in. Needed some space.”
“How is he doing?” Donna asked, voice shifting to concern.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. The honesty of it hurt.
“He’s been through hell, Harvey. You have to give him time. He’ll find his footing again.”
“I know,” Harvey said quietly. “I know he will.”
But the words felt empty, like something he’d say to a client who needed reassurance, not to himself.
He turned toward the window, watching the skyline blur behind the glass. “He shouldn’t have to find it alone,” he said, almost to himself.
Donna hesitated, searching his face. “He'll reach out when he's ready.”
He didn’t respond. He just sat there, jaw clenched, hands folded on the desk. Because she didn’t know the part he couldn’t say; that every time he looked at Mike, he saw the wreckage trailing behind him.
It all started the day he hired him.
He’d given Mike a chance, a future, a life he never should’ve had. And in return, Mike had lost almost everything else. His freedom. His career. His relationship. His faith in himself.
Harvey had told himself it was worth it. That what they built together meant something. But when he looked out at the city below, all he was reminded of was how easily it swallowed people like Mike whole. And how he had helped it.
Because if everything that had followed was the cost of giving Mike that dream, then maybe it had never been worth it at all.
Donna lingered a moment longer, studying him, but when it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything else, she just sighed. “He's safe, Harvey. Because of you. Let that be enough for now. You should try to get some real rest tonight,” she said softly.
He nodded without looking up. She closed the door behind her, the sound gentle but final.
The office felt too big once she was gone. Too quiet. Harvey stared at his phone for a long time, the screen black, his reflection faint in the glass. He wasn’t sure what he expected, maybe nothing. Maybe just the illusion of connection, something to remind him that Mike wasn’t still locked in a cell with his life at risk.
He unlocked it, opened his messages, and scrolled to Mike’s name. It sat near the top, above months of unanswered threads.
He thought about what to say. He couldn’t ask if Mike was okay; he already knew the answer. He couldn’t tell him to call if he needed anything; Mike wouldn’t. Every version he typed sounded too heavy, too desperate, too much like the truth.
So he settled on something simple.
Let me know if you need anything.
He stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering. Then he added one more line before he could stop himself.
Glad you’re home.
He sent it before he could change his mind, before he could edit it down to something colder.
The message hung there, blue and small and painfully polite.
Harvey set the phone face down on the desk, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. He told himself he didn’t care if Mike answered. That it was just courtesy, just habit.
But when the minutes stretched into hours and the phone stayed silent, the lie felt paper-thin.
-----
Mike hadn’t expected to sleep that night, but he hadn’t expected to stay awake for all the reasons he did.
While he was inside, he used to picture this night whenever it got too loud--when the shouting from the next cell wouldn’t stop, or when the lights buzzed overhead like they were never going to go out. He’d imagine his first night home. His own apartment. His own bed. The weight of real sheets. Sometimes, before everything fell apart, he’d imagine Rachel there beside him. The thought had gotten him through more nights than he cared to admit.
Even after she was gone, the idea still helped--the image of being back in a place that was his. A door that locked from the inside. Peaceful. Safe.
But when he finally walked into the apartment, none of it felt real.
The air was stale, the kind of stillness that settles when no one’s lived somewhere for a while. It didn’t smell like home. Not anymore.
Then, faint beneath the dust and quiet, he caught it -- Harvey’s cologne. Clean and unmistakable, the kind that lingered even after he left a room.
It shouldn’t have meant anything. But somehow, that was the part that felt closest to home.
He looked around slowly, realizing how bare everything seemed. The photos that used to hang near the doorway were gone. So were Rachel’s books from the coffee table, the throw blanket she always kept draped over the arm of the couch. He couldn’t remember if she had told him she'd come back for her things.
It didn’t matter now.
He found the stocked fridge immediately--milk, bread, coffee, a few things in the freezer. Harvey’s hand was all over it. The thought made something twist in his chest, something that wasn’t gratitude and wasn’t anger but sat somewhere miserably in between.
He made coffee just to fill the silence, though he didn’t drink it. He unpacked the paper bag they’d given him at release and set each item down carefully, in a way it felt like he was cataloguing evidence of a life that no longer fit.
Then he headed to the bathroom and turned on the shower.
The sound of rushing water filled the apartment, too loud at first, almost jarring after months of controlled noise. He stripped down and stepped under the spray, the heat scalding against his skin until it stopped feeling real. Steam fogged the mirror, the walls, his thoughts. He stood there longer than he needed to, watching the water run down his arms, tracing every scar and every bruise faded to memory.
His brain knew he was safe. That the door was locked. That no one could rush him or cut the water without warning. But his heart hadn’t caught up yet. It still jumped at every creak in the pipes, every shift in pressure. Even here, under water that was his, in a room that was his, he couldn’t make his body believe it.
By the time he finally turned the tap off, his hands were shaking.
He toweled off and pulled on the softest clothes he could find; a t-shirt and sweats that smelled faintly of detergent instead of disinfectant. For a second, that alone almost made him feel human again.
But when he made it to the bedroom, the city outside was quiet. The bed looked wrong. He’d thought he’d crawl into it and feel normal again. Instead, it felt too big, too soft, too clean.
He lay awake staring at the ceiling until the walls started to look like the ones he’d left behind. Every creak of the pipes sounded like footsteps in the corridor. Every flicker of a car light through the window made him flinch.
At some point, exhaustion must have won.
He woke hours later to the sound of his phone buzzing on the nightstand. For a split second, his body went tense. He was half expecting a guard’s voice, a command to move, to get up.
Then he saw the screen. Harvey.
He opened the message slowly, as if it might hurt to read it.
Let me know if you need anything.
A pause. Then the second line.
Glad you’re home.
Mike stared at it for a long time. The words were simple, harmless. Exactly the kind of thing Harvey would send when he was trying not to push too hard.
He wanted to answer. Wanted to type something that would make it sound like he was okay, that all of this had been worth it, that Harvey hadn’t burned himself down for nothing. But nothing he thought of felt like the truth
So he just set the phone back down. Watched the message fade off the screen.
The sun was high by then, streaming through the blinds in bright, unforgiving light. Mike sat there in the quiet, awake under the same covers he’d once dreamed about, and wondered if any of this would ever feel normal again.
-----
By mid-day the office had come to life with phones ringing, associates rushing between cubicles, the usual buzz that should have felt like a return to normalcy. It didn’t.
Harvey had been staring at the same contract for fifteen minutes. He’d read the same paragraph over and over but still couldn’t tell you what it was about. His phone sat on the desk beside him, face down, as if ignoring it might make the weight of it easier to cope with.
Every so often, he’d catch himself stealing a glance anyway.
It was ridiculous, he told himself. Mike didn’t owe him a response. The man had just spent months locked in a cage--he was probably sleeping, or out walking, or doing literally anything other than texting his former boss.
But the silence had a sound to it.
He picked up the phone around noon, pretending it was just habit. No new messages. The last thing on the screen was the one he’d sent this morning: Glad you’re home. The words looked smaller now, almost pathetic.
He locked the screen again and tossed the phone onto the desk.
Through the glass wall, he saw Donna in the hallway, a stack of folders balanced in her arms. For a moment, he was sure she’d stop--turn his way, offer another lecture. But she didn’t. She kept going. And Harvey was thankful for it.
He didn’t want to hear about what he should or shouldn’t be doing. Or what she thought Mike wanted, or needed, from him. Because nothing about this made sense anymore.
If it did, he wouldn’t be sitting here, spending the entire day staring at his phone, waiting for a text that might never come. Just so he could feel close to Mike again.
Because maybe the truth of it all wasn’t complicated at all.
Maybe it was simple.
Maybe Mike didn’t want anything to do with him anymore.
-----
Mike hadn’t planned to go anywhere, but staying inside made his skin crawl. The walls had started to close in on him until the apartment started to feel the same as being back in his cell. So he pulled on an old hoodie and walked.
The city felt bigger than he remembered. The sounds of it; the traffic, the voices, the never-ending construction, it should’ve been comforting, familiar. Instead, every noise hit like static. He caught himself scanning the faces he passed, a habit he hadn’t been able to break, like everyone was someone to watch or avoid.
He walked without direction, just moving for the sake of it, until the smell of fresh baked bread and roasted peppers stopped him. His favorite sandwich shop. He hadn’t even realized he’d walked this far.
It looked exactly the same. The same battered sign, the same guy behind the counter. The man looked up, smiled, and said, “Hey, stranger. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
Mike froze for half a second, then forced a small smile. “Yeah, I’ve been... busy.”
“Glad you’re back,” the man said easily. “The usual?”
Mike shook his head, grateful the question didn’t go any deeper. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He waited at the counter, eyes tracing every familiar detail. The cracked tile near the register. The faded flyers on the wall. It should have felt comforting, but it didn’t. It felt like stepping into someone else’s life.
He took his sandwich to the park across the street and found a bench in the shade. He ate slowly, more out of ritual than hunger. The food tasted like memory. Like a life he used to have but couldn’t quite touch anymore.
For a few minutes, he let himself pretend. Pretend this was just another lunch break. Pretend the past year hadn’t happened. Pretend Harvey wasn't constantly on his mind.
But pretending never worked. His phone suddenly felt like concrete in his pocket.
He hadn’t answered. He knew he should. Harvey didn’t deserve silence, not after everything he’d done. After everything he’d given up. But every time Mike thought about replying, his chest clenched.
Because what could he possibly say? Thanks for ruining your life for me? Thanks for not giving up even when I did? Thanks for still believing I’m worth saving when I can’t even stand to look at myself?
He pulled the phone out anyway, thumb brushing across the screen. The message was still there. Let me know if you need anything. Glad you’re home.
He read it again. And again. The simplicity of it hurt more than anything else could have. It was exactly what Harvey would send. It was care disguised as practicality.
Mike typed out several different responses and deleted each one. Everything sounded wrong. Everything sounded like too much.
In the end, he just locked the screen and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
He stayed on that bench until the sun moved behind the buildings, his half-eaten sandwich beside him, the noise of the city engulfing him.
He thought freedom would be simple, just open air and open doors. Instead, it felt like suffocating in plain sight.
-----
Harvey hadn’t planned to text him again, but the lack of response was eating at him. Every few hours he’d pick up his phone, check for a reply, and set it back down like it was on fire. By the time evening came, he’d convinced himself it didn’t matter. That Donna was right and Mike probably needed space. That reaching out again would only make things worse.
He poured himself a drink instead. The office was quiet now, most of the lights dimmed, the city outside his window spread beneath him like a blanket of glittering lights. The scotch went down smooth but did nothing to ease his nerves. He thought about heading home. Thought about calling Donna for reassurance. Thought about anything other than the ache sitting in his chest.
Instead, he opened his messages.
He kept it simple. Something that didn’t ask too much, something Mike couldn’t read into.
Heading to Rudy’s for a drink. You should stop by if you’re up for it.
He stared at it for a moment, thumb hovering. Then he hit send.
That was it. Nothing heavy, nothing complicated. Just a text between two people who used to celebrate everything together. He told himself he didn’t care if Mike showed up. He just wanted to give him the option.
-----
Mike saw the message just after eight. He’d been sitting on the couch with the TV on mute, watching the flicker of commercials without hearing a word of them. The phone vibrated on the coffee table, and for a second, his pulse jumped.
He already knew who it was.
He read the text twice.
Heading to Rudy’s for a drink. You should stop by if you’re up for it.
It was harmless. Friendly. The kind of thing Harvey would send after a long day, when he needed someone who understood him. Mike could almost hear his voice saying it, pretending it was just an invitation and not an offering.
He told himself he didn’t have to go. That Harvey was just being polite. That he didn’t owe him anything.
But the longer he sat there, the harder it became to believe it. The apartment felt too quiet, the walls always closing in. The silence started to buzz in his ears again, the same way it had all night.
He checked the time. Eight fifteen.
He could still make it if he wanted to.
He thought about it. And thought about it some more.
Then he found himself standing, reaching for his jacket, slipping his phone into his pocket.
He didn’t bother looking in the mirror before he left. He just locked the door behind him and stepped out into the night.
-----
Harvey got there early. Old habit.
Rudy’s hadn’t changed much. It still had the same low ceilings and stained-glass lamps, the same brick walls cluttered with signs and history. It smelled like beer and old wood, exactly how he remembered it. He ordered a drink and told himself he wasn’t waiting for anyone.
He checked his phone once. Then again. Then stopped looking altogether.
The scotch didn’t taste like it used to. Nothing really did anymore. He thought about leaving after the first glass, about not being the guy sitting alone in a bar hoping for something he’d already lost. But then the door opened, and the sound of it made him look up.
Mike stood there, caught in the threshold for a moment like he wasn’t sure if he should come in. The dim light hit his face just right, and for a second Harvey saw flashes of the old Mike--the kid who used to light up a room with that reckless smile, the one who could always find something worth salvaging, even on your worst days.
But the smile wasn’t there.
Mike looked tired. Guarded. He spotted Harvey, hesitated, then started toward him.
“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” Harvey said when he reached the table.
“Yeah, well,” Mike said, sliding into the chair across from him. “Figured it was this or talk to my ceiling again.”
“Ceiling’s not much of a conversationalist.”
"That's what I like about it.”
Before silence could settle between them, Harvey signaled the bartender for another glass and poured him a drink.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Just one. Not trying to get you in trouble on your first week out.”
"Appreciate it," Mike said, the corners of his mouth tugging into something that almost counted as a smile.
They drank in silence for a while. The music from the jukebox played softly in the background, something bluesy but otherwise unrecognizable. Harvey wanted to ask how he was, but the answer was written all over him.
He settled on, “Place missed you.”
Mike looked around, eyes tracing the familiar space. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
“Still here, though,” Harvey said quietly. “So are you.”
Mike didn’t look at him. He stared at the table, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Still here.”
The words should have sounded like hope, but they didn't.
Harvey took another sip and tried to hide the way his hand shook. He told himself it was enough--this moment, this table, this fragile kind of togetherness. But deep down he knew what it really was.
Two men sitting in the wreckage of something that used to feel like home, trying to convince themselves it still meant the same thing.
-
They sat with their drinks, the noise of the bar doing most of the talking. For the first time in months, there wasn’t a guard watching from behind glass. Harvey didn’t know what to do with the space that kind of freedom left between them.
Finally, Harvey cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking."
“That’s always dangerous."
Harvey smiled faintly. “About work.”
Mike’s expression shifted. “Harvey...”
“Just hear me out,” Harvey said, reaching into his jacket. He pulled out a folded piece of paper and set it on the table between them. “Take a look at the number.”
Mike hesitated, then unfolded it. His eyes skimmed down the page before stopping halfway. He looked up. “It’s the same money I made as a junior partner.”
“Because you are a junior partner,” Harvey said. There was a small, hopeful lift in his voice. “The best there is. We--I need you.”
Mike stared at him, stunned. “You’re actually serious.”
“I wouldn’t be sitting here if I wasn’t.”
“Harvey, I just got out of prison. I have no interest in going back.”
“You’re not going back,” Harvey said quickly. “Because even though you’ll be acting as a lawyer, your title’s gonna be consultant. It’s clean. It’s safe. I already checked.”
“You already checked." Mike said, a humorless laugh following.
“Of course I did.”
“Look,” Mike said, his tone softening just a fraction. “I appreciate the gesture. Really. But everybody left that firm because of me. I’m not going to do that to you again.”
“Mike--”
“No,” he said, not giving him a chance to finish. “You don’t get it. I’m done risking other people’s livelihoods for my own benefit. I’m done letting people pay for my mistakes. I can’t do that again, Harvey. I just...can't.”
“This isn’t about mistakes. It’s about giving you a chance to--”
“Goddamn it, stop!” Mike snapped, loud enough to turn a few heads nearby. The words seemed to hang in the air between them. He saw Harvey startle at it, just slightly, and hated himself for it.
“You’ve done enough,” Mike said, his tone almost apologetic now. “Just... stop trying to help me. Or fix me. Or whatever the hell it is you’re doing.”
The silence that followed felt endless. Harvey didn’t look away, but something in his expression shifted, like he was trying not to show the hit he’d just taken.
Mike exhaled, the anger draining as fast as it had come. “Thanks for the drink,” he said quietly. “But I should go.”
He slid his chair back and stood up, avoiding Harvey’s eyes. The paper still sat on the table, folded neatly again, untouched.
Harvey didn’t reach for it. He just watched as Mike walked out the door and into the night, leaving the glass half-full and the air around him feeling emptier than it had all day.
He should’ve left when Mike did. Instead, he poured what was left of Mike’s drink into his own glass and drank until the hope he’d been holding onto since he drew up the contract finally went under.