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Mike had told himself, over and over again, that this wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t. He just wanted to know. People asked questions all the time about their bosses. Some people wanted to know if Harvey was secretly married, or if he slept in a bed made of thousand-dollar bills. Mike just wanted to know if Harvey—well, if Harvey was into men. Purely for informational purposes. Totally platonic. Completely.
Except somehow every time he tried to approach Donna about it, his mouth betrayed him. His brain, that wonderful photographic brain, abandoned him entirely. And Donna—Donna saw everything. She noticed everything. And she had that smile that could cut a man down before he even knew what he’d said wrong.
Attempt number one had been… unfortunate.
"Hey, Donna," Mike had said casually, leaning against her desk like he had any business doing that. She was typing something, and she didn’t even glance up, but she raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. He should’ve stopped there. He didn’t. "So, uh… do you… like—uh, no, I mean, do you think Harvey—"
Donna finally looked up, and Mike panicked. His brain slammed on the brakes, swerved hard right, and the words came tumbling out. "Do you think Harvey only hires women he’s slept with?"
The silence was deafening. Donna blinked once. Then twice. Then, in the calmest voice he’d ever heard, she said, "Excuse me?"
"I didn’t mean—you, specifically—I mean, not that you’re not—obviously you’re—you’re gorgeous—but I didn’t mean it like—"
And then the coffee hit him. Mercifully lukewarm, but it still ran down his shirt, dripping into his tie, soaking his collar. Donna didn’t even look apologetic. She just tilted her head and said, "Next time you want to insult me, maybe don’t do it before lunch."
He’d muttered something incoherent and stumbled away, smelling faintly of hazelnut.
Attempt two was worse. Much worse. He regrouped, rehearsed some lines in the men’s room mirror, and waited until Donna was on the phone wrapping up a call. As soon as she hung up, he slid in.
"So," he started, way too loudly. "You know how Harvey’s, like… Harvey? Handsome. Suave. A lot of people probably want him."
Donna raised an eyebrow. Harold, who happened to be passing by, slowed just enough to overhear.
Mike pressed on, oblivious to the noose tightening. "I was just thinking, you know, if a guy—if someone, anyone, say a guy—was into Harvey, would that be, like… something that could happen?"
Donna’s lips curved, not kindly. Harold made a face like he’d walked into a bad late-night comedy set and bolted for the elevators.
"Mike," Donna said, in the tone one used for strangers who followed you home, "you sound like you’re rehearsing a Craigslist personal ad. Do you want to try again with words that don’t make you sound like a stalker?"
Mike made a noise somewhere between a cough and a groan and backed away, yet again.
Strike two.
Attempt number three… they didn’t talk about. Ever. He’d somehow, through a catastrophic series of verbal fumbles, implied that he wanted to watch Harvey have sex. With anyone. Mike wanted to scrub his own brain with bleach just remembering it. Donna hadn’t even bothered to say anything; she’d just laughed, full-bodied and cruel, for a solid two minutes until Harvey poked his head out of his office and asked what was so funny. Donna, still shaking with laughter, had said, "Nothing, just your associate auditioning for ‘Creepiest Question of the Year.’"
Mike had gone home early that day.
By the fourth attempt, he was a broken man. His dignity was in tatters. His shirt still smelled faintly like old coffee no matter how many times he washed it. But he couldn’t let it go. Not knowing gnawed at him. Not because he cared. Not because it mattered. But because every time Harvey smirked at him, every time Harvey leaned a little too close or called him "rookie" in that smooth, drawling voice, Mike’s brain spun out like a malfunctioning hard drive.
So he tried one more time.
He waited until Harvey was in a meeting and slipped over to Donna’s desk, trying to arrange his face into something that looked less like desperation and more like casual curiosity. Donna didn’t look up from the papers she was sorting.
"If this is attempt number four," she said dryly, "I’d suggest you cut your losses."
Mike winced. "Okay, yeah, fair. But seriously, Donna—look, I’m just trying to clear something up."
Donna sighed and finally met his eyes. "You want to know if Harvey likes men."
He opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded.
She studied him for a long moment, and he felt like a bug under a microscope. Then, with a tiny sigh that might have been pity, she said, "Yes."
Mike blinked. "Yes?"
"Yes, Harvey is attracted to men. Handsome ones, in particular. And before you ask, no, he doesn’t advertise it, but no, it’s not a secret either. It’s just Harvey. He takes what he wants."
Mike stared at her, his brain helpfully short-circuiting. "So he has a type?"
Donna’s lips curved into a knowing smile, but there was no warmth in it. "You should stay away from Harvey until you figure out what the hell you actually want, Mike. For your own good."
Right. Yes. Logical. Sensible. Wise. Exactly the kind of advice a functional adult would take to heart.
Mike nodded like he was absolutely going to follow it. Like he wasn’t already planning to do the exact opposite before she finished the sentence.
Because sure, Harvey would eat him alive. And sure, Donna was right—Harvey wasn’t the guy who did half-measures. Harvey did decisive. Harvey did razor-sharp. Harvey did "I win" with the same ease most people used to breathe. And if Harvey ever looked at him as anything more than an associate and occasional chew toy for his barbed commentary, it would be for something casual, something physical, something that ended the second the amusement ran out.
Donna saw the protest form on his face and rolled her eyes so hard they nearly clicked. "Don’t give me that look. You think this is a romcom? Harvey’s not going to sweep papers off his desk and tell you he’s secretly pined for you since the day you walked in here."
Mike opened his mouth, realized he had no defense for that, and closed it again.
She pushed on, merciless. "You might get one night. Two if he’s bored or stressed. And I’m not judging you if that’s what you want. But you should at least know what you’re walking into before you go knocking on that door."
Mike felt his ears burning. The thought of walking through Harvey’s door with… intentions… made his stomach flip. In a good way. In a bad way. In every way.
"That’s not even—" He stopped, scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I’m not—this isn’t—I just needed to know. That’s all."
Donna’s stare said she could see right through him. She always could. "A smart man would take the hint and refocus on his actual job."
A smart man, yes.
Not Mike Ross.
Fortunately—or disastrously, depending on the perspective—Harvey had stepped out ten minutes ago for a client meeting. Which meant no imminent danger of being caught looking like a lovesick idiot. So Mike dragged himself back to his cubicle, dropped into his chair, and opened a blank document.
Okay. Fine. He would be responsible about this. Figure out what he wanted before he accidentally did something stupid. Donna had given him fair warning. He could at least pretend to be mature enough to handle it.
He cracked his knuckles, took a steadying breath, and typed:
What I want from Harvey Specter:
He stared at the blinking cursor. His brain remained stubbornly blank.
He tried again.
I want…
Nothing. No words. Just a faint buzzing sensation and a sudden, treacherous awareness of his pulse.
His eyes drifted toward Harvey’s office, empty and dark at the moment but still radiating a kind of presence. The man didn’t even have to be in the room to make Mike feel like an idiot.
He forced his attention back to the document.
I want clarity.
That looked responsible. Adult. Mature.
I want to know where I stand.
Not bad.
I want to know what he wants from me.
Solid.
I want—
His fingers paused. His thoughts swerved. Suddenly he wasn’t thinking about "clarity" or "boundaries" or any of the words a reasonable person might write. His mind insisted instead on conjuring an image of Harvey leaning back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexed in that maddening way they always did when he gestured.
Mike swallowed.
He typed:
I want to not keep staring at his forearms like a creep.
He stared at the sentence.
Then he added another before he could stop himself:
It’s not my fault they look like that.
He groaned, dragging both hands down his face. This was pathetic. Utterly pathetic. He was a grown man with a law degree—well, sort of—and a job at one of the top firms in New York. And he was sitting here writing odes to his boss’s forearms like some kind of deranged Victorian poet.
He deleted the lines.
He tried again.
I want—
But the second the words appeared, his mind betrayed him again. He pictured Harvey coming back from lunch, jacket off, shirt sleeves pushed up, undone tie hanging loosely around his neck. The way he would lean against the doorframe, effortlessly cool, smirk tugging at his mouth as if he knew exactly the effect he had on everyone in the room.
Mike was pretty sure Harvey did know. About everyone.
Except Mike didn’t want to be everyone. And that was the problem.
His fingers twitched, and he typed before he could stop himself:
I want his attention.
He froze. That one hit too close. He hesitated, then added:
Not just the "rookie screwed up again" kind.
His chest tightened, but he kept going, the words flowing easier now, like a dam had cracked open.
I want him to look at me like he means it.
I want him to choose me on purpose.
God, that was humiliating.
He reread the lines and winced so hard his toes curled in his shoes. If anyone saw this, he’d have to fling himself into the Hudson.
He backspaced a few lines. Rewrote them. Deleted them. Rewrote them again. He needed something practical. Responsible. Focused. He needed—
He typed:
I want more than a hook-up.
He froze.
There it was. The ugly, inconvenient truth. The thing Donna had pretty much said out loud. The thing Mike wasn’t supposed to want. The thing Harvey absolutely, definitely wouldn’t want from him.
He stared at the words, feeling heat creep up his neck.
Then his traitorous brain added another mental image to the pile: Harvey laughing at something clever, eyes softening, leaning close like Mike was the only person in the room worth speaking to.
A fantasy. A stupid one.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, trying to collect himself. Trying to push away the growing awareness that he had no control over any of this. Not the thoughts. Not the feelings. Definitely not the stupid sentences spilling onto the screen.
He opened his eyes and typed again, faster now, trying to get it out before he lost the nerve:
I want—
His fingers froze mid-keystroke when he heard footsteps approaching. Sharp, confident, unmistakable footsteps.
Harvey’s.
Of course. Of course Harvey would come back early. Why wouldn’t the universe time this perfectly to ruin him?
Mike slammed his laptop shut so fast the hinge squeaked. He sat up straight, hands flat on the desk, expression too casual to be remotely believable. His heart pounded like it wanted to escape.
Harvey walked past the cubicles without slowing, without looking around, without acknowledging anyone else in existence. Standard Harvey behavior. Except a moment before he reached his office door, he paused.
Paused.
Mike felt every molecule in his body freeze.
Harvey glanced over his shoulder, eyes flicking toward Mike with an unreadable expression. Something sharp. Something evaluating. Something that made Mike’s stomach drop straight through the floor.
Then Harvey smirked.
Just a small one, barely there, but definitely real.
And he called back, "Try not to burn down the place while I’m on my call, Rookie."
Then he disappeared into his office.
Mike exhaled so hard he nearly passed out.
If he’d been smart, he would’ve taken Donna’s advice.
But Mike Ross had never once in his life been smart about Harvey Specter.