The city buzzed below you like static—constant, endless, uncaring. You stood by the window of Rachel and Louis’s townhouse, the glow of Manhattan’s skyline reflecting off your tear-streaked cheeks. The pregnancy test lay on the coffee table, that single pink line haunting you, screaming a truth you weren’t ready to face. The man who had just thrown you out of his penthouse—who told you that you were “gone”—was the father of your child.

Rachel’s voice cut through your thoughts, soft but laced with fury. “Hey, it’s okay, honey. You’re safe now.” You didn’t feel safe. You felt shattered.

When you’d called her, barely able to breathe through your tears, she didn’t hesitate—she and Louis had driven over immediately. Harvey had made enemies before, but he’d never made one quite like Rachel Zane.

“I swear to God,” she muttered now, wrapping you in a blanket as Louis hovered awkwardly, holding a mug of tea like it was a peace offering. “If I ever see him again—” “Rachel.” Louis gave her a look, his hand landing lightly on her arm. “No, Louis. Don’t ‘Rachel’ me. He threw her out. Pregnant, scared, alone—” “I didn’t tell him,” you whispered. “He doesn’t know.”

That shut them both up.

Rachel’s voice softened, but her eyes stayed sharp. “Then you don’t owe him a damn thing.”

You nodded weakly, even though your heart said otherwise. You still loved him, and that made you hate yourself a little.

⸻

A few weeks later, you found yourself sitting in the sleek, glass-walled offices of Emanuel Urquhart & Sullivan. Louis had practically begged you to join—said he trusted no one else to keep his files organized and his schedule sane. The irony wasn’t lost on you. You had gone from Harvey Specter’s girlfriend to Louis Litt’s assistant at his rival firm. The universe had a cruel sense of humor.

The office was alive in a different way than Pearson Specter Litt ever had been. Brighter. Warmer. Less of the power-games and more of the purpose. Mike Ross, CEO and legal prodigy, was surprisingly easygoing, his brilliance wrapped in boyish charm and genuine kindness.

“Morning,” he’d greet you every day, offering a smile that made you momentarily forget the chaos of your personal life.

And Rachel—ever the meddler—had noticed.

“So,” she began one afternoon, leaning against your desk with a grin that could only mean trouble. “Mike’s been stopping by here a lot lately.” “He’s my boss,” you replied, shuffling papers like they were the most fascinating thing in the world. “Uh-huh. And yet, somehow, he manages to ‘accidentally’ bring you coffee every morning. Weird coincidence, huh?” You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. “Rachel, stop.” “What? I’m just saying. He’s single, you’re single…” “I’m pregnant, Rachel.” Your voice cracked a little. “Nobody’s gonna want to deal with that.”

Her grin faltered. She reached for your hand. “Hey. That’s not true. You’re incredible, okay? And any man worth anything will see that. The baby doesn’t change who you are.”

You wanted to believe her.

⸻

It was a Thursday morning when the flowers appeared. A massive bouquet of white lilies, roses, and orchids—elegant, expensive, and wrapped in soft ivory silk. The kind of flowers Harvey used to send to clients, never to lovers. But the card attached wasn’t his style.

You frowned, brushing your fingers over the neat handwriting.

“You deserve to smile again. — M.”

Your pulse quickened.

Rachel appeared seconds later, her eyes widening. “Oh my God, are those—?” “Don’t start.” “Mike Ross sent you flowers!” “You don’t know that.” Rachel plucked the card from your fingers and read it aloud, grinning ear to ear. “Oh, I know that handwriting anywhere. He wrote my wedding vows in a pinch, remember?”

You felt the warmth rise in your cheeks. “He’s just being nice.” Rachel tilted her head, smirking. “Sweetheart, that’s not ‘nice.’ That’s a man trying to be the one who makes you forget Harvey Specter ever existed.”

And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—you smiled.

Still, that night, when you got home and saw the flowers sitting on your dresser, their scent