Harvey Specter has closed billion-dollar deals under pressure. He’s argued in front of Supreme Court justices. He’s taken down entire firms with nothing but a smirk and a custom Tom Ford.

But nothing—nothing—prepared him for taking a theatre actress to a Knicks game.

“I love sports,” she says brightly, sipping a $19 beer. “I did a Cats revival during the World Cup.”

He blinks. “Not the same sport.”

“Right, right. This is basketball. With… innings?”

“Quarters.”

“Oh. Like fractions. So math and sports. Riveting.”

She calls the uniforms costumes, the players understudies, and refers to the jump ball as the overture. She gasps during fouls like someone died onstage, booed the ref with dramatic flair.

She asks which one dated a Kardashian.

Harvey doesn’t even look up. “All of them.”

He considers faking a medical emergency.

Then the kiss cam hits.

First pass? She’s mid-monologue about the lighting design.

Second pass? She’s critiquing the mascot’s lack of range.

Third pass? She finally looks up—blinks at the giant hearts—then turn to Harvey and casually say, “Do they do this every game or just when it’s not sold out?”

The camera cuts away.

Harvey sighs.

Halftime hits. She disappears.

He thinks maybe she went home. He’s about to text.

Then—she’s back. Carrying a signed jersey in a sealed case, a souvenir bag slung over your arm, sipping another overpriced cocktail like it’s just a Tuesday.

Harvey’s eyebrows jump. “What the hell is that?”

“Oh, this?” She says, like she didn’t just drop $300 on Knicks merch. “I ran into my cousin, Julius, in the tunnel.”

He stares.

“Julius.” He repeats

“Julius Randle,” she clarifies. “I used to call him Orange Julius when we were kids.”

She plops down beside him.

“Anyway, this is for you. Is the… intermission almost over?”

Harvey blinks. Looks down at the absurdly expensive jersey. Then back at her.

He’s grinning now.

Because this is either the most chaotic date of his life—

Or the last first date he’ll ever go on.

Either way?

He’s in love.