You find out over coffee.

You’re at your desk, reviewing closing arguments, when your assistant drops a tabloid on top of the file. Big red headline. Black serif font.

“SPECTER’S SECRET FIANCÉE? POWER COUPLE SPOTTED WITH A RING.”

Your eyebrows lift. You barely register your assistant’s “I thought you should see it” before flipping to the photo.

It’s from three nights ago — after the benefit gala, when Harvey insisted on walking you to your car. You’re both laughing. His hand’s on the small of your back. Your left hand is lifted in mid-gesture, and the lighting caught the simple gold band you wore for fashion — not meaning.

It does look a lot like an engagement ring.

You don’t realize you’re smiling faintly until the door to your office opens.

“You’ve seen it,” Harvey says, walking in without preamble, the New York Weekly already rolled in his hand. “Apparently, we’re engaged.”

You glance up. “You didn’t tell me you were proposing. That’s a bold move, Specter.”

He smirks and shrugs off his coat. “I figured I’d let the press do it for me.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re going to be questioned all day.”

He walks around your desk slowly, stops beside your chair, and leans down. His voice lowers — so only you can hear.

“We could always make it true.”

Your head turns. “You’re joking.”

“Am I?” he asks, too smooth. His gaze drops to your hand, where the thin ring still sits. “It suits you.”

You stare at him, pulse high. “You don’t do relationships.”

“I don’t do normal relationships,” he corrects. “This wouldn’t be normal.”

“Because it’s you?”

“Because it’s you.”

The silence stretches, heavy and sweet. You know this is dangerous. You also know you’ve never looked at anyone the way you look at him — or felt the way you do when he touches you like he owns the moment.

Then he straightens. The smirk returns. “I’ll be in my office. Let me know if you want to pick a venue.”