It’s nearly midnight when you finally slip onto your usual stool at the bar, heels in one hand and courtroom adrenaline still humming in your spine. The leather cushion groans under your weight, familiar and worn. You don’t glance at the menu. You don’t have to.

“Neat,” you say to the bartender. “Whatever’s strongest.”

Outside, New York thrums—sirens, headlights, people rushing toward whatever version of closure the city offers. But in here, there’s only low jazz and glass on glass, and for a brief moment, your pulse starts to come down.

The week has been long. Brutal. A relentless parade of objections and deadlines and smirking interruptions. And at the center of it all—Harvey Specter. Swaggering through the office like a goddamn Greek myth in a Tom Ford suit. Charming the boardroom. Infuriating you. Undermining you in ways so clever it almost feels like respect.

Almost.

He’s your rival for name partner. Your shadow in every meeting. Your migraine in human form. And no matter how much you try to shut it down, his voice—low, smug, just a little too smooth—lingers behind your thoughts like a hangover you never signed up for.

You knock back the bourbon in a single breath, letting it burn. It’s not enough to forget the tension, the competition, the way he looked at you in that partner meeting like he could see straight through you. It’s not enough to forget the way your hands shook when you signed the deposition brief because his name was printed just above yours.

And of course—because the universe has a cruel sense of humor—you hear it.

“Didn’t peg you for a bourbon girl.”

You exhale through your nose, already regretting everything. That voice. That timing. That man.

You don’t look. Not yet.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter.

“Not quite.” There’s a smile in his tone. “But thanks for the compliment.”

You turn your head slowly. Harvey is leaning on the bar like he owns it. Jacket off. Sleeves rolled. Tie loosened like he just got out of something exhausting—like maybe it was you.

He’s smirking, of course. That smug, insufferable little curl that makes you want to slap it off him just so you can taste the aftermath.

“Is there a reason you’re following me now?”

“I was here first.”

“Funny. You were born second.”

He lets out a low laugh, deep and unhurried, like he’s enjoying himself way more than he should be. He gestures to the bartender with a flick of his fingers.

“I’ll have what she’s having.”

You roll your eyes and take another sip. He doesn’t move closer, but the air between you tightens anyway, like a rope pulled taut and waiting to snap.

It’s not the courtroom. It’s not the firm. But somehow this—this moment, this place, this infuriating man—feels just as much like a battlefield. Maybe worse.

Because in the courtroom, there are rules.

You take another drink. You don’t smile. You don’t leave.

You already know exactly where this night is heading. And you’re too proud—and maybe too curious—to stop it.