Harvey’s flight had landed two hours late. London was foggy, Heathrow was chaos, and the last four meetings of his trip had dragged on far too long. He looked sharp — as always — but exhaustion pulled at the edge of his eyes, his tie slightly loosened, his jaw tight from days of clenched teeth and boardroom battles.

He just wanted to get back, drop his bag, crash on his couch, and maybe — maybe — if he had the energy, pour a glass of Macallan.

But when he walked into his office, suitcase rolling behind him, his entire plan evaporated.

You were sitting on the edge of his desk, ankles crossed, one hand propping you up, the other holding his favorite glass — neat, waiting. And you were wearing that dress.

His favorite.

The deep navy silk that hugged every curve and made him nearly lose his mind the first time he saw it. And now, you were here, in his space, in his chair, like you’d always belonged.

Harvey stopped in the doorway, staring for a beat too long. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

You tilted your head, smiling like you’d already won. “Donna let me in. She said you were in a bad mood.”

He stepped inside, dropping his coat. “I was.”

You rose from the desk slowly, walking toward him, hips swaying just enough to catch his eye. “I figured I’d fix that.”

“I don’t think you understand what that dress does to me.” His voice was rough now, gaze locked on you like you were the only thing in the city.

“Good,” you murmured, handing him the glass. “You looked like you needed the distraction.”

He took it, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. He was tired — but not of you. Never of you.

“Forget jet lag,” he rasped, setting the glass down without taking a sip. “I’m wide awake now.”