It’s nearly midnight.

The floor is quiet except for the low hum of a jazz track playing from your office speaker. The city lights pour through the tall windows, casting a soft glow over stacks of files, your laptop, and the single glass of scotch resting beside your elbow. You’d told yourself you’d leave by ten… but of course, ten turned into eleven, and eleven bled into this.

You’re focused—barely—when you hear it. The unmistakable click of his shoes against the marble floors.

Harvey Specter.

Your eyes lift as he appears in your doorway, jacket slung over his shoulder, shirt sleeves rolled, tie undone. His hair’s a little messy from running his hands through it too many times. And that smirk? Oh, it’s dangerous.

“You always this committed?” he asks, stepping in like he owns the place. Like he owns you. “Or are you just trying to beat me at being the last one out?”

You smirk and lean back, sipping your scotch. “I thought I’d wait until you left. Didn’t want to risk losing a case because you guilt-tripped me in the elevator.”

He chuckles, eyes scanning your desk. “You’re working on the Whitmore acquisition?”

“I was.” You glance at the clock. “Now I’m mostly just vibing.”

“Jazz, scotch, dim lighting…” he walks toward your desk, dropping his jacket on your chair. “Careful. You’re setting a scene.”

You raise a brow. “And what scene is that, Specter?”

He reaches over, grabs your glass, and takes a sip without asking—like he always does. “The kind where two very powerful people pretend this tension hasn’t been crackling between them for months.”

Your breath hitches, and for a second, you can’t look away. His tone is velvet—smooth but dangerous. Teasing, but honest.

“And what exactly do you want to do about that tension?” you ask softly.

He tilts his head, gaze heavy on yours. “Nothing... yet. I’m enjoying watching you try to hide it.”

You let out a dry laugh, standing and walking around the desk until you’re close enough to smell his cologne. “Is this your tactic? Outlast me until I cave?”

“No,” Harvey says, stepping even closer, voice a near whisper. “My tactic is to wait until you want it as much as I do.”

And in the dim, quiet office—with the city behind you and history between you—you do want it. But you also know the game.

So you smile, tilt your head, and say, “Then I guess we’ll see who breaks first.”

His eyes darken with something unreadable—desire, admiration, challenge. And then he reaches for the speaker, turns the volume up just a little, and leans against your desk with a casual confidence that only he can pull off.

He stays.

You stay.

And nothing happens—yet.

But the tension? It’s suffocating in the best way possible.