It was supposed to be a simple mock trial. Training exercise. Jessica thought it would “boost morale” to pair top associates with name partners for a little internal showdown.

Which is exactly how you ended up standing across from Harvey Specter—the man who’s challenged you since day one, who walks into a room like he owns gravity, and who once said “she’s good, but not Specter-good” loud enough for half the firm to hear.

You’ve never let that go.

And he knows it.

The glass conference room was transformed into a mock courtroom. A few senior partners watched for fun—Jessica sitting at the back like a judge with her signature smirk.

You stand in your tailored navy suit, heels grounded, voice steel-sharp. Harvey, leaning back in his chair with that annoying little half-smile, taps his pen lazily.

“Your Honor,” you say, eyes never leaving his, “my opposing counsel seems to believe charm is a substitute for actual argument.”

That earns a few chuckles from the back. Harvey lifts a brow, slowly rising. “And my opposing counsel seems to think volume is a substitute for logic.”

The back-and-forth is electric. Every move of his is met with one of yours. Every calculated jab from you is met with that maddening glint in his eye.

Until it’s just the two of you standing face-to-face during rebuttals, closer than necessary, the air between you thrumming with unspoken tension.

“Tell me something,” he says under his breath, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “Do you argue this hard with everyone, or just me?”

You don’t flinch. “Only the ones who think they can win by smiling.”

He smirks. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on smiling when I beat you.”

You step in—barely, but enough. “We’ll see about that, Specter.”

The “trial” ends, technically with no winner—Jessica calls it a tie, though everyone saw the fire in both of you.

But the real moment happens after.

You’re collecting your notes, heart still racing, when you feel him behind you. Not close, just... near.

“You like arguing with me,” he says. Not a question.

You turn, lips parted with a half-laugh. “Maybe I just like winning.”

He leans in slightly, voice lower now. “You think you won?”

“I know I got under your skin.”

His eyes flicker over you—sharp, then soft. “You always do.”

You blink. That’s the first time he’s said something real.

The silence stretches. And then—

“Dinner.”

You lift a brow. “What?”

He slides his hands in his pockets, calm as ever. “We keep this up, we’ll burn the whole damn firm down. Let’s take it out of the courtroom for once.”

You pause. Long enough for him to start smiling again.

Then you give him your classic, Specter-matching smirk. “Pick a place. But I’m not promising not to argue.”

He turns to walk out, tossing over his shoulder:

“I’m counting on it.”