Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Okay, so here’s the thing they don’t tell you when you fall for someone like Harvey Specter: he’s basically a high-performance sports car with the emotional range of a houseplant. No, scratch that. That’s an insult to houseplants. At least they droop when they need something. Harvey just gets... more smug. Like his emotional drought is your fault. Or Louis’s. Usually Louis’s.

So this is your official guide. A how-to, if you will. How to survive — and help thrive — Harvey Specter: Lawyer, Legend, and Loveable Dumbass Who Forgets to Drink Water.

Now I know what you’re thinking — "Mike, surely he’s a grown man who knows how to hydrate." And to that I say: sure. If your definition of hydration is three fingers of Lagavulin and a sarcastic quip. The man treats scotch like a food group. I’ve seen cacti with more moisture content than Harvey after a deposition. So yeah, emotional hydration — crucial. Especially because, left unchecked, he’ll go full Sahara Desert with his feelings and pretend it’s "efficiency."

The trick is subtlety. You don’t just walk up to Harvey Specter and say, "Hey babe, how are you feeling?" because that’s a surefire way to get the Eyebrow of Judgment™ and a fast pass to "I’m fine, now go brief the Zurich case."

No. What you do is check in like you’re slipping protein powder into a smoothie. You sneak it in between his naturally scheduled programming. Like this:

"Hey, did you sleep last night?"

"No, I closed at 2. Why?"

Because you’ve got bags under your eyes that make TSA nervous, Harvey.

"I’m just making sure you’re not trying to win Lawyer of the Year by dying on your desk."

Cue the smirk. Cue the mock-offense. Cue him saying something like, "You’d miss me too much."

And yeah. I would. That’s the problem.

So then I kiss his forehead.

Forehead kisses, I’ve learned, are the emotional equivalent of misting a delicate bonsai. You can’t go in with full-on PDA — that sets off his internal alarm system. But a forehead kiss? That slips past his defenses. That’s care disguised as affection disguised as "this is just a thing we do, totally casual." Except it’s not. He always freezes for a second like it short-circuits his brain.

Like someone dared to nurture him.

The first time I did it, he stood there blinking like a confused cat. Said something like, "What was that?" and I said, "Preventative maintenance." He didn’t ask again. Just started letting me do it when he was stressed, like he forgot to pretend he didn’t like it.

Anyway. Emotional hydration. Forehead kisses, yes. Check-ins, yes. But also, and I cannot stress this enough: get him to drink water.

You’d think this wouldn’t be a big deal. That a man who spends twenty percent of his day yelling "Goddamn it, Donna!" could remember to fill a glass. But no. The only time Harvey willingly drinks water is when he’s hungover, and even then it’s like pulling teeth. So I’ve started keeping a bottle on his desk. I don’t say anything. Just put it there. He ignores it, of course. So I drink from it first, dramatically, like I’m in a commercial. Then leave it on his side of the desk.

He acts like it’s a hostage negotiation, but eventually, he drinks it.

"Why are you watching me?"

"Just making sure the mighty oak gets its nutrients."

"You’re such a nerd."

"Hydrated nerd. What about you, crypt keeper?"

He flips me off, but he finishes the bottle.

That’s progress.

There was this one Tuesday — brutal day, trial prep, opposing counsel was a human equivalent of dial-up internet, and Harvey had that tight look around his mouth like he’d bitten into a lemon and was trying to sue it. I walked in around eight. He was still in his office, lights off, just the city bleeding in through the glass like some noir painting.

"Harvey," I said.

Nothing.

"Harvey."

Still nothing.

So I walked in, sat across from him, handed him the water bottle.

"You don’t have to say anything," I said. "Just drink."

He stared at it like I’d handed him a live grenade.

Then he took it.

Took a long sip.

"Thanks," he muttered.

And I said, "That’s what I’m here for."

It wasn’t a grand gesture. But he looked at me then, and there was this flicker — just a flicker — like something warm opened up behind his eyes. Like maybe he realized he didn’t have to be bulletproof all the time. That mayb someone could care about him without expecting anything in return. 

That’s the thing with Harvey. You don’t water him with big speeches. You do it with small, steady acts. With showing up. With putting the damn bottle in front of him, over and over, until one day he picks it up on his own.

And I think he’s learning. I came in last Thursday and found him drinking from a bottle before I reminded him.

"What?" he said, noticing the look on my face.

"Just proud of you," I said.

"You’re so weird."

"Maybe. But I’m not dehydrated."

He rolled his eyes. But he smiled.

So yeah. That’s the first lesson.

Water regularly. But don’t overdo it. If you flood the plant, it’ll drown. If you’re too obvious with the feelings, he’ll retreat into sarcasm and push you away. You have to be consistent. Patient. Gentle.

And sometimes, when all else fails, you just kiss his forehead and wait.

Chapter Text

If you’ve ever lived with a cat who insists it hates attention but somehow ends up sleeping on your face at 3 a.m., you already understand Harvey Specter’s relationship to warmth. Emotional warmth. Physical warmth. Actual sunlight. All of it. He’s convinced he doesn’t need it. That he’s forged from titanium, suits, and perfectly aged whiskey. That sunbeams are for poets and people who shop at Whole Foods.

But let me tell you something.

You leave Harvey alone in a sun-drenched room for twenty minutes and he’ll start purring. Metaphorically. Probably.

The first week I moved in, I made the grievous mistake of opening the blinds in his (our?) condo.

"What are you doing?" he asked, emerging from the shower with that suspiciously perfect towel tuck and a frown that could kill a fern.

"Letting in some light," I said, tugging on the second cord. The skyline exploded into view—blue sky, gold buildings, the kind of morning that makes even New Yorkers briefly consider not being cynical.

He shielded his eyes like I’d thrown open the Ark of the Covenant.

"Mike, it’s seven in the morning."

"Exactly. The sun rises. That’s its whole deal."

"I like it dim," he said, reaching to close them again.

"Nope," I said, stepping in front of him. "We’re doing a controlled exposure. Like vampire therapy."

"I am not a vampire."

"Tell that to your diet and your skin tone."

He gave me the look. You know the one. The patented, trademarked, ironclad Harvey Specter "you’re lucky I love you" look.

And then—he left the blinds open.

That’s the secret with Harvey. You can’t confront him directly about his need for joy or brightness or God forbid human connection. You’ve got to Trojan Horse that stuff in. A little light here. A genuine compliment slipped between insults there. Slowly, gently, you warm the man up from the inside out until one day he stops complaining about the sun and starts drinking his coffee near it.

I’ve caught him doing it. Don’t let him tell you otherwise.

One Thursday, I came home early from a court recess, and there he was—sitting at the kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, shirt open at the collar, reading the paper with his feet kicked up on the chair across from him, bathed in literal sunlight like some overworked Greek god finally taking PTO.

I didn’t say anything. Just stood in the doorway like a wildlife photographer watching a rare animal nap. He looked relaxed. Almost soft.

Then he noticed me.

"What?"

"Nothing," I said. "You’re just... glowing."

"Shut up."

But he didn’t move. And he didn’t close the blinds.

Sunlight, it turns out, is just another form of vulnerability. Which, in Harvey’s book, ranks somewhere between "tax fraud" and "loving anything ever." He got used to power, poker faces, and the deeply misguided belief that emotions were either liabilities or Donna’s problem.

So you have to show him it’s safe. That light won’t burn him. That warmth won’t weaken him. That it’s okay to feel good.

And this goes beyond actual windows.

Warmth isn’t just rays of sun—it’s late-night takeout when he’s had a bad day. It’s sliding your hand over his under the table during a tense meeting. It’s watching Die Hard for the sixth time even though he knows every line because it makes him laugh. It’s Donna teasing him into a smile. Jessica reminding him he's not alone. Me showing up with bagels and the sports section because sometimes comfort looks like carbs.

Harvey doesn’t ask for any of this. He never will.

He grumbles. He scowls. He makes a point of calling me a hippie every time I try to get him to meditate or even just breathe.

But he lets it happen. And slowly, slowly, he unfolds. Like a flower convinced it’s actually a grenade.

The best example? That weekend at the cabin.

Donna had practically blackmailed us into it. "Harvey, you’re taking a weekend off, or I’m telling everyone at the firm that you cried during Dead Poets Society." (He did. It was beautiful. I was proud.)

So we drove two hours into the woods, found this tiny cabin with a porch and no Wi-Fi, and I watched the man have an existential crisis about a rocking chair.

"There’s no TV," he said.

"There’s firewood and wine," I said.

"There’s bugs."

"There’s stars."

He rolled his eyes, but that night we sat on the porch wrapped in a blanket that he pretended was for me, sipping from mugs of hot cider, and staring at the moon like we were in a Nicholas Sparks novel.

"You’re weird," he said.

"You like that I’m weird."

"I tolerate it."

I nudged his knee with mine. "Tell that to the way you hog the blanket."

He didn’t answer. Just leaned into me a little more.

It was quiet. Peaceful. Warm.

"See?" I said after a while. "You didn’t burst into flames."

"Still time."

But he didn’t move.

He stayed there until the fire died down, fingers laced with mine, blanket tucked around us like a secret.

That’s what it’s like, loving Harvey Specter. You don’t get declarations. You get moments. You get warmth in small doses. But when he gives it, it’s real. It’s honest. It’s the kind of sunlight that matters.

So here’s the second rule of taking care of your emotionally repressed boyfriend-slash-lawyer: Give him sunlight. Even when he pretends he doesn’t want it. Especially then.

Open the blinds. Open the space. Open his goddamn heart.

Eventually, he’ll stop flinching at the brightness. He might even seek it out.

Just don’t call him out on it.

Unless you want to hear a forty-minute speech about how light is just "a frequency wave and not an emotional metaphor, Mike."

Spoiler: it is a metaphor.

And he knows it.

He just likes pretending otherwise.

Like I said. Cat. Sunbeam. Face.

Chapter Text

They say with plants, if you don’t rotate them every now and then, they start growing crooked. Lopsided. Leaning toward the light in one desperate direction until they either fall over or get stuck looking like a metaphor in a high school poetry assignment. The fix? Just turn the pot a little. Give the other side a chance to grow.

Same goes for Harvey Specter.

The man has spent so long being "the closer," his personality is basically 85% dominance, 10% sarcasm, and 5% Tom Ford. And that’s on a good day. When he’s in full Alpha Lawyer Mode, you can practically hear his own theme playing in the background as he walks. It’s hot, sure—don’t get me wrong—but after a while, it’s like dating a very charming, very expensive bulldozer.

And bulldozers don’t cuddle.

Which is why I, Mike Ross, emotionally intelligent boyfriend and occasional chaos goblin, have made it my mission to rotate Harvey like the world’s most high-maintenance ficus. Because while "closer" Harvey is powerful and magnetic and probably capable of litigating gravity into submission, there’s also "soft" Harvey. "Boyfriend" Harvey. "Actually takes off his shoes and relaxes" Harvey. And that version needs a chance to see the sun too.

Case in point: Friday night, mid-trial week, and I come home to find Harvey on the couch with his laptop, fully suited. Shoes still on. Tie still perfect. It was like someone had freeze-framed him straight out of a deposition and dropped him into our living room.

"Do you even know how couches work?" I asked, tossing my keys in the bowl and flopping down next to him.

"I’m reviewing the witness list."

"You’re creasing the furniture."

He didn’t even look up. Just clicked his way into a spreadsheet like it had personally wronged him.

So I did what any responsible, loving boyfriend would do: I reached over, closed the laptop, and put it on the coffee table.

"Mike."

"Harvey."

"You realize we have court Monday."

"And you realize it’s Friday. Which, traditionally, is a day for kicking back, ordering something unhealthy, and watching a movie you’ll pretend to hate."

"I don’t pretend. I do hate your movies."

"You watched The Princess Bride three times."

"Only because you kept quoting it wrong."

"Admit it. You love Westley."

"Westley’s an amateur. He didn’t even go to law school."

He said it like that was the ultimate insult.

I rolled my eyes and tugged at his tie. "Off."

"What?"

"Take. It. Off."

"Buy me dinner first."

"Harvey, we’ve been dating for over a year. I’ve literally done your laundry."

"That was one time and you shrank my favorite—"

"Off. Now."

And to my eternal surprise, he did it. Grumbling, sighing like it was a personal sacrifice, but he took off the jacket, loosened the tie, and eventually—eventually—shed the armor piece by piece until he was just Harvey. Not Specter. Not partner. Just Harvey. Barefoot and slouching, somehow still regal but now just a guy on a couch with his boyfriend and a takeout menu.

That’s rotation.

You don’t strip him of the alpha. You just turn the pot a little.

Remind him he’s got other angles.

Harvey’s addicted to competence. He thrives on being needed. Being feared. Being right. Which is great in the courtroom and a disaster in the living room. Because rest, to Harvey, feels like failure. Stillness feels like weakness. But I’ve learned the trick is to rebrand it.

Like this: "Harvey, you’re not resting. You’re strategically disengaging to preserve peak performance metrics."

Boom. Rest reframed as efficiency.

Or: "You can’t argue with me right now. It’s an off day. Your litigation muscles need a cooldown cycle."

He glares, but he listens.

It’s not just about work-life balance. It’s about teaching him that being "the best" doesn’t mean being in control 100% of the time. That sometimes, being a good boyfriend means sitting through bad TV. Letting someone else pick the dinner. Admitting, once, under threat of tickling, that yes, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before was actually not that bad.

The man once stared down the Department of Justice and walked away clean. But ask him to wear joggers and he gets this look like I’ve suggested ritual humiliation.

"Harvey," I said once, standing in the closet, holding up a pair of grey sweatpants, "These are soft. They stretch. They say ‘I’m comfortable with myself.’"

"They say ‘I’ve given up.’"

"They say ‘I don’t need to dominate my living room.’"

"They say ‘Mike Ross stole my fashion sense in my sleep.’"

But then—then—one Sunday, I walked into the kitchen and found him there. Cooking scrambled eggs. Wearing the damn sweatpants. He didn’t say anything. Just arched an eyebrow like he was daring me to comment.

So I did the only logical thing: I took a picture.

He chased me around the apartment for fifteen minutes, but the smile on his face said it all.

He’s getting it.

Little by little.

One rotation at a time.

And yeah, it’s not always perfect. He backslides. I’ve seen him try to sneak emails during "no work weekends." He once answered a call from a client in the shower. We had to have a very serious discussion about boundaries. And waterproof phones.

But he’s trying.

And when he finally relaxes—really relaxes—something magical happens. His face softens. His shoulders stop living somewhere around his ears. He laughs more. He sleeps deeper. He kisses slower.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and he’s just... there. Holding me like I’m the anchor and not the other way around.

That’s when I know the rotation’s working.

So if you’re dating a Harvey Specter—God help you—here’s your third rule: Rotate to promote even growth.

He’s got more than one side. Help him see them. Gently. Repeatedly. With bribes, if necessary.

And when he finally lays back on the couch in those ridiculous sweatpants and says, "Okay, maybe you were right about resting," you don’t gloat.

Much.

You just hand him the remote.

And maybe kiss him on the cheek.

Because even alpha lawyers deserve to grow in all directions.

Especially the soft ones.

Chapter Text

Here’s the thing about Harvey Specter: he doesn’t do romance. Not the way people think of it. He doesn’t buy flowers. He doesn’t write poems. He sure as hell doesn’t plan elaborate date nights with candles and jazz playing softly in the background unless Donna threatens his dry cleaning.

But—and this is crucial—he notices romance. He feels it. The small stuff. The in-between things. He may pretend he’s above it, but the man is a total sucker for subtlety. A well-placed touch. A silent cup of coffee. A stupid little Post-it note with a joke on it that he pretends to find annoying and then saves in the back of his notebook like it’s classified evidence.

So. Mist occasionally.

It sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud—like something printed on the back of a succulent tag at a sad office gift shop—but it’s honestly the best advice I can give. Not just for the literal plants, but for Harvey too. He doesn’t need a flood of affection. He’ll drown in that. But a fine mist? Random, brief, and barely perceptible? That’s how you reach him. That’s how you love him without spooking him back into his fortress of Armani suits and emotional repression.

The first time I tried it, it was almost an accident. We were slammed with depositions, both working fifteen-hour days, barely talking unless it was about strategy or food or the fact that Louis was giving a speech on the "power of mud masks" during the Monday staff meeting. I left the apartment early one morning and saw his travel mug on the counter—empty.

So I filled it. Good coffee. Splash of cream, just how he likes it. Then I grabbed a sticky note from the pad near the fridge and scribbled, Your name’s dumb, but I like your face.

I slapped it on the side and left.

Didn’t think twice.

I got a text ten minutes later. Just a photo of the note, next to his lapel, with a single word: Idiot.

But when I came home that night, the note was on the fridge. Under a magnet shaped like a tiny baseball glove that I didn’t even know we owned. And I could’ve sworn the corner was folded like someone kept checking it.

That’s the thing. He’ll never gush. Never say "This made my day" or "That was sweet" or "I needed that." But he keeps the evidence. That’s how you know.

It became a thing after that. Not every day—he’d catch on and panic—but often enough to keep him on his toes. A doodle of him in court drawn on a napkin. A message on his dry cleaning: Please return this suit to the very handsome lawyer at Pearson Specter. A Post-it on the mirror saying You look like you won your case in your sleep.

Each one was met with an eye roll. A scoff. An "I’m dating a sentimental disaster."

But every single one found its way into a drawer. A pocket. His desk.

And somewhere along the way, he started misting me back.

It was subtle at first—classic Specter. Like the time he started grabbing my favorite protein bar when he did his weird early-morning health store run. Didn’t say anything. Just left it on my desk like it had materialized there.

Or when he slipped a note into the pocket of my blazer before a big presentation with a client. I found it right before I walked into the room. Don’t screw this up. (But if you do, you still get laid tonight.), I had to cough to cover a laugh, and I probably blushed like a teenager, but I also crushed the pitch. Confidence boost: deployed.

Then came the raincoat incident.

It was pouring—New York drama rain, like the sky was emotionally processing something—and I’d left my umbrella somewhere dumb, probably in a cab or in Louis’s office during one of our endless settlement meetings. I walked out of court soaked to the knees, miserable, and ready to call it a day.

And there he was. Standing under an awning. Holding my coat.

"You left it in the closet," he said casually, like he hadn’t just Ubered across town during a hurricane to bring me a jacket I didn’t even know I’d forgotten. "You’re welcome."

"I didn’t even tell you where I was."

"You always text Donna your schedule. You think I don’t have access to that?"

I stood there, dripping, heart dumbly thudding in my chest, while he draped the coat over my shoulders like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t everything.

That’s what misting looks like, from him.

Not big speeches or flowers on the bed.

Just knowing. Watching. Showing up before you even realize you need someone to.

And yeah, okay, he still does the Harvey-stuff —being annoying on purpose, denying everything, acting like he’s not sentimental while absolutely being sentimental. But it’s balanced now. I leave him a note in his briefcase; he leaves me the last slice of pizza without saying a word. I sneak a comic book into his suitcase before a trip; he texts me a photo of it mid-flight with the caption, This guy cries more than you.

It’s a dance. A quiet, steady dance of nonsense and comfort and low-stakes affection. No pressure. No declarations. Just... a shared language.

Mist.

Gentle. Sporadic. Surprisingly effective.

And when it’s been a few days without one of us saying something, doing something, there’s a weight. A tiny shift in the air. Not tension exactly — just a reminder. Time to mist. Keep things alive.

So if you’re with someone like Harvey—someone who loves like a safe with the code half-erased—don’t wait for fireworks. Don’t try to pry them open.

Leave the note.

Make the coffee.

And pay attention, because he will return it.

He’ll mist you back in ways you don’t expect. With late-night playlists. With your favorite pen mysteriously reappearing after you lost it. With a hand on your back when no one’s looking. With sitting through an entire season of The Great British Bake Off and pretending to hate it while clearly rooting for the underdog baker.

He’ll never say "I need you."

He’ll just be there.

So mist him.

And let him mist you back.

Turns out, even the most emotionally stunted plants can thrive. 

Chapter Text

Harvey Specter doesn’t sulk the way normal people sulk. There are no visible tantrums. No door slams or dramatic sighs or long, teary monologues about feelings and failure. That would be too easy. Too accessible.

Harvey sulks in silence. Which is way more complicated, because he doesn’t look upset—he looks efficient. Controlled. Laser-focused. He doesn’t spiral. He tightens. You walk into a room and everything about him says don’t touch me, except the way his jaw’s clenched just a little too hard, or how he’s pretending the glass in his hand isn’t the third he’s poured in an hour.

You know how plants get droopy when they’re stressed? Their leaves go soft. They pull in. It looks like death, but it’s not—it’s attempt at survival. That’s Harvey. He doesn’t combust, he folds. And the instinct to rush in and fix it, cheer him up, make it all better? Yeah. That’s a trap.

Because sometimes, the best thing you can do is just be there.

It was a Wednesday. I remember because Wednesdays are usually court-light and ego-heavy—Harvey’s unofficial day to roast opposing counsel and remind the associates why they should never try to out-alpha him. But that day, I walked into his office around noon, holding two sandwiches and a dumb joke about Louis, and stopped dead.

He didn’t look up.

Didn’t say anything.

Just sat there, elbows on the table, staring out at the skyline like it had done something personally offensive.

At first, I thought it was case stuff. A trial snag, a brief gone wrong, maybe Jessica breathing down his neck about billing hours. But then I saw it—his dad’s record on the turntable. Not playing. Just sitting there. Jacket propped against the wall like a ghost.

"Hey," I said carefully.

Nothing.

So I walked in, set the food down, sat across from him, and did the thing Harvey’s always done for me when I get in my own head: I said absolutely nothing.

We sat there for twenty minutes. The clock ticked. A phone buzzed. He didn’t move. I didn’t either.

Finally, he muttered, "Today would’ve been his birthday."

And that was it. No follow-up. No elaboration. He didn’t look at me. Just kept his eyes fixed somewhere between Chrysler and denial.

"I know," I said. "I didn’t want to push."

His fingers tapped once on the desk. Just once. "You didn’t."

He didn’t cry. Harvey doesn’t cry. Not where anyone can see, anyway. But there was something in his voice—something fragile. Like the part of him that still missed his dad had cracked open, just enough to breathe.

"I’ll be fine," he said, too quickly.

"I didn’t say you wouldn’t be."

"I don’t need to—"

"I know," I interrupted. "You don’t need to do anything. I just wanted to eat lunch with you."

And that was the truth. I wasn’t trying to fix him. I wasn’t trying to unpack his grief or make him talk about it or analyze his inner child. I just didn’t want him to eat alone.

Sometimes that’s enough.

We didn’t talk much that lunch. I handed him a sandwich. He ate it slowly. Somewhere around bite seven, he said, "This is dry."

"It’s literally the exact same sandwich you get every week."

He chewed. "You order it wrong."

"I ordered it exactly the way you like it."

He looked at me then. Just briefly. And I saw it—the flicker. That reluctant, exhausted little thank-you that only shows up in the corners of his mouth and the way he leans back in his chair. The kind that says I’m not okay, but I’m glad you’re here anyway.

That’s the droop.

And that’s how you handle it.

You don’t pluck the leaves. You don’t drown the plant in more water thinking you’ll fix it faster. You just give it space. And time. And quiet sunlight until it perks up again.

Harvey has bad days. He’ll never admit it, but he does. Days where a win doesn’t feel like a win. Days where everything goes right on paper, but something’s just off. He gets clipped. Detached. Withdrawn in a way that feels surgical.

The first time it happened, I panicked. I thought I’d done something wrong. That he was mad at me, or worse, bored. I hovered. Asked too many questions. Tried too hard to make him laugh. He snapped at me. Told me to go home.

So I did.

Next morning, I found a note on my pillow. One sentence, black ink in his sharp, arrogant handwriting: I’m sorry. Yesterday sucked. Not you.

He doesn’t always have the tools. But he tries.

And when he does come back from it—when the light starts to creep back in—he makes sure I know. He makes eggs. He books a weekend away. He kisses me like he’s been waiting all week for the right moment to do it properly. He comes home with a bottle of wine and says, I forgot how much I like your dumb face, and it’s the closest thing to a sonnet I’ll ever get from him.

Not every day is perfect. Not every moment is bright. Sometimes he droops. Sometimes I do. Sometimes we both sit in the living room at midnight, shoulder to shoulder, each pretending we’re fine just long enough to lean into each other and let the silence speak for us.

And that’s okay.

That’s normal.

Because our love isn’t just about showing up when things are good. It’s about not leaving when things aren’t. It’s about seeing someone pull into themselves and choosing, again and again, to stay close without crowding them.

So here’s the fifth rule of taking care of your emotionally repressed Harvey: Some leaves will droop. It’s normal.

Let him sulk. Let him be quiet. Let him sit with the weight of whatever it is.

Just don’t leave.

Because when he’s ready, when he finally takes that deep breath and steps back into the light—he’ll reach for your hand.

And that’s when you’ll know:

He never wanted you to fix it.

He just wanted to know you’d still be there.

Chapter Text

If there’s one word Harvey Specter hates more than "vulnerable," it’s "boyfriend."

I don’t mean in theory. He’s not some anti-commitment cliché who freaks out at emotional terminology. No, Harvey’s weirdly devoted once he lets you in. He’s loyal, obnoxiously protective, and has, on more than one occasion, threatened to sue a waiter who got my order wrong.

But labels? Actual verbal acknowledgment of feelings?

Yeah. No. That’s where he short-circuits.

It started out small—like most things with Harvey. We were a few months in. Living together but not really calling it that. Going to bed together every night, sharing groceries, sharing the remote, sharing Donna like a benevolent, all-knowing deity—but still dancing around words like "relationship" or "partner" like they had teeth.

One night we were at a firm event, something Jessica had dragged us to because the donors liked Harvey’s jawline and my "youthful charm" (her words, not mine). I was mid-conversation with one of the managing partners from London, some guy who wore cufflinks like they were personality traits, and he asked me, casually, "So what’s your connection to Specter?"

And I said, without thinking, "I’m his boyfriend."

Simple. Clear. True.

Harvey was three feet away. He froze like I’d just slapped him with a subpoena.

Later, in the car, he stared out the window for a full block before he finally muttered, "Boyfriend?"

"Is that not what we are?" I asked, already prepping for impact.

"No, it’s not that," he said, then rubbed a hand across his face. "It just sounds... high school."

"What would you prefer? ‘Legal associate with benefits’? ‘Live-in emotionally constipated roommate’?"

He didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "You really had to say it in front of Blake from London?"

"You were right there. I figured you wanted me to use the correct term."

"I didn’t realize we had a term."

"Well, now we do."

He rolled his eyes so hard I thought we might crash. But he didn’t argue. He didn’t deny it. Just stared at the road and said, very quietly, "You could’ve at least warned me."

And that’s when I got it.

It’s not that he hated the label. He just hated being surprised by it. Being caught off guard. Being exposed in a way he couldn’t preemptively manage. Because labels, to Harvey, mean clarity. They mean commitment. And more than anything, they mean being seen.

So naturally, I started saying it all the time.

At the dry cleaner: "Just picking up my boyfriend’s tragically overpriced suit."

At the bagel place: "My boyfriend likes his toasted with lox and superiority."

At work: "Has anyone seen my boyfriend-slash-workaholic in a three-piece?"

Every time, he’d react like someone had accidentally triggered the fire alarm. A flicker in the eyes. A tightening of the jaw. A muttered "Mike," like he was trying not to smile and also trying not to strangle me.

But he never asked me to stop.

And slowly—so slowly—he started saying it back.

It started as a joke. A sarcastic, grumbling "My boyfriend decided we need throw pillows now" kind of thing. Or "Ask my boyfriend, he’s the expert on feelings." Always with air quotes. Always with mockery.

But then one night, we were at a bar with Rachel and Donna. It was loud, crowded, one of those nights where the whiskey’s flowing and Donna’s laugh could start a fire. I went to get us another round, and when I came back, I heard him say it.

"Yeah," he said to the guy next to him, who’d clearly been flirting a little too openly. "That’s my boyfriend."

Just that. Cool. Simple. Like it wasn’t the first time he’d claimed me out loud.

I don’t think he even realized I heard him.

He definitely realized it when I beamed at him for the next thirty minutes and kept leaning in to kiss his jaw until he told me I was going to get us kicked out for PDA.

But the thing is, Harvey needs the label. He’d never admit it, but he likes the structure of it. The security. The logic. It fits somewhere in his weird brain filing system under "This Is Real" and "Don’t Screw It Up."

He still doesn’t use it a lot. It’s not like he introduces me as his boyfriend to clients or anything but I’ve caught him doing it in other ways.

He calls me "home."

As in, "Are you heading home?" or "See you at home." Like it’s a given. Like I’m not just a place he returns to, but the place he belongs.

He signs texts with H now. No punctuation. No flair. Just H. It’s subtle, but for a man who used to treat texting like an FBI investigation, it’s intimacy.

He started adding my coffee order to his without being asked.

He keeps my tie on the rack with his.

He calls Donna out when she teases me too hard.

And once, when a rival firm tried to poach me with a very shiny offer, he didn’t tell me not to take it. He just said, "You’d be miserable without me," and when I rolled my eyes, he added, "I’d be miserable without you."

And then, as if realizing he’d said too much, followed it up with: "Also, you wouldn’t last five minutes with those clowns."

But I heard him. And he knows I did.

So yeah. Labels.

He still twitches every time I use "boyfriend" in public, like I’ve called him "sweetheart" in front of a judge. But he lets it happen. He even leans into it, in his way.

I caught him talking to Ray once—Ray, who knows everything and says nothing—and as I walked up, Harvey said, "Hey, ask my boyfriend. He’s the one who makes the playlists."

He said it casually. Like it was obvious. Like it was just true.

And honestly? That’s all I wanted.

So here’s the sixth rule of taking care of your emotionally repressed boyfriend: Label accordingly.

Not because he needs a title to function, but because he needs to know what he means to you. Because he’s spent so long building a persona that even he forgets he’s allowed to be loved out loud.

Call him your boyfriend.

Say it like it’s a fact.

Say it until he stops flinching and starts believing it.

And if he ever says it back—clear, proud, without irony?

You’ll know.

You’re his label too.

Chapter Text

Harvey always looks like he just stepped out of a cologne commercial. Like if Armani had a secret twin brother called "Annoyingly Attractive and Smug As Hell," it’d be Harvey. The man has a six-pack made of smug. His hair has never had a bad day. And he owns more suits than I own socks.

But even Harvey gets dusty.

Not physically dusty—though I once caught a stray crumb on his lapel and you’d think I’d accused him of war crimes—but emotionally. Mentally. Every now and then, the shine wears off just a little. He doesn’t notice, of course. Because he’s busy being Harvey. But I do.

And that’s when I swoop in with boyfriend-level maintenance.

Call it leaf-dusting.

Literal translation: straightening his tie before a meeting, reminding him that he’s still hot, and every so often, dragging his emotionally constipated self into the bathroom so I can do something outrageous like moisturize his face.

"Mike," he groans, as I dab eye cream under his lashes like he’s a very cranky skincare model. "I am not a spa."

"You’re a temple," I say, patting him gently. "And temples need upkeep."

"This is psychological warfare."

"This is SPF. Hold still."

He pretends he hates it, but I caught him googling "best serum for undereye bags" last week. He claimed he was helping Donna shop for a gift. Donna has perfect skin and uses two products total. Nice try.

Still, it’s not just about lotions and ties. Like when we’re headed into court and I reach over, no warning, and fix the angle of his collar.

He’ll freeze for a second—just a blink—but I see it. The way his shoulders relax. The way he almost, almost leans into the touch like it’s something grounding.

"You missed a spot," I’ll say, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from his lapel.

"I did not."

"You totally did. Embarrassing, really. You’d never win Lawyer Vogue this way."

"I am Lawyer Vogue."

And sure, maybe he is. But even supermodels need a hype man.

One morning, we’re both running late. He’s half-dressed, tie slung around his neck like a noose, muttering about opposing counsel and how they apparently passed the bar by accident. I walk up, grab the ends of the tie, and start knotting it for him.

He doesn’t flinch.

He just watches me, eyes calm, mouth twitching.

"You tying me up, Mike?"

"Don’t tempt me."

The knot tightens. My hands smooth it down, just under his collar. I adjust the dimple, tug the ends.

"There," I say. "Now you look like someone who wins cases and hearts."

"You’re ridiculous."

"You’re welcome."

He kisses me. Quick, soft, a blink-and-you-miss-it kiss to the corner of my mouth.

That’s how Harvey says thanks when he’s in a rush.

Another time, he’s sitting on the couch, scrolling through something on his phone, frowning like it owes him money. He’s in one of those shirts that makes me consider declaring a national holiday just for his biceps. And there’s this tiny smudge—barely there—on his cheek.

So I walk up and swipe my thumb across it.

"Dirt," I say. "Or maybe you fought a shadow monster on the way home?"

"I’d win."

"Obviously."

He watches me like I just did something important. And maybe I did. Because for someone who’s been performing perfection over half his life, being seen—really seen—and still touched gently? That’s rare.

Sometimes I get playful about it.

Like the time I handed him a lint roller before a deposition and said, "Just making sure the jury doesn’t get distracted by your invisible cat hair."

He rolled his eyes so hard I thought he might pull a muscle.

"You know you love it," I added.

He snatched the roller and said, "I tolerate you because you’re cute."

And then he made a show of patting down his already immaculate coat, muttering, "This is the dumbest foreplay ever."

Spoiler: it was foreplay. Just delayed.

But look—Harvey doesn’t need help looking put together. The man could fall into a dumpster and come out runway-ready. What he does need is the reminder that he’s more than the suit. That there’s someone watching out for him. That it’s okay to have someone fuss over him a little.

He acts like it’s excessive.

But I’ve seen him lean into my hand when I fix his collar. Seen his mouth go soft when I trace my fingers over his jaw under the pretense of checking for shaving cuts. Seen the way he stands a little straighter when I say, "Damn, you look good."

Which, for the record, I say a lot.

Because it’s true.

And because he deserves to hear it.

Even gods need polishing now and then.

So here’s your seventh rule for caring for your emotionally repressed boyfriend: Dust the leaves once in a while.

Straighten his tie. Compliment his ridiculous jawline. Brush lint off his shoulder like it’s your job.

Remind him that he’s still seen. That he’s still hot. That you still choose him, every morning, every night, every time he tries to sneak out of the apartment in a suit with a crooked cuff.

He’ll scoff.

He’ll make jokes.

But he’ll also let you do it again tomorrow.

Because secretly? He loves it.

Especially when you kiss him after and say, "Perfect."

Because for all his swagger and sharp lines and silver-tongued confidence, sometimes he needs someone to love the version of him that isn’t polished.

And sometimes, dusting the leaves isn’t about appearances at all.

It’s just about care.

Chapter Text

What no one warns you about Harvey Specter is that just when you think he’s opened up, finally figured out that feelings aren’t fatal, he goes and emotionally parkours his way back into that locked-down, emotionally unavailable penthouse in his mind.

It’s not intentional. At least, not anymore. It’s muscle memory. A defense mechanism refined over years of keeping things tidy and manageable and, most importantly, compartmentalized. The man can file emotional vulnerability into a corner of his brain like it’s discovery evidence from 1998. Do not touch, do not disturb, please reference Exhibit Wound from Childhood.

So yeah, sometimes old habits creep back in.

And it always starts the same way.

He gets quieter, but not in an obvious way. The words are still there—sharp, polished, Harvey-style—but the weight behind them shifts. You ask him how he’s doing, and instead of the usual smirk-and-deflect, you get something smoother. Almost too smooth.

"I’m fine."

Code red.

The vines are back.

Now, I don’t always catch it right away. Sometimes I’m knee-deep in my own case files or distracted trying to keep Louis from litigating someone’s lunch break, and I miss the signs. But then it’ll hit me—he hasn’t complained about the interns in three days. He hasn’t mentioned Donna’s wardrobe, or Rachel’s cross-exam, or my hair in the mornings (which, to be fair, does look like a hurricane sometimes).

So I check in.

Soft at first.

"You good?"

He’ll shrug. Or say something like, "Work’s work."

Translation: I’m not going to talk about what’s actually bothering me, but I’ll pretend it’s the fax machine.

The problem with creeping vines is they’re quiet. Subtle. You don’t notice them until your prize plant is choking under its own past. And Harvey’s past is persistent. It’s an entire jungle’s worth of coping mechanisms wrapped in $5,000 suits.

I learned that the hard way after his mother called. It was out of the blue, a voicemail he didn’t tell me about until three days later when I found him standing in the kitchen at 2 a.m., drinking scotch and staring at nothing.

I asked what was wrong. He said, "Nothing."

Nothing.

Another red flag.

So I crossed the kitchen, leaned against the counter next to him, and said, "Are we playing the ‘ignore your pain until it becomes mine’ game again?"

That earned me a look. Sharp, guarded. But not angry.

"Just tired," he said.

I took the glass from his hand, set it down, and kissed him.

Not rushed. Not demanding. Just a slow, quiet kiss. The kind that says I see you. The kind that says I’m here even when you’re not ready to be.

He kissed back. Hesitantly at first. Then deeper.

But when we pulled apart, he still had that edge in his jaw.

So I kissed him again. This time with a little bite. Enough to make him breathe differently. To pull him out of that cloud of silence and back into something real.

"You can tell me," I said against his mouth.

"I don’t want to talk about it."

"You don’t have to. Just... don’t vanish."

He nodded, and we didn’t say anything else.

But the next morning, he showed me the voicemail. Sat next to me on the couch, shoulder pressed to mine, and let me hear it. Didn’t comment. Didn’t explain.

Just played it.

That’s what progress looks like. It’s not a straight line. It’s a spiral. A dance. One step forward, half a step back, a twirl into silence and a slow shuffle back into connection.

So now I know—when he starts to retreat, I don’t charge in with lectures or calls to unpack his emotional baggage.

I snip gently.

And if that doesn’t work?

Well.

There are other tools.

Like kisses.

And adult activities.

Let’s be honest—distraction is a valid tactic. Especially when it involves Harvey Specter (eventually) shirtless and vaguely annoyed that I’m trying to seduce him mid-case review.

"Mike, I’m working."

"You’ve been scowling at the same sentence for ten minutes."

"I’m revising."

"You’re repressing."

"I’m going to throw this legal pad at you."

"You won’t. You love me."

He glares. I grin. Then I walk behind him, slide my hands over his shoulders, and kiss the spot just under his ear that makes him sigh without realizing.

He doesn’t stop me.

Doesn’t protest when I unbutton his shirt.

Doesn’t even try to make a joke when I drag him to the bedroom and make it clear that the brief can wait.

Afterward, he lies there, breathing slow, one arm draped across my chest.

"That was manipulative," he mutters.

"You loved it."

"I did."

Silence again. But this time, warm. Comfortable.

He presses a kiss to my shoulder and says, "Thanks."

And I know what he means.

Thanks for not pushing.

Thanks for noticing.

Thanks for loving me enough to pull me out when I start to drown.

So here’s the eighth rule of taking care of your emotionally repressed boyfriend: Check for creeping vines.

Old habits die slow. But that doesn’t mean you stop fighting them.

Stay alert. Be gentle. Be persistent.

And if all else fails—kiss him until he remembers he’s not alone anymore.

Because underneath all that armor and all that smirk, he wants to grow.

He just needs a little help pulling the vines off first.

Chapter Text

Harvey likes to pretend he’s a one-man army. The lone wolf. The guy who doesn’t need anyone, who walks into a boardroom like a storm in a three-piece suit and walks out with the world saying "thank you." And to the untrained eye, it works. You see Harvey Specter on the surface and you think, Yeah, this guy doesn’t do backup.

But I live with him.

And let me tell you—Harvey Specter is all about backup.

He’s just sneaky about it.

You know how in gardening, they say certain plants do better with "companions"? Like tomatoes grow sweeter when basil’s nearby. Carrots and onions keep each other healthy. That kind of thing? Harvey’s the same way. Only instead of sunlight and soil, he’s surrounded by power suits and razor-sharp personalities who keep him grounded.

Enter: Donna Paulsen.

Donna isn’t just his assistant. She’s not even just his best friend. She’s his operating system. His emotional translator. His no-nonsense, high-heel-wearing, sarcasm-slinging built-in therapist with a Rolodex for a brain and the restraint of a saint. Harvey may be the face of Pearson Specter, but Donna? She’s the spine.

And honestly, she’s a huge part of why Harvey’s even halfway capable of being in a relationship with me.

There was this one morning—early, before the rest of the office got in—I found Donna in Harvey’s office, arms crossed, watching him like he was a malfunctioning toaster.

"Did you sleep?" she asked, in that tone that says I already know the answer but you’re going to lie and I’m going to catch you anyway.

"Define sleep," Harvey said, not even looking up from his desk.

"Have you eaten anything?"

"I had coffee."

"Coffee is not food."

I stood in the doorway, sipping my own coffee, watching like it was a nature documentary.

"Should I come back later?" I asked.

Donna turned. "Please do. I’m pruning the bonsai."

Harvey groaned. "I’m not a bonsai."

"You are exactly a bonsai. Gorgeous, high-maintenance, and you require daily attention or you get twitchy."

She left after making sure he ate the banana she pulled from her bag (I still don’t know where she keeps those), and Harvey just looked at me, deadpan.

"I’m going to fire her."

"You’re going to name your firstborn after her."

He didn’t deny it.

Because Donna gets him. In ways I can’t. In ways I’m okay not being able to. She knows when to push, when to tease, when to not speak so he can pretend it was his idea. She’s the emotional tag team partner in this little ecosystem of his, and honestly, I owe her. Half the time she clears the way so I can get through to him.

Then there’s Jessica.

If Donna’s the spine, Jessica Pearson is the sun. All-powerful. Blinding. The force that keeps everything spinning around her. Harvey doesn’t just respect her—he reveres her, even if he never says it. She taught him how to fight in a world that eats people like him alive. She gave him a seat at the table and dared him to prove he deserved it.

He listens to her even when he doesn’t want to. Especially when he doesn’t want to.

Which is why, after a week of Harvey being snappy and closed off and working himself into the ground over a case that didn’t even need that much attention, Jessica called him into her office, closed the door, and twenty minutes later he came out... lighter. Not relaxed exactly. Just—less clenched.

I didn’t ask what she said.

He didn’t offer.

But that night, he came home with Thai food and a rare bottle of wine and said, "Let’s not work tonight."

That was her, I’m sure of it.

Companion planting. Emotional cross-pollination. Whatever you want to call it.

And then there’s Louis.

God help us all.

Now, Harvey would never admit that Louis Litt is good for him. Not in any real way. But even Harvey knows that Louis is like that weird plant you didn’t think you needed in your garden until it started keeping pests away. Annoying. Loud. Unfiltered. But sometimes, sometimes, he says something that sticks.

Like that time Louis cornered Harvey in the bathroom (yes, the bathroom) to aggressively monologue about mud baths and balance and chakras or whatever the hell Louis was on that week. I figured Harvey would come out swearing, or ranting, or asking for a legal order to stay 100 feet away from Louis at all times.

But no.

He came back to his office, sat down, and muttered, "What the hell is a chakra, and do I need to realign it?"

I just stared.

"Did... Louis get to you?"

"No. But he said some crap about balance, and I think I’ve been pushing too hard."

"Wait. Are you saying Louis was right?"

"Don’t make it weird, Mike."

But it was weird. And kind of beautiful. In that chaos-logic, Louis-brand way.

It reminded me that Harvey’s not just held together by willpower and suits. He’s held together by the people around him. His ecosystem.

And I’m part of that, sure. But I’m not the whole garden.

He needs Donna to throw a sarcastic grenade into his ego when it gets too inflated. He needs Jessica to remind him that there’s power in grace. He needs Louis once every two months like a bizarre emotional exfoliant—harsh but unexpectedly cleansing.

So I make space for that. I encourage it.

When Donna texts him late at night? I don’t ask questions. I hand him his phone.

When Jessica wants him for a drink and war stories? I say, "Take the night."

When Louis suggests a weird yoga class and Harvey says "absolutely not," I say, "You know you’re going anyway."

And he goes.

Not always happily.

But he goes.

So here’s your ninth rule for taking care of your emotionally repressed boyfriend: Use companion plants for best results.

He may act like he’s an island.

But he grows best when he’s not alone.

And the truth is, he’s not a lone wolf.

He’s part of a pack.

A weird, brilliant, emotionally chaotic pack of high-functioning lunatics.

And it turns out, when he’s around the right people?

He thrives.

Chapter Text

So here we are. The end of the guide. The last chapter. The final note in the symphony that is How To Take Care Of Your Emotionally Repressed Boyfriend Without Accidentally Killing Him or Being Killed In The Process.

Spoiler alert: the plant is thriving.

Even bigger spoiler: the plant found the damn guide.

I don’t know when he got his hands on it. Probably one of those nights when I left my laptop open while making popcorn or distracting him with sex, like some emotionally manipulative magician. All I know is I woke up one morning, bleary-eyed and pre-caffeine, to find a Post-it stuck to my pillow that read:

"Water regularly, but don’t overdo it." Is that why you keep leaving decaf coffee in the cabinet like a psychopath?
— Your Living Plant

And that was it.

No confrontation. No dramatic showdown. Just passive-aggressive botany references for the foreseeable future.

We’ll be brushing our teeth and he’ll glance at me in the mirror and go, "Don’t forget to rotate me tonight, Mike. Wouldn’t want uneven growth."

Or he’ll walk into the kitchen, open the blinds with a flourish and announce, "Ah yes, my daily exposure to sunlight. Nourish me with your compliments."

He’s insufferable.

And also? Kind of perfect.

The man who once physically recoiled at the word boyfriend now smirks at me across the room and mouths it dramatically when no one’s watching. Like it’s an inside joke he never wants to stop telling.

Last week, we were getting ready for court. He stood in front of the mirror, holding up two nearly identical ties—because apparently, shade differentiation is a matter of national security—and without missing a beat, he handed them both to me and said:

"Dust my leaves. Pick one. Make me beautiful."

He said it with a straight face. Like we hadn’t spent the first year of our relationship pretending we weren’t in a relationship. Like I hadn’t spent months figuring out how to love him without triggering a defensive shutdown sequence.

"Are you ever going to let me live this down?" I asked, taking the blue one because it brings out his eyes and I am weak.

"Absolutely not," he said, already knotting it like a smug, perfectly moisturized disaster.

And honestly? I wouldn’t want him to.

Because here’s the thing: I didn’t write this guide to fix him. I wrote it because loving Harvey Specter is an adventure. A challenge. A slow, rewarding, occasionally infuriating process of learning how to navigate the fortress, dodge the traps, and sneak feelings in through the ventilation system.

It’s knowing that he’ll sulk on his dad’s birthday but won’t say a word until I bring him his favorite scotch and sit next to him in silence.

It’s noticing when he hasn’t drunk water all day and handing him a bottle with zero commentary and a smirk that says try me.

It’s slipping Post-its into his briefcase that say "You’ve got this, even if your face looks intimidating today."

It’s him catching me before I can slip one in and replacing it with his own: "Try not to cry in front of the judge again. It’s embarrassing."

It’s Donna texting me, He’s grumpy. He hasn’t been rotated.

It’s Jessica raising an eyebrow and saying, "He’s yours now. You’re responsible for fertilizer and pruning."

It’s Louis, somehow, unwittingly helping Harvey process an emotional breakthrough by talking about bonsai trees for thirty minutes straight while Harvey pretends to be annoyed but later mutters something about root binding and letting go.

It’s brushing lint off his shoulder and being told, "You’re obsessed with me," with zero irony.

It’s watching him relax into touch. Into words. Into the space we made together—quiet and solid and real.

He still resists sometimes. Still tries to retreat into old habits. Still says "I’m fine" with that clipped tone that means definitely not fine, but not ready to deal.

And I still catch it. Snip the vine. Distract him with kisses. Or snacks. Or both.

And we keep growing.

So yeah. My plant’s alive. He’s thriving. He’s even talking back now, which is a whole new phase I was not emotionally prepared for.

I’ll catch him reading over my shoulder while I write case notes or emails, and he’ll smirk and go, "Put it in the section about misting. It’s the only time you’re tolerable."

Or worse: "You forgot to label me this week. Do I still count as your boyfriend, or am I back to being your emotionally repressed houseplant?"

"Harvey—"

"I’m just saying, if I don’t get a forehead kiss in the next three minutes, I’m filing for neglect."

And then I kiss him. Every time. Because he’s the worst. And because I love him.

So here it is. The final entry.

Congratulations. Your plant is alive.

He’s moody. He’s high-maintenance. He requires filtered emotional light, expensive suits, a regular rotation schedule, and a team of expert handlers just to keep him from combusting.

But he’s alive.

And he’s mine.

And honestly?

He’s never looked better.

Oh, and if one day, he steals your laptop and writes a guide back?

Well.

That’s when you know you’ve really made it.