Chapter Text
Harvey didn’t usually do slow. He didn’t do lazy mornings, he didn’t do "let’s talk about our feelings," and he definitely didn’t do basking. But right now, sprawled on the bed with Mike still beneath him, skin warm, breaths syncing in the dim light leaking through the windows, he was doing exactly that. His hair was a little messed up, his tie was probably somewhere in the living room from the previous night, and he was still inside Mike, both of them caught in the hazy afterglow that made everything seem temporarily perfect.
Mike’s hand rested on Harvey’s back, fingers tracing slow, distracted patterns that felt half-affectionate, half-sarcastic. That was Mike in a nutshell—smart enough to be tender but never without an agenda.
Then Mike’s lips twitched, that grin sneaking up before Harvey even realized it. "Forty-five," he said.
Harvey, mid-exhale, froze. "What?"
"The score," Mike said, voice slightly rough, as if he was commenting on the weather. "Out of a hundred. Forty-five."
For a moment, there was silence. The kind of silence that had weight, a slow descent of disbelief. Harvey’s brain took a second to catch up, to process the absurdity of what had just come out of Mike’s mouth. Then his eyebrows shot up. "You’re giving me a forty-five?"
Mike shrugged. "It’s a solid number."
Harvey pushed himself up, his expression a dangerous mix between offense and utter confusion. "A solid number? Mike, forty-five is an insult. Forty-five is what you give someone when you feel bad for them. Forty-five is—"
"Better than zero?" Mike offered, lazy grin still plastered across his face.
"Better than—" Harvey’s jaw worked. "You’re out of your goddamn mind." He pulled out and swung his legs off the bed, searching the floor for his discarded pants as if moral authority could be reclaimed through clothing. "You’re telling me that what just happened deserves a forty-five? I don’t think so. That was at least an eighty. Minimum."
Mike rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, watching Harvey fumble indignantly for his boxers. "Eighty, huh? Confident, aren’t we?"
"Confident?" Harvey snapped, holding up a finger like he was presenting evidence in court. "No, I’m factual. There was technique, there was rhythm, there was—hell, there was artistry."
"Artistry?" Mike laughed, tossing a pillow at him. "It wasn’t the damn ballet, Harvey."
"Spoken like a man who wouldn’t recognize excellence if it bit him in the ass." Harvey smirked, but it was that particular smirk that came from wounded pride. He was half-dressed now, pacing by the bed as if this argument had actual stakes.
"Excellence doesn’t usually forget which way is up halfway through," Mike shot back.
Harvey’s head whipped around. "I did not forget which way was up."
Mike grinned wider. "You hesitated."
"I adjusted," Harvey corrected, finger still up. "That’s called adapting. It’s what professionals do."
"Oh, professionals," Mike said, pretending to think. "You mean people who get paid for it?"
Harvey glared. "You want me to send you a bill?"
Mike made a show of yawning, stretching his arms over his head. "I’d have to dispute the charges. Forty-five, remember?"
Harvey stood there, half in disbelief, half in admiration that Mike had the sheer nerve to rate him like a Yelp review. "Unbelievable. You’re unbelievable. I’ve had clients less difficult than you."
"You love it," Mike said easily, eyes glinting with that smug, youthful chaos that always got him in trouble.
Harvey sat back on the edge of the bed, staring at him. "I don’t love being rated like a middle school essay."
"Hey, middle school essays didn’t have that much… enthusiasm," Mike said, voice dropping just enough to sound dangerous.
Harvey’s mouth twitched. "Don’t think you can distract me with compliments. You gave me a forty-five."
Mike leaned forward, grin turning softer. "You’re really hung up on this, huh?"
"You accused me of mediocrity," Harvey said flatly. "You might as well have called me Louis."
Mike snorted so hard he had to cover his mouth. "Wow. That’s harsh."
"I’m serious," Harvey continued, eyes narrowing. "Forty-five. That’s the kind of score Louis gives himself after he finishes a mock trial in his apartment."
Mike sat up now, the laughter bubbling over. "Okay, first of all, that’s disturbingly specific. And second, if this is your reaction, I’m definitely keeping the scoring system."
"Don’t you dare," Harvey said.
Mike tilted his head. "Too late."
"Mike."
"Harvey."
"Don’t push me."
"I’m just saying," Mike said, grinning like the devil. "If you get eighty next time, you’ll have earned it."
Harvey crossed his arms. "Next time, you’ll be lucky if I even show up."
"Oh, you’ll show up," Mike said. "You’re too competitive not to."
And damn it, he was right. Harvey could feel it already—the stubborn itch of pride under his skin, the part of him that refused to be outdone in any arena. Even this one. Especially this one.
"Unbelievable," Harvey muttered, running a hand through his hair.
Mike lay back, watching him with lazy satisfaction. "I should start a spreadsheet."
Harvey turned slowly, expression deadly calm. "A what?"
"You know, track performance over time," Mike said. "Keep notes. Maybe even graphs."
"Mike."
"I could color code them. Green for good nights, red for—"
"Don’t finish that sentence."
Mike grinned at the ceiling. "—nights when Harvey gets distracted thinking about closing arguments."
Harvey grabbed a pillow and chucked it at his face. "You’re impossible."
Mike caught it, laughing into the fabric. "And you’re dramatic."
"Forty-five," Harvey repeated, almost to himself. "Forty-five. That’s going to haunt me."
"Good," Mike said. "Motivation’s healthy."
"Motivation?"
"Yeah. You’re always preaching about improvement. Consider this constructive criticism."
Harvey gave him a long look, the kind that usually made opposing counsel sweat. "Constructive criticism doesn’t usually come from someone who whimpers when I look at him too long."
Mike flushed slightly but refused to back down. "Whimpering doesn’t affect objectivity."
"Objectivity," Harvey repeated dryly. "You’re unbelievable."
"Stop saying that. You already said that."
"I’m going to keep saying it until you give me at least a seventy."
Mike snorted. "You’re aiming low."
"That’s strategy," Harvey said. "Set expectations, then overdeliver."
Mike laughed again, shaking his head. "You’re actually planning this like a case."
Harvey leaned forward, hands braced on the bed, voice low. "Everything’s a case, Mike."
For a second, the teasing faded, replaced by that spark that had always sat between them—competitive, charged, and stupidly magnetic. Mike blinked, heartbeat skipping the way it always did when Harvey got serious like that.
Then Harvey smirked. "Next time, you’re going to need a bigger scale."
Mike grinned. "We’ll see."
Harvey stood up, tugging on his shirt, still muttering about "forty-five" under his breath. Mike watched him go, chest warm, cheeks aching from smiling.
He hadn’t planned it, that ridiculous number. It had just slipped out—a mix of endorphins and impulse. But the way Harvey had reacted, the outrage, the sheer pride wounded so theatrically—it was intoxicating. He’d found something that got under Harvey Specter’s skin.
Mike's grin widened. He didn’t know what this was—revenge, affection, or just pure mischief—but he knew one thing for sure.
He’d just found his new favorite hobby.