Even though the Darvey fandom is not wanting for one-shots I couldn't help myself. This was potentially going to be a part of something larger but it's just been sitting on my computer so I figured I'd share it anyway.

"I can't believe you are actually submitting me to this kind of physical and emotional torture," she marvels at him.

He rolls his eyes easily. "You are getting more dramatic with age."

She folds her arms, nose pointed stubbornly in the air. "I don't age."

He slaps her ass with his free hand and she releases a tiny yelp. "Are you going to stop complaining?"

She takes a moment, pretending to think it over, "No, I don't think I will."

"Donna, you must have known you'd have to do this eventually."

"Stop trying to change me, Harvey."

"Oh, please," he scoffs.

"I. Don't. Cook."

She abandons him at her stove in search of another bottle of Merlot, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Her cheeks are a soft pink, her face free of makeup. She's half-drunk already, and he's completely drunk on her. Donna glides around the kitchen, totally at ease – the way a person can only ever be in their own home. She's always so much more aware of herself when they're at his condo.

"Are you just going to leave me here?" he says, still stirring the sauce in the only pot he could find in her house.

"Why not? I've always wanted a wife."

She reaches for the wine rack on one of the higher shelves. For once she isn't wearing one of his shirts – even though he's convinced she is secretly hoarding them – but a thin, oversized t-shirt of her own. When she arches her back it creeps up high enough that he can catch a glimpse of her underwear.

"You're doing that on purpose," he says without looking at her.

She fumbles with the bottle before setting it on the bench. "So what if I am?" That smile is back.

"I will not be distracted."

Donna opens the bottle and refills their glasses. "Why does it matter, Harvey?" she sighs. "I promise I will never again throw a dinner party."

A fact he is immensely grateful for.

"Just get your ass over here."

She finally relents, stepping back in front of the stove and moulding to his side. He wraps a hand loose around her waist and drops a kiss to her shoulder. She smiles shyly at him in return and it's so un-Donna-like that he wants to do it again. Harvey decides then and there that this is his favourite version of her; soft, unguarded, happy.

He thinks he'd be perfectly content with never leaving the bubble of her apartment again. They make so much more sense outside of Pearson Specter.

"So, what am I doing here?" she asks him.

He hands her the large wooden spoon. "You're stirring. It's a very important job," he patronises.

"I have stirred things before, Harvey," she deadpans.

"Your coffee doesn't count."

"Have I told you how hilarious you aren't?"

He pulls a face at her. "Just don't let it congeal too much. I'll show you which herbs to add," he instructs.

Not unexpectedly, she proves to be a terrible student. It makes sense; she's been actively ignoring him for years. The end result of his attempted lesson is a mildly edible stew that they're both too drunk to pretend to enjoy.

Donna offers to do the dishes, mostly because she knows he'll end up helping her anyway. It's all so domestic. But he doesn't hate it. Not at all, in fact. I'm getting soft, he thinks. Except it has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the infuriating woman standing beside him.

"So that was cooking," she says later.

"It was. How do you feel?"

"It wasn't so bad," she answers with a shrug.

"Let's not do it again for a while though."

She flicks some of the soapy water at him and laughs. "You'll be sorry when I become the next Martha Stuart and land myself a better boyfriend."

The plate he is drying slips from his hands and lands in the sink with a loud clatter. Donna's eyes widen in horror.

"Did you just –"

"No!"

"Am I your boyfriend, Donna?" he teases in a sing-song voice.

"Shut up," she threatens.

Harvey pulls his hands out of the soapy water and clutches Donna's hips. She shrieks as the water soaks through the thin fabric of her t-shirt. He leans close to her face, chuckling. "Does this mean we're going steady?"

She tries to push him off, her face flushed. "You're an asshole," she mutters, trying her best to keep from laughing along with him.

He grips her tighter, her t-shirt fisting in his hands as he kisses her hard. She pulls back after several seconds, breathless, but far less embarrassed. He's going to pay for those comments later, he's sure of it.

"Ugh, I hate you," she groans.

I love you, he thinks. But he keeps the words to himself.

I know it's super short but I hope you guys enjoyed :) I promise I will eventually start writing multi-chaptered fics.