I was inspired by Donna's line; "I never told you how many times I thought about us being together over the years". And it occurred to me that this would make an incredible series. So here we go. A selection of short drabbles which I'll post as and when they're ready. To start with, here are four moments that practically wrote themselves.

Big love to Nat for being my best cheerleader.

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When she's with Stephen, she thinks of Harvey. She doesn't mean to, but it happens. They're so similar in so many ways that she can't help but make comparisons.

She also can't help comparing their sexual prowess. Stephen is good, but Harvey… that night in their past is one she recalls so vividly, a benchmark for all men to aspire to. Very few measure up. Neither literally nor figuratively. So she fantasises. She's not ashamed of it. Men brag about it, so why should women be ashamed? Of course, she'd never tell a soul that it was Harvey she was fantasising about.

It makes it harder to face him at work. The fantasies have her blood thundering through her veins and she's grateful for the outlet Stephen provides, that she can close her eyes and imagine it's Harvey that's thrusting into her, Harvey's warm weigh on her body, Harvey's breath in her ear.

She's home alone one night and she flicks on the tv as she sits down with a bowl of lobster ravioli. There's a movie on and James Marsden catches her eye immediately. She's seen this movie before but it takes her a moment to place it. Best of me, that's what it's called. She's watching without too much thought when a particular movement makes her sit up straight. Her heart speeds up a little as the actor removes his shirt and she has a brief flash in her mind of Harvey making a similar movement ten years ago. She watches the sex scene with renewed interest, and it's then that she realises how Harvey-esque James Marsden's jaw is. She sets her bowl aside, and her hand drifts idly to cup her crotch over her leggings, feeling the heat emanating from her centre. She shifts her fingers gently, feeling the familiar thrill of pleasure rippling through her.

She reaches for the remote, flicking the TV off and making her way to her bedroom, stripping off her clothes and laying down, her fingers finding their way between her legs again. She closes her eyes and conjures up an image of Harvey from the other time, naked and hard, his impressive cock in his hand, stroking slowly, teasingly. A breathy sigh escapes her as her mind begins to run away, shifting from memory to fantasy.

"This is all for you," he rasps in a low voice, stroking his length, "this is what you do to me. This is how much you turn me on."

"Harvey," she breathes in response, watching him advance on her, his eyes dark with arousal.

"I want to taste you," he growls, crawling between her spread legs and closing his mouth over her, his tongue flicking at her clit.

She mirrors the imagined movements of Harvey's tongue with her fingers, flicking her clit quickly, dipping into her wetness for added lubrication.

"You taste like heaven," he whispers against her pussy, his breath tickling her flesh and making her shudder at the sensation. He pushes a finger inside her, testing, and then immediately adds another, curling them to press against the spot that makes her let out a guttural moan, the feeling sending pre-orgasmic shockwaves through her. He carries on lapping at her, fingering her rhythmically to build her steadily toward orgasm.

She lets out a breath, pushing her hips toward her hand, a thrusting motion accompanying the movement of her fingers on her clit. Her other hand moves to her breast, squeezing the flesh hard before rolling the nipple between her fingertips.

"Donna," Harvey growls, looking up at her, his face wet with her juice and he grins at her, his face splitting wide in the smile that lights her up from the inside. And speaking of lighting her up from the inside ... his fingers speed up in her vagina, stroking her g-spot rapidly and she bucks against him, her orgasm building fast. His lips close over her clit again and he sucks lightly, sending her flying over the edge, her body tensing and then pulsing under his ministrations.

Her imagined orgasm brings her to the brink and a few more quick flicks has her climaxing, a low moan tumbling from her lips as she keeps up the movement of her fingers, prolonging her orgasm until she's spent, arms falling limply at her sides, Harvey's face still prominent in her minds eye.

Her hand hovers over her phone and she realises she doesn't know who she was planning to call; Harvey, the object of her desire? Or Stephen, the current key to releasing that desire? She rolls her eyes and draws her hand back. No, tonight she's not calling anyone. Tonight, it's just her.

.

Later that night she thinks about how "boyfriend" Harvey's actions had been. Picking her up, buying her flowers, watching her play even though he hates Shakespeare, letting his hand sit low on her back as they talked with her cast mates afterward. That touch had set her blood aflame, sending heat burning through her body from the ignition point as though she were made of kerosene. The arsonist himself had no inkling of the effect he was having on her. Even now, an hour later, she can still feel the heat, moving through her and settling between her thighs. She closes her eyes briefly, recalling the car ride home; of course he'd insisted on seeing her safely to her apartment.

"You were spectacular tonight. Really," he turns his head towards her, his hand positioned on the seat, dangerously close to her thigh.

"Thank you," she replies, the gentle smile she gives him for his eyes only.

"You should've been doing more theatre all this time."

"I've been a little busy," she quips, raising her eyebrows at him.

"I'm sorry," he says, a rare moment of candor.

"I'm kidding, Harvey."

"I know. But I shouldn't have taken up so much of your life these last eleven years."

"I don't mind," she says, her voice dropping a little as she realises that she really hasn't minded. She's spent more hours with him than without and she's never minded at all. He's a huge part of her life. An important part of her life. Without realising, she lets out a sigh.

"Are you okay?" he asks, concern in his gaze as he reaches out and then drops his hand, unsure where he'd been intending to place it.

"I'm fine," she shakes her head, embarrassed he'd caught her, "just tired, I guess. It's been a long week."

She'd felt something between them in the car. She wonders if he'd felt it too. There was a tension, a crackling in the air, but also a softness she didn't often see in him, an intimacy she hadn't felt in a long time.

She becomes aware of a longing in her heart, an ache that can only ever be associated with Harvey and she takes a long breath in, filling her lungs to their fullest in an attempt to dispel the pain. She can still feel the heat of him standing beside her, his palm splayed on her back, the warmth radiating through her dress and into her vascular system. She rubs her thighs together, the dull throb between them driving her to distraction.

The arousal in her body is in direct contrast to the ache in her heart and she doesn't know which will overpower her first. Many a night has been spent dreaming of him, her hand between her legs, her thighs quivering as she reaches her release. Not for the first time, she wonders about all the wonderful orgasms she's been missing out on by not being with him all these years.

Almost as if he knows she's thinking of him, her phone lights up and his name shows on the screen.

"You only left here a half hour ago," she quips by way of greeting when she answers the call.

"I know." His voice is low and her heart aches for him. She knows that sound. He needs someone. And as usual, she fills that role.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"Nothing," he replies, falling into their usual pattern, pretending nothing is amiss.

"You want to hear what your schedule looks like tomorrow?"

"Nah," he says with a sigh and she pictures him settling back in his favourite chair. She knows he'll have a glass in his hand, probably three or more fingers of scotch swirling inside. Her belly clenches when her brain conjures up an image of his fingers swirling inside her. She shakes her head to clear it. Damn this man.

"What do you want to talk about?" she asks after a long than average pause.

"You okay?" he asks, a tone of confusion coming through the phone line. She grits her teeth. Of all the times for him to be perceptive, he picks now.

"I'm fine," she says, forcing cheer into her voice. She rolls to her side, the phone wedged between her head and the pillow. It's not uncommon for one of them to fall asleep during their late night phone calls and she suspects that after the long week of rehearsing and performing, it's likely to be her. She stifles a yawn as Harvey speaks again.

"Tell me again how you got the idea to put Louis in the play?"

"Harvey…" she rolls her eyes but can't help chuckling, knowing full well he hadn't listened the first time she'd told him. She launches into the story, Louis' stage fright, his knowledge of all Shakespeare's works, how she'd wanted to do something for him after all the help he'd given her with her lines.

"You're so good to him," Harvey says softly, "you're too good to all of us."

"It's my job," she brushes off the compliment and the feeling it stirs inside her.

"It's not. Not to that extent."

She stays silent, unsure what to say. This isn't territory either of them are familiar with. He clears his throat.

"Sorry," she says, feigning a yawn.

"I should let you sleep."

"It's okay." It's always okay, and they both know it. As they settle in their familiar pattern, the arousal in her body abates and she remembers exactly why she doesn't push him for a relationship. This is how they are, and for now, that's enough.

.

"I wanted to thank you."

"For what?"

"For twelve years."

He's walking away and the words are still sinking in… for twelve years… he's thanking her for being by his side all that time. He's thanking her for being his moral compass. Hes thanking her for coffee with vanilla and an always-full decanter of scotch and dinners at Del Posto and evenings eating shitty Thai. He's thanking her for pep talks and backing him up and screening his calls and making him a priority. He's thanking her for not pushing him into something he wasn't ready for. He's thanking her for them.

She feels a prickle at the corners of her eyes and casts her gaze skyward, trying to ward off tears. He's never thanked her with that much meaning. She knows he's always appreciated her, and he's shown it, but he's never said it.

She wonders once again what could have happened that night if he hadn't left her apartment. Would they be together now? Would she still be on his desk, organising his calendar and giving him pep talks when he was down? Would they be going home together to eat dinner and make love and sleep side by side?

She thinks about what it would be like to wake up next to him. His warm body pressed against her, his gravelly, early morning voice in her ear, convincing her they have time for a quickie before work.

A smile crawls across her face unbidden, the thought of cosy evenings and bright mornings with him causing a warmth inside her that she only feels with him. She knows she loves him. And now she knows he loves her. What she doesn't know is whether those two versions of love are compatible, or even on the same level.

She knows deep down that he's still not ready for what she wants with him. He may never be ready. That much is clear from what happened between them. But it doesn't stop her wondering what their life could have been like together. There's so much about him that drives her crazy but there's also so much she loves about him.

His smile that lights up her day. The way he occasionally snorts a little when he laughs. How good he looks in a three piece suit. How much better he looks when he discards his jacket and tie and rolls up his sleeves. The way he teases her about her taste in music. How he'd happily live on pizza, bagels and coffee if she'd let him. How he's a New Yorker through and through, even if he did grow up in Boston. How he'll fight like hell for something he believes in.

She misses him. It's been three weeks since she left his desk. Three weeks since he said he loves her. Three weeks since she said she loves him. She's still seen him every day but it hasn't been the same. She feels the same prickling inside her eyelids as she realises it may never be the same again.

His thanking her was about forgiveness. She knows that. And maybe that means they can bring back a semblance of normality between them. But it won't be the same. She doesn't work for him anymore. That means that all the things he was thanking her for are over.

Twelve years. Over. But he was still a part of her life. That was the one thing that would never change.

.

When she hears about Paula she feels like she might be sick. She plasters a smile on her face and pretends she already knew but the minute he's out of the room her expression freezes and then changes, the pain of it stirring in her abdomen. Then Rachel is there and she has to pretend she's okay, pushing aside the stabbing pain she feels inside.

It's later, when she's alone, that she can let her feelings overwhelm her and cry. She curls herself into a ball on her couch and sobs; heaving, racking sobs shaking her body as she lets them out unbidden, the sound escaping her effortlessly. The agony of it is unbearable, knowing he's with someone, knowing he's serious about her. When he was sleeping with every bimbo in New York, it was manageable. Now, he's serious. He wants to make something of this relationship. And that stings. No, she thinks to herself, it doesn't sting, it fucking HURTS.

She thought he'd known. When she told him she wanted more. She thought he'd understood, picked up the double meaning. But of course he hadn't. He's Harvey.

She's angry too, the sobs coming from a place of rage as well as hurt. He'd run away. She'd given him an opening. She'd given him a chance. And he'd thrown it away.

She thinks about what he's told her and it all starts to slide into place. The timing feels a little too convenient and suddenly she realises why. She offered him more and he ran scared. Straight into the arms of his ex-therapist, of all people. But it makes a sick sort of sense, in a way. Dr Agard had helped him before. She'd got to know him, worked through some of the walls he's constantly putting up against the world. She'd given him a sense of security, for a short while. And now he's chasing that.

Donna shakes her head, wiping her nose on her sleeve in a very unladylike fashion. She couldn't care less. It doesn't make sense. It's still sick, sure, but sense? No. Harvey doesn't know what he's doing. He thinks this is what he wants. What he needs. She sighs heavily. There'll be no talking him out of it. She'd learnt that the hard way. Harvey will always make impulsive decisions. It's who he is.

"Goddamnit, Harvey," she says out loud, tears still running, "how could you do this to me?" A fresh wave of sobs overcome her and she lets them come, tears running unbidden down her face.

Tomorrow she'd be composed. Tomorrow she'd be the Donna that everyone expects. But tonight she mourns the loss of something she was finally ready to have and that now might never be hers at all.

And there we have it. Let me know your thoughts, give me suggestions for which scenes you'd like to see!

Em xx