AN: Who would've thought canon addict me would ever show up here with an AU like this? In my own head, this could still be canon, just pre-series. Like a flash-extra-back hahaha What am I even saying… Anyways, I hope you enjoy this little Valentine's day gift which isn't really Valentine's day related but. It's romance in February. It counts.

This is inspired by a prompt Wika tweeted and I distorted but it was with all the love. Also, all the love to my wonderful beta, Blue, and to each of you reading – I am currently accepting Valentines proposals, hit me up.

(I seriously need to shut up)

.

.

Hey

It's not that he can't get a girl, he makes a point to emphasize to himself as he dials the number. He could walk into a bar right now and charm the prettiest girl in there, like he has done oh so many times before. It's just that, lately, these mind games with strangers labelled flirting, the casual hookups, the leaving in the dead of night and everything in between has been making him feel unsettled and worse for wear.

He graduated Harvard a few months ago and got himself a job at the District Attorney's office because Jessica wanted him to get some experience before she accepted him back at the firm. Then he got himself his own apartment so he has a roof to call home that's not the broken place he's left behind.

He doesn't want to go back there anyway. He can't handle the mess he left behind or the guilt of knowing it's all his fault. His mother broke their family but he's the one who busted it all open by telling his dad and now he can't deal with a mother he hates and a father who is too depressed to hate her and a brother who blames him for it.

So he tries to call this place home because he's not going back.

But it's difficult. He's never lived all by himself before, used to having roommates all throughout Law School. And even though he works his ass off at the D.A.'s, he still has more free time than he ever did before, when he would spend entire nights at the library studying and getting on top of absurd amounts of required readings and memorizing precedents.

Thing is, he's lonely now and doesn't really know what to do with himself. Craving a distraction, and one who would come without the need to force an unexisting intimacy like his usual hookups would. And that's why he calls the number.

He was having some drinks with the guys from Harvard a week ago when one of them, a dude named Kyle who was the perfect specimen of a douchey frat guy, mentioned the service. He said it as a joke but, when it became clear that the group was interested in more than just mocking him, he provided one hell of an advertisement for their services.

Apparently it's kind of a big company because you don't get the same girl unless you specifically request that you do. And the girls are supposedly really good at their business. It's a great stress release, Kyle told them. Also good for when you're bored because their services are available 24/7.

Harvey laughed him off, obviously. Go get yourself some real girls, he said. But he still took the card Kyle swiped across the table.

Now it's midnight and he's bored and lonely and he's got a built up tension in his shoulders that won't let him sleep so he doesn't see what the hell the problem is with engaging in some casual phone sex with a complete stranger whom he won't have to pretend to care about.

The melodic, way-too-moany, female voice that greets him on the line is a recording. It requires that he inserts his credit card information and asks if he wants to dial the code for "his favorite girl" or to just press star if he wants the call to be randomly directed to any of the girls available.

He clicks the star and waits, leaning back against the pillows propped on the bedframe of his bed, trying to relax his shoulders and legs. He hopes this girl can offer some assistance in releasing that tension.

The low tune of the supposedly sexy song they play during call waiting stops and the silence focuses his attention. Then there's a voice. Low, just a little bit hoarse and weirdly so sweet his mouth waters just at the sound of her saying hello.

"Hey," he says, the tightness on his shoulders spreading to the back of his neck.

"Hey," she mimics. "Who am I speaking to?"

"This is Rick. Rick Sorkin," he answers without hesitation, some Harvard freshman's name popping up to assist him.

There's a low chuckle and then she says, "You know when you're coming up with a fake name for this you don't actually need to make up the last name, right?"

He laughs, relaxing all of a sudden. One second on the line with this girl, a girl he's paying to be nice to him, might he add, and she's already challenging him. He likes her.

"You know what? You're right. That was a waste of my creativity, which already runs pretty low as it is." He hears her expelling a little laugh from her nose and asks, "And which fake name are you giving me?"

"Debbie."

"Debbie? I'll remember that."

"I hope you do, Ricky."

"Oh, god no. Ricky is ridiculous. Just stick with Rick."

She laughs a little louder than before, then clears her throat and goes back to what Harvey assumes is her role of sultry Debbie.

"Okay, Rick. I'm glad you called. I was feeling lonely here."

There's a witty come back right at the tip of his tongue. But then it dawns on him that he doesn't need it. He doesn't need to hide behind his everyday impenetrable mask of cool, suave, smartest guy in the room, Harvey Specter, because he's already hidden behind a phone line.

"Yeah. Me too," he confesses.

He knows she's probably lying about feeling lonely. As far as he knows it could be as busy a night as any at the office for her and she's just saying that to seduce him with her pretend vulnerability. But who the hell cares.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" she asks in that sweet tone again that sounds so goddamn sincere and earnest he almost believes she cares.

"No, not really, Debbie." His voice is dark and low and it leaves no doubt about what he does want to talk about.

"I'm more of a girl of action myself," she tells him, because of course she will agree with whatever he says. "So whatever you want me to act on, you can just let me know."

He doesn't want to ruin the fantasy and he knows she won't tell him the truth, he's not stupid, but he needs her to paint him an image, to distract him, to set him off. So he asks, "Where exactly are you, Debbie? And please don't say in bed wearing sexy lingerie because, like I told you, I'm not the creative type."

The girl chuckles softly. He listens to her breath as she takes a beat and wonders if she's making something up or considering being honest and then he realizes that, at least for tonight, that's exactly what he needs: to believe there's even a small chance that she's telling him the truth.

"I'm on my couch," she finally says. "And I'm wearing pajama shorts and a t-shirt."

His lips tug lightly at the corners. He likes the picture.

"Oh, so you work from home?" he says.

"I work from wherever I want. This job allows me that kind of freedom."

"That's why you do it? For the freedom?"

"No, I do it for the cash," she says bluntly and he laughs. "But yes, the flexibility is what drew me to this because I have other occupations."

"What kind of occupations?"

"You're a curious man, Rick."

He tilts his head at her answer, even though she can't see him, then notices the tension on his neck is gone. "Okay," he concedes at not prying into her life. "So let's go back to the sexy pajamas you're wearing."

"I never said they were sexy."

"Way to kill a guy's fantasy," he mocks.

"You specifically asked me not to tell you about how sexy my outfit is, mister." He laughs at her calling him out once again. "But they are pretty short," she adds.

The vague image of long, toned legs clad in tiny pajama shorts crosses the back of his mind and he decides to close his eyes and chase the idea, to try and make it a little less indistinct. Then he's inspired to direct her into making that image even better.

"So Debbie, not to sound too forward or anything, but do me a favor and take off your t-shirt and knead your breasts for me because that's what I wish I was doing right now."

He hears her breath catch at his words and pushes the thought that she's just faking it away from his mind as soon as it emerges.

"Okay…" she says and he can hear a low shuffling of fabric and then a content sigh.

"Does your tit fit in your palm?" he asks.

"No. I bet it would fit in yours, though."

"Hm," he hums, hand travelling down to press over his boxers. "Perfect size. Now tell me, are your nipples hard?"

"I'm pinching them, so yeah."

"I didn't tell you to do that."

"Well, I told you I'm a free spirit."

He chuckles and grabs his dick. "And what color are they?"

"My nipples?" She sounds surprised that he asked that.

"Yes."

"You like your details."

"I'm a visual guy."

"Weird choice of entertainment for a visual guy."

"Debbie," he says in a demanding tone, stopping her tease. "What color are your nipples?"

"Pink."

He groans involuntarily and decides to stop rubbing himself over his boxers and just toss the piece of fabric away, leaving himself buck naked in bed.

"Are you taking your clothes off?" she asks, no doubt having heard the shuffling of fabric.

"My boxers," he confirms.

There's a tiny moan from the back of her throat and he likes the way that sounds. He likes that a lot.

"Are you hard?" she asks.

"Are you wet?" he challenges and again gets that soft chuckle from her that's turning him on more than his hand currently wrapped around his dick.

"Would you like me to check?" she asks, clearly teasing him since he complained about her pinching her nipples without him ordering her to do so.

"Yeah, go check on that information for me. But I want you to spread your legs and push your hand up your tiny little shorts and into the side of your panties–are you wearing panties?"

"I am," she answers in a moan. "And they're currently soaking wet."

He swirls his thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the wetness that's leaking from him, and reigns the urge to let out a groan.

"How do you like to do it?" he asks, then spits into his palm and grips his dick.

"Touch myself?"

"Yeah."

"Hm… I like pushing three fingers inside until my palm presses into my clit and just keep pounding… slowly…"

This time he can't control himself and moans rather loudly but he's too turned on to care. His fist is now pumping his cock up and down and the way she says 'slowly' actually makes him pump it faster.

"Do it for me," he tells her.

"I'm in a bit of an awkward angle here," she reminds him, because he's made her push her hand into the side opening of her shorts.

"Okay, change the angle," he allows her, and in his mind's eye he pictures her extracting her glistening wet fingers from the side of her panties, only to push them back in from above. "But don't take off your shorts," he orders.

She lets out a lengthy moan as she follows his instructions, the kind of moan a woman lets out when she feels a delectable stretch in her core. He tightens the grip of his fist.

She moans again and says in a breathy tone, "This feels so good."

"Yeah?"

"Hm-hm…"

For a moment they just listen to each others heavy breathing, low expels of pleasure on both ends of the line.

"What do you like about it?" he asks, needing to hear her voice again. "Touching yourself like this?"

"Hm…" she takes her time in a moan before answering his question. "I like the pressure of my palm into my clit, trying to push my fingers deeper within me…" she's interrupted by a groan and he knows she did just that. "And I like feeling my walls pulsing and squeezing my fingers tighter and tighter the closer I get…"

At this point he's pumping his cock with wild abandonment. His hips lift from the bed fucking his fist more vigorously at each sweet moan he hears coming from the other end of the line, more ragged and close together by the second and, god, he wishes he was fucking her.

The whole point of calling this number tonight was not having to deal with unknown women and their expectations of him, but right this moment, when he's about to explode into a million pieces to the voice of this stranger, all he wants is to be inside of her and to be the reason she cums.

"Hm, that's good, fuck yourself with your fingers for me. I wish I was there to do it." He doesn't see the harm in being honest.

Her moans become higher pitched, expels of breath colliding forcefully with the phone and right into his ear, as if she was there, panting into the side of his neck. He hears slushing wet sounds coming from the other end of the line and then it hits him, in full force. He was fantasizing that she had been masturbating along with him and following his orders, but the thought that she might actually be doing it is his downfall. His legs shake, all his muscles contracting as he spurts all over his hand and stomach, coming harder than he ever did by himself.

When he comes back to himself he realizes he had been moaning and groaning pretty loudly. He takes several deep breaths, releasing his spent cock from his hands and listening intently for any sounds from her.

"You okay there?" she asks, controlling her breathing faster than him, he notices.

"Great," he answers and finds himself surprised he actually means it.

"I feel pretty good too. It was a pleasure talking to you." She says it lightly but it's enough to give him the impression that small talk was reserved to before her clients cum, not after.

"It was a pleasure talking to you, too."

"Is there anything else I can assist you with?" she asks.

He's struck by sudden realization that if she ends the call right now he will never find her again and that jolts somethings inside him, like he would be left high and dry and abandoned, which he knows is crazy because this girl is a complete stranger, but it makes him ask, "What if I want to talk to you again?"

"I'd love to talk to you again," she says and he can hear the satisfaction in her voice.

He interrupts her, teasing. "You say that to everyone."

"I do," she giggles, but her voice assumes a low tone when she adds, "But now I mean it."

He swallows a sudden dryness in his throat.

"Next time you call," she says, "Just type in my code when the recording asks. It's 206."

"Two-hundred-and-six," he repeats into the ceiling, committing it to memory because he's sure as hell it's not something he would ever forget. "I'll give you a call. And before you ask, yes, I do say this to everyone," he hears her low chuckle, "But now I mean it."

His words make her fall silent and it lingers. They listen to each other's breathing like they were just doing before, but instead of desperate gasps for air in the midst of ecstasy what they hear now is quiet and mysterious.

She breaks it.

"Thanks for calling. Hope you sleep well."

"I sure will."

"Hey, Rick?" she calls before he hangs up.

"Hm?"

"I love the way you moan," she says and then he's immediately met with the long beep indicating the call's end.

.

.

Harvey calls her three nights later. And then again on the next day. They talk, masturbate, talk a little more after.

She hangs up.

.

.

The fourth time he calls they spend forty five minutes talking after he cums and that's new for them. He didn't want to hang up and apparently neither did she so he laid in bed and talked to her until they ran out of things to say.

He's never been one to cuddle after sex before.

.

.

"How come a guy like you doesn't have anyone to talk to for free?" she asks one night. They've been chatting for half an hour and he's on the couch, drinking beer and fully clothed.

"A guy like me?"

"You know..." she tries to let the meaning fade, but he won't let her.

"I don't." And he honestly doesn't.

"Oh, come on. You know, you're… nice. You're interesting. You're funny, you're obviously smart, but not in an obnoxious way. You have the best movie references, you laugh at my jokes. You're passionate about stuff, like when you talk about baseball? It's clear how much you care. And you're a surprisingly good listener for a guy."

Something warm swells in his chest and he smiles big and unashamed because, after all, no one can see him grinning like an idiot after receiving some compliments. In the back of his mind he reckons he's not really used to it at all. He's the first one to toot his own horn but women usually only compliment his looks. What Debbie's saying feels way better.

"Yeah?" he kind of asks, not really sure how to respond.

"And you have a nice voice," she says quietly. "Especially when it goes all low and hoarse like it just did."

Harvey doesn't say anything then, hairs on his arms all standing on end for some stupid reason he can't shake, soaking up her voice, sweet like vanilla.

She breaks the lingering silence, in a more energetic tone. "Anyway. All I'm saying is, I'm sure other people would want to talk to you. For free."

He chuckles.

"I guess I could call some people," he says. "Maybe I just really like talking to you."

He hangs up another hour and fifteen minutes later. Still on his couch, still drinking beer.

Still fully clothed.

.

.

They don't ever mention it. How he calls, how they talk for hours, how they hang up.

How they don't have sex anymore.

.

.

He keeps the thought locked in his mind, refuses to analyze the fact that he keeps calling this girl, whose real name he doesn't even know, and opening up to her in a way he never does to anyone in his real life.

When something funny happens he makes a mental note to tell her about it and he convinces himself it's okay that she's the only person he wants to talk to after he's had a tough day.

He catches himself grinning like an idiot in the middle of a work day when the memory of something she said the night before pops into his mind. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, pinches the bridge of his nose, and wills the thought away.

He doesn't allow himself to think about how much he misses talking to her the nights he doesn't call and he wants to punch himself in the face when he finds himself wondering if maybe, just maybe, she's missing him too.

He refuses to acknowledge the fact he wishes she was laying there beside him in bed at night.

He wants to have sex with her. So much. But only if it's real.

So he keeps calling and they keep just talking.

.

.

"What do you do exactly?" she asks him one night after he mentions he had a good day at work.

"Wouldn't telling you that screw up anonymity and shit?" he asks, chuckling, just because she refused to tell him what else she did for a living the first night he called. For some fucking weird reason he could swear she's rolling her eyes at his answer.

"Why? Are you famous or something?"

"Okay, let's make a deal. Tell me your other occupations and I'll tell you what I do."

"Oh, I don't need you to tell me anymore. You're a lawyer."

"How could you possibly know that?!" he asks, putting one hell of an effort on not showing his hand and probably failing.

"A deal, Rick? Seriously?"

He laughs. "People who aren't lawyers make deals!"

"You're not just trying to make a deal, you're using it to bribe me!" she says, laughing along. "And you're way too argumentative on every subject. You're a lawyer."

"Okay, you win," he concedes, as if his laughter hadn't given him away already. "Now will you tell me what it is that you do?"

She allows herself a pause and he knows it's because she doesn't have to. She has one up on him and he knows keeping her privacy must be much more important to her than it is to him.

"I'm an actress," she says.

His first reaction is something dropping in his stomach because his foolish hope that maybe their sex had been real gets crushed by the newfound information. But their conversations, everything they've shared… he has a hard time believing none of that had been real.

Her voice brings him out of his mind again. "And I work as an assistant while I wait for the actres thing to take off."

"So I haven't seen you on the big screen yet?" he asks warmly.

"No, not yet. And it will be the big stage, mister."

He smiles. He really hopes she makes it one day. She would surely be amazing.

"Do you work for some fancy law firm?" she asks.

Saying what exactly he does would obviously be giving away too much so he just says, "No, I put the bad guys away."

He hears her breath catch and he thinks maybe even that was giving away too much. He wonders if maybe she knows exactly where lawyers who put bad guys away work. Then she says something else and changes the subject and distracts him, and the truth is he doesn't really care if she knows. Might even want her to.

.

.

Harvey lies in bed in the dark, on his side, phone resting against his cheek. He's had a long day and he's tired so maybe that's why he finally stops fighting against his need, finally has the courage to ask the question he has been wanting to for so long.

"Can I ask you a question?" he says.

"Sure."

"What do you look like?"

"What do you want me to look like?" she teases in a sultry tone.

Her answer upsets him. He's not playing a game and he hates to think that's all this is to her. "I'm serious," he says.

"So am I. I don't want to ruin your fantasy."

"My fantasies about you are not about what you look like," Harvey admits quietly.

"What?! You're not thinking about my body? Jeez, I must really suck at my job, no pun intended," she jokes, ignoring the vulnerability clear in his voice, which he must admit he's thankful for, not wanting to hear her openly recognize it.

"Come on," he insists. "I'm serious. I don't want the fantasy. I want real." She's quiet on the line and he presses, damn near begs. "Give me something. Anything real."

She must sense the need in him, just like she seems to sense his every mood and thought and desire. It's scary how well she seems to just get him. She gives in then, saying, "Redhead."

His face splits in a grin, chest swelling with contentment that she gave him that. And then the hazy, undefined mental image he had of her starts to look rather similar to Mrs. Garfield, his friend's mom he's had a crush on when he was sixteen. He chuckles softly.

"What?" she asks.

"Nothing, it's just… Your reality sounds a lot like my fantasy."

"You like redheads, huh?" she says, in a flirty tone.

"Never actually dated one." He smiles at the thought. "But yeah."

.

.

She keeps her cards so close to her chest, so careful about telling him anything about herself, and he wonders if that's really her protecting her anonymity or if it's just the way she is. She's really good at getting inside his head and really bad at letting her guard down.

.

.

He tells her about how he found a record of one of his favorite jazz groups at a little stand on the street the other day. She laughs at his enthusiasm but he's adamant: he really struck gold, he tells her, and does she have any idea how rare that vinyl is?

She doesn't. She had actually never heard of the group before so he puts the record on for her, playing it loudly in his living room.

"Do you hear it? They're amazing!" He yells into the phone.

She laughs. "Turn it down! I can barely hear you."

He does, adjusting the volume a little lower and sitting back on the couch, allowing her a moment to enjoy the melody.

"Okay, I get it," she says after a little while. "It's really smooth and it makes you feel…"

"Feel?"

"I don't know. It's very sentimental."

He expels a little laugh from his nostrils.

"How do you know this kind of music?" she asks.

"Why wouldn't I? Maybe I'm more sentimental than you think."

"Okay," she says with a smile in her tone, "But you can't be that much older than I think."

Harvey chuckles. "Yeah, I have a bunch of old music. My dad's a musician. I've been listening to this stuff my whole life."

"Really? What does he play?"

"Sax."

"Anything I might have heard?"

"I don't think so. But I'll play you one of his songs once we're done with this one."

"I'd like that."

"I'm actually going to give him this record for his birthday, it's coming up next month."

"That is so sweet," she says. "Are you close with your family?"

"Just my dad."

She must have heard the tightness in his throat constricting his voice. Maybe he got too quiet when he spoke and that gave him away. Maybe, once again, she's just seeing right through him.

"Are you okay?" she asks, in his favorite, sweet, low voice.

"Yeah, I…" he considers shutting the conversation down right away. It's what he usually does with everyone else. Or what he would do if anyone else ever got this close. But the thought of telling her… It doesn't feel hard, painful and shameful like it always does. It feels as inviting as the thought of dropping down a heavy load he's exhausted of carrying right into the ground. "Family is kind of a difficult subject for me," he says.

"Oh. That's okay, I'm sorry I–"

"No," he interrupts her. "I'll tell you." She waits quietly, so he says, "I haven't talked to my mother in a year. And that also messes up my relationship with my brother so… Like I said, I'm only close to my dad."

"Why haven't you?" she asks, carefully entering the doors he opened for her.

Harvey takes in a heavy breath. He's never told anyone about this before, not even Jessica. "My mom… she cheated on my dad for most of my life. I knew it and she asked me to keep it a secret. Last year I found out she was still doing it and I couldn't take it anymore. I told my dad. After that, they divorced, she went away, I moved out and never went back."

A heavy silence falls upon him when he finishes telling her and though he's relieved to get that off his chest he catches himself afraid of her reaction. But what she says then is something he never expected to hear.

"You know it's not your fault, right?"

"What?" he asks hoarsely.

"What your mother did… You're not her accomplice or something for not telling your dad. You know that, right? You were a kid. You did what your mother told you to do. And eventually telling your dad… I think that's just human."

There's a knot in his throat. He never, ever, told anyone about how guilty he feels about everything that's happened in his family and he didn't tell her either, but still, she knows, she gets it, and she is telling him he doesn't have to be.

"I was a jerk. I threw it in his face in the worst possible way. And then I left everybody to deal with the mess. My brother thinks I should've never said anything…"

"Hey. You were put in an impossible situation and you did the best you could for as long as you could. Just because maybe you made a mistake in how you chose to tell your father it doesn't make you an asshole. You love him and you're a good man."

"How do you know that?" he asks in a mix of gratitude and doubt.

"I'm Debbie, I know everything." Her sassy remark doesn't earn any response from him, so she adds, more earnest, "I may not know you, Rick, but I know you. Better than I know most people in real life. And believe me, I'm really good at that. I know people, it's just who I am. But I've been having these conversations with you all this time and I've gotten to see so much of you, I think even parts you don't usually show people. And I know you are a good person. And the fact that you love your dad and would never do anything to hurt him on purpose is just obvious. I may not know your name, but I do know you."

He's silent for a long while, taking it all in. Then he tells her, "It's Harvey."

"Wh–"

"My name is Harvey."

He thinks she's right. No one has ever gotten this close. No one has ever made him feel more seen in his entire life. And, ironically, that's someone who has never actually laid eyes on him.

.

.

He calls her in the middle of the day. He doesn't even know if she works in the middle of the day but she picks up. She tells him she doesn't because she's at her other job, but she gets a text with the client code when they call and she can choose to pick up or not. She doesn't say it in so many words, but he understands – she picked up this time because it was him.

They talk for ten minutes then she needs to hang up.

.

.

One night they talk about all the places they want to go. It turns out neither of them have ever travelled much.

She tells him about some family trips she took as a child and he gets the sense her family has money so he catches himself wondering how someone like her ended up working two jobs to support a struggling acting career. Before he can find a way around asking, she says, "But that was all before I was fifteen. I haven't really gone anywhere since."

"Why not?"

"My family started having some money problems. My dad made a bad deal and we lost everything."

"I'm sorry," Harvey says, thinking about how different her life could've been.

"It's okay."

"Are you and your dad… Is everything okay?"

"Yes, of course. He's… he tries his hardest. And I know his hardest isn't always the wisest, but. He's my dad."

He gets the sense she's too lenient with the man and it seems very typical of her. Then he smiles to himself thinking he likes knowing what is or isn't typical of her.

Her dream is going to Paris, she tells him. Then tells him about this one time she and her mom almost did, but had to cancel their plans because her father needed the money for one of his business opportunities – one that didn't quite work, she's forced to confess when Harvey asks, and then he's forced to contain his thoughts on her father and the sudden urge to protect her somehow.

He likes that she tells him these things because it doesn't seem like the kind of thing she typically tells people. He likes that she lets him in, like he does her. Like he's not completely crazy in being the most open he's ever been in his life with her. Like this is a two way street.

.

.

"I want to ask you your real name so bad but I know you probably wouldn't tell me," he whispers into the phone late at night.

"Actually, I probably would. That's why I need you not to."

He understands. She has much more at stake here than him. She needs to protect herself. He still hates it.

.

.

He can hear it in her voice how tired she is tonight. She even lets out a yawn mid sentence, telling him she was just about to go to sleep because she had the longest day. She's upset because she didn't get a call back for a part she really wanted.

He tells her they're idiots and it's their loss and talks to her until she falls asleep.

He hangs up when the only response he gets for his murmured words is her breathing quietly.

.

.

It's 1AM on a Wednesday night. He has an early day but can't bring himself to hang up even though they've been talking for almost two hours already.

"Can I ask you a question?" he says.

"When you start asking for permission…" she chuckles lightly.

Harvey smiles. Then he fidgets with the bed sheet a little and steels himself for what he's about to ask. "This job, the phone calls, the...sex. Do you actually do it or do you fake it?"

He's been thinking about it too much for too long, the doubt torturing him. But the truth is, he doesn't even know what he wants her answer to be. He wants it to have been real with him, but he knows that would mean it's real with others too and the thought drives him crazy with irrational jealousy.

He realizes he's putting her in a difficult position. She's supposed to keep the fantasy alive and she obviously thinks if she breaks it she'll just lose a client. But not this client, he hopes she knows this. And he hates to think of himself as that.

He desperately hopes she feels at least a little of what he does, at least enough to know this is not the thing that's going to make her lose him, at least enough to trust him, because he needs this. He needs the kind of honesty and trust he doesn't get from anyone else in his life and he needs it from her.

He waits on baited breath and he's almost giving up hope that she'll say anything at all.

"I just pretend," she confesses in a low tone and he's both sad and grateful about that.

"Why?" he asks.

"Because if I just pretend, I'm an actress. If I really do it, I'm a whore."

Her answer cuts him deep. He hurts for himself and for her and for them, if there even is a them to hurt for.

All the amazing times they'd had together, every minute of pleasure and the intimacy they shared was so real to him, but it had all been an act to her.

But now here she is, trusting him enough to tell him the truth. And the truth is, for a long time now, the laughs and secrets, the stories they told each other, their quiet conversations in the dark… it all feels so much more intimate than the sex anyway.

"Can I tell you something?" she then says.

"Yeah."

"These calls with clients… Sometimes they're fun, sometimes they're disgusting and most of the time they're incredibly boring and I just sit here doing my nails or whatever and saying what they want me to say." She pauses and takes a deep breath. "But with you, it's different."

Her words shoot a bolt of light straight into his chest. "Different how?"

"Like… like I wanted to do what we were talking about. My body did and my mind did and I really wanted it to be real, but I couldn't. Everything else is, though. Everything I've ever told you, besides the sex. It was all real."

They stay silent for a long time. He holds on to the phone so strongly his knuckles turn white.

"We haven't done that in a long time," he eventually says.

"I know. Why haven't you…?"

She is finally asking the question he's been avoiding asking himself all this time, but when she brings it up, he's completely earnest before the words are even fully out of her mouth.

"Because I want it to be real."

He's lost in their silence then, staring at the ceiling and wondering how he can miss someone he's never met so much.

"Harvey?" she calls him.

"Hm?"

"Donna. My name is Donna."

.

.

Donna.

He likes saying it. Like it poses some kind of argument point when she's being impossible. Like squeezing it in between sentences makes her real because it's the only connection he has to her real life. Like he really knows her. Like she's his.

donnadonnadonna repeating in his head just before he falls asleep.

.

.

It's been driving him crazy, keeping him up at night, interfering with his work and consuming his every thought, so he's not really at all surprised when he blurts it out in the middle of a conversation.

"I want to meet you."

She gasps and stutters and he has never heard her stutter before. Then she's just dead silent.

"Donna," he calls quietly. "Talk to me."

She sighs heavily, sounding dejected. "Harvey. We can't."

"Why not?"

"Because. I… You're my client."

His chest constricts in pain and he swallows down a lump in his throat before he asks, "Is that all I am to you?"

"You know it's not."

Her reply is immediate enough, quiet enough and heartbroken enough to make him believe that she feels the same, that he's not alone in his feelings and he's not crazy for believing in them.

"Then why?"

She doesn't seem to be able to find her words anymore, so he keeps talking. Now that the words were finally out of him, he can't bear the thought of her telling him no – a thought which was the entire reason he hadn't asked sooner. So he lays all his cards out on the table, heart on his sleeve like he never thought he was capable of wearing, because he needs her to say yes.

"You said it was real to you. Well, it's real for me too and I want to see you. I want to touch you, Donna, I just… this is driving me crazy."

Donna's voice is small when she says, "What if this is the only way this works? We'll meet and shatter the fantasy and then we'll be left with nothing at all."

"This isn't a fantasy," he says with an urgency.

"We're from two different worlds, Harvey. This would never work."

"What are you talking about?"

"Harvey, you're a lawyer. You spend your days putting bad people away. You'll soon move on to working at a fancy law firm. While I spend my nights pretending to have sex with strangers on the phone."

"That's just something you do. It's not who you are."

"Harvey…"

There's a plea in her tone that sounds just too sad. But she's wrong. They're meant to be together. He's never been more sure of anything in his life and he's not going to let her slide through his fingers.

"Just tell me this one thing, do you want to meet me? Do you want to be with me?"

"Of course I do," her voice is shaky and low when she confesses she wants the same thing as him. "I really do. So much."

"Then have faith in me. Give me a chance, Donna, please."

.

.

It's a Sunday afternoon and maybe Central Park in the middle of February wasn't the best idea for a first date, because the bright sky and sunshine do nothing to temper down the cold. He rubs his gloved palms against one another and blows hot air on them.

He waits. In the middle of that stupid bridge, overlooking the snow covered park, begging she doesn't have second thoughts, begging for her to show up.

He hears footsteps from his right and quickly turns on the spot, but it's just a couple of teenagers walking by. That distracts him enough though that he doesn't notice her footsteps coming from the opposite direction until she's much closer. When he turns she's maybe only twenty feet away, slowly walking towards him.

And she is absolutely beautiful.

His heart skips more beats than he can count and he watches her, paralysed and in a daze.

Her red hair is long and it blows away from her face as she walks, half tucked in beneath her light colored scarf. Her hands hide from the weather in the pockets of her coat and she gazes right at him.

She has the most beautiful, hazel, wide eyes that search his like a question.

Is this really you?

Her skin is fair and covered in a light dusting of freckles, her nose and cheeks rosy from the cold. But then his eyes find her lips and he almost loses his ground. She smiles softly at him as she gets closer.

This is me, all of me.

Do you still want me?

He's frozen on the spot, waiting for her to take those last couple of steps as if he had been waiting for her his whole entire life. And when she stops right in front of him, close enough that he could count the freckles on her face, that he could smell her scent, that he could finally touch her… he realizes he really had been waiting for her all along.

"Hey."

He figures they've already talked enough when he leans forward and presses his cold lips into hers, his hands holding onto her waist and bringing her body close, like he needs to feel all of her to believe she's real. She lets out the tiniest gasp of surprise and then kisses him back, moving her lips against his, taking her hands out of her pockets to gently cup his face and melting into him.

He kisses her long and hard and hastily. It's only a first kiss but it feels as intimate as if they had been kissing for something like twelve years and it's only after they stop, when he grazes his nose against hers and she smiles with her eyes closed, when she opens them up in search of his, that he says, "Hey."

.

.