Spoilers/Timeline: None/Set in the future

A/N: This is the fastest I've written something in awhile, hopefully that's not a bad thing.

Disclaimer: Suits doesn't belong to me. Title taken from Kenny Chesney's Live A Little.

He's frozen in place, hair flattened, jacket soaked, as the rain pours down.

For the first time in years he feels like he's having an out of body experience. Or maybe it's just a fucking panic attack. Either way, it's foreign to him, having control wrenched from his hands.

Really, it seems beyond belief. That he's tried everything he can think of and still can't stop Jessica from losing the twenty-third floor to the new landlord.

The new landlord who wants the damn floor for his wife's latest fucking pet project.

But injunctions and offering a mutually beneficial contract to the man have failed.


And Harvey doesn't fail.

Especially when things like the firm needing to consolidate are on the line. Even worse is the thought of having to move offices or—just kill him now—Donna being more than five feet away, stuck in some tiny cubicle...

He's so lost in his thoughts, the pounding of the rain and the rushing traffic mixing in his head, that he doesn't hear her until she's right behind him. Her hand lands on his forearm and he turns, biting back a smile as her umbrella sways in the breeze.

"...an asshole. Going to get pneumonia and then I'll have to coddle you like the five year old you are."


"I'm being generous."

Her eyes are bright, jaw clenched, but her mouth is turned up just so and he recognizes the underlying concern.

The last forty-eight hours blur and suddenly it's not Jessica he's failed, it's her.

It terrifies him.

Leaves him breathless and cold.

Her hand drifts up his arm, voice wavering as she steps closer.

"Not... your fault..." Her umbrella trembles, pulls in the wind and then falls to the sidewalk as she rocks up on her toes. "Come on, I've got the appeal and an opened bottle of Pinot..."

Her fingers lace with his then, warmth coursing through him.

This is why they work.

Because she always knows, even in the most unlikely, fucked up situations, just what to say to him.

How to pull him back.

Their eyes meet, her hair blowing out behind her as the wind kicks up again and he tugs her forward, crushing her against him.

His mouth crashes down on hers, the rain lashing against his back as her fingers splay across the nape of his neck and she moans beneath him.

She's warm, inviting. Even more so here (her arms tight around him, her mouth giving and giving) than in his bed or against the bookshelf in her apartment.

Her hands fist in the lapels of his coat, pulling him even closer as her tongue teases his. Gasping, she slowly pulls away and begins tugging him back towards the firm.

They're about five feet from the door when she stops, her mouth turning up as she sees the closed umbrella hanging in his hand. Still, his hair's a mess, his suit waterlogged, and one look at her would give them away to Mike, if not anyone else.

Hell, Louis might even be able to figure it out.

Her teeth press in to her bottom lip and she arches an eyebrow at him in silent question.

What if someone saw?

He just grins and presses his mouth to that spot where her neck and shoulder meet, his hand settling low on her hip. "Screw 'em. We're just getting warmed up."