The Third Time's The Charm (Marvey)

The Third Time's The Charm

Disclaimer: English is not my first language. Enjoy :)

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Mike had the ring in his pocket for three weeks. Three. Weeks. Which in regular human time felt like about three decades. Long enough for him to memorize the exact weight of it, how it dug into his thigh when he sat wrong, how it felt like a goddamn secret grenade ticking away in his jacket lining. Long enough for him to imagine all the ways he could screw this up. And yet, not long enough for him to figure out the perfect way to propose to Harvey Specter.

Because you don’t just blurt it out over Chinese takeout and reruns of The Wire, even if Harvey is weirdly emotional about McNulty. You don’t do it at the firm, where Louis is always lurking like a feral raccoon hopped up on power and scented candles. And you definitely don’t do it while Harvey is yelling at opposing counsel and somehow looking unfairly hot while doing it.

No, Mike wanted it to be good. Not cheesy, not forced. Just... right. But trying to surprise someone who reads people like novels and has seen every play in the book, someone who basically invented the book, was a hell of a thing. Especially when said someone was Harvey Specter.

So the first time, Mike planned to do it at home. He made dinner. Which, okay, was really him reheating lasagna from the overpriced Italian place around the corner and trying not to set off the smoke alarm with garlic bread. Harvey came home late, loosened his tie like he was starring in a cologne ad, and walked straight into the kitchen, sniffing.

"Smells like someone’s trying to seduce me," Harvey said with that crooked half-grin that always made Mike forget how words worked.

It was ridiculous how easily Harvey could make him feel like he was back at Pearson Hardman, first month on the job, fumbling for legal jargon and trying not to stare too long. Even now, after a year of dating, after a year of waking up next to the guy and learning every inch of him in and out of the courtroom, he still got that tiny, traitorous jolt of butterflies.

Mike glanced over from where he was plating the lasagna, doing his best impression of someone who had cooked it himself. "Hey, I slaved over a hot oven for at least—okay, like fifteen minutes. But the garlic bread is actual labor."

"Burned labor?"

Mike looked down at the bread, which was technically golden brown but might’ve veered too far into "toasted" territory. "It’s artisanal. Char is part of the experience."

Harvey grinned, walked over, and kissed the side of Mike’s neck, slow and casual. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like this was just life now. Mike’s knees still didn’t know how to handle that.

"You’re lucky I’m starving," Harvey said, pulling out a chair and unbuttoning his cuffs like he was preparing to critique the meal on camera.

Mike wanted to laugh. Or maybe cry. Because this—this stupid, ordinary, perfect domestic moment—was exactly why he wanted to propose in the first place.

The ring was in his back pocket. He’d practiced what he was going to say in front of the bathroom mirror like a lunatic. Half romantic, half self-deprecating, all nerves. He’d even googled best time to propose at home and immediately regretted it because the internet was full of sociopaths and bad advice. But none of that mattered. Not really. Because the only thing that mattered was that Harvey was here. Sitting at their kitchen table. In their apartment. And looking at Mike like he wanted a future, too.

They ate mostly in silence. Not awkward, just comfortable. Harvey polished off half the lasagna and used a piece of garlic bread—charred or not—to wipe up the sauce on his plate. Mike’s hands twitched toward the ring box three separate times, but each time Harvey would sigh or rub at his temple or glance at his phone like it was haunted, and Mike would lose his nerve.