Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Mike thought he’d look like a joke. An awkward, wide-eyed mess in heels.

But when he finally caught a full-body glimpse of himself in the window outside his building—lipstick, eyeliner, wig, coat shrugged back off his shoulders—he stopped. Really stopped.

Because damn.

“If I saw him in a bar, I’d hit on him.” he thought.

The dress is deep midnight blue, sparkling elegantly when the light hits it at just the right angle.

Mike had found it after trying a dozen of dresses in the thrift store. The neckline’s a low V, showing off his taped up pseudo cleavage. The fabric clings more than he expected, hugging his padded chest, shape wear narrowed waist and falling freely over curve of his ass in a way that gives him an illusion of feminine curves. And the heels, god the heels shows off his calf muscles and taut ass so well, it makes himself blush, looking in the mirror.

This transforms him into someone else. Someone bolder. Someone who belongs in rooms like the one he’s heading to now.

But being in public is whole another thing.

Mike fidgets in his seat, pulling the belt of his trench coat just a little tighter like that’ll make him disappear. He’s resisting the urge to wipe his face, not really used to wearing any make up. God knows how’s he gonna survive the night, he hasn’t even reached the hotel yet!

He feels like a little boy secretly playing dress-up in his mom’s clothes.

Which is what this is, isn’t it? Playing dress up.

And the city doesn’t make it easy to forget you’re playing a part.

On the subway, people stare.

Not in that awe-struck, “wow, he’s beautiful” way. More like curious. Confused. That lingering look like they want to figure out if you’re doing a drag show or having a breakdown.

A woman gives him a once-over and quickly averts her eyes. A teenage boy elbows his friend and whispers something. A businessman gives him the same look Mike once got when he tripped carrying a full tray of drinks at the café—a mix of pity and disdain.

Mike stares at his own reflection in the subway window. He’s not doing this for fun. Or because he likes it. Or because he gets off on playing dress-up. He’s doing this because he's got bills to pay.

Grammy’s medical bills, nursing home bills, insurance only covers so much, and being a full-time student doesn’t exactly come with a trust fund. The waitlist for financial aid is a joke. 

So yeah. He dresses up as per demand, slips into a persona for an hour or two, pretends to moan and shouts a different name each night.

It pays.

That’s what he tells himself as he gets out of Subway and takes the cab in to the high-rise hotel.

He never thought of himself as pretty. Good looking? Maybe. Slightly above average? Yes. But pretty? Not really.

Some of the other guys on the site are drop dead gorgeous— round face, tiny waist, that kind of sexy androgyny that looks effortless. He doesn’t understand who’d want him in a dress.

But he books well enough in regular clothes. His profile says “sweet but sharp” and for some reason that sells. Maybe people like the way he tries.

His phone buzzes in his pocket with a reminder:

7:36 - The nursing home payment pending

As if he could forget.

That’s the whole reason he’s doing this again. Two grand for the whole night. It’s worth it. It has to be.

He takes a deep breath and checks his reflection in the little compact mirror he borrowed from Jenny. Everything looks fine but still, he smooths down the synthetic blonde strands with shaky fingers and smears more foundation under his eyes, trying to look less like a college kid who hasn’t slept in three days and more like someone worth two grand a night.

He shuts the mirror and slips it back into his bag like he’s sealing away the doubt too.

Mike wonders what the hell he’s doing. Wondered it last week. Wondered it last year. Wonders it now as he’s ten minutes away from the place.

He thinks of Grammy. Of the bills on the kitchen table, all stamped red and urgent. Of the way she still smiles at him even when her body is too weak to sit up. He thinks of his ethics lecture he attended today and the paper he hasn’t started yet. He thinks of the unpaid tuition fees and the lost scholarship.

I need the money. I need the money. I need the money. He chants it like a mantra in his head. I just have to go through this night.

Mike’s done enough of these to know what to expect. Rich. Older. Married men with cold eyes and wedding ring tan lines. Lonely ones with too much money and too little self-respect. The kind of guys who don’t look you in the eye unless you’re on your knees. Bored of their fancy lifestyle, looking for something dirty to pass the time. They usually were men who wanted to be worshipped or degraded or lied to.

This one is probably the same, perhaps someone who liked the novelty of a man in a dress, but not the reality of it. 

Then he thinks about the name. Harvey Specter.

Clients usually use fake ones. This one didn’t. That alone makes something twist in Mike’s gut.

The text came an hour ago:

Room 1703. Harvey Specter. 8 PM sharp.

Nothing else.

Mike blinks at the name.

Harvey Specter. That sounds… familiar. Like law-school-familiar. Like in-a-casebook-or-the-news familiar.

Curious, he pulls out his phone, scrolling past apps and unread notifications to open his browser. A quick search, and there it is. Bunch of articles show up.

Harvey Specter: Senior partner at Pearson Specter

Twelve years and counting: How Harvey Specter Dominates the Courtroom

Specter and Scott: Power Couple of Corporate Law

See? Married. He knew it.

Tragedy Strikes as Dana Scott Dies in Plane Crash

Mike’s stomach turns.

Oh.

Private jet to Montreal. Mechanical failure. No survivors.

Then another title catches his eye.

Partners at work to now partners in life.

The date.

July 12th, 2005.

And there it is. A punch to the gut.

The day Harvey Specter booked a hotel suite and a cross dressing hooker, would’ve been their tenth wedding anniversary.

Mike sits back against the seat and lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’s been holding.

Shit. This just got ten times worse. He has to pretend to be someone's dead wife tonight.

His heels hurt as he walks, but they click just right on the marble flooring of the hotel. Loud. Confident. 

That’s the point, shiny black heels with a little red under the sole that makes him feel like he might pass for elegant if you squint hard enough.

He walks to the front desk, trying not to fidget as every step makes the hem of his dress swish against his thighs. 

The woman behind the counter is immaculate: dark blazer, white shirt, hair pulled tight in a bun. She smiles with the kind of practiced ease that belongs in toothpaste commercials, fake and decorative.

“Good evening” she pauses for a moment, “—sir. May I help you?”

Mike clears his throat. His voice always catches when he has to talk in places like this.

“Yeah. Room 1703,” he says. “For… Mr. Specter.”

There it is. The moment.

Her smile doesn’t falter, but he sees it. The flicker behind her eyes. The millisecond of calculation. Not surprise, just confirmation. Escort. Right.

She taps something into the computer with a little too much flourish, then slides him a keycard like she’s handling a biohazard. “Mr. Specter is expecting you. Elevators to your left.”

He takes the card. Smiles. Too wide. Too fake. “Thanks.”

She doesn’t respond. Just blinks, slow and perfect, like she’s already forgotten him—or he doesn’t even exist anymore.

Mike walks away, heels sharp on tile.

The elevator ride feels longer than seventeen floors should take.

Mike stands there, watching his reflection in the mirrored walls— the tight line of his mouth as he repeated in his head: Don’t say anything stupid. Don’t touch unless asked. Don’t fuck this up.

But now there was something else.

Guilt.

He’d come here thinking this would be another soulless rich guy wanting to have fun for a night. But now…

Now he just feels sorry for him.

He knows what it was like to lose someone and still carry the echo of them years later. 

He wondered how much Harvey must’ve loved his wife if even now, he couldn’t bear the weight of her absence alone. It's a bit creepy too, isn't it? Paying someone to play his dead wife.

He dreads going in even as he’s standing at the door.

Three soft taps. 

He hears footsteps. The soft clink of ice in a glass.

He braces himself. Another rich old man. Probably half-drunk already. This is going to be rough. Maybe he wants—

The door opens.

And Mike forgets everything, his breath gets knocked right out of his lungs.

Harvey Specter is—

Not what he expected.

He is devastatingly handsome.

Not in the movie star way. Not over-polished or fake or too-perfect. Just real. Real and startling.

He’s young. Well, not young, but young enough that Mike doesn’t feel like a kid in comparison. He’s tall, dark-haired, maybe mid to late thirties. Slick back hair, all black suit, whiskey in hand. Everything about him looks clean. Sharp. Controlled. His jaw is stubbled, just enough to look tired but not lazy. 

But his eyes— his eyes are what undo Mike.

It’s like they are weathered with all seasons of life, learnt every lesson whether they wanted or not, been through more than enough for a single lifetime and then some more.

They look tired but not the kind from a long day at work. The kind that sleep won’t fix. The kind that lives deep in your bones. The kind that doesn’t leave.

Yet, they are mesmerizing, in a melancholic sort of way.

And they are on him.

They are not leering. They are not narrowing in judgment. They are not looking at Mike’s chest or legs or mouth.

They’re looking at him. Harvey’s looking at him.

And Mike, for one terrifying second, forgets he’s wearing a wig. Forgets the dress. Forgets the game he’s playing.

He thought this would be like every other job. Show up. Smile. Moan. Play pretend.

But this—this feels different.

Mike opens his mouth. No sound comes out.

The man says nothing. Just studies him for a moment. A long, unreadable moment that makes Mike feel like his skin’s turned transparent.

And Mike feels something he wasn’t ready for.

Not fear. Not shame. Just… something electric. Something soft and shivery in his chest, like maybe the man staring at him sees through the dress and the wig and the padded bra and isn’t disgusted.

Mike again tries to speak. To say, “Hi,” or “You must be—” or literally anything, but nothing comes out. His mouth feels full of cotton.

And then the man —Harvey, just gives the smallest nod and a cursory smile. Steps back. Opens the door a little wider.

He doesn’t ogle or say anything flirty or teasing.

And that’s what undoes Mike. That kindness, the basic human decency. He never expects that from customers.

He steps inside and the door closes behind him with a soft final click.

He didn’t expect any of this and whatever this is—it’s not going to be simple.

He’d misjudged the guy.

It is written clear as a day on his face. This is grief. A man hollowed out by time.

Mike swallows hard, suddenly very aware of how little he knows and how much this night might mean to someone he’s never met.

He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to be the right kind of person for this kind of pain.

Mike stands there like the room might bite him if he moves the wrong way. It’s clean, smells fresh, but dim, lights low, the skyline glowing faintly through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He doesn’t hear music. No TV. No ambient noise except the quiet shift of Harvey’s shoes on the polished floor as he locks the door behind them.

Mike clutches his coat tighter around him, suddenly too aware of the dress underneath, the sticky line of sweat along his back, and how this room is so quiet it makes his heartbeat feel like a drumline.

“May I?” Harvey asks, gesturing towards his coat. He sheds his coat, slowly, trying to seem casual even as his arm catches awkwardly on the sleeve and almost makes him fall over. The heels are not helping. Nothing about this feels natural.

He winces as his voice breaks on the “thanks” he manages to croak out. What. Are you doing. Mike. At this rate he’ll change his mind and kick you out, before you get to do anything.

“Relax. This isn’t your first time doing this. Is it?”

“No. Uh- sorry.” He shuffles from foot to foot. “Actually, it kind of is? I am doing this,” Mike waves a hand around to indicate the dress and make up, “for the first time.”

“You’re doing fine. This isn’t exam and I am not your teacher who’s going to fail you.” Harvey reassures.

“I know. Exams are easier.” Mike mumbles to himself.

“Drink?” Harvey asks. His voice is deep. Controlled. Like everything about him.

Mike hesitates. “Uh. Sure.”

Harvey hands him a glass without asking what he wants. Whiskey. Of course.

Mike takes a small sip. It burns.

Harvey sits on the arm of the couch and checks his phone like he’s got a dozen other things to do—like he didn’t specifically order a stranger in a dress to his room on his saddest day of the year.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” Harvey asks, noticing Mike standing on the same spot as if nailed there.

“Do you want me to?” Mike asks like a complete idiot.

Harvey huffs, “Sit down, will you.”

“I ordered dinner,” Harvey says. Still not looking at him. “Should be here in a few.”

Mike nods, unsure of how he should sit, pose, offer small talk, or start pretending to be a fantasy. Usually by now clients are touching. Saying things. Telling him what to do or who to be.

Harvey doesn’t even look at him.

Mike glances around. There are two glasses on the table. An open bottle of scotch, half gone. And a bottle of whiskey. The bed is made. Immaculate. Tucked corners. No signs of anyone else having been here.

That makes sense.

Mike sits on the edge of the low couch across from Harvey. Crosses his legs. Tries to act like this is a normal date. Mike can’t guess anything, what he wants, what he likes or what he doesn’t. Harvey’s giving him nothing.

“So…” he says, smile curling slow. “How was your day?”

Harvey looks up from his phone, finally, brows lifted slightly like the question was unexpected.

“Nothing special.”

Mike leans forward, glass still in hand. He lowers his voice just a touch, lets it dip into that soft, teasing place that makes some men feel seen. “Anything new happen at work?”

Harvey pauses a beat. Then: “Nothing I can think of.”

The silence thickens.

Mike meets his eyes. Carefully. Not too intense. “You’re a hard man to read, you know.”

Harvey’s mouth twitches like he might smile, but it never reaches his eyes. “I have to be, if I want to keep working as a lawyer.”

“Makes sense, but you’re not working now, are you?” Mike says, voice light. “Can’t tell if you’re bored out of your mind or just this mysterious all the time.”

Harvey finally cracks a smile. Barely.

Then he cuts it short. “I don’t really want to talk about me.”

Mike nods slowly, like he expected that answer. Because he did.

He knows what night this is. He knows what’s bothering him. He knows what happened three years ago. He knows today was supposed to be an anniversary.

He knows Harvey probably isn’t here for sex. Not really.

But Mike plays along. Because sometimes pretending is mercy.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Then let’s talk about me.”

The knock comes a few minutes later. Room service.

Harvey stands to answer it. Mike crosses his legs again, adjusting the hem of his dress.

The guy delivering the food is younger than Harvey. Probably in his twenties. His eyes flick to Mike and go wide for half a second—then he smiles, that cocky flirty grin, and hands over the tray with unnecessary flourish.

“Dinner for two,” he says, eyes still on Mike. “Have a good evening. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Mike smiles, automatic. “Thanks.”

Harvey doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t react. Just signs the receipt and shuts the door quietly behind him.

Mike watches him as he wheels the cart toward the small table. “Was that guy trying to flirt with me?”

Harvey arches a brow. “I think he was.”

Mike smirks. “Not bad, right?”

Harvey doesn’t answer.

But when he sets the plates down and straightens up, he finally looks at Mike—really looks at him. And something shifts in his expression. Like a crack in the armor.

“You look good,” Harvey says.

Not like a man trying to get something. Not like a compliment he tosses around carelessly.

Just truth.

Mike feels it hit somewhere in his stomach. The kind of quiet compliment that matters more than he wants it to.

He shrugs it off. Smiles a little. “It’s all smoke and mirrors.”

Harvey doesn’t argue.

Doesn’t flirt.

Just turns away and pours another drink.

And Mike—sitting in a beautiful dress on a velvet sofa, drinking the best whiskey he’s ever tasted while grief swirls in the corners of a room too big for one man—decides he’ll stay.

The food smells better than Mike expected.

Grilled salmon. Roasted vegetables. Some sort of couscous thing arranged like art on fine white plates. Mike expected room service burgers or a bottle of champagne and awkward silence—not an actual meal with someone who pulled out all the stops, even if he didn’t say why.

Harvey walks around the table and pulls out a chair.

For Mike.

Not in a performative way. Not like he’s trying to be chivalrous for the sake of it. He just… does it. Like muscle memory.

Mike blinks. “Thanks.”

Harvey says nothing, just waits until he’s seated before circling back to his own chair. He moves like someone raised with old-school charm and the kind of confidence that doesn’t need applause.

Mike watches him settle in— suit jacket unbuttoned, collar open, eyes unreadable—and thinks, He probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Doesn’t know how much it throws me off.

They start eating in silence. The food’s good. Fancy in that what-even-is-this-sauce kind of way. Mike’s halfway through chewing a bite when Harvey finally speaks.

“It’s good, right?” he asks, quiet but casual.

Mike nods. Swallows. “Very. I was expecting room service burgers and fries, honestly.”

Harvey’s mouth twitches, like he thought of something mischievous.

Then, with absolutely no warning, he says:

“I like this place. And the food. I give it a 3.5, mostly for presentation.”

Mike is surprised, he didn’t expect Harvey to quote James bond, that too in British accent, “That was a terrible Sean Connery.”

Harvey’s looks happy that Mike recognized it, “Pierce Brosnan,” he corrects.

“Daniel Craig,” both of them say in unison, which gets a real smile out of Harvey.

Harvey glances over at him, one brow raised. “You seen it?”

Mike snorts. “Please. I was testing you. I grew up with those movies.”

Harvey nods like he respects that. “It’s a classic.”

Mike leans forward, smiling, finally they have something to talk about. “What else is on the Specter film list? Don’t tell me you’re a Godfather guy. That’s too easy.”

Harvey lifts his eyes. Finally looks at him for real. “Everyone’s a Godfather guy.”

“Not true,” Mike says. “Some of us are Dead Poets Society guys.”

“That tracks.”

“Does it?”

“You’ve got the whole tortured idealist energy.”

Mike laughs. “Wow. Nailed in one.”

Harvey smirks faintly, then looks back down at his plate. “Casablanca, Top gun, a few good men.” he says. “Shawshank redemption, to name a few, I’ll share the full list sometime.”

Mike hums. “I can see that. You’ve got the cool main character vibe.”

Harvey doesn’t answer that. Just lifts his glass again and lets silence settle in.

Mike watches him for a moment.

There’s something deeply unfair about how good Harvey looks doing absolutely nothing. Sitting there with knife and fork, his jaw flexing as he chews, his eyes far away. Like he’s eating dinner with someone but mind keeps running somewhere else every once in a while.

Mike can’t help it—he wants to reach in. To tug Harvey gently back into the moment.

So he asks, voice low and playful, “What about music?”

Harvey glances over, surprised by the question.

“Please tell me you don’t listen to just jazz.”

Harvey tilts his head, as if saying you can’t be serious. “Jazz is timeless, give it a try. Chet Baker, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and Dave Brubeck, I’ve got the vinyls.”

“Play me one of your favourite.”

Harvey plays Chet Baker— ‘I fall in love too easily’ on his phone.

They listen for a couple of minutes.

“That’s... Nice actually. It could have been my theme song in High-school.” Mike jokes, god knows it can still be his theme song today, he does fall in love too easily.

“What about you?”

“I love rock n’ roll,” Mike sings jokingly, “Radiohead, Nirvana, Red Hot Chili Peppers.”

That earns a brief flicker of something in Harvey’s expression. Not a laugh. Not even amusement. But interest. Like maybe Mike just slipped under his radar and landed somewhere soft.

Harvey tries to keep the mood light. “I bet you secretly have Taylor Swift on your playlist.”

“And I am sure you love Katy Perry. We all have our guilty pleasures.” Mike grins.

They eat.

The city glows silently through the windows behind them, casting cold blue light across the floor. Harvey refills their glasses once. Mike doesn’t get drunk—he doesn’t dare—but the heat in his belly makes it easier to sit back, to watch Harvey more freely. To forget, just for a minute, why either of them are here.

Harvey still hasn’t asked for anything. No touching. No stories. No fantasy roleplay. He hasn’t even looked at Mike the way most clients do.

He’s trying so hard to be normal. Polite. Present.

But the grief lives in the corners of his mouth. In the pauses between sentences. In the way his hand always rests just near his glass but never touches it for long.

Mike doesn’t bring up the wife. Doesn’t mention that he looked him up.

He just talks about movies and music and lets the space between them fill with something softer than silence.

He’s here to make this man forget, just for a few hours.

Or maybe—if he’s lucky—remind what it feels like to feel anything at all.

They don’t touch.

That’s what keeps rattling around in Mike’s head.

He’s been in hotel suites like this before—dimly lit, rich in gold trim and colder air, with men who want to touch too soon and talk too little. But Harvey hasn’t crossed the space between them once.

He just eats. Drinks. Listens.

And now, watches.

Mike catches Harvey’s eyes on him again as he sets his fork down. It’s not lustful. Not quite curious either. Just… steady.

“You’ve done this before,” Harvey says.

Mike stiffens for a beat. Then grins around his wine glass. “The whole sparkling dinner companion thing?”

Harvey shrugs. “Yeah. Or maybe the part where you steer conversations away from yourself.”

Mike forces a chuckle. “If I start trauma-dumping, you’ll ask for a refund.”

Harvey leans back slightly, resting one arm along the back of his chair. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant,” Mike says, teasing. But something in him twists.

He hesitates. Then, softer: “I just… I’m not the interesting one in this room.”

Harvey raises an eyebrow. “You think so?”

Mike nods. “I’ve heard about you. Hotshot lawyer, name partner at one of the biggest law firms in the city. You’re like a legal rockstar. Meanwhile, I’m the guy who sells his body for money.”

Harvey stares at him, unreadable.

Mike fidgets.

“Actually,” Mike says, changing gears, “I’ve been meaning to ask—why me?”

Harvey blinks. “What?”

“On the site. There are prettier boys on there. Objectively prettier. Petite. Elegant. Delicate. Faces like angels, asses like peaches. Most of them make actual women look like failed prototypes.”

“But Beauty is subjective, isn’t it?”

“You know what I mean.” Mike flushes a little. “I had to work hard just to look passable in this dress. Wig’s synthetic. Lashes are barely hanging on. I didn’t exactly walk in here like some femme fatale. So what gives?”

Harvey’s eyes flick away. Then back.

Quiet. Measured.

“I didn't want pretty or feminine. I wanted the opposite of all that.”

Mike raises both brows. “Wow. Rude.”

“I meant—”

Mike waves a hand, fake-offended. “No no, go on. You wanted someone plain. Someone tragically average.”

“That’s not—“

“But still… you decided to spend two grand on this.” Mike sips his drink, dramatic. “I’ll take it.”

And that—that—makes Harvey laugh.

It’s short and soft and rusty from disuse, but real. The sound fills the room and curls warm in Mike’s stomach.

He wants to hear it again.

Harvey shakes his head, still smiling faintly. “I meant… I wanted something completely different from my—”

He stops. The air shifts.

Mike doesn’t move. Waits.

Harvey swallows. Then finishes quietly, “From my type.”

Mike doesn’t press.

But something heavy and invisible settles between them, and it feels uncomfortable.

The food’s mostly finished. They drift from the table, but the space between them narrows without either of them noticing. Mike perches on the velvet couch, heels discarded somewhere in the room, tucks his legs to the side. Harvey sits across from him, Suit jacket gone, top two buttons of shirt undone, nursing his drink, gaze distant.

Mike breaks the quiet. “So, when besides hiring hookers to not have sex… what else do you do for fun?”

Harvey glances at him, dry. “I wouldn’t call that fun.”

“You didn’t hate it.”

A pause.

“No,” Harvey admits. “I didn’t.”

Mike smiles softly. “So… movies, music, expensive liquor. What else?”

“I box.”

Mike perks up. “Oh? That explains the arms.”

Harvey raises an eyebrow, amused.

Mike shrugs. “What? Don’t pretend you don’t know they look good.”

Harvey snorts into his glass.

Then, carefully, like testing the weight of a door that’s been closed too long: “What about you?”

Mike tenses. “What about me?”

Harvey nods toward him. “What do you do? When you’re not here.”

It’s a simple question. Not invasive. Not cruel.

But Mike hesitates. The instinct to lie comes first. 

But something in Harvey’s eyes—watchful, serious, a little too honest—makes Mike waver.

“I study,” he says finally. “Law.”

Harvey stills. “Yeah?”

Mike nods. “Second year. NYU. Student loans up to my eyeballs.”

Harvey says nothing. Just studies him.

“And this?” Harvey asks, after a pause.

Mike doesn’t wait for a reaction. “I need money. It’s New York. Shit’s expensive.”

No sob story. No details about Grammy or hospital bills or nights with red eyes in the library followed by nights like this. Just the truth, cleaned up.

“But why this?” Harvey asks, voice steady.

Mike shrugs. “This pays better than tutoring freshmen who don’t read their cases.” He grins. “Also, I look amazing in dress.”

Harvey’s mouth curves slightly. “You do.”

It’s not flirtatious, exactly. Just matter-of-fact.

And it hits harder than a thousand sleazy compliments ever could.

Mike shifts, pressing his knee against the armrest, chin resting on his hand. He watches Harvey closely.

“And you?” he asks, teasingly. “What made the legendary Harvey Specter hire a guy in heels on a Thursday night?”

Harvey just breathes out, low and even. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

Mike expected that.

Still, he nods, then lifts his glass in mock toast.

“To not talking about things,” he says.

Harvey clinks his glass softly against Mike’s. “Cheers to that.”

Mike’s not sure how long they sit like that — the half-empty glasses on the table, the quiet hum of a city beneath seventeen floors, the thick, silent pause between every almost-conversation.

He watches Harvey for a long beat, then stretches one leg out, nudging his toe against the edge of Harvey’s shoe.

“So…” Mike says, tone light. “What’s next?”

Harvey looks up, eyebrows creased. “What?”

Mike smiles, head tilted. “I mean, is this your usual rhythm? Dinner, staring contest, awkward silences?” He leans forward. “You treat all your dates this way? No wonder you had to pay for sex.”

That makes Harvey laugh — full and low and real, for just a moment like the weight of grief let go, if only briefly.

Mike beams, victorious.

“I’m kidding,” he adds, though not really. “You’re charming in that whole silent, brooding, mysterious way. ”

Harvey just shakes his head, but he’s still smiling.

Then, slowly, he reaches for his phone.

Mike watches as Harvey scrolls through something—his music library maybe—and taps play. A soft crackle fills the room. Then—

“Unforgettable… that’s what you are…”

Nat King Cole’s voice slides into the room like candlelight, warm and full of memory.

Mike blinks. “Wow. Going full romance on me now?”

Harvey doesn’t answer.

Instead, he stands, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. Then he looks down at Mike, and—unexpectedly—offers his hand.

“Milady,” Harvey says, mock-formal, lips twitching.

Mike’s heart does a weird little somersault in his chest.

“I don’t—” he stammers, glancing down at his bare feet and the dress and the very not-a-ballroom living room. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Don’t worry,” Harvey says gently. “I’ll lead.”

Mike blushes a lovely shade of pink. He takes the offered hand, lets Harvey pull him up. Their fingers stay twined as Harvey tugs him in, just close enough for Mike’s other hand to find his shoulder.

They start to sway.

Harvey doesn’t try anything. No sudden pull, no grinding, no overtures. He just moves slowly, guiding them in a soft, aimless rhythm, side to side. As if this was all he wanted from the start.

Just… this.

Music. Motion. Someone to hold.

“Relax your shoulders,” Harvey murmurs, his voice low and close. “It’s not wrestling, its dancing.”

Mike huffs a shaky laugh, but obeys. He wills the tension, the stiffness to leave his body.

“There you go,” Harvey senses the difference immediately. “That’s it.”

Mike’s chest tightens.

It’s not romantic, not exactly. But it’s intimate in a way that disarms him. Dangerous in its tenderness.

Harvey’s hand settles low on Mike’s back—not suggestively, just steady. Grounding. His head dips, rests lightly against Mike’s shoulder. Not with hunger. With need.

And Mike realizes—

Harvey’s not dancing with him.

He’s dancing through him.

Holding someone else in his mind, maybe. Or chasing the memory of someone who used to fit against him this way. The way grief does—clinging to ghosts, pretending they’re flesh again.

But Mike doesn’t stop him.

He lets Harvey hum along with the music. Lets him breathe slow and deep against his neck. Lets the silence carry more meaning than words ever could.

“You’re doing good,” Harvey whispers, barely audible.

They sway like that for an indefinite amount of time. It’s so easy to just be here, like this, forget about all the bills, the worries and the problems. And just be. In this moment.

Mike closes his eyes.

And for a little while, he pretends too.

They don’t stop after one song.

The second melts into the third, third into fourth and by then, Mike has forgotten he’s barefoot, wearing a wig, in a dress that smells faintly of someone else’s perfume. He’s forgotten he meant to keep things light. He’s even forgotten the rules.

Harvey holds him like someone who doesn’t forget.

Like he remembers everything.

Each step is gentle, each sway unhurried. It’s not a seduction—it’s a lullaby.

By the end of the fourth (fifth?) song, Harvey lifts his head from where it’s rested against Mike’s shoulder. Their faces are close now, breath mingling. There’s still a crease between his brows—like he’s thinking too hard—but his eyes are clearer than they were an hour ago.

And then he says, softly:

“Happy now?”

Mike blinks.

It’s not teasing. It’s not mocking. Just… curious.

Like Harvey’s asking if this was enough—if the dancing, the wine, the soft music and softer hands, managed to give Mike whatever it was he was hoping for.

Mike smiles.

“Very.” And he means it.

Harvey studies him a moment longer. Then:

“What would you like to do next?”

Mike’s heart stutters.

For a second, he almost answers honestly. Almost says, I’d like to keep dancing. Or lie down next to you and talk about nothing until we fall asleep.

But then he remembers.

This isn’t a real date.

This isn’t a movie.

This is a job.

So instead, he gives Harvey a half-smile and says, after a beat:

“—Anything you want.”

Harvey tilts his head, narrowing his eyes slightly.

He caught the pause.

“I want to do what you want.”

Mike exhales, just a little laugh under his breath, and steps back half a pace. He crosses his arms loosely, gaze skeptical. “If I’m not what you want,” he says carefully, “you should’ve sent me back earlier.”

Harvey just watches him.

“You know,” Mike adds, “you still have to pay for me. Even if you don’t fuck me.”

There’s no venom in it. Just facts.

Harvey smiles. Just a little.

And gives Mike’s ass a light, casual slap as he passes him to turn the music off.

“Smartass,” he mutters.

Mike startles—then laughs. “Hey!”

Harvey moves toward the table, picking up his drink again. Still smirking.

“I’m offering you money to not work,” he says, calm as ever, “and you’re refusing it. I thought you would be smarter than this.”

Mike follows slowly, shaking his head.

“You’re a very confusing man.”

“That’s part of the charm.”

“That and spanking escorts without consent?”

Harvey gives him a look.

“First you complain about me not touching you at all,  now you complain that I do. You’re really playing the part really well.” He points in the general direction of Mike’s dress. “What do you even want?”

Mike bites back a smile. “I think confusing men just comes naturally when you dress like this.”

Harvey ducks his head to hide the smile, the one that looks like he’s proud of him for matching him word for word. He leans back on the couch again, swirling the last inch of whiskey in his glass, waiting.

Mike stands by the windows for a moment longer, letting the cool city light wash over him through the glass. He hugs his arms loosely across his chest—not cold, just bracing. Maybe for honesty.

Harvey’s question still hangs in the air.

“What do you want?”

I don’t have the luxury of wants, I have learned how to be content with whatever I get. He thinks, but he has to answer something now.

So, this time, Mike talks, honest.

No deflection. No teasing. Just the truth, quiet and a little shy.

“I’ve never had a TV this big,” he says, glancing toward the massive flat-screen mounted on the wall.

Then he adds, almost sheepish, “Let’s watch a movie.”

Harvey smiles. Not his smirk. Not the polite mask. Something genuine.

“Yeah?” he says, setting his drink down. “That’s it?”

Mike shrugs, walking back toward the couch, barefoot, dress hem brushing his legs. “What can I say? I’m just a simple man, don’t let the knock off Gucci fool you.”

Harvey actually snorts out a laugh—his third tonight— not that Mike’s keeping a track or anything —and grabs the remote from the side table. 

“Alright. Dealer’s choice.” Mike sits down next to him, unconsciously closer than before. The cushion dips gently beneath him. He pulls his legs up under himself, suddenly aware of how domestic this all feels.

“You should choose. It’s your first time.” Harvey says after giving him time to get comfortable.

“Such a gentleman.” Mike takes the offered remote and starts scrolling through Netflix. A row of film posters flick past. He scrolls aimlessly, pausing here and there. Then he lands on one.

“Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”

He frowns a little, reading the description.

“I’ve heard about this one forever,” he says aloud. “Always meant to watch it.”

He hovers his finger over the play button.

Beside him, Harvey goes still.

Not a full-body flinch, but close. His voice, when it comes, is soft but definite:

“Pick something else, I’ve seen it recently.”

Mike turns slightly. Harvey isn’t looking at the screen anymore.

It takes Mike a second too long to realize why that might matter. His gut twists.

Of course.

He picked the sad romantic breakup movie. Of course he did.

Mike clicks out of the movie without a word and keeps scrolling. He can’t make his mind about any of them, still somewhat cautious that if he picks the wrong one again, he’d loose all the progress he made with Harvey and he’ll go back to silently mourning the night.

A beat later, he sighs and tosses the remote into Harvey’s lap.

“You pick,” he says.

Harvey catches it easily.

Harvey flips through the screen for a minute, brows furrowed in thought.

“What are we in the mood for?” he muses. 

“If I had known that, why would I have given you the control.”

Harvey shrugs, navigates to classics. The list scrolls—The Apartment, To Catch a Thief, An Affair to Remember, Some Like It Hot.

Mike’s heart lurches just a little at the last one, a story about two musicians disguised as women in an all female band. He doesn’t say anything, but Harvey notices. 

“Too on the nose?” he asks.

Mike huffs a quiet laugh. “Honestly? Yeah. If I wanted to see a man dressed as a woman, I’d just look in in the mirror.”

He scrolls some more and stops on one, Roman Holiday.

Mike squints at the screen. “Are you secretly a vampire, old man?” he asks, half-laughing. “Because that movie is definitely older than you.”

Harvey looks at him.

Not annoyed. Not smug.

Just looking, with that steady, unreadable gaze that makes Mike forget how to breathe for a second.

“Don’t you trust me?” Harvey asks quietly.

Mike swallows.

This is worse than earlier. Back when Harvey was keeping his distance, Mike had room to hide. Now he’s being seen, and it’s not the kind of attention he’s used to.

“Sure,” he says lightly, trying to recover. “Mr. I-lie-for-a-living, I trust you.”

Harvey doesn’t miss a beat.

“You say that like you’re not studying to be a lawyer too.”

Mike turns his head, one brow lifting.

“Yeah, but I want to use my degree to bring justice to people. You know, the common kind. Not just fatten some hedge fund prick’s portfolio while he guts pensions and ruins lives.”

Harvey’s lips twitch, just slightly. Like he’s impressed.

“Huh. A movie about your life might be more interesting than anything on Netflix.”

“Oh that’s just the tip of the iceberg.” Mike smiles. “What would you name it?”

Harvey hums thoughtfully. “A Hooker with a Heart of Gold.”

Mike snorts. “Jesus. Could you be more cliché?”

Harvey shrugs, unbothered. “Hey, I call it like I see it.”

Mike shifts, hugging a pillow under his arm.

“Fine. If we’re doing this… Homework, Heels and Hustling.”

Harvey nods. “That one has range. Robinhood: robbin’ rich dudes.”

“That’s clever.” Mike chuckles.

“Or... Stay with me here, ‘Fuck ‘em by night, fuck ‘em over by day.”

Mike almost snorts the drink through his nose, “that’s too long, but it’s a good one.” The pig like sound surprises them both and they crack up once again, overlapping, loose and unfiltered. Mike presses a hand to his stomach.

“God. Okay. I think that’s enough titles for now.” He exhales, a small smile still playing on his lips. “That story’s not complete yet.” 

He gestures toward the screen. “Let’s watch this one. And you can’t blame me if I fall asleep in the first five minutes.”

“Your lack of trust wounds me...” Harvey teases, but presses the play button.

The laughter fades, but not the feeling.

There’s a quiet that follows—soft, full. The kind that settles over two people who’ve moved closer without realizing it, the space between them narrower now — warm with the echo of earlier laughter and that one-too-long moment of eye contact neither of them mentioned.

The black-and-white glow of Roman Holiday washes over the room, quiet and nostalgic. Audrey Hepburn’s soft voice fills the space.

The film begins, and Harvey discovers, Mike likes to talk, even during the movie.

At first, Harvey expects to be annoyed. But instead, he finds himself... listening. Watching him more than the movie.

“Wow,” Mike breathes when she appears in the full princess get up.

“She’s just—look at her. Like, actually look at her. That’s not even fair. She looks ethereal, I am not sure I could handle that beauty in color. And that bone structure, that could cut glass.”

Harvey doesn’t respond, just sips his drink.

Mike shifts slightly, tucks his knees toward himself, and leans sideways—not on Harvey, not yet—but toward him. Just enough that if either of them moved a couple inches, they’d be touching.

“Wait, Gregory Peck is a total dreamboat. Was everyone hotter back then?”

Harvey glances sideways, amused.

Mike makes the occasional comment, casually pointing out ‘a princess hiding in plain sight’ how impossible it would be in today’s world. 

And Harvey listens.

Rarely responds. Not just to keep the conversation going, but because he wants to hear what Mike thinks. How he sees the world. What makes him laugh. What softens his voice.

Harvey doesn’t speak.

But he looks at Mike, not like he’s trying to undress him or figure him out. It’s quieter than that. Like he’s watching something he doesn’t want to forget. Like he’s seeing something he didn’t expect to find tonight.

Then the prank scene plays — Joe fakes losing his hand to the Mouth of Truth. Audrey shrieks, then laughs, throwing herself in his arms.

Mike gasps, delighted.

“Okay, that was cruel. But hilarious. And her face! Look at her. She looks like she felt that in her soul.”

Harvey doesn’t say anything — but he’s not watching the screen anymore.

He’s watching Mike.

Watching how the emotions flicker across his face — amusement, wonder, tension, softness. Like someone seeing magic for the first time and not knowing how to process it.

Mike’s glued to the screen.

He laughs out loud when Joe intentionally keeps spilling his drink on his friend or hitting him things mid-conversation, shutting him up.

“That’s such a dick move. I love it. Totally stealing that for my real life.”

Harvey shakes his head, grinning.

Mike, oblivious, is still laughing at the scene. His face lit by the TV glow. His wig is a little unruly. Lips parted in the aftermath of humor and warmth.

Harvey turns back to the movie just before Mike glances over.

The movie plays on. 

And for a while, neither of them says anything.

They just sit.

Side by side.

Breathing in time with the flicker of something that might be starting.

Mike watches with his chin propped on his hand, and after a while, mutters—

“Okay. I get the hype. Its… kind of magic.”

Harvey smiles without looking at him. “Told you.”

The longer they sit together, Mike occasionally steals glances at him too. Observing the way he smiles faintly at quiet scenes, not the loud ones.

Then, without thinking, he says—

“You kinda look like Gregory Peck, you know.”

Harvey glances at him, surprised. "Thank you." He smirks.

Mike blushes, remembering calling the actor dreamboat earlier. “I mean, not just looks, in a ‘tall, morally corrupt, but still a gentleman kind of way.”

Harvey lets the smile rise, slow and amused.

“Funnily enough, I’m exactly the same age he was here.”

“Weird coincidence.” Mike replies awkwardly and turns to the screen.

And somewhere in the back of Mike’s mind—a thought settles, uninvited and unwanted, but not unwelcome.

If I ever find someone…

I wouldn’t mind if they were like this.

He doesn’t say it.

Doesn’t even let himself hold onto it for long.

But it’s there.

Warm and quiet and waiting.

They fall quiet again for a while, letting the movie unfold. Audrey’s princess balancing a tightrope between duty and desire. The truth she hides from the man sitting beside her. The man who knows more than he lets on.

Mike leans back, the movie working its way past his defenses.

“She knows it can’t last,” he says softly. “But she still wants one perfect day.”

Harvey doesn’t answer.

He just watches her on the screen. Then glances, briefly, at the boy beside him.

Mike’s voice dips quieter. “That’s… sad as hell.”

“But honest.” Harvey finally says. “She doesn’t pretend it’s something it isn’t.”

Mike exhales slowly. Nods. “I don’t usually like sad endings. But this one feels… fair. Like it was always supposed to go that way.”

Harvey glances at him. “Surprised you liked it?”

Mike smirks faintly, still watching the screen.

“Kinda. I thought I’d be bored out of my mind. But… I dunno. There’s something about it.”

He fidgets with a loose thread on the pillowcase.

“Maybe it’s because nothing’s over the top. No melodrama. Just… two people being soft with each other while they can.”

Harvey doesn’t respond, but the silence says enough.

Mike looks at him, expression softer than it’s been all night.

“This your favorite?”

Harvey stares straight ahead. “One of them.”

Mike smiles. Just a little.

“Not bad, old man. Not bad at all.”

Harvey chuckles under his breath. “That was her first movie. Can you believe that?” he says softly.

“Really?! She was so good! If she debuted in today’s Hollywood, she would’ve ended careers. Like—completely obliterated half the industry.”

Harvey murmurs, “She did, in her own time.”

Mike hums in agreement, eyes still wide, open, glowing with something Harvey can’t name.

And in that moment, there’s no transaction, no expectation — just two people, drifting into the kind of night that lives quietly in your bones long after it ends.

The credits roll in soft black-and-white, but neither of them moves to turn the TV off.

The silence stretches between them now. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just… waiting. Weighted.

Mike glances toward the balcony window, then back at him. “Hey—uh, what time is it?” he asks, voice low.

Harvey checks his watch. “2:20”

Mike nods, then mutters, barely above a whisper, “Shit.”

He sits up a little straighter, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Listen… I know you paid for the whole night, and I don’t mean to rush anything, but…” He hesitates, then powers through.

“Would you mind if we just, uh, get it over with quickly? I’ve got a morning shift and I’d really appreciate a couple hours of sleep.”

Harvey turns toward him, brows raised slightly.

“Get what over with?”

Mike meets his eyes, blinking once.

Then says flatly:

“Come on. We both know why I’m here.”

The warmth from before feels like it evaporates.

Harvey doesn’t respond. Not with words.

He stands slowly, smooth as ever, and gestures toward the bedroom with a tilt of his head. Then he walks.

Mike watches him go, stomach twisting, throat dry.

Of course.

That softness earlier — the movie, the laughter — that wasn’t real. That was indulgence. Like the chocolate on the pillow. A momentary kindness before the inevitable.

He stands, following slowly, feet sinking into the plush carpet like the floor’s trying to hold him back.

Harvey sits on the edge of the bed, then leans back against the pillows. Not seductive. Not even particularly alert. He looks… tired.

He glances toward Mike.

“What are you waiting for?”

Mike blinks. “Don’t you want to change first?”

Harvey looks down at himself as if surprised. Then lets out a quiet laugh.

“I think I’m sleepier than I thought.”

He pushes off the bed, stretches once, and pads to the bathroom.

Mike stands frozen. Still in the doorway. Still in the dress.

Still in the dream he tricked himself into thinking might last longer.

He hears the water run, the soft rustle of fabric. 

He sits down, lets himself lean back. Lets himself breathe. 

What did I think?

That Harvey would say let’s go on a few more dates first? That he’d kiss me goodnight and mean it?

Life isn’t a black and white romantic comedy with a violin sound track. Not for me.

And especially not tonight.

It’s just pretend. He’s just a client. It’s just money. He repeats, for his own sanity.

The bathroom door opens, spilling soft yellow light across the darkened bedroom.

Harvey steps out, barefoot and quiet, dressed in one of those hotel robes that looks way too comfortable. It’s loosely tied at the waist. His hair’s a little damp at the temples.

The whole night unspools in his head. The dancing. The dinner. The way Harvey laughed at his own movie titles. The way he listened. The way he looked at him like Mike was something more than warm body with a price tag.

And now?

Now it’s this.

The slow return of reality.

Mike gets up and moves toward Harvey, legs heavy. His stomach knots with the old familiar weight of pretending. But worse, this time — because for a few times, he forgot that’s what he was doing.

“Bathroom’s all yours.” Harvey gestures with a small tilt of his head.

Mike nods, his fingers twitching at his side.

“Right. Uh—should I leave the dress on, or…?” He hates how unsure he sounds.

Harvey gives him a mild look, amused but not unkind.

“I can’t imagine how that’d be comfortable.”

Mike lets out a dry breath. “...Right.”

He usually asks, at this point. Would you like to prep me, or should I do it myself? It’s routine. Transactional. But the words sit heavy in his mouth, unmoving.

He just nods instead. Walks to the bathroom without meeting Harvey’s eyes.

The door clicks shut behind him.

He exhales into the quiet, his hands already reaching for the zipper of the dress.

He doesn’t take off the wig.

Or the makeup.

Just the dress.

He wraps himself in the hotel robe, cinching it tight around his waist, and takes a moment to just… breathe.

It’s not nerves.

It’s not quite dread.

It’s something murkier. Like he’s mourning the version of tonight that lived in his head, even for just a few hours.

When he emerges, the room is dim.

The lights are off — all except the small bedside lamp on his side.

Harvey’s already in bed. On his side, robe still on. One arm flung loosely over the pillow, the other tucked under his head.

He’s snoring softly.

Mike blinks.

“Shit. Did I take too long in the bathroom.”

He steps forward slowly, disoriented by the sight. He thought—he expected—some kind of cue. A question. A touch. A signal that the evening wasn’t over yet.

But Harvey…

Harvey is fast asleep.

And for once, the face that usually gives away nothing is completely unguarded.

Relaxed. Vulnerable, in a way Mike’s never seen before.

There’s a faint furrow between his brows, even in sleep. But it looks less like tension and more like someone who’s used to holding himself together.

Mike stands frozen for a second longer.

He should probably wake him.

But instead, he just… watches.

Because this is the first time Harvey hasn’t been someone — not a client, not a persona, not even the grieving husband with hopeless eyes. He’s just a man. Tired. Still healing.

And maybe—just maybe—trusting Mike enough to fall asleep beside him.

Mike walks over quietly, slips beneath the blanket, careful not to rustle too much.

He rests on his side, watching the curve of Harvey’s faint rise and fall of chest as he breathes.

The bedside lamp clicks off with a soft sound.

Darkness fills the room.

And somewhere beneath the quiet, beneath the confusion, beneath the blur of lipstick and lace and everything unsaid—Mike wonders when this stopped feeling like a job.

Light filters in through the sheer curtains, pale and golden, brushing against the edge of the bed like it’s afraid to wake them.

Harvey blinks slowly, eyelids heavy but not strained. No headache. No tiredness. No weight behind his eyes dragging him down into the ache of another day.

He feels… rested.

God. When was the last time?

He exhales, long and low, stretching beneath the covers. The robe’s belt has come undone sometime in the night, one arm exposed to the cool morning air. But the sheets are warm. Soft. Holding faint traces of lavender and something else — something faintly floral, faintly artificial.

He turns his head.

Mike’s still asleep beside him. Curled toward the edge of the bed, his knees drawn up slightly, wig mussed, makeup smudged faintly beneath his eyes.

And still somehow…

Beautiful.

Unfairly so, for someone who claimed he didn’t think he looked good in a dress.

Harvey watches for a second longer.

Then Mike groans.

Long. Drawn out. Muffled in the pillow.

“Dude.” His voice is scratchy, sleep-wrecked. “This bed is amazing. It's like sleeping in the clouds.”

Harvey chuckles quietly, still facing him.

“I’m glad it holds up to your standards, Your Highness.”

Mike’s eyes flutter open halfway, just barely awake.

He grins, crooked and unguarded.

“You can call me Anya, Joe.”

Harvey shakes his head, bemused.

“You’re going to milk those movie references all day, aren’t you?”

“You started it.” Mike shifts, checks the time, flops onto his back, eyes closed again.

“Besides, it’s not every night I get to be a runaway princess and crash in a palace.”

“You didn’t crash. You were escorted.”

Mike snorts. “Escorted by the guy who bought me. Sounds more Pretty Woman than Roman Holiday, but sure.”

Harvey smiles, but doesn’t correct him.

He doesn’t say, I didn’t buy you.

He doesn’t say, I just wanted someone to make the day feel less lonely.

Instead, he says, “You talk a lot in the morning.”

Mike yawns, stretching. One bare leg slips out from the sheet.

“I talk a lot at any time of the day. You’ll learn to love it.” He says, but freezes as soon as his sleep addled brain catches upto his own words.

Mike’s still sprawled half-under the covers, arm flung over his eyes, when his phone starts vibrating on the nightstand. The tinny jingle of his alarm slices through the calm.

BZZZT. BZZZT. BZZZT.

He groans again, this time less dramatically and more… reluctantly.

“Shit,” he mutters, fumbling blindly for the phone before dropping it.

He silences it with a thumb press, then lets the phone drop beside him on the mattress.

Harvey glances over.

“Work?”

Mike sighs, rolling onto his side to face him.

“Yeah. My day job. The one that doesn’t come with satin robes and room service.” He squints at the ceiling. “Honestly, it’s criminal they expect anyone to function this early.”

“Life isn’t always what one likes, is it?” Harvey smirks, quoting the movie again.

"It isn't." Mike smiles. As he starts to sit up, the robe shifting loosely around his shoulders. His bare legs swing over the side of the bed. “I hate this nightgown. I hate all my nightgowns, and I hate all my underwear too.”

“You should always wear my clothes.” Harvey quips back, making him laugh.

“I should shower,” Mike says to himself, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his hand.

Harvey watches him for a second.

Not in a way that demands he stay. Not in a way that asks him to go.

Just watches. Neutral, unreadable.

Mike hesitates.

Half of him wants to say something dumb, like thanks for not being an asshole. Or I had fun. Or worse — do you ever do this again? Like, the whole no-sex, fall-asleep-watching-black-and-white-films part?

But none of those things belong in this kind of morning.

Not when he’s pulling off hotel sheets with cheap foundation still on his face.

He shoves himself to his feet.

“I’ll be out in a few,” he mumbles.

And without looking back, he disappears into the bathroom.

He takes a quick shower, fixes the wig in the mirror with practiced hands, and steps back into the main room dressed once again in last night’s illusion — the dress still smooth but slightly wrinkled, the heels familiar and suddenly unwelcome.

He feels… smaller.

Like stepping back into a role that no longer fits.

Harvey’s by the window, silhouetted by the soft morning light. He turns when Mike reenters, his expression unreadable — then moves to the desk and picks up something from a folded envelope.

He holds it out.

Mike hesitates for a second, then takes the cash without comment. He doesn’t count it — Harvey doesn’t seem like the type to shortchange. Still, the weight of it in his hand feels heavier than it should.

Harvey clears his throat lightly.

“There’s still time, if you want breakfast. I was going to order something.”

It’s simple. Casual.

But it lands like a punch.

Mike forces a smile, even as his chest squeezes.

“It’s midnight, Joe. I’ll turn into a pumpkin and drive away in my glass slipper.”

His voice is softer than it’s been all morning.

Harvey looks at him for a beat too long.

Like he might say something.

Like he almost does.

But instead, he just nods.

Mike walks to the door slowly, each step louder than it should be in the hush of the room.

He presses his hand against the doorframe, just briefly, steadying himself before pulling it open.

The hallway is cool. Bright. Real.

He steps through it.

And doesn’t look back.

But as the door closes softly behind him, something sinks in his chest.

Something cold. Something quiet.

Like leaving a part of himself behind in a room where he was finally allowed to forget who he was — even just for a night.

“Rome. I will cherish my visit here in memory as long as I live.” Audrey’s line comes to his mind, unprompted.

But he doesn’t have time to dwell on that.

He has a shift to get to.

And fairy tales were never written for boys like him anyway.