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The sensation of passing out is not unfamiliar to Mike Ross.
Ever since he was a kid, he had a tendency to do things too fast, pushing himself to the point of exhaustion without realising it, and what with being such a skinny, scrawny little thing who never really ate enough, his body had never really learnt to cope.
He’d been scared the first few times, confused why he suddenly felt so dizzy and nauseous all the time, why sometimes when he’d stand up too quickly or run too fast in gym lessons the room would suddenly be swaying, vision greying out before he’d wake up on the floor.
But he’d gotten used to it.
It wasn’t all the time, it isn’t, but it’s worse now, worse than it’s been for a while.
But there’s nothing to do about it, not really. Mike knows it’s a problem, like, logically he does, but it’s not his fault, so what does it matter? He just doesn’t eat enough sometimes, he just doesn’t drink enough, he’s busy. So it isn’t worth mentioning.
Well, things are busier at Pearson Specter, but Mike's always been busy. College was crazy, being a bike messenger was even worse, the only big difference is that at least now he can afford to eat… when he has the time for it.
The lack of weed in his life hasn’t helped that either, because when he’s high, he’s hungry. It’s always been the case. Sure he’s never exactly eaten healthily when high, but he eats. But now he doesn’t get high, so he’s not ordering a large cheese stuffed crust every other night, and there’s no bags of chips and snacks in the cupboards for when he gets the munchies because he doesn’t need them.
Everyone knows he’s busy, so it’s easy enough to lie when anyone notices that there’s something wrong. He says he’s just tired when he’s shaking so hard he has to sit on his hands during meetings. He makes excuses when he disappears to the bathroom just to splash cold water on his face and breathe through the dizziness somewhere free from judgment.
And it’s fine. He is fine.
People pass out sometimes. It’s just not that dramatic.
It’s like rebooting a computer, black screen, spinny wheel, and then everything’s back online. No big deal. It’s not worth worrying anyone over.
…It’s not worth letting anyone see how not-in-control he really is.
Because it’s easier to say it’s not his fault and that he’s not got a problem, because if he admits he's got a problem, if he admits how bad it’s gotten lately, what else starts unravelling?
So no one needs to know.
He can handle this.
He’s fine.
He’s just so busy.
All the damn time.
So it’s easy to ignore that it’s getting worse. He gets caught up in the rush — too many things happening at once, too many people relying on him to be sharp and fast and brilliant. All the time. So he skips meals. He stays up all night. He runs on espresso and redbull and adrenaline. One minute he’s neck-deep in case files, chasing some obscure precedent or rewriting a brief for the third time, the next he’s cycling half way across New York catching up with whatever Harvey wants him to do, then rushing from clients to the courtroom and back to the office without so much as a second to take a breath… So really, it’s no surprise that the moment he stops, just for a moment, he’s blinking at the edge of a black spot in his vision, wondering when he last had anything other than coffee.
Sometimes he’s halfway through arguing a motion in court when the room starts to sway a little, right when he can’t afford to fuck up, so he just clenches his jaw and holds his breath until it steadies again.
Other times, he doesn’t quite catch it in time. He’ll be walking down a hallway, or getting up too fast from his desk, and everything tilts. His ears start ringing, his stomach drops, his vision goes staticky and greyscale and then the floor just… takes him. He always comes to a few seconds later, heart pounding, palms clammy, and wondering if anyone saw. Usually no one does. He’s gotten good at brushing it off. Quick recovery. Back to work. Don’t ask questions.
So he doesn’t tell anyone, because what’s the point? Not Donna, definitely not Harvey. They’d make it a thing, and it’s not a thing. It’s just… him. This is how he functions. Always has been. He can’t afford to slow down. If he stops to take care of himself, something else will slip, something bigger. And he can’t let that happen.
Except he’s forgotten to eat again today.
Not deliberately. Never deliberately.
It’s hot out. One of those suffocating New York afternoons where the air hangs heavy and the sidewalks shimmer under the sun. Even indoors, the building feels like it’s sweating. The AC in the firm is technically working, but barely. It pushes out a feeble stream of cool air that gets swallowed instantly by the heat radiating from the walls, the computers, the bodies rushing through the halls. Of course Harvey has his own plug-in AC unit, but he’s been in meetings all day that he steadfastly refused to let Mike join in on.
Mike’s fairly sure he’s being punished. But he’s not entirely sure what for yet.
He hasn’t bothered to bring a jacket today. The morning had already been beyond sweltering when he left his apartment, and he’d sweated through the thin t-shirt and shorts he’d cycled in on (Harvey had been furious when he’d shown up having cycled in in his suit yesterday). Now, by noon, the heat is curling in through the windows like steam from a vent. His shirt clings to his back, damp with sweat, and there’s a sharp, dull ache behind his eyes, the kind he’s become uncomfortably familiar with after too many missed meals and too much caffeine.
He’s technically on his lunch break, slipping out of the office for some relief from the heat. He doesn’t get it, of course, because the streets of New York seem equivalent to a microwave right now, but it’s some sort of escape at least. He’s just walking past a deli, about to stop in for a bagel, when Harvey texts him. It’s urgent, because of course it is, and lunch gets forgotten again.
So he downs another coffee, makes one for Harvey and picks at half a protein bar Donna has left on his desk — probably as a hint.
No bagel.
Now he’s standing in the copy room, waiting for the printer to churn out a five hundred-page case bundle. The fluorescent lights above hum with electricity, too bright and flickering off beat, irregular and sharp. It’s too much, it’s awful.
The edges of the room feel like they’re losing their shape.
His chest flutters. Not dramatically, just that too-familiar shaky feeling, like his heart has tripped over itself.
It’s too hot.
Mike blinks. The room wobbles suddenly, the floor swaying, seasick. His legs feel heavy, his torso feels like it’s floating, unmoored.
His hand goes to the plastic casing of the copier, quick but casual, like he’s just leaning against it to check something. His skin sticks to the surface. There’s no one around, thank God.
He could sit down. He should sit down. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he shuts his eyes and counts slowly in his head. Five seconds. Ten. Trying to breathe past the heat and churning his stomach.
He’s done this before. It always passes. He doesn’t make a fuss. It’s not a big deal.
But now his fingers are tingling and his ears are starting to ring, that distant high-pitched hum that comes just before everything starts to spin. He tries to swallow, but his throat is suddenly bone-dry.
He presses his knuckles harder into the copier. Just a few more minutes.
Breathe, then grab the pages, walk back, sit down. Get a granola bar or some goldfish from Harvey’s snack drawer. Act normal. No one needs to know.
Harvey totally didn’t have a snack drawer before him, his brain unhelpfully reminds him.
Mike barely hears the printer finish. It chimes at him, playing its little song. He snaps back to reality, reaches for the stack, and misses. He staggers, shifting his weight unsteadily.
“Whoa — Mike?”
There’s a hand on his arm.
Mike blinks. There’s a vignette tint to his vision that darkens just for a moment, before he focuses.
Standing before him, is Harold. He’s not Harvey, not Donna. He’s kind of not anyone. He’s the kind of guy who always says “excuse me” too softly and holds elevators for everyone. He’s harmless, but still, Mike can’t let him know, not about this.
Harold’s looking at him, blue eyes wide with concern. He always looks a bit like a worried mouse, like some cartoon from a book Mike vaguely remembers from his childhood. That’s one of the biggest downsides of the dizziness, his memory slips, lets things he should know fall through the cracks. “You okay, Mike? You look... you look kind of awful.”
Mike opens his mouth to lie, to say he’s fine, that he just stood up too fast or something, something harmless and forgettable. But nothing comes out.
Instead, his throat catches and breath hitches, dry and tight, and the office sways around him again like everything’s suddenly suspended in water.
Harold’s still gripping his arm, tighter than he was. He might actually be supporting some of Mike’s weight now. He can’t really tell. His eyebrows are knitted together, expression sharp with quiet alarm as he scans Mike’s face.
“You’re about to pass out,” he says, not even bothering to make it a question.
Mike tries to shake his head. He doesn’t make it far.
“I’m — I’m fine,” he mutters, barely audible. It’s not convincing.
“I don’t think you are.”
Then, in the most unexpected act of gentle insistence, Harold starts guiding him (more like polite dragging, actually) down the hall. There’s nothing forceful about it, just a soft-spoken urgency that doesn’t leave room for argument. Mike is too dizzy to push back anyway. His legs feel like overcooked noodles and now he’s moving, his vision just keeps narrowing at the edges like the world is dimming. Just one pixel at a time. He’s not going to pass out. He won’t.
Harold nudges open the door to one of the smaller conference rooms, one of the private ones nobody really uses unless Harvey wants to yell at a client (or Mike) in secret, and guides him toward the couch.
“I’m not —” Mike starts, weakly, but Harold is already easing him down, his hand a careful pressure between Mike’s shoulder blades.
“Lie down. Feet up.”
Mike tries again to argue. “Harold, seriously, I’m—”
“You’re not.” Harold’s voice is still quiet, but there’s a definite note of panic now. “You’re crazy pale and you’re sweating and honestly, man, you look like you just got hit by a truck. No offence.”
“None taken,” Mike mumbles. “I’m not gonna—”
But Harold is already gently easing him down.
“Lie down,” he says again, “C’mon. Feet up.”
Mike tries to argue again, because that’s what he always does, right? He’s fine. He can work. He doesn’t need to be lying on a couch. But his head’s spinning, and now that he’s horizontal, it’s like gravity’s doing cartwheels inside his skull.
“Harold, really, I just need a second,” he manages.
“You are taking a second,” Harold replies, already propping his legs up on a stack of conference room cushions.
Mike presses the back of his wrist to his forehead. He’s clammy. Cold. And yet somehow burning up. The kind of hot that comes from the inside out. It’s awful, nauseating.
Harold hovers beside him, biting the inside of his cheek, fidgeting with his hands like he’s trying to stop himself from touching Mike, from fretting. “Do I need to call 911?”
“No,” he replies instantly, eyes still closed. “Jesus. No.”
“You sure?” Harold’s voice cracks just slightly. “Because this doesn’t look normal —”
“I just didn’t eat,” Mike mutters. “Too much coffee. I get like this sometimes.”
“That’s not better,” Harold points out, voice straining with anxious disbelief.
“I’ll be fine in five minutes.” Mike isn’t entirely sure that’s true, but saying it feels like a small way to keep control of something. Harold doesn’t argue again, but he doesn’t leave either. He hovers. Fretting. Watching him like he’s worried Mike’s going to die.
A long moment passes before Mike hears him move, probably grabbing something out of his bag. He wants to insist he’s fine, force Harold to go back to whatever task he abandoned, but honestly… he doesn’t even have the energy to be stubborn. When he feels the smooth metal of Harold’s water bottle bump against his fingers, he doesn’t fight it, just takes small sips until the spinning finally slows.
They don’t talk about it again.
It’s been about a week since the copy room incident.
Mike tells himself he’s fine now, he’s caught up on some sleep (some), he’s eating a little better (a little), and there have been no more dramatic couch episodes.
He’s got his rhythm back, that sharp, humming pace that keeps him one step ahead of deadlines and just behind total collapse.
Exactly where he operates best.
It’s mid-morning, he’s hunched over his desk, buried in a deposition summary, half a muffin abandoned on a napkin beside his keyboard. Coffee number two (or maybe three) steams gently within reach. He tells himself he’ll eat the rest of the muffin when he finishes this section. Maybe. Probably.
A familiar click of heels cuts through the general office murmur, penetrating even through his earphones and the music blasting away.
Donna.
She doesn’t stride, doesn’t strut, she just advances in a way that makes her effortlessly powerful, all confidence and red hair and that look that makes everyone (clients, interns, lawyers) scramble before she even opens her mouth.
“Hey, puppy,” she says lightly, pausing at his desk. “Harvey needs you in ten. Something about the Carmichael contract. He wants your brain in the room.”
Mike blinks up at her, a little too fast. His eyes struggling to refocus after hours locked on text.
“Cool, I’m on it,” he says, and starts to stand.
That’s when it hits him.
A surge of dizziness rushes up from his feet, crashing into him like a riptide. The room tilts. Hard. His knees buckle. It happens fast, too fast to fake steady.
He grabs the edge of his desk, trying to make the motion casual, like he’s just pushing himself up with extra momentum. But he sways. Badly. The fluorescent lights above smear into streaks.
Donna’s hand is on his arm instantly.
“Mike?” Her voice isn’t sharp or accusatory like he’d expect; it’s soft, concerned. But alert.
“I’m good,” he says too quickly. Too firmly. His smile is tight, strained at the corners. “Just got up too fast. You know how it is.”
Donna doesn’t let go. She looks at him. Really looks. Her eyes flick down to his posture, back up to his face, taking in his too-pale skin, the sheen of sweat that’s suddenly broken across his forehead, the way it feels like he suddenly can’t keep his eyes open.
“You sure?” she says, slower now. Her hand is still resting lightly on his arm, not gripping, but steady. Unlike Harold, she doesn’t seem like she’s about to start dragging him anywhere. “You don’t look so hot.”
“I’m fine,” he repeats, brushing at his jacket sleeve like that’ll somehow fix the fact that he’s gripping his desk like it might float away. “Didn’t sleep great, that’s all. Long night.”
He shifts his weight to one leg. Bad idea. The floor rolls again and he has to stop himself from grabbing at his chair.
Donna’s brow quirks up a fraction. She doesn’t press, yet. But he can feel her attention zeroing in on him, sharp and surgical.
“Long night,” she echoes mildly. “As in work, or as in you haven’t had a real meal since 1998?”
Mike laughs — too loud, too fake. “C’mon, I eat.”
Donna’s eyebrow rises higher. “Oh, do you?”
“I had half a muffin,” he says, instantly regretting it.
She stares at him.
“I’m fine,” he insists again, quieter this time, trying to ease himself away from his desk to start walking toward Harvey’s office. His legs feel like they’re made of air.
Donna follows, silent for a beat, then: “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Cause you look like you’re pretending you’re fine when you actually look like you’re actively losing consciousness.”
“I’m fine,” he says, forcing another step forward. “I’m walking. See?”
“You’re leaning sideways,” she says flatly.
“I’m not.”
She sighs. It’s not exasperated. It’s the sigh of someone who’s known him too long and seen this exact brand of self-neglect play out too many times.
“Mike,” she says, stopping him with one gentle hand at his elbow. “Sit down. Now.”
He wants to argue, wants to joke it off or redirect, but his vision swims again, and it takes everything in him not to reach for the wall.
“Just... give me a minute,” he mutters. “Seriously, I’m okay. I just stood up too fast.”
“You said that already. And you still look like you’re about to faceplant into the carpet.”
He forces a shaky smile. “If I do, at least it’s soft.”
Donna doesn’t smile back.
Instead, she nods toward a bench by the windows. “Sit. Hydrate. And then maybe, and I mean maybe, I’ll let you go join Harvey.”
He hesitates. Wobbles slightly. And finally relents.
With as much dignity as he can muster, Mike lowers himself onto the bench, jaw tight, Donna’s eyes tracking every movement. She doesn’t say ‘I told you so.’ She doesn’t have to.
She just folds her arms and stands before him, watching him like a hawk.
Mike leans his head back against the wall, heart hammering, vision swimming. He might be able to play it off this time, but he knows Donna, there’s no way this isn’t going to be talked about.
At least she might not mention it to Harvey.
Yet.
It’s late. The office is nearly empty. Harvey went home hours ago, the cleaning crew have already buzzed their way down the halls.
The glow from Mike’s laptop is the only light in Harvey’s office, where he’s been sitting since the sun went down. He’s supposed to be reviewing a contract, but his head is pounding, and his stomach has twisted itself into knots.
He barely remembers skipping dinner. Or lunch. Or maybe he never planned to eat at all.
His vision blurs at the edges, the text on the screen swimming like a bad mirage. He blinks, rubs his temples, and tries to push through.
It’s too dark, so he reaches over for the light. His arms aren’t as long as Harvey’s though, so he pushes himself up out of his chair just a little, and that’s when it hits him. It’s sudden, dramatic, dizziness comes crashing over him fast, overwhelming. The room tilts violently as his knees buckle. He stumbles, reaches out blindly for something to hold onto, but Harvey’s office is woefully, minimalistically, bare of soft furniture on this side — only the desk, the chair, the floor.
He hits the ground hard, his head smacking against the corner of the desk with a sharp, sudden crack.
Pain blossoms instantly, a hot, pulsing bloom spreading behind his eye, only adding to the fuzz in his brain as his mind whites out.
Mike lies there for a moment, he’s not sure how long. When he comes back round, he doesn’t move at first, still too dizzy and stunned to try. He’s breathing too shallow, too quick. The darkness presses in at the edges of his vision, threatening to swallow him whole again.
Slowly, painfully, after his heart finally stops racing and the dizziness eases, he drags himself upright, groaning. His hand flies to his forehead, it’s sticky with sweat, warm and wet. When he touches his face near his eye, his fingers come away damp with blood.
He sucks in a breath. This is bad.
He forces himself to stand, swaying dangerously, gripping the desk for support. His heart hammers painfully in his chest, his head throbbing with every pulse.
He doesn’t know how long he sits there, trying to steady himself, before finally dragging himself out. He gets a taxi home, he’s not that stupid that he’d try and cycle, but he does consider it, just for a moment.
The next morning, when he arrives at work, there’s a dark bruise blooming under his left eye. It’s swollen and tender, and every time he blinks, the pain flickers sharp and bright. The cut was only small in the end, hardly a centimetre across where it curves through his eyebrow.
It’s not the best he’s looked walking into the office, but it’s not the worst.
He keeps his head down as he crosses the bullpen, every intent to hide away as best he can until Harvey actually needs him, but of course that doesn’t happen.
But of course he’s intercepted by Donna as he takes his seat, already talking at him about something Harvey’s doing or has done or wants to do (Mike’s too tired to listen), but when she spots the bruise… she stops, eyes narrowing immediately.
“Michael Ross, what did you do?”
He forces a weak smile, fingers tapping nervously on his keyboard. “Oh, uh… bumped into the corner of a cupboard in the kitchen. You know, late-night snacking.”
Donna doesn’t look convinced.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just a klutz.”
It’s a lame excuse, even to his own ears. But he’s too tired to argue. Too exhausted to admit the truth — that he passed out alone, hit his head hard, and just barely caught himself before it got worse.
He hopes Harvey never finds out. He’s not sure he could explain it without sounding like a mess.
Donna knows he’s lying, but she doesn’t say anything. She just looks at him like that, and leaves it be.
So Mike tells himself he has to do better. No more passing out, no more dizzy spells. He has to eat. Drink water. Take care of himself. It’s not like he hasn’t tried.
He finds a granola bar in his desk drawer as Donna walks away, and it feels like a small victory. He’s going to do better today, get a full three meals and some water (probably not eight cups, or whatever the recommended amount is).
But as soon as he takes a bite, that familiar ache settles low in his stomach. His appetite is gone, gut churning immediately.
He forces down a few more bites, but the sweetness sticks in his throat, and his stomach twists itself into knots. He stops. Gags a little. Swallows hard. The nausea won’t go away.
But he finishes it, and swears he’ll do this every day.
He drinks, but coffee calls to him louder than water. It’s easier to gulp down, keeps him moving, and yet he knows it’s poison when he’s this drained and dehydrated. Still, he reaches for another cup.
Later, he tries to eat a proper meal. Something simple, a bagel from the cart downstairs, his favourite. But halfway through, his chest tightens, and the room spins. He pushes the paper bag away, heart pounding, sweat beading at his temples.
It’s stupid, really, that he’s gotten to this point. Sure he never ate much before, but he could always eat, even if he wasn’t hungry. This is new, this is bad, and he’s sick of this constant… well… sickness.
He reaches for the bag again, but even the thought of another bite is enough to make him gag, so he abandons it. His body seems to reject the very thing he’s desperate to give it, and he knows that he's caught in this vicious cycle. Too little fuel not to get sick, and yet no way of filling up without making it worse.
It’s only temporary, it has to be.
Mike just has to keep trying. One bite at a time. One sip of water. Repeat. He can’t let himself fall further into this pattern.
Not again.
And it gets better. Or at least, Mike tells himself that it does. He’s been drinking water, forcing down more than a few bites of food three times a day, even sleeping more than four hours a night twice this week, which, for him, feels like a wellness retreat.
He’s in Harvey’s office now, seated stiffly beside him across from a high-strung pharmaceutical company client who talks too fast and sweats through his suit. The meeting’s mostly routine — contract amendments, litigation strategy, assurances that Pearson Specter has it under control. Mike’s lips move when they’re supposed to. He catches every third word. Maybe every fourth.
Somewhere mid-meeting, he starts feeling… off. It creeps up on him slowly. A prickle behind his ears. A hollow drumbeat behind his eyes. His pulse starts to pound unevenly in his ears. He shifts in his chair, plants his feet, forces his attention back to the numbers on the contract in front of him.
He’s had half a muffin that morning. A bottle of water. That should’ve been enough.
The client stands, hand extended across the desk, still talking, too loud, too fast. Harvey stands too. Mike follows.
That’s the mistake.
The moment he gets to his feet, the floor pitches sideways. It’s like all the blood in his body suddenly drains down into the soles of his feet. The room pulses at the edges, just once, then again, sharper.
He grabs the back of the chair to steady himself, fingers digging into the leather hard enough to leave marks. Smiles (barely) and manages to shake the client’s hand. His grip is weak, clammy. He knows it.
Harvey doesn’t say anything, just watches him from the corner of his eye, that ever-present radar already kicking in. He knows.
The door shuts behind the client with a soft click.
Mike exhales. He hadn't realised until that very moment how much effort he’s sing just to stay upright.
“You look like hell,” Harvey says gently, the smirk missing from his voice.
Mike doesn’t get a chance to answer.
His knees buckle.
The room spins hard, fast, and he tries to grab the edge of Harvey’s desk but misses.
Everything drops out from under him — air, stability, sound, and darkness crowds the edges of his vision before he even hits the ground.
He comes back to himself slowly, like he’s surfacing from deep underwater. Muffled sounds reach him first, the dull hum of air conditioning, a chair scraping against the floor, footsteps moving too quickly. Then the sharper ones: the rustle of fabric, the clipped edge of a voice.
“Mike.” Harvey.
Mike blinks up at the ceiling. The light’s too bright. It spears into his skull like a needle.
“Mike,” Harvey says again, crouched beside him now, voice taut with something tight and unfamiliar. Panic, maybe, though he’s hiding it well.
Mike tries to sit up. It’s an immediate mistake. The world lurches sideways and nausea claws at his throat.
“Don’t move,” Harvey snaps, but not unkindly. He’s got a hand braced against Mike’s shoulder, Mike realises, firm and grounding. “What the hell happened?”
Mike exhales through his nose, shallow and slow. “I’m fine,” he lies, voice uncomfortably hoarse.
Harvey makes a sound of disbelief. “You passed out cold. You looked like you died, Mike. That’s not fine.”
“I just got up too fast. It’s nothing.” He’s already trying to sit again, weaker this time. His body isn’t cooperating, his arms shake with effort, and he feels like he weighs a hundred pounds more than usual.
But again, Harvey doesn’t let him. He pushes gently but insistently until Mike’s back against the carpet again. “You look like shit, Mike. What is this, low blood sugar? Dehydration? Not enough sleep?” Harvey pauses, then sighs, “…You haven’t eaten anything today, have you?”
Mike’s throat is dry, and as he tries to speak, he finds himself coughing instead, something dry and rough.
But Harvey’s Harvey, and he’s somehow already there with a water bottle, the metal one he forced onto him a few months back (that Mike totally didn’t abandon somewhere), the cap unscrewed as he offers it to him.
“Talk to me, Mike. How long has this been going on?”
Mike closes his eyes. Shame blooming hot in his chest. “I’ve been trying,” he mumbles. “I’ve been eating. More than I was.”
“More than what? What were you eating before, air?”
Mike exhales a shaky, embarrassed laugh. “I was just busy, that’s all. I didn’t mean for it to get this bad.”
“But it is this bad,” Harvey says quietly.
There’s a pause.
The carpet beneath Mike’s shoulder blades is scratchy. He can feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck.
“I hit my head?” he asks after a beat, touching the side of his temple. It’s sore, tender.
“Light bump. You missed the desk, thank God.” Harvey doesn’t sound like he’s joking, but Mike feels too sick to pick up on exactly what emotion he’s trying to convey. “Donna’s gonna murder you when she finds out.”
“Don’t tell her,” Mike says quickly.
Harvey gives him a look. “Not optional.”
Mike groans.
“Look,” Harvey says, a bit softer now, more serious. “Whatever this is, whatever’s been going on, it’s not sustainable. You don’t get to pass out in the middle of meetings and brush it off.”
“I know,” Mike mutters. And he does. But hearing Harvey say it makes it feel more real somehow. Less like a bad habit. More like a crisis.
Harvey finally hands him the water bottle.
“Slow sips.”
Mike rolls his eyes but obeys. His hands are still trembling.
Outside the window, the city goes on, hot and bright and uncaring. Inside Harvey’s office, it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
“You’re benched for the rest of the day,” Harvey adds as Mike sips. “And don’t argue, or I’ll make you lie down again.”
Mike huffs. “You’re enjoying this.”
“No. But I’ll enjoy not watching you faceplant in front of clients, thanks.”
Mike lies on Harvey’s office couch for the next twenty minutes, feet propped up on the armrest, trying not to look like he’s sulking.
Harvey doesn’t hover, which helps. He’s back at his desk, answering emails like nothing happened, but every so often, Mike catches him glancing over. Quietly checking he’s still conscious. Still breathing.
His stomach aches, not with pain, but with the hollow, gnawing weight of embarrassment. Shame, maybe. He’s not sure. There’s a pit somewhere inside him that he keeps trying to ignore.
He stares at the water bottle in his hands. It’s almost empty. He’s sipping slowly, just like Harvey told him to. His pulse has settled, but the aftershocks are still lingering, his limbs feel like jelly, his skin is too tight. He’s cold, and he’s also too hot.
After what feels like an eternity, Harvey finally gets up and walks over, standing above Mike as he tosses a granola bar onto the cushion beside him.
“Eat.”
Mike doesn’t argue. He tears it open with shaking fingers and takes small bites. It sits like paste in his mouth. His appetite hasn’t caught up to his guilt yet.
“When’s the last time you had an actual meal?”
Mike shrugs. “Last night.”
“Was it an actual meal? Something substantial?”
“It was something. Pot noodle, I think.”
“Jesus, Mike.”
He closes his eyes. “I’m trying, okay? It’s just hard. Every time I eat more than, like, half a sandwich, I feel sick.”
Harvey doesn’t say anything for a second. Then he lowers himself onto the edge of the coffee table, facing Mike. “That’s what happens when you run your body into the ground. It forgets how to take care of itself.”
Mike swallows. “Yeah, well. I’m kind of an expert at that.”
Harvey’s expression shifts. Less frustrated now, more concerned. “You ever talked to someone about this?”
Mike looks away. “What, like a doctor?”
“A doctor. A nutritionist. A therapist.”
He huffs a humourless breath. “That sounds like a lot of appointments I don’t have time for.”
“Make time,” Harvey says firmly. “Before this becomes something you can’t fix with rest and a snack.”
Mike nods. It’s not a promise, but it’s the closest he can get to one right now.
“I’m calling Ray.”
“You don’t have to —”
“I’m calling Ray, Mike.”
Mike doesn’t fight him. His body’s already protesting the thought of his bike.
When Ray arrives, Harvey walks him down to the lobby, silent but steady beside him like a security guard. People glance their way.
Mike ignores it. Everyone already talks.
Before he gets in, Harvey claps a hand on his shoulder. Not hard. Just grounding.
“Go home. Eat something real. Sleep.”
Mike nods as he sinks into the back seat, bone-tired and humiliated, but… maybe a little relieved too. Harvey knows, Harvey understands. Mike doesn’t exactly want to be like this.
“And Mike?” Harvey waits, catching Mike’s gaze as he looks up. “You don’t get extra points for burning out. You just get hurt.”