He knelt there before her, the room blanketed with silence but for her occasional sniffles as she dabbed at her eyes one last time before settling back to beam at him. She knew she should probably be embarrassed at the fact that she'd been crying, but the thing was...this was Jim, so there just wasn't any need to be. If anything, he seemed moved by the tears, his head tilted slightly, eyes gentle enough to make her want to cry all over again.

"You okay?" His voice was soft as he gently wiped an errant tear from her left cheek with a small smile that spoke all the poorly kept secrets of too many years gone by. It was amazing for her just to be looking him in the eyes again after a year of watching him avoid her gaze; but to have him staring at her with that familiar look of open adoration on his face was almost surreal.

Because she didn't have to look away now, didn't have to pretend not to notice or feel guilty because she couldn't not see.

"Yeah." She answered, her voice as soft as his had been, prompting him to nod slowly.

"So..." He grinned up at her, absently rubbing her palm with his thumb. "I'm hoping those are tears of happiness and not...you know, oh god, how am I gonna get out of this date?"

She burst out laughing, wondering if he had any idea how amazing he looked kneeling there in front of her, still in his suit.

"You got me." She sighed, tilting her head and pursing her lips. "The truth is that I had plans with Creed tonight, and, well...."

"Hey, say no more." He stood then, letting go of her hand to hold out both palms as if in surrender. "I mean, I know when to admit defeat."

She, too, stood, unable to fully snap out of the haze she'd been in since he'd first appeared, like a mirage in the desert even as she'd tried to convince herself she wasn't thirsting to death.

"You'll never have to do that again." Her own words surprised her as much as they clearly surprised him, but she didn't regret saying them. Because even though he'd hurt her so much over the past year, she trusted him like she'd never trusted another man in her life, save her father. It was one of the things that had given her the courage to just say it all that night at the beach - the knowledge that even though it was probably too late, he'd never be intentionally cruel to her. Not Jim.

At the time, the realization had been another one of the things that stung, made her wonder when and how she'd gone so horribly wrong; now, staring up at him - his eyes alive, his smile brilliant like she hadn't seen it in too long - the realization was a blessing, just another reason to marvel at the turn her life had so suddenly taken.

"Wow." It was a hoarse whisper as he stared down at her, still struggling to grasp the fact that this was actually happening.

"I know." She whispered back, gazing up at him and biting her lip to stifle her all too visible enthusiasm.

He cleared his throat, then: "So...does 6:30 work for you?"

She couldn't wipe the enormous grin off of her face as she nodded. "Sounds great."

"Good." He nodded, then an awkward silence fell.

"Well." She turned to the door, then glanced over her shoulder at him. "I need to get going. I've got a date tonight - gotta get ready."

"Oh - of course." He was chuckling at her as he watched her walk out that door, her gait light, arms swinging at her sides in the way that they did when she was really happy.

*******

She groaned, struggling to pull the shirt up over her head, flinging it aside as she impatiently pushed one coat hanger after another aside, the sound of metal scraping against metal making her even more nervous. She'd long since given up attempting to comfort herself by thinking, It's just Jim.

Because the thing was, he'd ceased being "just Jim" the night he'd looked her in the eye and told her he was in love with her, then kissed her in a way that had effectively shaken the foundation of her life.

Finally she settled on a cream colored shirt that looked deceptively layered, a built in camisole cut lower than she was used to, the blouse attached to it tapering in at her waist, sleeves cut off at the middle of her forearms. With that she wore her favorite pair of jeans - old, slightly faded, snug around her hips. She pulled out all the stops, did everything she knew to do to look her best: blew her hair straight, then carefully curled it; wore a little more makeup than she typically did, even a touch of lip gloss and an extra coat of mascara; dabbed perfume behind her ears and on her wrists, then sprayed it into her hair.

When she stood in front of her bathroom mirror, stepping back to get a full view of herself, she paused, a small smile pulling at her lips when she considered the fact that this was all for him.

...Not that it hadn't already been for so long, but now...this time, he'd notice; this time, she didn't have to pretend, didn't have to brush it off. Never would she have imagined how incredible it would feel to just let herself revel in it.

To just dive in head first, heart following...body not far behind.

*******

He'd stood there in front of the fresh cut flowers for far too long, staring at the various bouquets nestled behind the refridgerated glass. He wondered if it'd be too much - too weird - for him to show up with flowers. Too cliche? Too desperate?

He contemplated calling his mother for her opinion, but she'd ask too many questions that he wasn't prepared to answer; his next impulse was to call his brother, but he knew Jonathan would probably get in a good dig or two before offering his sagely wisdom...and really, his nerves couldn't take it. Not tonight.

He hadn't been this ridiculously nervous since the night he'd taken Elizabeth Penn to the band prom in seventh grade, having decided that he'd finally make his move and kiss her at the end of the night.

Twenty-five minutes later, he was standing in the hall outside her apartment, sucking in a deep breath before he knocked on the door, his hands cold and sweaty as he waited for her to answer.

Her door swung open then, and his anxieties seemed to dissipate at the sight of her face - eyes bright, smile radiant, collarbone flushed.

"Oh my god." She blurted, then immediately clamped a hand over her mouth, feeling like a total dork. It's just that she hadn't expected him to be standing there holding a bouquet of brilliant red gerbera daisies, and the sight of him in jeans and a white button down shirt - the sleeves rolled up, hem untucked - was too much.

He was Jim...but so much more. Or maybe he was all he'd ever been - only she was finally allowing herself to appreciate him, to take him all in, to let herself drift away with the marvel of it all...that her best friend had somewhere along the line morphed into the fucking man of her dreams.

Or maybe he always had been.

...Of course he always had been.

"Uh, hey." He smiled awkwardly, wondering if the "oh my god" had been a good thing. Shit, I freaked her out with the flowers; it was too much. Or maybe not. Maybe it's - "Okay, are the flowers too much? Is that why you said 'oh my god'? I'm sorry; I just...."

She laughed nervously, shaking her head at him, her expression tinged with amazement. "No, the flowers are not too much; they're pretty....awesome, in fact."

"Seriously?" He narrowed his eyes, searching her face and prompting her to laugh again, her head thrown back. He tried not to notice the way her shirt dipped a bit low, her breasts swelling beneath the thin, cream-colored fabric.

"Seriously." She was smiling at him, then she opened the door a little wider, waving him inside as he handed her the flowers.

As she made her way to the kitchen to find a vase, he turned in slow circles, taking in her living room - his eyes hungrily roving the bookshelves, the art on the walls, the pictures in frames.

She had her back to him as she carefully snipped the ends of the flowers, then filled the vase with water. "So...where're we going?"

When he didn't answer right away, she turned, kitchen shears still in one hand. He was leaning down in front of her coffee table, staring at a framed photograph that he eventually picked up - so engrossed in it that he didn't even answer her question; it was almost as if he hadn't heard it. A fleeting flicker of embarrassment leapt up, coloring her cheeks, but she deliberately let it go.

Still, she couldn't help but wonder if he'd think it was weird.

He answered her question soon enough, picking up the frame and staring at it for a few more seconds before he turned to look at her, wonder in his eyes. "This is from - "

"The Dundies two years ago, yeah." She gave him a shy smile, setting the vase of flowers down on the kitchen counter before she joined him in the living room. "Phyllis took it; she gave it to me a few weeks after you...uh, transferred."

"Oh." He was surprised that she'd mentioned the transfer for some stupid reason - maybe because he was still getting used to actually talking to her again, without that wall of indifference he'd so carefully cultivated ever since he'd seen her leave with Roy after Phyllis's wedding. Or maybe even before that.

She was watching his face, the insecurity overtaking her for a second. "Oh my god...is it weird that I have that picture framed?"

"What? No - no, not at all, seriously."

"Really? Because I was...god, I was so drunk that night." She shook her head in embarrassment. "I never get drunk."

He laughed, something in the timbre putting her at ease. "Yeah, you were pretty wasted, Beesly."

"Shut up." She shook her head in embarrassment as he laughed at her. They exchanged a smile for a comfortable moment that quickly dissolved into a palpable tension.

Then he forced himself to break eye contact and ask: "So...you ready to go?"

"Sure." She nodded enthusiastically.

"Okay." An awkward silence fell as they stood there looking at one another, standing side-by-side in her living room, Jim still holding the framed photo from the night she'd first kissed him - drunk, uninhibited. Their eyes met as he handed her the frame, and her pulse beat a bit faster; she wondered if he'd kiss her now.

....Because god, she hoped he would. The memory of his mouth on hers almost a year earlier was almost frustrating, because she'd re-played the moment so damned many times that it had taken on near mythical status in her head; surely it hadn't been that amazing...surely she was exaggerating the memory.

He wished she'd look away from him, maybe say something off the wall or do something to snap him out of the moment -- anything other than the way she was staring so boldly at him, holding his gaze with her own as if she were daring him to give in to it, the all-too obvious tension that had plagued them from the moment he'd shaken her hand for the first time.

Only now it was ten times as intoxicating, because all of a sudden, there was nothing holding them back.

It was just too heady, this. Weren't miracles supposed to happen in a flash - one quick, life-altering moment that came and went...?

Not this prolonged invitation, daring them both to reach out and take hold of all they'd wanted for so long.