In the kitchen, he watches her though the blinds, half shut and drooping like his tired eyes. The door of the womens' room creaks open behind him, and he turns back to the counter, surveying his options for coffee sweeteners, his wave of guilt subsiding as Meredith exits behind him. He pulls two packets of Splenda, resuming his previous position before the door even has the time to click shut. He grips the two pale yellow packets between his right thumb and forefinger, swinging them back and forth to shake the sweetener to the bottom of the packet. He can't read lips, but he watches her mouth form words he knows well, Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam. Without looking down, he rips the paper off the top of both Splenda packets simultaneously and pours them into his coffee, or, so he hopes; he's still not looking down.

He could, of course, just watch her from his desk. And it's so obvious, and he considers going back just because watching her from between the blinds makes him feel like a such a creep, but then it excites a part inside of him somewhere, somewhere deep inside that he doesn’t bother to look for or try to define further than that. Because the guilt always stops him, without fail, and it’s taking over again, so he finally looks down at his cup of cooling coffee.

“Shit,” he sighs, and it’s perfect, because he’s a firm believer that curse words don’t ever convey your true meaning, just the meaning you think you want to convey. There’s torn pale yellow paper, now more of a tan like the color of her skin, floating idly in his coffee (shit) but it’s not like he’s there for the coffee, anyway (sigh.) He fishes the damp yellow paper out with his fingers, mildly surprised that the coffee isn’t hot enough to burn him, and he wonders how long he’s been standing there.

So he gives up on his kitchen stakeout, pretending that he’s sated for now. He heads back to his desk, where three other Styrofoam coffee cups act as some kind of horrible decorations or hunting trophies, empty for the most part, and he can’t bear to throw them away. It’s a sad reminder of how many trips he’s taken just that morning, but each cup fills his head with a flash memory of her; pushing hair off her forehead, a sigh, cradling the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she searches for more post-its.

Footsteps are approaching now, and he’s worrying for a split second that he’s been caught, but he looks up and it's Ryan striding toward his desk. Meeting his gaze, they greet each other, that familiar guy nod, and a hey may or may not have been involved, but their interaction isn’t over.

“Wow, how many cups is this, now? I never realized you were such a coffee addict,” Ryan says, off-handedly, but it still makes him a little stiff.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” he answers, and that defensive tone still lines his answer, and he’s running through everything the word “addiction” implies, and realizing that, yes, he is a coffee addict, but Ryan’s already walking away. That’s fine, and he takes a sip, and all he can think is, thank god he switched to decaf after his first cup, otherwise he’d be generating his own electricity by now.

He’s barely made a dent in the bitter coffee, but already he’s considering going back to the kitchen. Instead he tries to get a good, and surreptitious, look at his favorite receptionist from his desk, and he’s running through excuses to just go up there and talk to her, even for the briefest moment. And without really thinking through a good conversation point, he acts before the impulse can leave him and heads to her desk. She doesn’t notice him for a moment, she’s busy writing something down, something he tells himself he’s not nearly rude enough to try and read, but when she finally looks up politely, he’s ready for her.

“Hey, have there been any messages for me? I’m worried my voicemail might not be working,” he lies, and it sounds so lame, but she buys it. She’s looking now, scanning the little notes littered around the phone, and she seems almost concerned, and it makes him feel even worse for lying.

“No, I don’t think so,” she replies after a minute, looking genuinely upset on his behalf and he hates it. An awkward moment passes, and he should’ve left by now, but he’s still there.

“That sweater, it’s very nice--I mean, it looks very nice on you,” he compliments her, and he sounds so unsure of himself that you know he really means it. It’s a new cardigan, he thinks; at least he’s never seen it on her before. It’s a very shy shade of teal or turquoise (he always confused the two) and it looks nice against her hair. “That color’s nice on you,” he continues, and everything’s just nice. She glances down at sleeves before she replies, reminding herself of just what sweater he’s rambling about.

“Thanks, Toby.” And she smiles and it’s enough coffee to last him the rest of the day.