Disclaimer: I don't own these wonderful characters created by wonderful writers.  Still own the cat, though.

She hiccups for the fourth time in less than a minute, and he gives her one of those lop-sided grins she’s learning to love. Like.  She means like. They are sitting on the couch near her desk thirty minutes into her first Christmas party at Dunder Mifflin and she’s glad Roy didn’t come.  She almost said it out loud twice before, but stopped herself. 

“You did it, didn’t you?”

“No way.  If I had access to alcohol, I wouldn’t have put it in the punch.  I’m not very good at sharing.” 

He loosens his tie and grazes her arm with his elbow.  She doesn’t move as he turns to her and says ‘sorry’ under his breath.  His voice is low, intimate.  It makes her feel too warm for her sweater.  She takes it in, lets it roll around in her head and tries to ignore the way it makes the hair on her arms stand up.  She fails.

“Not even with me?” 

Neither of them ignores that.  He considers her question for a few seconds while rubbing his jaw with his impossibly long fingers.  When he turns to face her, his eyes sparkle with the reflection of the colored lights strung up on the wall.  Her stomach flips in a way that should scare her, but tonight just makes her feel bold.

“Yeah, I’d share with you.  I’d share anything with you.”

“Oh.”

His hand is warm on her knee and he’s probably just had too much punch.  Maybe he’s lonely because it’s a week before Christmas and everyone is lonely and stressed out and scared that another year is coming to an end and you have nothing to show for it.  Or something like that.  She doesn’t really know anymore because he smells so good and she’s pretty sure his lips are getting closer and closer.

“Wait.”

He starts to pull away but she grabs his hand and gives it a squeeze.  Their fingers intertwine easily and the warmth she felt earlier is now a heat coursing throughout her entire body.  She rubs his index finger with her own and watches his eyes slowly close as he swallows hard.  She smiles at the thrill it gives her.

“No, I mean….not here.”

She stands up quickly and surprises herself by walking steadily to the door.  When it closes behind her, there is nothing but the sound of her heart pounding in her ears.  There is usually a voice in her head, reminding her that he is her friend and that it’s okay to think he’s cute and it’s okay to like that he laughs at your jokes because you are just friends.  Maybe that voice drank some spiked punch, too, and is tired of talking.  Maybe it wants to feel something instead.

Suddenly, the door opens behind her.  There’s a soft click and then…nothing.  Maybe he changed his mind.  She doesn’t want to change her own.  She turns slowly around to find him standing there, hands in his pockets, staring at her in that way he does.  He opens his mouth to say something, but stops. 

“Jim, I want this.” 

And then it’s happening: mouths together, hands in hair, bodies pressed together.  She is backed up against the wall without effort and pulling him with her.  A hand finds his tie and she tugs roughly, moaning into his mouth.  When he pulls away to catch a breath, she places a hand over his heart and feels it matching hers beat for beat.  He covers her hand with his own and smiles a smile she’s never seen before.

She loves it.