He just wants her to look at him.

They spend all day together at work, but she still won’t look his way.

Sometimes she has to look at him, for work stuff. At those times, he holds his breath, hoping and praying that he’ll see some spark of what they once shared together, but he never does, because she will only glance at him now: her eyes quickly shifting away to look at his shirt or downward at the carpet while she is going over the sales figures he requested or some other such nonsense he came up with just to be near her again.

He is so conscious of her every movement; when she gets up to put away a file or get a bottled water from the break room his whole body tenses in anticipation. The hairs on the back of his neck go up, and he has to watch her out of the corner of his eye until she sits back down again. It’s as if every part of him is unconsciously yearning to be close with her again. It’s slowly driving him crazy.

 He knows this is completely normal. Wolves become very territorial when it comes to their mate. It’s a biological necessity to insure that no other male sperm will impregnate his female wolf, thus insuring the pedigree of their pups. He knows this to be true. He knows these feelings are to be expected, that this terrible pain is normal, biological even. But it provides little comfort when he has to look at her day after day and she won’t even look back, let alone talk to him.

  Food is of little interest to him now; he hasn’t had a real appetite in weeks, and his clothes are starting to hang on him. Mose is very worried. He cooks him his favorite meals, hoping to coax him into eating more. He is grateful, but he can only manage a few mouthfuls before he starts to push things around on the plate.

And he’s so tired. He hasn’t been sleeping well at all. He climbs into bed completely exhausted, but finds he just can’t doze off. Holding the angel figurine she left behind is a comfort, a reminder of happier days, so he clutches it tight.

His fingers trace over the cool smooth surface of the white porcelain. He does this so often; he knows every dip and curve. It reminds him of her skin, delicate and pale. The memory of her always heats his blood, quickens his breath, and almost unconsciously his hand snakes its way under the heavy quilted comforter.

  He’s already hard and jutting up against the cotton of his boxers. Ready for her and her perfect white skin. But she’s not there anymore, and so he cries as he strokes himself.

 His hips thrust upward as he pumps into the hot, sweaty skin of his closed fist, over and over, fantasizing about her and how things used to be between them. His long legs squirm beneath the covers as his fingers push over his cock faster and harder.

  He’s being too rough, but he doesn’t care. He wants to feel the pain; he wants to feel the pleasure. He just wants to feel something other than this non-stop longing for her.

  His breathing starts to hitch, and he lets out a low moan. The pressure is swirling and building within him, thankfully wiping all thoughts from his head as the pleasure center of his brain takes over. Panting now, he grunts as each slick stroke brings him closer and closer.

  Then, in his mind’s eye, he sees her, moving over him, her long silken hair brushing across his face as she sways back and forth, lost to the ecstasy. And then he’s gone, so gone. His groin tightens and he spills over on himself, shaking as the tremors throb through him.

  When it’s done, he leans over and grabs a few tissues from the nightstand. He wipes his tears and blows his nose before he reaches down beneath the covers to clean himself. His breathing slows and evens out.

  Mentally and physically spent, he can finally feel himself drifting off. It’s a trick he’s used these past weeks to get at least a few hours sleep. It works most of the time too, he thinks smugly. The Schrutes are well-known for their cunning, even if the person they need to trick is sometimes themselves.

  He wakes up feeling ok. Not great, just ok, but he knows things could be worse. If he can just give her some time, space, she would forgive him and things could be like they were before. A smile plays across his face. Yeah, today was shaping up to be ok.

  Two hours into his workday, Andy is serenading Angela with some ridiculous pop song. He’s asked her to go out with him. She looks embarrassed and annoyed at all the attention.

   He’s the only one who notices the barest hint of a smile flit across her lips as she wanders back to her desk. It sends a punch to his gut that catches him off guard and he exhales forcefully. The air rushing out of him makes a low grunting sound.

  She hears it and looks up. Their eyes meet and for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t look away. Their eyes lock and hold. And as he looks at her, it’s nothing at all like he’s hoped for all these weeks because now he sees that it’s over. Really and truly over.

  Feeling numb, he wanders over to his desk and slowly sits down. After a moment, he grasps the mouse and clicks over to his “Second Life” icon. He spends the rest of the day working on his avatar and exploring his new life, customizing it to meet his needs.

And at the end of the day, he pretends he doesn’t hear it when Angela says yes.

The End.