She couldn’t tell you a single thing that happened in the warehouse. Not even anything to do with him. That wasn’t because she hadn’t noticed him—the world had shrunk down, actually, to her eyes, to just him, his face, his hands, the sweater hugging his chest…just Jim. Even the cards and the chips were just petty attempts at distraction from Jim’s smile, the little glances he was casting her way (he actually seemed almost incapable of looking anywhere else), the sheer joy pumping through her at being around him…well, not quite not at work, but in a slightly different register than they usually were at work. She wasn’t even entirely sure she’d won when she went all in; she’d just felt like she couldn’t do anything else, couldn’t help but push it all straight into the middle and let everything fall as it might. That she had a better hand than Jim’s was a genuine surprise, and the joy of it pushed her higher than she could remember having ever been before. Was this what people called being high on life? It was amazing.

She’d almost forgotten Roy was even there, and then all of a sudden he was saying goodbye—leaning out of the truck and shouting those utterly ridiculous words, asking Jim to “keep an eye on her” like she wasn’t an adult who could take care of herself, but also like he hadn’t even bothered to notice that Jim had two eyes on her all night. This was where her actual memories of the night would start: with her fiancé leaving and Jim’s eyes fixed on her face.

Her memories were like the TV at a dentist’s office: the dialogue muted, recalled with an effort but not naturally, like reading closed captions lagging two to three seconds behind the action, the words not quite making sense. And then cutting out, the way closed captions sometimes did, the words “I’m in love with you” hovering on the screen even as Jim’s and her mouths kept on moving.

Her brain went utterly blank. It was a cop-out in memory, she knew, her mind trying to protect her from recollecting the stupid, hurtful way she denied Jim’s feelings—denied her own—but it was such an utter shock she couldn’t process a word of it after that declaration. She was struck by the sheer honesty in his eyes, but also by the sense that there was something else he wasn’t telling her, something important. And while she waited to find out what that was, her mouth went on autopilot, carrying on the argument she’d been having with herself for days. Jim’s leaving for Australia. He’s probably got another job. You can’t; we can’t; this can’t be real.

“I can’t” escaped her mouth, and again like a bad closed caption the sentence never ended—because she couldn’t fix on a way to end it.

…process this?

…believe this?

…wait?

…help but love you back?

But for Jim, she realized with a start as he began to cry, the sentence was already complete. I can’t.

And as his face crumpled (not so dramatically as her own would that night after she got home, but still, for someone who knew him like she did, a definite crumple all the same) her instincts took over. Not her Roy-focused instincts to smooth everything over, though looking back on the scene she’d realize those were involved too, but her Jim-focused instincts that screamed that she needed to comfort him right now.

Only she didn’t know how. It became awfully, terribly obvious how uneven their relationship was—how much she took from him and how little she was used to giving—as the words tumbled out of her mouth and she discovered that while he had been comforting her for years, she didn’t know how to comfort him.

“You have no idea what your friendship means to me.” Because he didn’t. Or maybe he did; maybe he did better than she did, because it was absolutely killing her to see him in such pain. Maybe “I’m in love with you” was a better phrase.

Then it hit her what he’d just said. Not the love. The “once.” “I just wanted you to know, once.”

He really was leaving. Whether it was Australia or a new job or something else she hadn’t even guessed, there was no reason she’d only know it once if he was still there with her. She’d see him on Monday, wouldn’t she? She’d know he was in love with her. She’d know it in every moment.

“I can’t.” Again left as a full sentence, this time because she was even further from being able to—anything. Anything except continue rambling on, apologizing for she didn’t even know what as she felt her own emotions and the moment simultaneously slipping out of her hands.

And before she knew it she was up in the office, something in her bringing her over to Jim’s desk instead of her own to call the only person she thought had a prayer of helping her finish that sentence: I can’t what?

“Hi, Mom.”

Even as she leaned against the desk she recognized the scent of him still floating around the wood.

**

The entire night was going to be seared into his memory, but not for the reasons he’d hoped. Her dress was going to ruin the entire color blue for him (and purple too, anything even vaguely adjacent). The way she’d panicked when he’d told her had gone straight to his hippocampus, triggering some kind of mad fight or flight reflex that had sent him running up the stairs to the office after her after about thirty seconds of sitting in the car, his hands locked on the steering wheel.

There she had been, at his desk, and something about the quiet intimacy of her leaning across the space he occupied every day had given him the momentum to make it across the floor and gather her into his arms. He’d remember that feeling forever too: the massively improved version of that day at the dojo when she’d been squirming and play-fighting and then gone rigid. Now there was none of that hesitation, none of that panic, only a gentle yielding and then a surprisingly passionate motion as she twined her hands around his head and pulled him in.

He would treasure the feeling of her giving in—not giving into him, like he’d demanded something ridiculous or unworthy of her, but giving in to herself, giving in to them, letting the emotions that had been simmering for months if not years boil over—and the feel of her lips on his. He basked for a moment in the warmth created when she admitted she too had wanted this; first with her hands and her mouth and then with actual words.

But the thing he noticed most, that would linger with him all the way to Stamford, Connecticut, was the way her throat closed up when he asked if she was actually going to marry Roy.

He knew Pam Beesly. Or at least he hoped he did. And so he knew that if she’d said anything in that moment, she wouldn’t have been able to stop talking: she’d have let herself break down, let herself deal with the emotions of the moment. Whether that was by spitting out something she’d walk back later, like “I’m happy with my choices” or by admitting something like “me too,” or even just breaking down mid-word and crying, when she was talking there was the possibility of progress.

It was when she was silent that he had to worry. Like at the dojo. For a woman who loved jinx so much, silence from her was a real threat.

And so he was watching her mouth, not just because the desire to kiss her again was palpably beating inside his skin, but because he needed to hear her keep going. But instead the lasting impression he got was of the moment when he could see, could actually see, the lump in her throat close it up, and her head incline into that little nod.

He bowed his head and accepted his defeat.

“Okay.”

If she couldn’t even talk to him, there was no reason to stay.

**

Of course he’d noticed her at the start of the evening. She’d actually made an effort, for once, and she looked good. He was proud to glance over at her and see the woman he was going to marry looking so good. Proud enough that he graciously ignored Halpert’s little sideways glances. Not that he wasn’t aware of them. When he decided to leave and she decided to stay, he felt the need to remind Halpert that she was his: “Hey, Halpert! Keep an eye on her, all right?” Just a little nudge to remind that guy that he was aware of the way he’d been watching.

Pammy looked so happy, and had been winning so much money, that he didn’t really mind Halpert’s little lovey-dovey act, as long as no one got carried away. He’d see her later, or (since he really was tired) in the morning if she came back after he fell asleep. That was the thing: Halpert clearly wanted her, but she’d be spending the night, and the next, and the rest of her life, with him.

So what he really noticed was her absence the next morning. He’d rolled over, expected to envelop Pammy in a morning hug and see if maybe he could get a little lucky, and his arm hit bare, still-unrumpled sheet.

He shot to his feet, and stared mutely at the bed. He moved around during the night (Pammy accused him sometimes of being a cover hog) so it wasn’t entirely clear, but he was pretty sure this bed hadn’t had two people in it.

Still, he didn’t panic. She was a considerate woman, Pammy, maybe she got back in late enough that she slept downstairs on the couch because she didn’t want to disturb him. Silly, of course, since he’d much rather be woken up (even if he knew he was a bear when his rest was disturbed) but representative of her thoughtful nature

He bounded downstairs and there was a lump on the couch. Not really realizing how loud he’d been coming downstairs, he assumed this was just Pammy, sleeping it off, and crept up on the figure to surprise her. When he reached the couch and put a hand out, he was beyond surprised to be touching a green duffel bag partially hidden underneath a quilt.

“Roy.” He looked up, and saw her silhouetted in the kitchen doorway.

“We need to talk.”