During that first visit, she ends up getting only just enough done to justify the time to herself, but barely noticing the time itself as it flowed by. Even though she’s only actually near the barista—near Jim—a little, while they gawked at Dwight’s ridiculous Zillow listing, and he quickly moves back to the register when new customers come in, that moment of connection with him grounds the edgy giddiness that had been bubbling up in her and allows her to focus more on her work without losing her awareness of his presence in the room.

After she makes her way home again her mother asks innocently about how the day had gone and Pam is embarrassed to find her entire face flushing. She hadn’t really been that focused on the cute barista, had she? She’d sent out a project, even if it was something minor like changing colors, and she’d answered one enquiry (her first blind one from the little Craigslist ad that her mother had suggested she put up the week before), so it had actually been a somewhat productive day. She’s glad that her mother is bustling about the kitchen with cookies baking, so she doesn’t actually look up and catch Pam’s blush, and by the time she looks over Pam has found her voice and managed to force it into some semblance of normalcy.

She thinks her mother still suspects something, but it’s diffuse enough that there’s no follow-up, and so she doesn’t have to directly confront whatever it is that she’s feeling.

It’s merely convenience that brings her back to the shop the next day, she tells herself. Convenience and the need to get the hell out of her mother’s house while the woman bakes another several dozen cookies for the Rotary Club luncheon.

The smell of baking is delightful, but the kitchen is a busy zone and therefore the table is out, and she’s still not great at working in her bedroom.

So the coffeeshop is obviously the logical place.

She can’t deny her own disappointment when she slips through the doors of The Comedy Roasters and the barista behind the counter is neither tall, nor lanky, nor possessed of a smile that makes her insides melt. He is smiling, but it’s the kind of manic smile that she suspects strongly might conceal a great deal of tension.

She’s half-convinced she had simply imagined Jim, or built him up to be something he wasn’t. Maybe her memory is messed up, or she was particularly vulnerable yesterday, or something, because clearly this is not Jim—and yet the nametag he’s wearing, once she gets in range to see it, clearly says “Jim Halpert” in a font she’d never consider using even if a client begged her to.

Alright, she’s not doing that well in her business. She’d use the font, but she’d need to take a shower afterwards.

“Hi! Welcome to The Comedy Roasters! What’s on tonight’s set list?” His manic smile turns more genuine as he recites the spiel, which is probably the only time that corporate-mandated speech like that had ever made someone happier.

“Uh…” she reads the menu again. It hasn’t changed from last time. “Do you have tea yet?”

“No. I don’t think so. Maybe.” He says these in quick succession before she can get a word in. “Jimbo!” He shouts. “Did the tea come in yet?”

“What?” The man she thought she met yesterday comes through the double doors from the back, carrying a box and she thinks she might actually have sighed in relief, but neither of them notice, so maybe not.

“Do we have tea yet? The hottie with a body wanted to know.”

“Michael. Stop objectifying the customers.” The man she thinks is Jim rolls his eyes and then peers around the counter to look at her. “Sorry!.” He puts the box down and turns to ‘Michael,’ who must be the owner. She remembers Jim mentioning him, now. “And stop wearing my nametag. I told you to let me know if there were any customers.”

“And I did!” Michael looks like a toddler who just grabbed a coffee cup off the counter and is very proud while everyone else is just waiting for the splash and smash. “We have a customer! And she’s a…”

Jim slaps a hand over Michael’s mouth. “Ah, let’s just keep that between us guys, shall we?” He uses his other hand to undo the apron with the nametag. “And remember—just because you’re wearing my apron….”

“…Doesn’t mean I should be serving customers. But what’s the fun in that?” Michael sulks, then brightens and turns to her. “Besides, it was a compliment! I’m sure that she appreciated the thought!”

Jim, bless him, doesn’t even have to glance over at her to deny that. “And I’m sure that she did not.” He sighs. “Michael, just get in the back.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Pouting, he disappears into the back and Jim slips the apron over his own neck. It comes down to a normal height on him, which makes Pam realize in retrospect it was almost dragging on the floor on Michael.

“I’m really sorry about that.” Jim’s face twists a little—why does it look so adorable—and he sighs. “I’m going to have to add to my apologies with the fact that no, we do not have tea.” He raises a finger. “But! Whatever you do want is on the house. It’s the least I can do after…all of that.”

She’s just so glad that he’s not imaginary. “Another steamer then.”

“Great. What flavor?”

“Surprise me.” She realizes that she actually really does want to see what he chooses for her—whether they actually have the connection that she thought, or whether that was as imagined as she was afraid the entirety of him was a couple minutes ago.

“Can do.” He grins and it’s like the sun coming out. “Good surprise or bad surprise?”

She smiles back—she can’t help it, it’s infectious—and rolls her eyes. “I think I’ve already had my bad surprise here for this morning.”

“Fair enough.”  He shoos her towards a seat. “Go along, I can’t surprise you if you stick around. I’ll bring it out.”

She goes, laughing, and thinking about how she’s gone a full 360 since walking into the shop: from excitement to see him again, to disappointment and distress at finding ‘Michael’ instead, and now…back to the butterflies.

Butterflies she’s hoping she’s about to drown with steaming milk.