She was standing in front of the large picture window in her living room when the phone rang. Of course she knew his voice immediately, though she almost didn’t recognize her own when she accepted the invitation.

------------------------

The view was spectacular – twinkling lights flickering as far as she could see, the cars on the road streaking past with a smear of illumination against the slick, wintry road.

She took great pleasure in her apartment – having painted each room by herself, despite the fact that she could’ve easily afforded to hire a professional to do the job. She was a believer in hard work and rewards. And every time she walked in her front door, she found herself caught off guard just a little bit at the deep, garnet colored walls of her living room – walls that she had spent the whole of a long weekend painting, agonizing that she’d never get the color right, never get the streaks to disappear.

As was always the case, she pushed herself a little harder and got the results she was looking for, taking great pride in the fact that she alone had done this – this place was all hers, no trace of Richard.

She’d married him too young; she realized that now. But how the hell was she supposed to know better when the rest of the world deemed twenty-six old enough to start asking hesitantly, "So…do you think you’ll ever get married?"

And it had seemed insanely romantic to marry the man whom she’d glanced up in the produce aisle of the grocery store to find staring at her intently – so much so that when she’d looked over at him, he’d started, then given a wry, sheepish smile before stepping forward and introducing himself.

"I’m sorry; I suppose I could tell you that I’ve always been mystified by what, exactly, constitutes a ripe cantaloupe – and you clearly seem to know."

She’d been shocked to hear her own laugh – she hated it when men she didn’t know tried to speak to her.

"…But I’m sure you’d see right through that lie." His smile had been easy, charming. "The truth is that…wow, I’ve never done this before, and suddenly I feel like an ass."

They’d laughed together then, and she’d fancied him humble, transfixed.

Later she’d come to realize that he was simply slick – too slick – and she hadn’t recognized it.

She’d consoled herself the night he’d moved out with the realization that she’d never make that mistake again.

------------------------

She hadn’t been attracted to Michael from the beginning; in fact, when she tried to remember the first time they’d met, she drew a blank.

But she could always pinpoint the moment that she’d first realized her attraction to him.

At Chili’s, she’d had one too many margaritas as she watched him make an ass of himself – and their company – with one of their most important clients. She gave up mid-meal on trying to get him to focus on the issue at hand – the very reason they’d taken the meeting in the first place.

And then as they’d stood in the front of the restaurant preparing to go, Michael had somehow managed to segue way into a conversation about how he’d grown up in Scranton and knew the city well.

She hadn’t even realized that this was all part of his skill as a salesman – primarily because she’d been convinced that he had no skill in that arena, that he must've gotten where he was by sheer dumb luck. When she had tried to interrupt, certain that he’d fumbled his way into the opening without recognizing it for what it was, he’d given her the subtlest gesture – a slight, barely discernible shake of the head, his finger passing before his lips quickly.

Within seconds, he’d closed the deal as she watched in awe, a smile spreading across her face, heat washing over her chest and collarbone.

---------------------------

Richard was a lawyer, though she often teased him that he should be a salesman, because he possessed the uncanny ability to convince even the biggest skeptic to come around to his side of the argument.

Whenever she’d allude to that – "I’m telling you, Rich, Dunder Mifflin could really use you – " (jokingly, of course), there was always something slightly patronizing in his smile that had never once escaped her notice, but that she hadn’t acknowledged until things had gotten ugly.

The bitch of the divorce was that – as career-driven as she was – what she really craved at the end of the day was a home: a husband who made her laugh every day, a child that she could raise with the care and attention that she’d never had growing up.

She’d married Richard thinking both of those things would follow.

They hadn’t.

-----------------------

That night at Michael’s condo, following his mind-blowing performance at Chili’s, she’d cried in a margarita-induced haze, opening up to him about all the things she dared not speak about to anyone. (It was that night, actually, that led her to realize that she needed to seek professional help – sooner rather than later.)

"And I mean…my marriage was a total failure." She’d shaken her head, taking a sip of the wine Michael had given her (which she’d asked for). "I’ve spent the better part of my life ensuring that I don’t fail at anything – but when it mattered most? My fucking marriage? …A total mess."

Michael’s eyes had never left her face, and it was strange, really, to see him looking so sober, so serious – no trace of the buffoon she’d grown used to dealing with.

"Just because your marriage didn’t work doesn’t mean it’s a reflection on you." He’d said so quietly, those blue eyes holding hers.

She’d paused, the heel of her hand resting on her forehead still, then slowly pulled back to look at him tipsily. "Oh really? How do you figure that, Michael?"

He’d looked a little surprised that she’d asked, but he answered within seconds: "From everything you’ve told me, I can’t see where you did anything wrong."

Her voice was bitter as she shook her head, taking another gulp of wine. "I married a man who didn’t want children – a man who said over and over and over that he didn’t want children."

Michael didn’t respond right away, then: "So that’s his… short-sightedness."

Something about what he’d said prompted her to jerk her head up, staring at him in disbelief, the tears having dried on her cheeks, leaving sticky little trails.

"What?"

He met her gaze squarely. "You told him you wanted kids, that it was really important to you, right?"

"Yes."

He shrugged. "If it was that important to you, then he should’ve compromised, made it work."

Because she felt herself falling – no longer on the steady ground to which she so desperately cleaved every day of her life – she almost scoffed. "And how, Michael, would one ‘compromise’ when it comes to having children?"

To her surprise, he took the question seriously, inhaling as he looked up at the ceiling. She was suddenly distracted by the way he was holding his glass of red wine…something very sensual about that…

"I don’t know, Jan." He shrugged again. "I just – I mean, if you love somebody – really love someone – then you do what you have to do to make it work. And…maybe I’m biased, but I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t have wanted to have kids with you if he really loved you. He could’ve had a daughter that looks like you – how could he not want that?"

His answer had been idealistic, naïve, and yet she’d seen an undeniable wisdom in it that brought fresh tears to her eyes.

He’d just spoken aloud the things she’d struggled with for months, the reasons she’d never been brave enough to list to Richard - instead maintaining her silence and signing the requisite papers, so sure that if she’d have tried to articulate such a thing, he’d have laughed in her face.

And here was Michael looking at her with such understanding in his eyes – it was empathy mingled with a very visceral yearning.

So for the second time that night she’d leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, the heat again flaring from someplace deep, low.

------------------------

It had been easy enough to feel mortified in the morning – even though they hadn’t had sex, she’d made out with him like a teenager, her hands impatiently unbuttoning his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders.

She’d felt her pulse quicken even more at the hair on his chest. Other women might’ve found him too hairy, she knew, but she loved the virility and masculinity he seemed to exude.

The fact that Richard had waxed his chest so that he could stand a better chance of placing in his occasional bicycle races most certainly was a factor in what the sight of Michael without his shirt did to her.

He’d shown a restraint that led her to believe that he was more experienced than she would’ve originally suspected. There was nothing pushy or smooth about him; he was just attentive, very much in the moment. He’d kissed her for close to an hour before daring to lower his fingers to the buttons on her blouse – and even then, he’d done so hesitantly, respectfully, pausing to pull back and meet her eyes as if to ask, Is this all right?

The gesture had sent her over the edge. (Richard had ripped her shirt the first time they’d had sex, no questions asked, no apologies offered, his sense of entitlement a precursor to what their marriage would be like.)

That was how Michael had ended up shirtless – she’d answered his silent question by deftly undoing the buttons on his shirt, even as his fingers made quick work of the buttons on her own.

Stopping had been his idea, which would later unnerve her to no end.

"Jan, listen…" He’d pulled back, breathing heavily, his chest bare, hair ruffled, suddenly no longer Michael Scott, official idiot, but rather, Michael Scott, object of desire.

"I don’t want to…take advantage of this – of you." He’d taken a deep breath, turning away as he ran a hand through his hair – a gesture that damned near sent her over the edge; she’d never seen him do it before.

"Take advantage of me?" She’d repeated blankly.

"Yes." He turned his eyes back to her. "You’re clearly upset over the divorce, and…whatever Gould did to you…"

She forced herself to roll her eyes.

"I don’t want to make the same mistake he did." His eyes held hers, then he added. "I mean, not that I wouldn’t want you to have my child, because I absolutely would; it’s just that – "

"Oh my god, Michael."

"Did I say something wrong?"

All she could do was shake her head. "Sort of. Where can I sleep?"

As soon as she’d awakened the next morning, she’d regretted it and given him the requisite speech

------------------------

She'd spent the better part of the next eight months or so staving off Michael's advances; the fact that he seemed utterly incapable of grasping the fact that it had been an indiscretion - and not even a very big one, at that - was a constant source of irritation for her. She'd mentioned Michael intermittently to her therapist, Dr. Perry, but only in passing - usually lumping him in with all the other stressors in her life. ("And Michael - we attended a convention last weekend with some colleagues, and he made a point of bringing it up yet again. In front of another branch manager, no less.")

It was in her sixth session with Dr. Perry that he stopped her when she mentioned Michael.

"Hold on, Jan. Let's talk about Michael."

"Oh, let's don't." She'd shaken her head, her fingers on her forehead, the exhaustion pressing in on her.

"Why not?"

He was using what she'd come to recognize as his "innocent" voice - the tone struggling to be blank, as if he were merely asking her a question, yet she always saw through the subterfuge. Usually he took on that tone only when he was trying to lead her to some sort of realization, and if she didn't get there herself, he'd eventually lay it out for her.

Sometimes she agreed with him; other times she argued.

Neither was the case in this instance; instead, she called him out on it, a rush of impatience washing over her, prompting the words to tumble out before she could even think: "No, we are not going to discuss Michael any further. There's simply no point, and while I appreciate your expertise, I have to respectfully say that if you insist on our pursuing this particular...subject of discourse, it's only going to waste your time and mine. So, next subject?"

Dr. Perry's eyes had narrowed as he took in her forced smile, her hands linking around her knee as she crossed her legs. He finally gave her a small, knowing smile before he scribbled something down on his notepad.

-----------------------

The moment that had led her to an epiphany was one of those casual, seemingly insignificant things.

She'd been running her ass off, having first delivered the news to Michael that his branch would be closing (and as she watched him fend off the tears, eventually just giving in to them, she caught a flash of the conversation she'd had with Richard - how she'd been in tears, her head in her hands, looking up through a blur to see him sitting there staring at her dispassionately).

Then she'd made the interminable drive to Stamford to officially make the offer to Josh that they'd worked so hard to negotiate over the past few weeks. She'd always been a little attracted to Josh - nothing earth-shattering or off-putting, just a pleasant little spark she felt in the pit of her stomach whenever she saw him or spoke to him. He was a walking prototype of her type: handsome, athletic, successful. Just being around him made her feel slightly more alive somehow.

As she stared at him after he'd announced that he had accepted a position at Staples, she realized suddenly that she was a fool not to have seen it before. He was her type all right - every bit as much as Richard had been.

It was a strange time to have a realization about her love life, but there it was: My problem lies in my "type," not necessarily in me.

It had been a fleeting thought, one that she probably would've forgotten entirely had something else not happened to send a jolt down her spine.

She'd been in the ladies' room, standing in front of the mirror with both hands gripping the counter, her head bowed as she wracked her brain, struggling to come up with a solution to this enormous mess. She had left a message for David Wallace at corporate - three messages, in fact - pacing the bathroom as she waited for him to call her back. When he hadn't returned the call in fifteen minutes, she decided she couldn't stand it anymore; she'd drive back to New York if she had to.

She'd stormed out of the restroom, her steps slowing as she passed the conference room, where the cameraman was filming Jim - Jim, who was visibly (and uncharacteristically) angry, his jaw taut, shaking his head slowly back and forth.

Then he said bitterly, giving the camera a searing stare, "Say what you will about Michael Scott...he would never do that."

Her hand had actually fluttered up to cover her mouth, his words immediately reverberating in her head, but in an altogether different context.

All she could think about suddenly were those last awful months with Richard. Their final argument had occurred when she'd tried to sit down with him and earnestly explain just how important it was to her that she have a child - that they have a child.

"Richard, it's...." She'd taken in a deep breath, forcing herself to be brave. "Honestly, all of my successes with my career...they're...."

She had stopped, unable to continue when the tears came. Then she forced herself to finish, her voice muffled. "...God, please, Richard; this is the most important thing in the world to me."

She'd looked up to find him staring at her, stone-faced and silent. He didn't answer for a few long, painful minutes, then: "Well...I guess that's our answer, then."

He'd walked away that easily, evincing so little emotion that she'd actually worried for her sanity. How did I marry a man like this? How did I ever believe that he actually loved me?

Hearing Jim's words brought back that last painful scene: "Say what you will about Michael Scott...he would never do that."

--------------------------

Even as she packed for Jamaica, she kept expecting the panic to set in; in some part of her consciousness, she almost didn't believe she'd actually go through with this.

But the lonliness had damned near strangled her that night as she'd stood staring out her picture window, the view a tangible symbol of her success...the emptiness of her apartment an inescapable reminder of what she perceived to be her personal failure.

He'd sounded so hesitant, so...respectful when he'd called; the fact that he even dared to make the call in the first place told her how much he wanted this. She'd never forget the shock in his voice when she'd accepted - surprise that had immediately given way to a pure, unfettered joy.

She had no real reason to believe that he wouldn't reveal himself to be the same buffoonish idiot she'd been forced to micromanage for so many years; there was really nothing in their history to suggest that she wouldn't sorely regret her decision. So she was attracted to him; so he'd revealed a flash of depth now and then.... The evidence to the contrary of his being worthy of that pull she felt toward him had far outweighed a justification of her attraction to him.

But still she went, a flutter in her stomach that she hadn't felt in such a long time.

When they boarded the plane, he'd stood back, gesturing for her to take the window seat. He'd been uncharacteristically quiet thus far - something shy in his smile, trepidation in his eyes.

But once the plane was in the air, he'd glanced over to catch her watching him, giving her an embarrassed chuckle and a warm smile, then: "I was really surprised when you said yes."

Their eyes met and held; the realization that she'd be spending the next week alone with him sent a thrill right through her.

"I was, too." She replied, both of them laughing lightly. Then she sighed, feeling his eyes on her profile as she tilted her head back against the seat - loving the way that he watched her. He made her feel beautiful - simple as that.

She went on: "But...another Christmas in New York wasn't exactly an appealing thought."

He smiled and nodded. "Christmas in Scranton isn't so great either."

They sat in silence for a moment; she felt the insane urge to keep talking, to tell him that she couldn't have borne spending Christmas alone in her expensive apartment, staring at the elaborately decorated tree that had absolutely no gifts beneath it. Christmas was a time of year that made the absence of a child in her life that much more palpable...stinging.

She wanted to tell him that for some reason, but years of habit held her tongue.

His voice interrupted her thoughts: "I love Christmas; I always have. But..."

He pulled in a breath. "I don't know... Christmas is sort of like New Year's for me."

"What do you mean?"

He seemed so grateful that she'd asked; the guilt was a sharp pang in her chest.

"Well...you know how New Year's is supposed to be the time when you...think about all you've done, make a list of all you want to do?"

She nodded.

He went on. "For me, Christmas is that time -- I love it; don't get me wrong. But I don't know...it reminds me of all that I haven't done yet, all the things that I really want."

Again their eyes met and held; she was as surprised as he was when tears welled in her eyes -- spilling down her cheeks when she saw the same tears glistening in his eyes.

She couldn't believe she was crying in front of Michael - never mind that she was on a plane to Jamaica with him. Jesus, what the hell am I doing?

And then his hand had touched her face - his touch a whisper, so gentle as he wiped a tear from her cheek, his voice low as he said earnestly, "We'll make this Christmas count."

It was a slightly cryptic thing for him to say; she wasn't even entirely sure what he meant by that. But the relief that swept over her was absolutely delicious, a weightlessness passing over her that made her suddenly smile at him, reaching out to touch his face. His stubble was rough beneath her fingers, the thought flickering, This is what a man truly is.

"We will." Her voice was warm, the inflection sending a slight flush to his cheeks.

They sat staring at one another for a few seconds, his hand eventually rising to catch her fingers in his own before the stewardess appeared with her cart, offering them drinks.

She wasn't sure why it surprised her - and thrilled her - that Michael turned and immediately ordered a glass of pinot grigio for her, pinot noir for himself. She started to ask him how he knew that it was her wine of preference, then she remembered that night at his condo. She'd told him that then - and he'd filed that information away, because it mattered to him what she wanted, what she liked.

And as she took the glass from him with a small smile, she realized that this impulsive trip may well have been the best decision she'd made in years. Somehow sitting next to him made those awful last months with Richard fade away; the overwhelming sense of despair that she'd fallen prey to in the months since her divorce was simply nowhere to be found - a raw, tentative hope in its place.

She knew she should be terrified, gun-shy after all that she'd been through, but that was the beauty of it all: there was no fear here, only a startling certainty that she'd made the right decision in giving in to that magnetic pull she'd always felt toward Michael.

She glanced over at him and tried to imagine this man being thoughtless, indifferent; she tried to picture him being cold, refusing to budge on something she insisted was important.

Once again Jim's voice echoed in her head: "Say what you will about Michael Scott...he would never do that."

His vioce broke through her thoughts; as if he could read her mind, he raised his glass: "To us."

There was a slightly muted fear in his eyes, as if he half expected her to correct him.

Instead, she smiled again, reaching out to touch his dark hair, quaking a little at the way his eyes immediately closed.

"To us."