He knows he’s been alternating between tossing crap into a suitcase and staring at the wall for the last two hours, but he has no idea what he’s packed. Did he remember toothpaste? Socks? What the hell is the weather like in Australia right now? The travel agent said June is the best month to visit, but isn’t it winter? Fuck if he knows. He slumps to the ground, back against the foot of his bed, surrounded by t-shirts and jeans and a pair of sneakers.

Shit. He’s supposed to be excited about this. He’s supposed to be starting his life over. It’s time to move on, snap out of it, stop living in something that isn’t real. No matter how right it seemed or inevitable or perfect or necessary. It doesn’t matter, it’s not happening. Sometimes life sucks. It happens to people every damn day. If they can handle it, so can he. He’s just got to suck it up and get on with his life. End of story. And he’s always wanted to travel, right? But there’s just one travel companion he always imagined, and now that familiar wave of panic is washing over him again.

What is he doing? He can’t start over without her. He’s just… gone. She has all of him. He can’t forget it all. She means everything, everything to him. What can he do, why can’t he do anything? This is killing him, and he’s just trapped, and nothing he does can take it away and his entire happiness is caught up in another person who just… doesn’t… care. Not like he does. He presses the heels of his hands to his eye sockets and tries to steady his breathing.

He hasn’t seen her since that night. He took extra vacation time, and wouldn’t set foot in the office again until he came in on the weekend to pack up his desk for Stamford. Maybe it was cowardly. He hasn’t read email or listened to messages from his coworkers. He thinks if he hears anything about her impending wedding he just… might… shatter. Broken heart-initis. Terrible. Terminal cardiac fracture. Better. Pam would like it. She’d probably draw a cartoon on a post-it and stick it to his monitor – god, get a hold of yourself. This is pathetic. He can’t do this anymore. He has to put it all behind him. Just, stop.

He’s just so tired. Screw it. As long as he has his passport and wallet, he’ll be okay, right? He squashes the contents of the suitcase down and zips it up. He looks at his watch and sighs -- hours left before he has to be at the airport. Every day, every hour, every minute seems to pass more slowly than the last. The nights he spends staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping probably don’t help. Or the lack of eating. He should probably do something about that.

He wanders downstairs and into the kitchen in a daze. He pours cornflakes and milk into a bowl, then collapses into a chair at the kitchen table. He’s hunched over his bowl, staring blankly at his spoon when he hears a knock at the door.

His heart starts to beat faster. What if…? It’s a horrible game he plays with himself. Every time the phone rings or he gets an email or there’s a knock at the door he thinks maybe. Maybe she feels it too. Maybe he’s not alone in all this. Maybe she’ll say the word and he won’t feel like his life is ending anymore.

He forces himself to stay calm as he walks through the living room. He pauses by the door, bracing himself for disappointment. He can’t decide if he’s an eternal optimist or a pathological masochist. Why has he been at Dunder Mifflin so long? Why does he hover at reception every day, hanging on her every word even though he knows she’s going home to another man? He can’t say he didn’t know what was happening. He knew, every single day. How many times is he going to keep doing this to himself?

Still. Still, he takes a deep breath as he opens the door.

And there she is.

She’s standing there awkwardly in a t-shirt and jeans, hair in a messy ponytail. She looks so young. A version of herself he’s rarely seen. He’s always prided himself on knowing her so well, knowing how to make her laugh or sputter in mock outrage or give him that soft smile. But now it hits him with sudden force – everything they’ve come to know about each other belongs in carefully constructed boxes that leave so much unsaid. Now she’s standing on his doorstep and he just wonders how he can be so in love with a woman whose bare elbows still take him by surprise.

He realizes he should say something. He tries to hide the jittery, slick combination of hope and terror that courses through his veins and sneaks into his voice, but still it comes out scratchy and higher than usual. “Hi.”

She shifts, and her gaze falls down to a box she clutches protectively in front of her. “Um, hi….”

He steps aside, gesturing for her to come in with limbs that suddenly feel awkward and out of place. After a moment she steps past him, head down and shoulders hunched. He follows, trying to divine her thoughts by the curve of her spine and failing miserably.

She comes to a halt in his living room, turning around, but still not meeting his eyes. Her voice is small and hesitant. He’s heard that tone before, but always directed at Roy. Never at him.

“You haven’t been at work, so I, um… brought you these. Uh, cookies. For the flight.” She places the box on the counter bordering the kitchen, and lingers there, fingers tracing over the edges.

“Oh… thanks.” He tries to think of something to say. Neutral, easy. “So, uh, how’d you escape the loony bin? Um, Dwight isn’t following you, is he?” he finishes lamely.

Slowly she turns to face him. Her face is pale. “I had some last-minute… um, I had some errands to run.” Her fingers tangle together awkwardly, and the light catches her engagement ring.

Last-minute errands. For her wedding, in two days. Her wedding, the one he’s traveling halfway across the world to escape. The one that leaves him sick to his stomach when he sits in pews watching friends or relatives exchange vows. He can never decide which is worse – imagining it’s himself standing there at the altar with her, or imagining it’s her with Roy. Both scenarios make him feel pretty damn pathetic. He’s become used to plastering an imitation of a smile across his face and hoping no one notices the difference.

But right now, he can’t hide anything. The endless pretense exhausts him. He slumps against the wall as hope drains out of him like blood, pooling at his feet. He shoves his hands into his pockets and stares at the ground. Doesn’t say anything. If he does, too much will come out.

Tentatively she moves closer, until she’s standing right in front of him. He can’t look at her. He can’t. “Jim, I….” Her hand comes to rest on his arm, and her palm feels hot against his skin. He knows he’s shaking and he wishes he could hide it. Her fingers tighten on his arm, and she moves so close he can feel her body heat.

She murmurs his name again, just one broken syllable, almost inaudible. “Jim, don’t….”

Don’t what? Love her? Cry in front of her again? Make her doubt herself?

Her other hand curls against his ribcage as she leans into him, her body just barely brushing his. She rests her forehead against his shoulder. Her breath is uneven and now he can feel her trembling, too. She sniffs, then lifts her head. Her hair brushes his jaw and her breath caresses his ear.

Even so close, he almost doesn’t hear her when she speaks. Her voice sounds small and broken.

“Did you mean it?”

It takes him a second, but then his jaw tightens. His words come out raw. “Of course I meant it.”

Her fingers press into his arm briefly before sliding up to rest on his shoulder. She turns her head to press her lips to his jaw. Her eyelashes are wet against his cheek.

He shivers, and his hands leave his pockets to drift up her back.

Her voice is shaking now. “That’s not what you said before.”

Again, he’s confused.

She presses her damp cheek to his. “You said you used to… like me… but then you stopped.”

The breath leaves his lungs in a frustrated puff of air. “Pam, what did you expect me to say? You’re getting married.”

“I believed you.”

Whatever he was about to say dies on the tip of his tongue as her lips brush across his cheek and she presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

His eyes close. What should he do? What’s going on? Does it matter? He stays perfectly still, afraid to break the moment.

She hesitates, but then her hand slides up to cup his jaw as she stands on her toes, finding his mouth with hers.

He tries to stifle his reaction, but still he moans. Her hand slides up into his hair as she deepens the kiss, her tongue touching his. He wraps one arm around her back and cups the nape of her neck with his other hand, pulling her closer.

She makes a soft sound in the back of her throat, and her fingers tighten in his hair.

There’s no space between them, now. The heat coming off of her and the feel of her body pressing against his is turning him inside out. His breathing is ragged and his heart feels like it’s about to beat right out of his chest.

God, it feels so good. He could do this forever. Her skin and her hair and her mouth and her scent all around him. It’s almost enough that he doesn’t wonder. But even as he tries to lose himself in her, fear intrudes. What is this? Is it just like last time? Is she just going to kiss him and touch him like this, and run back to her fiancé? He wants to say he just doesn’t care, he’ll take what he can get. But he can’t. He has to ask her. He’s terrified. Shit. He has to do it.

He tightens his arms around her and kisses her just once more, deep, before loosening his hold and pulling back. Slowly he lets his arms slide away from her.

It takes him a moment to gain the courage to look her in the eyes. She looks about as flushed and dazed as he feels, but her eyes are wide and glassy with shock. He supposes making out with him against his living room wall probably wasn’t on her list of wedding errands. But this has to mean something. Can she really say this didn’t matter to her? That she can just get married in two days with no second thoughts?

“Pam… what does this mean?” He can’t even manage to keep his words steady.

She starts to shake her head, and her breath grows choppy and panicked. “I… I don’t know. I’m sorry. I should go.”

She spins, stumbling toward his front door, fumbling with the handle briefly before opening it and hurrying through. It stands open, but he doesn’t move. He hears her car start, and tires peal out. Then silence.

He doesn’t know how long he just stands there, but eventually he turns and sees his bowl of soggy cornflakes sitting on the table. Vision hazy, he walks over to it, wraps his hand around the ceramic. The urge to fling it at the wall is so strong his hand is shaking.

But he doesn’t.

He drops the bowl back onto the table, and milk sloshes over his hand. In a flash, he feels desperate to get her scent off of him before he goes crazy. He strides toward the bathroom, stripping clothing as he goes. He turns the water on as hot as he can stand it, stepping under the spray. He grabs the soap and a washcloth and scrubs himself off, but still, he swears he can smell her. She’s in his head.

Fuck. Why can’t he just crawl out of his own skin, just have one fucking second when he could just stop thinking, to be able to close his eyes for just one minute without seeing her, smelling her, feeling her body pressed against his and her hands in his hair.

The soap and washcloth fall to the tub at his feet. He braces a forearm against the tile wall, closing his eyes and letting his head drop forward. Her touch feels burned into his skin. Her fingers, curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. Her mouth open under his. Her breasts, pressing against his chest. Please, just a second, just a second to forget. With a groan of defeat, he reaches down and begins to stroke himself. Just one more time. One more time, and maybe he can forget.

What if he hadn’t stopped her? What if he hadn’t said anything? Would she have stayed? What if he just turned and pinned her against the wall? Slid his hands under her shirt, over the skin of her stomach until her breasts were heavy in his palms. Would she arch against him? If he slid her jeans down her hips, hooked a finger under her panties, would she be wet and aching for him? If he slid his fingers inside her and stroked her, would she moan? Would she fumble with his zipper, tugging his jeans to the floor? What if he wrapped her legs around his waist and fucked her against the wall, sliding into her again and again, hot and slick and tight? Would she come, tightening around him, clutching at his shoulders, hair, gasping his name?

Would she still say he was misinterpreting their fucking friendship?

When he comes, he has to clench his teeth to keep from moaning her name.

It doesn’t help.

He feels worse than before.

He leans his forehead against the tile and sobs.