Those first few heady weeks had been marked by a kind of awe-struck wonder that descended at unexpected times, giving them pause even in the most ordinary moments: on a lazy Sunday afternoon watching She's Having A Baby in a drowsy fog, stretched out on the couch, her back against his chest, one of his arms around her, their hands linked as his thumb absently caressed her palm.

Standing in the grocery store holding a plastic carton of strawberries to her nose, then glancing up to find him watching her, the expression on his face almost dazed, as if he still can't believe it's all real.

Puttering around her apartment after he'd gone home to pick up some clothes and wearing the tee-shirt he'd had on the day before, his scent surrounding her as she loads her dishwasher, anticipating with a flutter that he'll be back soon.

**

The momentary amazement was often punctuated by a pulsing heat that sent a flush over her, rising unexpectedly in the light of day if their eyes met and lingered too long -- even in the least likely of times, whether she was in the midst of answering a call or he was ignoring Dwight's latest tirade.

Even though they'd had a tacit agreement not to betray anything at work, those early weeks had proven to be a seemingly insurmountable challenge. Watching him talk Michael down from the latest ledge was a reminder of just why she'd fallen in love with him in the first place; feeling her breath slow to a halt as his eyes languidly met hers in the lazy haze of late afternoon was like a drug.

Because she knew it was just a matter of time before the door would slam behind them, his arms pulling her close, his lips impatient on her own; there would be an utterly transfixing amalgam of reverence and lust coloring his features as he stood in front of her, bare chest rising and falling with his increasingly labored breathing, his pupils seeming to dissolve as she slowly released the last button of her shirt, tilting her chin slightly as it fell to the floor, the rustling fabric another shocking reminder of the revelation that was them...together.

The unexpected thing about the sex -- or rather, one of the unexpected things -- was that the aftermath was almost as intense as the act itself; it was often as if a kind of preternatural stillness permeated the air around them, nothing tangible save for his heartbeat beneath her ear, the hair on his chest just slightly prickly against her cheek, his fingers rhythmically slipping through her hair. Those quiet moments disarmed her as much as the ones when heat and sweat and moans shattered all pretense, defense...separation.

And the culmination of it all resulted in a closeness that caught her off guard; at times what she felt for him ran so deep that it almost frightened her, because she'd spent ten years with Roy...and it had never even come close to this.

**

For such a long time, she'd believed wholeheartedly in the merit of reveling in the comfortable, the predictable...stability. Even in the face of the sharpest stab of discontent, the blind faith in what was expected had been enough to soothe the ache.

Back then she'd never have imagined that one man could represent so much. His bare, familiar chest was like an oasis at the end of a long day; it was a revelation to discover that getting through the smaller -- and larger -- frustrations of the work day could be as easy as reminding herself that in a matter of hours, it would be just the two of them: his heartbeat reverberating in her ear, the throbbing ache slowing to a dull hum in the pit of her belly, stubble on his jaw rough against her forehead...the sense of peace absolute, unlike anything she'd known before.

**

He's dozing on the couch beside her, his long legs sprawled to rest on the coffee table, head listing to his shoulder as the television drones in the background. For the past half hour, she's been engrossed in the novel she'd started way back when he had been forbidden, an enigma...a tangible sign of all that life could really be if only she were brave enough to take a chance. It's the same novel she'd swiped from the backseat of his car on that day so long ago, struggling to ignore the urge to just steep herself in his marginal notes.

A year and a half ago, she'd read the novel with a sinking feeling, almost bracing herself as the story unfolded, Edna, its married protagonist, having fallen for Robert -- the man who'd started out as a close friend. Pam had been unnerved by just how much she identified with Edna's answer when someone questioned why she loved him when she "ought not to":

‘….Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; because he opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing; because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger that he can’t straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his youth. Because – ‘

‘Because you do, in short….’

Even then, the passage had shaken Pam to her core, because it seemed to convey all the things that she dared not speak...the impulses she tried so desperately to ignore.

But more shocking than that was Jim's note in the margin: Yes. This is what it feels like.

She glances over with a small, tremulous smile, thinking of how he'd pursed his lips in the face of Toby's all-too sudden -- and very public -- revelation at work earlier; her smile widened when she recalled the way he'd simply affirmed in a drawl both awe-struck and inherently satisfied, "Yeeepppp."

Days like today -- when she'd basked in the luxury of being able to casually hand him a drink from the machine, marveling at how easily and immediately he expressed his gratitude; when she'd been able to give in to the impulse that had seized her all too often in the past three or four years to just run back to him, stand on her toes, press her lips to his cheek in an expression of gratitude and wonder -- well, they were nothing short of a miracle.

Rather like him.

He stirs now, his eyes slowly fluttering open. It takes him a second to fully awaken; then his gaze falls to rest on her face, his lips slipping into a small, warm smile as he looks down at her.

Before he can speak, she murmurs self-consciously, "I'm sorry...."

His brow knits slightly in confusion, and his voice is deliciously hoarse when he asks, "For what?"

She smiles, reaching to smooth an unruly lock of hair from his forehead as she answers, "For waking you."

Something behind his expression visibly softens. "For waking me? Seriously?"

She nods as he reaches to pull her close. "Yeah...it looked like you were having a good dream."

His cheek is against the top of her head as he murmurs drowsily, "Mmmm...I gotta tell you, Beesly, I don't think any dream could be better than this."