He's standing close behind her, his lips on her neck, hands resting on her hips as she fumbles impatiently with her keys, finally finding the right one and shoving it in the lock. When the door gives way, she almost falls inside, her keys clattering as she tosses them clumsily on her kitchen counter.

He's quick to pull her back to him, his mouth on hers even as he reaches blindly with one hand behind his back, his palm making contact with the door and slamming it shut. She's still reeling a little from what had happened at the office earlier -- the way he'd murmured, "You know what? Screw it," then pressed his lips back on hers, pulling her close like he had that night nearly two years ago. She'd been only faintly aware of Andy and Kevin's faux porn serende, because there was something about the way Jim had so deliberately decided to disregard the cameras and their co-workers that made it all too easy to lose herself in him.

And as his tongue touched hers, she understood suddenly why all those corny movies always zoomed in on the couple kissing, manipulated the lens such that passersby became blurry. Because that's what it had been like, standing there and drowning in the moment with him in spite of their audience. There was something about the way he'd just dropped all pretense and surrendered to the moment that had reminded her of the night he'd kissed her for the first time -- when he'd had no rational reason to believe there was any hope, but still he'd been unable to stop himself.

Two years later, memories of that night still make her stomach tighten, make her throat close up; because she realizes now how damn close she'd come to letting her fear cast them into an infinite oblivion of what ifs.

But that was the proverbial then, and this is the near awe-inspiring now, a place where things no longer go unsaid, a miraculous world in which that unshakeable connection they've always shared is the foundation of their happiness, instead of the de-stabilizing force they'd both fought so hard to ignore in the past.

As they'd walked out to his car earlier that afternoon, hand-in-hand, she'd glanced over at him, shielding her eyes and squinting in the sun as she asked, "So...you wanna go out and celebrate?"

He'd pulled open the passenger's side door for her, then stepped up so that he was standing close, his eyes holding hers. "No...I wanna stay in tonight."

She cocked her head, and before she could say anything, he leaned down, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered, "I want you...that's how I wanna celebrate."

And now here they are, blissfully alone in her apartment, his fingers deftly undoing the little metal hook at the middle of her low back, then sliding the zipper down so that her skirt falls to a crumpled heap around her ankles. Within seconds, she's got his shirt off and is working on his belt, even as he's carefully releasing the rubber band that's holding her hair up.

He's about to lead her to the bedroom when she stops him, her eyes on his as she murmurs, "No...here."

In the wake of her whispered request, he nods once, then takes a few deliberate steps toward her. Within seconds, he's backed her against the front door, his hands skimming her body, breath hot against her neck.

His head falls back when she reaches beneath his boxers; he bites his lip for a second as she works her magic, then whispers, "Yeah...I really like you."

She hadn't initially told him how she'd found out at the Job Fair that she's even farther from her real goals than she'd thought, because he'd been on such a high from landing the client...and really, she'd been on it with him. Truth be told, the past few weeks have been rough on them; between Ryan's maddeningly transparent "probation" and Toby putting his hand on her fucking knee in front of everyone in the office, there hasn't been a lot for them to really celebrate -- at least as far as work's concerned. Even though she's done her best to reassure Jim that Ryan's threats are empty, that Toby's ineffectual, at best....still, she sees the way his shoulders slump at work; has glanced over at him and more than once caught him in a moment of deep contemplation, his brow furrowed, hand covering his chin.

So she wants to let him revel in his success -- wants to revel in it with him. Later there'll be time to talk about her own disappointment.

It's weird, because the whole experience of seeing him take so many hits lately has been humbling for her, in some strange way making her realize that even though she'd spent almost ten years with Roy, she'd really always been alone. The sympatico of her relationship with Jim has been entirely new to her -- both in the sense that he genuinely seems to share in her disappointments or her frustrations, just as he's been an open book when it comes to his own struggles -- and she's not used to that.

With Roy, neither had been the case. Sure, she'd felt for him when he had a bad day, nodding sympathetically, rubbing his shoulders, validating his frustration whenever he voiced it. But there had been a disconnect there, and she'd known it; he'd always brooded somewhere in his own orbit, occasionally even getting impatient with her when she tried to support him.

She'd learned through the years to overlook a lot of disappointments when it came to her relationship with Roy, but among those that nagged at her the most was the unrelenting awareness that, when times were tough -- for either of them -- it was as if the distance between them widened to a chasm. Because in addition to shutting her out when something was really bothering him, he also had no patience when it came to her disappointments. If they were big ones, of course, he'd get appropriately angry -- clench his fists, offer to kick someone's ass (neither of which was ever even remotely a consolation). But when she was upset over the smaller things, he tended to brush her off; when she cried, he'd gotten more annoyed than anything.

She'd consoled herself through buying into the whole philosophy that men and women are fundamentally different creatures and as such are destined to generally misunderstand one another. She'd even begun to believe that the important thing wasn't seeing eye-to-eye, but rather, pretending to for the sake of keeping the peace.

Being with Jim has taught her otherwise.

But it hadn't always been this easy.

She'd spent much of the previous year trying to convince herself that it was okay if he ended up with someone else. In the few days since their trip to the beach, she'd tried to come to terms with the fact that he really had moved on, that she really had blown it. That even those moments after she'd blurted it all out, her feet burning, her co-workers staring, her eyes locked on his....

Her words couldn't redeem her. Them.

She'd tried to reconcile herself to the idea that their hug -- god, the hug that had reminded her of a thousand other times, the moments that were bricks in the wall of what would eventually become them -- that it was enough; it was enough to hear him admit that he'd never really come back.

That it was enough to boldly meet his eyes and respond in a pointed, measured tone, "Well I wish you would."

They'd stared at one another for a few seconds, but then Karen had called his name, causing him to visibly start, turning to face her.

Karen's voice had been tight, thin: "We're loading the bus. ...Come on."

Pam had held her breath at Karen's expression -- her eyebrows lifted, eyes on Jim's face, lips a firm line. She hadn't bothered to even acknowledge Pam, and Pam didn't blame her for it; had she been in Karen's position, she'd have likely responded in the same way. ...Would probably have been less cool about it, actually.

Jim had glanced quickly back at Pam, something guilty on his face, as if he knew he was about to sell them both out -- their past, their connection...their aborted future.

His eyes were on Pam's as he called to Karen, "I'll be there in a second -- just...go ahead, and I'll meet you on the bus."

Karen had hesitated, then: "Whatever."

Jim hadn't turned his eyes away from Pam even as Karen stalked toward the bus, her head down, hair blowing in the night breeze.

He'd hesitated then, his eyes slowly scanning Pam's face -- taking it in the way he once had almost every day, the way he hadn't since he'd come back -- before he took in a sharp breath. He hesitated for a second, then: "I just..."

He'd stopped, tilting his head and pursing his lips, reminding her of the way he'd responded when she'd lied to him, rejected him, accused him of misinterpreting things -- when misinterpreting had been the last thing he'd done; no, he'd been the only person who'd ever read her correctly, picking up on her subtext, translating her dreams into reality.

Or he'd tried to, at least.

All she could do was stare up at him, waiting for him to finish; when he did, his voice was throaty, low, his lips twisted wryly. "I'm just really -- I mean, you've -- you've done some pretty...amazing stuff this year, and I think it's great, how much you've...."

That was when the tears had welled in her eyes, blurring the image of him standing there in front of her, head tilted, hands in his pockets. The fact that he could stand there and praise her for all she'd done -- calling off the wedding, breaking up with Roy for good, taking art classes, winning that contest -- in spite of the fact that she'd failed to do the one thing that was most important: telling him the truth, telling him that yes, she was in love with him, too, and always had been.

It was like the proverbial dagger to the heart, because it was emperical evidence that he loved her...really loved her. But he was going home with someone else, the tables so cruelly turned as she reminded herself how many times he'd had to watch her leave with Roy, knowing how wrong Roy was for her.

"Hey...." His voice brought her back to the present - a place where possibility still lived and breathed; a place where his eyes and his smile weren't so different than they had been a year before, when he'd essentially lain himself bare before her.

He tilted his head. "You okay?"

She'd forced a smile, telling herself that if he'd moved on -- if he really wanted to move on -- then she had no right to stop him. "Yeah...yeah, I am; it's just...been a weird night I mean...don't you think?"

He offered a weak chuckle in agreement. "A little, yeah."

Another protracted silence fell, and she could've sworn he was struggling -- whether to find the right words or with his emotions, she couldn't tell -- then he lifted his chin, squinting a little as he held her gaze fast in his own: "So that stuff you said -- about me ignoring you -- it really.... What I wanna say is just...I'm still your friend; I'll always be your friend, no matter how...weird things get. You know that...right?"

She'd nodded, biting her lip because she knew he hadn't intended to be cruel, that he hadn't consciously thrown her own words back in her face. He'd stepped forward then and pulled her into his arms, a gesture that had caught her completely off guard. She'd shut her eyes tightly against his shoulder, praying to god this would mean something.

But then he was pulling away quickly, avoiding her eyes as he murmured, "We, uh...better get to the bus."

Still, they've had their moments when the distance has caught up with them.

The night of their first date -- two hours after he'd so unexpectedly burst into the conference room and asked her if she was free for dinner -- he'd taken her to a small restaurant that was dimly lit, its atmosphere all hushed quiet and blood red walls. They'd spent the first twenty minutes or so smiling awkwardly at each other, making halting attempts at conversation.

She'd sat there wondering how in the hell to make this right -- which was weird, because being with Jim had always been the easiest thing in the world -- when he'd suddenly cocked his head, pursing his lips, then: "This just isn't going well, is it?"

Their eyes had met, and in that conspiratorial moment, she'd just known it was going to work out. So she'd smiled back at him, laughing softly. "No, it's not; it's really not."

"I know!" He'd chuckled, then splayed his hands wide across the tabletop. "Seriously...what is this?"

"I have no idea." She was starting to laugh even harder -- the kind of unfettered laughter that comes from complete exhaustion, from being unable to fake it anymore. And that's what had been the ice breaker -- they'd both just dissolved into laughter, faces flushed with the sheer release of dropping the facade they'd struggled to maintain for such a long time.

That's what it had been for her -- a moment of release, finally.

He'd settled back in his chair, the light from the candle on their table flickering across his face as he gave her one of his signature tight-lipped grins. "So, Beesly, how do we...make this somehow not weird?"

She hadn't hesitated; at the sound of the familiar nickname, she'd known what to do. "An unforecast blizzard suddenly blows in, and you're stranded in the office. Who'd you rather be stuck with: Dwight or Kelly?"

His grin had widened, those eyes of his telling her that she'd done it; she'd done the seemingly impossible and made things normal again -- or at least, as normal as they ever had been between them. Once upon a time, they'd whiled away hours playing this kind of mindless, silly game, because it was a convenient subterfuge for all the the things they really wanted to be saying...and doing.

He'd cocked his head, squinting and pursing his lips as he considered her query. Then: "Question."

She'd laughed out loud at that. "Wow...you can sound so much like Dwight sometimes that it's a little scary."

"It's a gift." He'd shrugged nonchalantly, prompting her to chuckle again, shaking her head at him. He'd watched her, his head tilted, eyes warm...appearing almost transfixed, oblivious to the silence that had fallen.

She'd sucked in a breath, seized with the urge to tell him what she was really thinking -- that she'd meant what she said on the beach; that it can't be too late, not if he can still look at her this way.

But instead she'd reminded herself that the next move was his to make; she'd lain her cards on the table at the lake. Besides, for all she knew, he might still be with Karen. So she'd prompted gently, "You were asking a question...?"

"What?" He'd been slow to snap out of it, flushing a little, then: "Oh, yeah...how long am I stranded?"

"Three days." She watched as he considered her answer, nodding slowly.

"Okay, second question: Is locking myself in the kitchen an option?" He grinned again as she rolled her eyes.

"Absolutely not." She informed him, struggling to affect a stern expression.

"Okay." He nodded again, then: "So is this Kelly before Ryan or -- "

"Wait a second -- no, no, no." She shook her head forbiddingly. "You know the rules, Jim; you get two questions, no more. ...Unless you want to buy a third with an additional limitation -- like, say, Kelly the day after she and Ryan went on their first date, or Dwight after the season finale of Battlestar Galactia."

It's a rule that they'd made up themselves years before, and even though she'd reminded him of it without thinking, she'd realized immediately from the look on his face that she'd inadvertantly struck a chord in him.

He'd seemed to almost freeze for a minute, then, his eyes holding hers fast, "That's right...I forgot."

She'd swallowed, then forced herself to say, "It's been a while."

His lips had parted, his jaw tilting ever so slightly as his gaze swept her face. "Yeah...it has."

A silence descended then, and before she could respond, he'd added in a husky voice, "Too long."