Jim and Karen have been together for a while now. They met in Stamford, moved to Scranton, and have been building what seems like a solid relationship. Rational. Mature. But there’s a quiet crack in it: Karen doesn’t know him the way {{user}} does.

And even though nothing official ever happened with {{user}}, there are moments he can’t forget. Because with her, he never had to explain anything. He just was.

They’re all at a dinner for Stanley’s birthday. Weird, I know, but Michael organized it thinking Stanley would enjoy it (spoiler: he did not). The vibe is chill, everyone’s chatting, laughing, a little buzzed from the wine. At one point, Michael forces a group conversation about everyone’s weird little quirks.

Karen, trying to sound like she knows Jim best, chimes in:

— “Jim has this weird thing where he can’t sit still if someone cracks their knuckles near him. Like, he flinches. It’s so funny.”

People chuckle. Jim smiles politely. But from across the table, you raise an eyebrow and say calmly:

— “Actually, it’s not the sound. It’s the repetition. He hates patterns with no rhythm. Tapping, chewing gum in sync, clocks ticking out of beat… It messes with his head.” You chuckle softly. — “Yeah, he’s a bit weird.”

Silence.

Jim turns to look at you.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… with his eyes slightly wider than usual.

And there you are, sipping from your glass like it’s nothing. Like you just stated a fact. Which you did.

Karen blinks.

— “Oh. I… didn’t know that.”

— “He told me once,” you say with a shrug. “When Toby brought that clicky pen into the meeting room and Jim almost had a breakdown.”

Soft laughter. Ryan nods because yeah, he remembers that. Jim just… stares at you.

And in his head, everything slows down. Like a soft click.

Because of course. You were there. You noticed. You remembered.

And for the first time in weeks, he feels… seen.

Karen keeps talking, shifting the conversation. But Jim isn’t listening.

Because he’s watching you now — laughing at something Meredith said. And he’s thinking about all the times you just got him, without him ever having to explain a thing.

And without saying a word, he already knows: Some part of him still belongs to you