By the time he gets back to his apartment, it's after ten so he's feeling pretty tired and worn out.

But as he comes down the hallway and spots Annie sitting on the floor just beside his door, he's suddenly wide awake. Her knees are bent and her head is tipped back against the wall, which makes it seem like she's been waiting in that spot for a while.

For a second, he thinks he's imagining the whole thing – because there really hasn't been any hint that she's thawing toward him – but then she looks over at him and smiles a little self-consciously and it all feels very real.

"Hey," he says, keys in hand. "What are… have you been here long?"

She shrugs, looking pretty weary herself.

"I don't know. A couple of hours, maybe? I saw your car wasn't here, but that older man with the really distinguished beard from the second floor recognized me and let me in… so I figured I'd just wait."

"I was visiting my mom," he explains. "You should have called or texted. I could have come back earlier."

She shakes her head and pushes herself to her feet.

"No. It was good. I needed a little more time to think."

He nods, fitting his key into the lock. It takes everything in him not to ask what she's doing here right off the bat, but somehow he manages to play it cool. Because, really, her being here at all feels like a gift and he doesn't want to do anything to screw it up.

"I probably should have called, though," she says as she follows him inside. "I mean, I shouldn't just show up on your doorstep like this without any warning. It's really not—"

"It's fine, Annie. You know that."

But she doesn't seem to – she stands aimlessly just behind his sofa as he closes the door behind them and takes off his coat. If she's spent the past few hours sitting his hallway thinking, maybe she's not quite done yet. She makes a soft sighing sound and turns to face him, though, so he conjures up a grin.

"You look like you could use a drink," he says lightly.

She almost smiles.

"I could probably use the whole bottle."

He nods, heading toward the liquor cabinet.

"Let's start with a glass and see how it goes."

It's not the time for fancy, candy-sweet drinks, he suspects, so he grabs his usual bottle of scotch and fills a glass half way for her. He's not sure whether he should have some too – he wants to be clear-headed for this, but if it doesn't go his way, he thinks he'd rather be a little numb for the whole thing. He compromises, dribbling a couple of fingers' worth into his glass. When he hands her the scotch, she smiles for real and he feels a little of the tension drain out of him.

She takes a long sip, her hand shaking some. He's not about to push her, but he really wishes she would say something already, anything to let him know why she's here.

And then it's like she's read his mind, because she wipes at her mouth and looks up at him.

"I saw my dad again," she tells him. "Earlier this week."

It's not what he's expecting at all, but he nods all the same.

"Yeah? How'd it go?"

"It was fine. Nice even." She laughs a little, shaking her head. "He called me last weekend and said he'd had such a good time when we went lunch that he thought we should try dinner."

She lifts her shoulders tiredly and moves around the sofa, taking a seat at one end. He sits at the opposite end and watches as she takes another sip of the scotch.

"We went to this restaurant we used to go to for my birthday when I was little," she says. "And we talked about what I'm doing at the lab and how he might be up for another promotion at work and whether I should to grad school and how my brother's doing. Just regular family stuff. And it felt so normal and easy that I almost didn't know what to do with myself."

"But that's good, right?"

She looks over at him, her eyes dark and glassy.

"Kind of," she sighs. "I don't know if this is going to make sense, but it was so *nice* that it actually hurt. Because afterward, all I could think was that we could have been doing that for the past six or seven years and we'd wasted so much time. Time that we can never get back even if I manage to really forgive him and he can prove that he really wants to be a part of my life again…"

Jeff nods, understanding better than he's comfortable admitting. He doesn't know if it was turning forty that did it or some other kind of internal shift, but lately, he feels time ticking away in a sharp, fast way that he's never noticed before. It makes everything that happens around him feel strangely precious, makes the regrets sting that much more.

"And then Shirley tells us that she's leaving," Annie continues. "And Pierce is gone and Troy left for an entire year and I realize that as time goes by, it's going to get easier and easier for us all to drift apart, no matter how much we might not want to… and I don't want that to happen to us. I could wind up in grad school in New York or you could get your dream job in Seattle without us really giving this a chance. And I don't want that to happen…"

He shifts a little closer to her on the sofa and nods.

"I don't want that either," he tells her.

She nods absently and reaches out to put her glass on the coffee table. She turns on the sofa and grabs one of the throw pillows, clutching it to her chest.

"But the thing is," she starts to say. "I'm scared. I'm really scared… of so many things. That I'm not going to be enough for you or maybe that I'll be too much or that we'll both really try and it still won't work and everything will fall apart and we'll wind up hating each other…"

"Annie, we don't—"

"I didn't plan for it to happen like this, you know," she whispers.

She lowers her head, almost like she's embarrassed.

"What do you mean?"

"That night I came to your apartment and told you we should sleep together to make things right between us again," she says. "It wasn't some master plan to trap you in a relationship or anything. I was just sort of playing things by ear for once, trying not to look too far ahead."

"I never thought you were trying to trap me. That thought never entered my mind."

She nods, playing with the fringe on the pillow.

"No? Good. Because I was mostly telling the truth that night. Everything was so awkward between us because this monumental thing had happened and we couldn't even remember it… and it seemed like maybe if we had a memory to put to it, we could sort of move on. Or try to, at least."

Maybe that makes sense, he thinks. If they didn't feel the way they do about one another. That's what's complicated everything between them since nearly the beginning.

"You said you were mostly telling the truth," he says. "What was the rest of it?"

Her cheeks go a little red and she lowers her eyes to study her lap, like she can't quite look him in the eye.

"There was also part of me that hated the fact that we'd screwed up everything between us and we couldn't even remember the good parts," she confesses. "It was like getting punished for taking a joyride that you don't even remember."

He chuckles a little under his breath, and she jerks her head up to look at him almost accusingly.

"I don't know if anyone's ever described sex with me that way before."

She smacks at his knee with her foot, but she's smiling too.

"It's just… if things were going to be weird between us, I at least wanted to know what it felt like." She takes a deep breath and lifts her shoulders helplessly. "To be with you, you know?"

"Yeah," he says. "I think I do. I felt pretty cheated too."

"Exactly!" she declares, pointing a finger at him. "We'd been so careful not to cross any lines for years and then we do and we don't even remember all the good stuff? We *were* cheated."

She's a little worked up now, posture perfect and eyes blazing as they always are when she's really passionate about something. He smiles and moves closer to her on the sofa, his hand stretched along the back so his fingertips barely graze her shoulder.

"So what happened after that night?"

"It was amazing," she says, rather matter-of-factly, and he can't help grinning – which she certainly doesn't miss. "I'm not saying that to feed your ego, so you can wipe that smug look off your face, okay?" She pause a moment, until he schools his features into a blank expression. "But it was amazing that first night and I guess I just wanted to do it again and see if it would be the same. And when it was, I kept telling myself just one more time, just one more time…"

He's not an idiot, so he knows people can experience the same thing and have two completely different perceptions of it, but he finds himself amazed that she saw their relationship as something temporary and fleeting while he thought they were building toward something more. It doesn't make any sense, actually.

"You didn't get the impression I was enjoying it too?"

She smiles, looking almost shy.

"I knew you enjoyed the sex," she says. "But I know you, Jeff. You don't get serious with women. You don't want a heavy, complicated relationship with all these strings and—"

"Annie, you didn't really—

"And I started to think that even if that really wasn't the way I wanted it, it was better to have you like that than not have you at all."

He has no idea what to say to that because he feels pretty shitty – and it's not like he did anything intentionally, but that only makes it seem worse, the idea that he could hurt her without knowing it, without even realizing it. He takes a sip of scotch, trying to drown the feeling.

"So I thought if it was something I could control," Annie continues. "If I kept it casual and light, you know, the way you like it, then you'd want to keep it going." She lowers her eyes again and lets out a deep breath. "You know, like your relationship with Britta."

The sick feeling in his stomach makes him shift uncomfortably against the couch cushions and he can feel her eyes on him. He wonders if this is some kind of test.

"None of this has anything to do with Britta," he says, as firmly as he can.

She tilts her head, her expression more dubious than he'd like.

"You were going to marry her."

"For a few hours, Annie. Because that's exactly how long it took us to come to our senses. It was a joke… and you knew that at the time. You knew it right away."

She nods, but he gets the feeling she's not really agreeing with him.

"No. You're right. This is really about me," she says. "I know you think I'm hopelessly idealistic and naive. You think that because I sing along to Taylor Swift songs and sometimes cry at Nicholas Sparks movies, I'm expecting some unrealistic happily-ever-after with hearts and flowers and skipping through meadows and all that kind of stuff."

He laughs without thinking, and she frowns, looking more than a little offended.

"No," he insists, shaking his head. "I wasn't thinking… I mean, I figured you know me well enough to understand I wasn't going to be standing outside your window in the rain with a boom box over my head. But I guess I thought there was some kind of middle ground. I was expecting you to want an actual relationship. Not just random hookups every other night of the week."

Her smile is a little rueful.

"That's because I was trying to show you I wasn't going to be all clingy and demanding. That I could be all sophisticated and cool and detached about the whole thing."

"Ah, I see," he says. "So that's why you never wanted to spend the night or go to dinner or do anything that might resemble a real relationship?"

She nods sheepishly – and there's something so enticing about the warm flush in her cheeks that he can't resist fanning the flames a little.

"Did you buy all the sexy underwear for me too?"

She huffs out an outraged laugh and smacks at his arm.

"I didn't buy it for you!" she insists. "I already had it… I'd just never had much occasion to wear it before."

He grins, reaching out to brush back the strand of hair that's fallen across her cheek.

"I find that really hard to believe."

When Annie looks up at him in the dim light of his apartment, her eyes are shimmering and he wants to kiss her so badly but he's not sure that what she wants right now, if she might think he's only trying to patch things up with sex. He bites at his lip to resist the urge, and she reaches out to pinch the fabric of his jeans where it's bunched at his knee between her fingers.

"The point," she says softly. "Is that I didn't want you to feel pressured into feeling or being something you weren't just because you were worried about fragile, little me. I don't ever want you to be less than honest about how you feel, even if you think it's not what I want to hear. I know we've been friends for so long and you don't want to hurt me, but…"

"Annie," he drawls, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm way too selfish to fake anything. Well, at least when there's no direct personal gain for me. You know that."

She smiles, but there's still doubt lingering somewhere in her eyes – and that's his fault, he knows, because he should have told her how he felt the second they got out of Borchert's basement. Or, at the very least, the morning after, when he'd had a few hours to get used to the idea and down half a bottle of scotch. He definitely shouldn't have waited a year and half, after they'd been sleeping together for months.

"I'm kind of an asshole," he says dryly. "Aren't I?"

"No," she starts to reassure him, but then seems to reconsider. "Well, sometimes. But I'm a jerk sometimes too. Not as often as you but…"

She grins, pleased by his amused expression, and pats his knee.

But it doesn't seem like enough at this point.

"Here's the thing," he says. "I need you to know I didn't start having these feelings for you after we slept together. I've felt them for a while. For a really long time, actually."

She furrows her brow.

"What're you talking about?"

"You remember almost two years ago when we got trapped in Borchert's lab?"

"How could I possibly forget?"

"And we needed a burst of passion or whatever to restart the computer so I hooked myself up to it and the door opened?"

Apparently, he doesn't have to say anything more because he sees the realization dawn on her face - and she's obviously stunned, her eyes wide and dark. She curls her hand around his knee almost without realizing it and squeezes lightly.

"And if I'm honest," he continues. "I'd felt it even before that. I just wouldn't admit it to myself."

She shakes her head and sighs a little.

"Why didn't you say anything?" she asks in a whisper.

"Because, as we've discussed, I'm an asshole… and like you, I was pretty fucking scared."

He can't lie – it's a relief to just get all of this out on the table. And he could kick himself for being such a Goddamn coward and not telling her sooner. They could have avoided so much bullshit along the way if he'd just manned up and told her at any point in the past seven months. Annie grabs her glass from the coffee table and drains the rest of her scotch. She's trying for a little liquid courage apparently because she turns him then and smiles.

"So you're serious about loving me?" she asks. "This isn't some sort of midlife crisis or something?"

He groans, clutching a hand to his chest like he's been mortally wounded.

"Whoa," he laughs. "You really know how to kick a guy when he's down, don't you? No. This isn't a midlife crisis." He bumps his knee against hers. "You know, I feel like it's been a lot of me telling you how I feel the past couple of weeks. It might be nice to hear how you feel one of these days. Unless you're not sure…"

She swats at his stomach pretty hard, but it only makes him smile – he's known for a while she's a bruiser.

"Of course I love you, you dummy."

He catches her hand against his stomach and tugs her toward him so she falls into his lap. He winds his arms around her waist, so they're pressed together in the middle of his sofa.

"Yeah, I'm feeling really loved right now."

She rests her hands on his shoulders, playing with the collar of his shirt.

"Would I put up with all of your crap if I didn't?"

"This has been you putting up with my crap?" he chuckles. "And here I was, thinking you might actually start cutting me some slack now."

She grins.

"Someone has to keep you in line, Jeff."

He nods slowly and thoughtfully.

"Does that involve whips and chains and you in black leather?" he asks. "Because I think I could be into that."

She rises up on her knees so she can straddle his lap and generate the kind of friction they both like.

"Let's start easy," she whispers. "And see how it goes."

When she leans in to kiss him, it feels like he's coming back to himself for the first time in weeks. He clutches at her hips and licks his way into her mouth, enjoying the smoky taste of scotch on her breath. But she pulls away a little sooner than he'd like, when he's still kind of breathless and hungry, and looks down at him expectantly, and he's suddenly reminded of their first real kiss without an audience years ago, when she'd worked up the courage to go for it and fell back, leaving the ball in his court.

It's just like that – except this time, she's smiling slyly.

"So?" she asks.

"So what?"

"Does that still do it for you now that this is a real, out-in-the-open kind of thing?"

He grins like an idiot and shrugs.

"You know, I'm not sure," he tells her. "Better do it again."

It doesn't take any more to convince her.

It takes some impressive maneuvering, but somehow, he's able to grab the cashmere throw from the arm chair next to the couch without knocking Annie off of him or falling off the couch himself. When he drapes it over them, though, it only reaches the middle of his shins so his feet are still cold. But she's curled in a heap on top of him, so she's completely covered and perfectly warm – he jostles her a little in protest.

"I can't help it if you're a big lug," she says, her breath warm across his throat.

"You didn't seem to mind what a big lug I was a minute ago..."

She giggles, and it's like everything he's feeling is distilled in that small, giddy sound. He feels lighter than he has in years, like he can finally breathe free and easy again.

"You know," he says casually. "There's something else I should probably confess."

She lifts her head, eyes wide with panic like she thinks he's going to admit to a cross-country murder spree or a secret lovechild with the lunch lady.

"What?"

"I've got a few Taylor Swift songs on my cardio playlist."

She laughs but swats at his shoulder pretty hard.

"Don't scare me like that, you jerk!"

He smirks, feeling pretty pleased with himself and Annie and the world in general. It makes for an interesting change of pace.

"But I'm more likely to volunteer to catsit for Britta's sickly menagerie than ever sit through a Nicholas Sparks movie," he tells her. "So you're out of luck."

She scoots up a little higher, dragging her bare breasts against his chest, and tilts her head coyly.

"We'll see," she whispers just before stealing a kiss.

He kind of wants to argue the point, but it's hard to think when her mouth is moving over his the way that it is. She works her away along his jaw and over his throat, while her fingertips trail over his chest, and he's just about to promise to watch 'The Notebook' every day for the rest of his life if she never stops when she does just that – stops completely.

"Hey," she says, tapping a finger against his chin. "You said you went to your mother. Did you have a good time?"

He can't help laughing a little at the change in subject, but manages to nod as he shifts under her to get more comfortable.

"I should probably see her more often," he confesses. "But every time I do, I feel so guilty that I don't want to go back for a good, long while."

"She's probably just happy to see you," Annie tells him. "And would tell you it's silly to feel guilty."

"Isn't that the biggest guilt trip of all, though? Absolving me of my guilt so I only wind up feeling guiltier?"

She cocks her head, eye narrowed thoughtfully.

"You think she's doing it on purpose?"

"No," he answers without thinking. "But people can't help the way they feel."

Annie lowers her head, tracing her fingers over the center of his chest almost absently. He runs his hand over the back of her hair and she looks up at him from beneath the dark, heavy fringe of her lashes.

"They can't," she agrees. "That's why I can't really help that I'm still scared."

He purses his lip and nods thoughtfully.

"Of what exactly?"

She laughs, all nervous and breathy.

"I'm just … what if we can't make this work, Jeff?" she asks. "It feels like there's so much at stake and one wrong move will…"

She trails off, shaking her head like she doesn't want to even verbalize the possibilities. He totally gets it because he feels the same way – failure isn't an option, so he's trying not to even think about it or imagine what it might look like, feel like. He might chicken out if he does.

"I think we just take it one day at time," he says.

She smiles softly and maybe a little sadly.

"That's how they tell you to think about your recovery in NA and it's worked so far." She sighs and places her palm flat against the center of his chest. "But what if we don't want the same things?" she practically whispers.

Her low, fragile voice just about kills him, and he reaches up to run his knuckles against her cheekbone.

"I want you," he tells her. "We can figure everything else out along the way."

He knows her – that likely isn't an answer that will satisfy her for long. She likes to think about the future, plan ahead, have a road map to follow, but he hopes she understands what he's saying, that he's committed to figuring things out.

Annie leans in, resting her forehead against his, and breathes out very slowly.

When she kisses him, he thinks she gets it.

No one says it, but the fact that Shirley's leaving in just a couple of months makes spending Thanksgiving together seem even more important, especially because Andre's taking the boys to his parents' and she doesn't particularly want to spend the day hearing her own family do nothing but questions all of her life choices and wonder if she's done enough to save her marriage.

Even Jeff feels pretty bad about the whole thing, so he offers to host dinner at his place – provided he doesn't have to do any of the cooking.

So Shirley agrees to make the turkey at her aprtment and bring it over, Britta plans to bring tofurky – "For those of us that don't want to eat meat," she says, and Jeff wants to point she's the only one who doesn't but in the spirit of the holiday, he refrains - and Troy and Abed volunteer to make candied sweet potatoes. (Annie peeks in their bag of supplies, though, and while there are actual sweet potatoes in it, she also spots a bag of M&M's and candy corn so there's no telling what kind of horror it'll turn out to be).

Annie offers to make the rest of the side dishes, but asks if she can use Jeff's kitchen because she's pretty sure hers will be a disaster due to her roommates' cooking efforts. He sees no problem with it – it even means that she stays over the night before so she can wake up bright and early and get to work right away and there are plenty of benefits to that – until she makes him peel a five-pound bag of potatoes. He complains the entire time, but she pretty much ignores him, only turning around once to roll her eyes emphatically before she goes back to chopping the onions and celery.

He watches her move around the kitchen, stirring the cranberry sauce and putting the stuffing in the oven a little too frantically for his tastes, so he makes her a French Connection, which she can only choke down when he adds an extra shot or two of amaretto - but he still tastes the cognac on her breath when he presses her back against the fridge and kisses her just before their friends arrive.

When they're finally gathered around the table, it's no surprise that Shirley insists they say grace, but as they start to pass the food around and she also declares, "I think we should go around the table and all name one thing we're thankful for today" like something out of some bad sitcom holiday special, so there's a collective groan around the table.

"And no one can say the rest of us," she clarifies. "Because then, we'd all just say that and it would be pretty boring."

"That's not fair," Troy whines, whacking a spoonful of potatoes onto his plate. "I should get to say you guys since last year at this time, I was halfway around the world, dealing with gale force winds and a lack of toilet paper. I am thankful to be here with you guys… where I assume Jeff has plenty of toilet paper."

He looks pointedly across the table at Jeff, who nods gamely.

"Troy, sweetie," Shirley says. "You can come up with something else, can't you?"

He grumbles a little under his breath before grinning broadly.

"I'm thankful I have millions of dollars in the bank," he declares. "So I probably never have to work a day in my life if I don't want to."

"Troy!" Shirley scolds. "That's not really in the spirit of the holiday!"

He shrugs.

"Then you should have let me go with my original answer."

"Is it my turn?" Abed asks, looking around the table. "And I can't say I'm thankful that Troy's back?"

Shirley shakes her head.

"Well, can I say I'm thankful for Rachel? I don't think any of the rest of you are going to say her, so …"

"Oh, that's really sweet, Abed," Annie says.

He lifts his shoulders indifferently, and looks over at Britta sitting beside him.

"You're up."

She sighs, head tilted thoughtfully.

"Um… well, I guess I'm thankful that Duncan's putting my name on our study as a co-researcher. I mean, I'll probably regret it since he's in charge and the experiment will wind up being a total failure, but I've worked my ass off… well, not by Annie standards but by my standards anyway." She shrugs. "Oh, and we've finally got Mr. Purrkins' insulin levels figured out so his diabetes is under control. I'm extremely thankful for that."

"Shirley," Abed says, pointing at her. "Your turn."

She looks a little caught off-guard, which strikes Jeff as funny given that this whole hokey thing was her idea.

"Oh, well, I guess that despite everything that's happening, I'm thankful that I won't be living two states away from my boys," she says. "Even if it means leaving all of you behind."

She gets a little teary eyed, and Annie and Britta both reach over to pat her hands consolingly.

"My food's getting cold," Troy announces, oblivious. "Can we move this along?"

"You can eat," Jeff says. "This isn't like grace."

"I can? I've been waiting this whole time like a chump!"

He slams his fork into a piece of turkey and attacks it like he hasn't eaten in weeks.

"Annie, sweetheart," Shirley coos. "It's your turn."

"Oh," Annie says, shifting in her chair. She looks over at Jeff quickly, hiding a smile. "I guess I'm just really thankful to be sitting here at this table."

Abed raises a brow.

"That's cheating. Shirley said we couldn't be thankful for each other."

"How do you know it's you guys that make me thankful to be here? It could be the really good food."

There's some booing and hissing around the table, but Annie smiles down into her mashed potatoes without guilt.

"Okay, Jeff," Abed says, once the commotion has died down. "Wow us with something really poignant and inspirational."

Jeff smirks over the rim of his wine glass, feeling everyone's eyes on him. He glances over at Annie, who's smiling in that soft, dreamy way of hers, and he wants to say he's thankful for her, for finally having a chance at something real with her, but that's the kind of thing that should probably be said in private because he's pretty sure the rest of them don't want to hear about it.

He puts his glass down and shrugs.

"I'm thankful I have a really good memory," he says.

Annie's eyes widen and she lets out a surprised little laugh, even as she flushes prettily in the candlelight from the table.

"What does that mean?" Troy asks.

Jeff grins.

"Ask Annie."

He and the rest of the able look over at Annie, who's still blushing as she sips from her glass and stubbornly shakes her head.

"Oh, God," Britta groans good-naturedly. "Get a room already."

"Technically," Jeff points out. "These are all my rooms so…"

She lobs a dinner roll at him, but he ducks at the right moment so it sails into the potted palm behind his chair. Annie shoots him a disapproving look for a moment until he grins at her hotly enough to make her blush and then she hooks her foot around his ankle beneath the table, running in up the back of his leg.

She tries to hide her smile with a hand, but he can still see it in her eyes.

At ten o'clock on a Saturday morning, he can think of at least a dozen places he'd rather be than the post office.

It's the first week of December, so all the early birds are in a hurry to send off their holiday packages, which means the place is packed. The heat's turned up to too high and some Mariah Carey holiday album is playing on repeat on the speakers too – if Dante had lived to see the 21st century, this definitely would have made it into one of his circles of hell.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, checks the time again, and groans loudly.

"Oh, come on," he whines. "Why do they bother making appointments if they're not going to keep them?

Beside him, Annie smiles patiently and pushes the coffee cup in his hand toward him.

"You just need more caffeine. We haven't even been waiting ten minutes yet."

"And yet, it still feels like torture."

She shakes her head in amusement.

"You're such a baby."

He playfully tugs on a strand of her hair as if to prove her point, and she bats his hand away even as she giggles.

"This was all your idea, you know," he accuses. "So I think you're gonna have to make it up to me."

"Oh, please! You're the one who suggested we do it together. You were stealing my resolution if you recall." She bites at her lip. "I can't believe it took us this long to finally do it. We almost blew it."

"But we did it within the year," he points out. "So resolution met."

She nods, and for what must be the third time since they got to the post office, she opens the manila folder she's holding and shuffles through her paperwork to make sure everything is in order. He takes his phone out and scans his Twitter feed for anything that might distract him from the fact that he's wasting precious minutes of his life in this damn line. But Annie nudges him with her elbow before he finds anything.

"Let me see your photo again."

He slides his phone back into his pocket and reaches into the envelope that's holding all of his documents to find the picture. When he hands it over to her, she tips her head back and laughs.

"You realize this is for a passport and not the cover of "GQ," right? Look at your expression!"

He shrugs.

"Annie. I can't help it if my good looks smolder naturally like that."

She smirks a little, as if rising to some challenge, and tugs her phone out of her bag. He watches as she thumbs through a few screens before smiling triumphantly.

"Are they smoldering here?" she asks, holding up the phone so he can see the photo she snapped of him wearing that mud musk and fuzzy pink headband a few months back.

"Admit it," he drawls. "Even there, I look hot."

She leans into his side and they laugh together for a minute, apparently loud enough to get the woman in front of them to turn around and try to determine what's so funny. Annie straightens up and goes back to organizing her paperwork, trying to seem business-like.

"I'm glad we're finally doing this," she says. "But I wish we could actually use our passports to go somewhere fabulous on your break next month. Like Paris or London or Madrid or Vienna…"

She sighs, a faraway wistful sound that he can hear even over Mariah's vocal acrobatics on the speakers. So he takes his phone out again, but instead of scanning Twitter for a distraction, he does a little research.

"How about Montreal?" he asks. "They speak French there, so it's practically like going to Europe. But flights are almost a thousand dollars cheaper than to Paris."

She grins, sort of bouncing on the toes of her shoes.

"That's a great idea! It'll be really cold, which isn't much fun, but we could go skiing! They've got great skiing up there."

"We can definitely go skiing," he agrees. "And I'll take you to a Canadiens' game so you can wow me with all your hockey knowledge."

She curls an arm around his waist, tucking herself into his side.

"It sounds perfect."

He slides a hand over her back and nods.

"You know what? It can be my birthday present to you."

"That seems a bit extravagant," she says. "I mean, last year, you just gave me a Starbucks gift card."

He shrugs.

"Last year, I didn't have quite as much incentive to keep you happy."

Under the harsh fluorescent lights of the post office, Annie tilts her head back and smiles up at him, all warm and tremulous. He can feel her heartbeat speed up against his chest too.

"I am," she says. "Happy, I mean."

"Me too," he tells her – for once, it's actually the truth.

And that means something.

It definitely means something.

Author's Note: A long, long time ago, a very sweet anon on Tumblr asked for a story where Jeff and Annie wake up in bed together with no memory of what happened the night before. That seemed like a fun idea, and I started to write it – but then the S5 finale happened, I was unable to write anything that didn't touch on the events of that episode in some way. So this story, which was meant to a fun, little one shot, totally ran away from me and became something else entirely. I hope the anon (who probably thought I'd forgotten about the request because it came all the way back in February or March; sorry for the delay!) who really was the inspiration for this story can still enjoy it even though it's probably not exactly what s/he was asking for.

And for everyone who made it to the end of this, thank you so much for reading.