Habits (Pam/Jim, PG)
Everybody has habits. Not bad, per se, just little rituals, tasks or movements they do every day like clockwork, most without even noticing. Jim had never been one to notice the small things, either. Until her. He had her habits down by heart.
The way she would go to the water tank, passing by Jim’s desk where he would look up from whatever work he was doing, his eyes traveling with her as she crossed to the other side of the room to the cooler. She would grab one of the small, paper cups from the stack and lean down, resting her hand on top of the jug and tapping down exactly three times while filling the cup.
The way she would bend down to get her food from the refrigerator during lunch, talking to Jim, who sat at the table to her right, eating his ham and cheese sandwich while watching her, over her shoulder. She would grab the Tupperware container, leaning back up as she closed the refrigerator door. She would absentmindedly bring her hand up to straighten the ‘Dunder-Mifflin’ magnet that somehow went crooked everyday without fail, before walking over to the table and sitting next to Jim.
The way she would bite her nails when she concentrated. When she would file papers or make appointment logs or answer the phone with, ‘Dunder-Mifflin, this is Pam.’ She would bring her hand up, twisting it so her fingers were pressed against her chin, and put her thumbnail between her teeth, chewing the nub lightly.
They were small things, trivial things, things that wouldn’t matter to anybody. Except for Jim. He was the only one who noticed these things about Pam, whether it be tapping jugs or straightening magnets or chewing her nails, he noticed. He noticed because all these little things belonged to her.