Disclaimers in part one.

It's another day before he sees her. As fate would have it, it's as they're on their way out for the day. It's enough to make him wonder how he managed to avoid this situation until now.

The elevator doors open and she's alone inside. She's slumped against the wall, and the doors opening obviously catch her off guard because she jerks upright, her hand flying up to her hair and glasses. Then it falls back down, and there's a tentative smile blooming on her face.

She says, "Henry!" in an endearing and very familiar squeak and he can't help but smile at it. She moves aside, although she's the only one inside, gathering her purse a little closer.

He steps inside, settling with his hands clasped behind his back, trying not to think about how familiar this all is, and the silence is no less awkward and rife with unsaid thoughts than once before.

The numbers count down on the inside panel, a not-so-subtle reminder that if he doesn't say something, he'll lose this chance. It's unexpectedly hard to say what he has to, with all the things he shouldn't say jostling for being the first in line. He shouldn't lay all that on her. Not right now.

She's pointedly not been looking at him all this time and his heart aches for the ease of conversation they once had.

He starts to reach out to her, to get her attention by touching her shoulder, but he stops himself in mid-reach. The motion is enough to make her look at him and he takes a deep breath, and starts to say, "Betty". He stalls there, struggling for the right words, finally going for the simplest ones he can get out, "Apology accepted."

She stares at him for what seems the longest time. She almost looks like she's about to cry, but he presses his lips tighter and forces himself to wait. She takes a few short breaths, as if she's struggling for air and then says, "Really?"

He nods.

And she smiles, wide and glorious, and if he didn't know he was in love before, he knows it now, and he can't breathe for wanting to kiss her so badly and knowing that now isn't the right time, so he digs the nails of one hand into the other and tries to smile back.

The doors slide open, startling him and Betty, apparently, because her head turns swiftly to the doors and back again to him. He hesitates, but when she makes no move to leave he says, "Walk you out?"

She smiles, again, and says, "Sure."

He's missed this, he thinks, as they walk side by side through the lobby. Most of the building is empty by now, only some stragglers like Betty and he left. Walking together, it almost feels like the past few weeks never happened and that he's just seeing her out on a normal night. But a few weeks ago, he would have held her hand, or she would have put an arm around his waist and cuddled close to him. He sighs and she looks at him, so he offers her a wry eyebrow and asks, "How was your day?"

She stumbles slightly, a very small pause in her walk, and he wishes mightily that he could kick himself when he realizes why. That was his question at the end of the day and it slipped out, without thought, with the ease of routine.

She glances up at him and he's sure that's wistfulness in her gaze. She drops her gaze, quickly and answers, "Not the best."

"Why?" And, again, it just slips out.

She looks up again, and away, again, faster than he can figure out what it means and says, "I think you know why."

He does and this time he doesn't hesitate to get her attention. He stops her with a hand on her shoulder and lets it rest there for a moment before letting go.

She has a look on her face that he could only characterize as cautious. Without preamble, he says, "Your letter--it meant a lot to me. I, I didn't mean to shoot you down."

She starts to say something and he knows it's probably just a denial of any wrong-doing on his part, so he lifts a hand and says, "No, don't say I wasn't wrong." She stops and looks relieved, so he continues, "I was. I wasn't listening and I'm sorry for that."

'And for not paying closer attention before,' he thinks, but doesn't say. That's not the issue right now. He looks down, saying, "I don't--" He looks back up, "I don't want to ruin our friendship, either."

She still has that cautious look on her face and he would give anything to know what she's thinking. Her reply stuns him for a second, because it's exactly what's going through his mind.

She says, her tone very uncertain, "Do you really think that we can be friends?"

He takes a deep breath. "Maybe. But that depends on you, doesn't it?"

She looks away, and he wonders how it feels like his heart can possibly keep on breaking. He should be used to it by now.

"I know," she says, "Just give me time."

"I am, Betty."

She flinches at that, a little, but doesn't say anything else. He knows better than to push it, so he starts walking again. She falls in step beside him. They part ways outside, but before he goes, he manages to give her an untainted smile as he says, "Good night, Betty."

She doesn't smile back. "Good night, Henry."

He walks away, thinking, 'This isn't friendship.' He isn't sure what it is, but friendship it isn't, because no friendship would be this riddled with pain. He's well aware that this is a mistake, but he's making it with his eyes open. It doesn't make it any easier, though, as the rest of the week passes.

She comes by his office on Thursday and asks if he wants to join her for lunch and he assents and it's awkward, but that's nothing they haven't experienced before.

He doesn't say anything about the past weeks and neither does she--as if by mutual consent they both decided to push the reset button. It's not the best solution, but he thinks that since they're both making it up as they go along, that it will do.

When she asks if they can do this again on Monday he has to say no. She's disappointed, he can tell, but before he can explain, she nods and says, "The audit. Right. I'd almost forgotten. Prepared?"

"As much as we can be."

Betty starts clearing up her tray, gathering everything for one trip and he says, because he has an instinct that if he doesn't, she's not going to press the issue, "I don't anticipate staying late. What about you?"

She hesitates for a second, in the middle of taking his glass to put on her tray, before she sets it down. She looks at him, hope in her eyes.

She says, "They won't keep you late?"

He smiles.

"No. They have to go home, too. I could walk you out."

She smiles back.

"No, I don't think I'll be staying late. Hilda wanted me to stop by a florist's and haggle their price down."

"She finally made up her mind?"

The last he'd known was that Hilda was still waffling about even saying yes, but that was almost a month ago. This reminder that life has gone on around him is unexpectedly sobering.

"Yes, and apparently, I'm the only one that can get all the wedding vendors to do what she wants. How I got stuck being her wedding planner, I don't know."

"You're her sister, that's how."

Before Betty can pick up her now heavily laden tray, he's taken it and placed it on his empty one.

She says, "Thank you," and he shakes his head.

He says, "No problem."

He stands, picking up the tray, and waits as she makes sure there are no crumbs on the table.

He says, "Just make her do the same for you, okay?" He wishes the words back, almost before they leave his mouth. He so did not want to go there, but it's too late now.

She freezes. He avoids looking at her, afraid of what he'll see.

She says, "Sounds fair."

He pretends he doesn't hear the slight quaver in her voice, and goes to dispose of their trays, with her following. Done, he turns to her and says, "I might have a few lunches free next week, but I'm not promising anything. Meet you at six, usual spot?"

She nods.

He turns to go, but turns back when he hears her say, "Thank you." She's serious and he understands immediately what she's not saying.

"You're welcome."

Walking away, he firmly tells the inner voice shouting at him, 'Don't let this go on too long, Henry!' to just shut up.

Whatever this was, it was a start. That night, the tension between them has lessened and he's grateful for that.