She was staying.

Pam's body eased, feeling suddenly weightless. She released a breath that she didn't know she had been holding.

If she were honest with herself, she felt the urge to do a little happy dance, but she refrained.

Jim was trudging to the kitchen. She giggled, overenthusiastically so, as he seemed to stumble over his own clonky feet.

"'ey! Beesllllly. No laughin' at me, or I'll eat all the pizza right in front of your cute lil' face." He tossed the comment over his shoulder, grabbing the Pizza Hut menu off of the fridge as the words escaped him. His cheeks ran hot, the filmy paper crumpling in his grasp.

He had just called her cute.

To her face.

Had she noticed?

Did she care?

Was she headed to the door right now out of sheer terror that he had just called her cute?!

Quite contrary to Jim's thoughts, Pam was frozen to the spot, half of her body shadowed by darkness while the other half of her was engulfed in a halo of fluorescence looming from the kitchen.

Did Jim just call me cute? Did he really mean it? I did wear this sweater on purpose.

She contemplated various scenarios in her head, "But he also calls puppies and babies cute, and those things drool on themselves so what does that mean?" being the latest, when he snapped her from her trance.

"Pam. Pam. Pam. Important question. Do we want cheese in the crust?"

He was cradling the house phone between his shoulder and his ear, both arms outstretched in the air to signify just how important this question was to him.

"Jim. Are you serious?" she slurred, her head bowing slightly, eying him with a half-lidded gaze that, in any other situation, he would have deemed seductive.

"Dead serious, Beesly. They are asking. The Pizza Hut himself is asking."

A pause, and an animated puzzled look twisted his lips.

"Sssorry, his name is Glen. Well, Glen is asking, Pam. And he needs to know."

His feigned serious look was even more intense when alcohol was added to the picture, Pam noticed. Unfortunately for Pam, she was the giggly drunk, so it took much more concentration than usual to continue along with Jim's stunt.

"No, Jim, I asked if you were serious because, why would you even-eed to ask that question? Stuffed crust pizza is the only way to eat a pizza."

"Exac-ly my thoughts." He nodded his agreement, lips and eyebrows pursed. "OH-kay Glen, we will take onelarge stuffed crust pizza with-Beesly, you like pepperoni, right?" She nodded enthusiastically, eyes wide. "Pepperoni. And cheese in the crust, Glen. You got that? Crusty cheese. Oh man, grrrrrreat question, Glen, lemme consult-PAM! New question: do we want a heart-shaped pizza?"

She had crept a little closer into the kitchen, the darkness of the living room no longer masking the red glow in her cheeks.

"A-a heart-shaped pizza? Wh-"

"For Val-a-tine's Day, Pam. 'Cause a' Valentine's Day. They have a heart pizza special, according to Glen. Thanks for the tip, Glen. You deserve a raise, Glen."

Pam contemplated the gesture for a moment. Sure, it was Valentine's Day. But what would a heart-shaped pizza imply? Of course she loved Jim-he was her best friend.

But in the past few weeks, she had found herself longing for Jim more than she did for her own fiance.

And here she was, over-analyzing the feelings that were bottled deep inside her, all over a damn pizza.

"Pam, Glen needs an answer, and fast!" Jim had a comedic urgency in his eyes, and she let a wordless chuckle escape her lips before crafting her response.

"No. Tell Glen no hearts. He's gonna charge you more money for less pizza per square inch," she said matter-of-factly, crossing her arms firmly against her chest.

"I'm not trackin' with you, Beesly. Hold on, Glen. We're doing math." He jutted his chin, urging her to continue.

"Well, think about it, Jim," she began, speaking with her hands. "A large, heart-shaped pizza comes in the same size box as a regular large pizza, BUT," she pointed her finger into the air, "since it's heart shaped, you actually get less pizza." She smirked, giving him one of her "I told you so" glances as her arms found their place crossed against her again.

It was Jim's turn to be wide-eyed, awestruck by her quick thinking.

"No hearts, Glen. We see right through your holiday scam!" she called, ensuring that the poor Pizza Hut employees in Dunmore heard her.

She eyed Jim's tall, lanky body as he confirmed the rest of their order, adding break sticks at the last minute, "because tonight is a night to be alive, Glen!" It wasn't for several moments that she realized that she was essentially undressing him with her eyes. He had turned slightly so that she saw more of his profile than a straight on view. He looked so casual, standing there in a t-shirt and jeans. She always hated it when Roy would meet her at the front door, already running late for their dinner plans, wearing a pair of old work jeans and t-shirt from high school that had a barbecue stain down the front. The way Jim pulled it off was so much more elegant, relaxed. Her eyes painted a line from his strong jaw down his neck, and she wondered what it would feel like to nuzzle herself into the dip near his shoulder.

She was pulled from her thoughts by the sudden slam of the phone onto the counter.

"We will have substa- susta- food, in less than thirty minutes or our pizza is free. I made Glen promise."

He looked so proud of himself.

At the same time, she noticed, his demeanor brought her such an overwhelming sense of joy, blanketing the room in a clam that she had never before felt.

She offered him a smile, clasped her hands over her heart, and sighed, "My hero," before joining him more fully in the kitchen.

He feigned bashfulness in the roll of his eyes and the wave of his hands, but the color creeping up his neck was sincere. Her eyes followed the trail of red, turning his cheeks warm, and her hands slowly fell to her sides. As she stepped into the light, he found himself truly drinking her in for the first time that night. Sure, he had drunkenly gawked at her when she had first entered his home. But standing in the kitchen light, with no one else to distract him, he was able to shower her with his full attention.

On the surface, he had noticed how the outfit wrapped her body in a hug. As she stood under the overhead light, he noticed only beauty blossomed by light that radiated from her skin. Her skin was flushed pink by alcohol, but she unconditionally glowed, surrounded by a natural grace that he seldom saw in short glances or stolen moments that he was sure he wasn't supposed to notice.

He was gawking, but subtly. His jaw was drawn downward, lips only slightly parted. It was more stunned admiration. For a moment, he was almost sobered.

She was watching him watching her. The tension in the room was palpable, and she suddenly noticed the tightness in her wedding band as heat seemed to flood the room.

"PLATES! Jim. We're gonna need plates."

Anything to dissipate the bubbling in her belly, the building pressure building behind her eyes. She darted into space that Jim occupied behind the breakfast bar, as he simultaneously threw his hands into the air, shouting, "YES. PLATES!"

She knew without a doubt that she tended to subsist extreme dizziness the drunker she got. What she wasn't expecting, however, was the puddle of water that propelled her feet out from under her as she approached the kitchen cabinets.

A strident yelp escaped her throat as one foot shot into the air, arms flailing behind her. She was anticipating a crash, hard impact looming, when suddenly, it was his arms that surrounded her. He caught her under her arms, his large hands splaying across her back. Slowly, her body was being pulled to an upright position. Involuntarily, her tiny hands had found a grip on his arms.

She felt her eyes drawn to his. Their expressions mirrored one another, lips slightly parted, eyes passing between hooded and wide, but never breaking.

The intensity was tangible, as they both felt the scorching heat where their bodies were pressed together.

He couldn't help himself any longer, and drew his eyes towards her lips, noticing the tremble that only drove him deeper into insanity.

But she couldn't take it.

Refusing to put a name to the feelings that that were absolutely engulfing her from the inside out, she knew that she had to stop whatever this was before she did something regrettable.

"I didn' know you had a pool in your kitchen, Halpert." Her voice was husky, barely above a whisper. A smile tugged at her lips as she tried to control the vibrations.

The grip that he had encased her in relaxed, and she felt her body fall a small bit as he let out a sigh, and then a chuckle, head dropping slightly.

"I'm so sorry, Beesly. I must'a got water on the floor when I was doing dishes earlier."

"So what you're saying is that I need to get you a 'Caution: Wet Floor' sign for cleaning days?"

He chuckled, lifting her fully upright and into a standing position.

"Alright, that's enough of your sassiness, little lady. Now, plates!"

The absence of his touch replaced the tensity with sadness, and she rubbed her arms, a chill suddenly taking her over. She watched him intensely, burning her gaze into the number '18' sticker that was fading on the back of his t-shirt. His plates were within easy reach, but as he shifted to the cabinet that housed cups, she found herself mesmerized by the muscles in his back, taught and toned through his t-shirt. Before he turned around with an armload of dishes, she found herself tracing the lines in "HALPERT" with her eyes, wondering what it would be like one day to have that last name stitched onto her back as she watched tiny versions of him bound up and down the basketball court.

"Alright, Beesly, we goooooot plates, we goooooot cups, and we got more booze."

His toothy grin reflected behind the Tetris tower of supplies that were stacked in either hand.

Twenty-four minutes later-Glen staying true to his promise-they were seated on the living room floor, backs propped against the couch, enjoying the gooey goodness of their stuffed crust pizza.

"I'm tellin' ya, if anyone even thinks about getting a pizza without cheese in the crust, they should be committed," Jim chortled as bit a hunk of crust in half.

"No kidding! I'm pretty sure the only people who don't eat stuffed crust pizza have severe mental problems."

"So probably Dwight."

His deadpan elicited from her a guffaw, her head falling back against the cushions.

"Ohmigod. Jim. What kind of pizza do you think Dwight likes?"

She was leaning slightly forward, eyes hooded, as she awaited his response.

"Oh, definitely something disgusting. Sardines, maybe? Anchovies?"

"What about beets?"

"OH my god, Beesly! Beet pizza! Can you imagine?!"

They were both breathless with laughter, heads rolling, plates deposited to the floor. Pam clutched her stomach, the wonderful ache filling her everywhere.

As their laughter subsided, his eyes met hers again, and he found himself lost in the natural glow that emanated from her cheeks. He had to take a sip of his wine to shake himself from his inherent want to just stare at her.

Shoving pizza boxes aside, they fell into a comfortable banter, finding themselves inching closer to one another on the floor. Mere centimeters panted between them, bodies whispering against one another often as they spoke and laughed.

"Okay okay, would you rather be forced to wear wet socks for the rest of your life, or only be able to wash your hair once a year?"

"Jim! Oh my god!" Pam found herself doubled over once again.

"Come on, Beesly! You have to pick one!" he managed between chuckles.

"Okay, okay." She took a deep breath, brows knit together as she mulled over her decision. "I guess I'd have to wear wet socks forever."

At her response, Jim's brows knit in disgust, eyes slightly crossed, tongue stuck out.

"What?! Jim, I'm a girl! I can't not wash my hair for a year! I would look like Bob Marley!"

"Oh my god. We need to make this happen."

Pam shook her head, a continuous stream of laughter escaping her.

"No seriously, think about this, Pam." He had folded his legs underneath his body, hands splayed in the air as if he were about to pitch her an idea for a prank.

"You could start talking with a Jamaican accent. We could get you a steel drum, and one'a those floppy hats! Holy crap, Pam! We could drive Dwight insane!"

As words of his plan danced off of Jim's tongue, his laughter filling every corner of the room, Pam found herself marveling at the sheer joy that shook through his body. Even the things that made Roy happy-namely sports-often turned him sour more often than not. She only saw him excited like this when he had at least two drinks in him. Jim's joy was pure. And, as she allowed herself to ponder, part of it was brought on by her.

"Okay Beesly, your turn. Shoot."

"Alright, umm…" she stared down at her fingers, searching for inspiration. "Would you rather have a finger for a tongue, or tongues for fingers?"

She barely had the words out before giggles joined them, only intensifying as she watched his expression turn from amused to horrified.

"BEESly! What the hell?!"

She threw her head back, hands slapping her thighs.

"Come on! You made me answer the last one!"

"Okay fine. I think...I think I'd pro'ly have to go with a finger for a tongue." As he relayed his decision, Pam was already in a fit of giggles, and he cut her off with, "Wait wait wait, hear me out Beesly!"

She straightened up, tucking her feet criss-crossed, pursing her lips into a serious stare.

"Think about this logically, Pam," he began. She was captivated by the way that he spoke so animatedly, talking with his hands as if he were describing how to follow a treasure map. "If I had tongues for fingers, everything I touched would become instantly wet."

"That's what she said."

She couldn't help it. She was trying to stifle her giggles, and he let out his own curt chuckle as he tried to pick his explanation back up.

"Dirty, Beesly. I am ashamed. So anyway, I would ruin literally everything if I had tongues for fingers. But, if I had a finger for a tongue, I would be like a chameleon. Look at this!"

Suddenly, his right hand was near his mouth, palm-up, curled into a fist so that only his pointer finger was extended. He curled and uncurled it to demonstrate, trying his hardest to keep a straight face as he did so. She, however, failed to do so, as more giggles escaped her.

He could have lived in this moment forever. Her laughter was the soundtrack to his soul, and knowing that he was the cause of her giggles breathed life into him.

Eventually, their laughter died down, and they each resumed their original places on the floor, feet outstretched, bodies against the couch. Her feet were crossed at the ankles, and he mimicked her, brushing her softly on accident with his own large feet.

He cradled his glass of wine, almost empty now, knowing that he needed to stop soon if he didn't want a headache in the morning. It was, after all, only Tuesday night. He still had three more days in the office.

Pam, on the other hand, willed the warmth brewing inside of her to stay. She felt freer than she'd been in such a long time. But maybe it wasn't the alcohol that was stirring up these feelings. Maybe it was the tall, lanky man whose bare foot had just brushed against hers, sending heat from her toes to her nose. The very same man who had single handedly saved her night from ruin the second he had welcomed her into his arms-no, the second that she had heard his voice on the other end of the line.

"Jim, I am having so much fun with you tonight." The words barely escaped her throat, skimming past her vocal cords in a whisper that he was lucky to have caught.

"I'm having fun with you, too, Beesly." His smile was warm, genuine. Their eyes met for a fleeting second before his expression changed. "I mean, not that I wasn't having fun with the guys, but you just made it, I don't know, better."

Shoulders shrugging, that classic "Jim-face" expanding on his cheeks, his head turned to face forward once again as he was lost in his thoughts, the one question he had been wanting to ask her all night creeping from his mind to reality.

"So, why'd you come here tonight? I mean, where's Roy?"

He was staring into his wine glass, she at her toes. The silence hung between them for several moments before she finally spoke, her voice still small.

"Umm, Roy is...he's at the bar." Her tone dripped with embarrassment and regret. Her fiance was at the bar. Without her. On Valentine's Day.

His body was suddenly overcome with an intense weight. Sadness for her. Anger for him. He had the most wonderful girl in the world, and he was out getting drunk with his buddies?

"Pam…" He didn't know what to say. Too many different ways he could go. An I'm sorry just didn't seem to express what he was thinking. But I'm in love with you and he doesn't deserve you and you should leave him to be with me was obviously too much.

"He didn't even really spend time with me tonight, Jim." She was growing louder now, and if he were to admit it, he sensed a tinge of anger in her voice. "He was gone before we even ate dinner. He didn't have any plans, didn't buy me flowers… Jim, he barely said Happy Valentine's Day to me."

Tears were threatening. He assumed they were from the sadness of being left alone, but inside her head, she knew they were tears of confusion, of regret.

Of knowing that, on what was supposed to be the most romantic holiday of the year, she was sitting here with a man who treated her infinitely better than her own fiance had.

"God, Pam. Honestly, that's so shitty. I can't even… That sucks, Beesly."

He was lost for words, wanting so much to express how deeply his sorrow extended. A tear rolled down her cheek, and he felt his hand extend ever so slightly before her own beat him to it, brushing her own tear away.

"It does, Jim. It really does."

Silence settled over them again, but this time, they were both lost in thought. It wasn't comfortable, but it was manageable. Neither minded.

He dipped back his wine glass, swallowing the rest of the lukewarm liquid courage before voicing an opinion that had been brewing in him since the day he found out she was engaged.

"You know what you should do?"

He didn't dare look at her, but he felt her wide eyes on his cheek as he stared down into his lap.

"You should break up with him."

Pam was stunned.

It was as if a strong wind of every thought she had ever suppressed had come and blown into her. But it was coming from Jim.

Jim.

Her best friend. The man who knew her inside and out.

If he was urging her to make such a monumental, life-altering decision, did that mean that she wasn't so wrong to think the same?

"What?" was all she could muster. Too many thoughts were swimming for her to form something more coherent.

He gulped, taking a big breath before speaking again.

"I mean, Pam, he's at the bar right now." His voice was so thick with sincerity that more tears almost began dropping onto her cheeks. "I just...he doesn't treat you like you deserve to be treated. You...god, Pam, you deserve so much more."

Liquid threatened his eyelashes now, as thoughts of her suffering for so long taunted him behind his eyes.

Silence loomed over them again, this time entrapping them in their minds. He didn't dare go on, for continuing under this level of liquid consumption would threaten them into a point of no return.

Her mind was racing, a highway of images zooming by: Her first date with Roy that had ended in abandonment; her first lunch out with Jim, where she had been overcome with a strange sensation that whispered to her that he would one day become a very special person in her life.

Her stolen moments with Roy at the office were typically lunches that were interrupted by Darryl, or failed attempts on his part to convince her to have sex in the back of the warehouse, followed by many a "C'mon, Pammy! It'll be so much hotter! Think of the thrill!"

Stolen moments with Jim were so, so different. It wasn't just the pranks they planned together, or the countless times that he came up to her desk for a jelly bean (or five). It was so much more than that. It was the intent behind every interaction. He was always bringing with him laughter, pure elation, that always left her feeling lighter somehow.

Then there were the circumstances of tonight. Roy was at the bar, undoubtedly a six-pack deep at this point. Jim was sitting on the floor, an empty pizza box at his feet, giving her cramps in her stomach from how much laughter he had brought to her otherwise dreary night.

She glanced down his body, noting the way his posture was so relaxed. The way his legs crossed so casually at the ankles.

The way he was only wearing one sock.

Her eyebrows knit together as she cocked her head to the side.

"Jim. Why are you only wearing one sock?"

He was so eternally grateful that the alcohol had clearly taken over her attention span at that moment. He let out a chuckle.

"Uh, honestly, Pam? I have no idea." Slowly, their eyes met, as did the pace at which they both began to laugh, slowly at first, then breaking into a full-out fit.

As laughter died down, Pam was suddenly filled with a courage, a need, that she'd never felt before. Untangling her feet, she reached over to grab Jim's bare foot, sandwiching it between her own.

"It must be cold," she stated simply, as if she were telling him that the sky was blue.

It wasn't just the touch itself, but the fact that it was intentional, that sent a vibrating pulse through his body. His breathing came quicker now, as he tried and failed to calm his heart rate.

"Y-yeah, only a little. This definitely helps." He gestured to her tiny feet that encased his large one. If he were being honest, it wasn't her pink-and-red heart socks that were filling him with warmth.

"Good," she stated, matter-of-factly again.

His eyes went from lidded to positively airy, eyes traveling up her once, then twice. She knew she should be cautious, but then, no one had ever looked at her in this way before. There was a desire in his eyes that was so much more than the friendship she thought they had.

As she saw his eyes come to on her lips, she realized that if he were to kiss her, she wouldn't stop him.

"So, do you wanna watch a movie or something?" As the words escaped her, she realized with a fierce intensity that she did not want to leave. For tonight, she wanted to be where she was wanted. And that place was here, feet cuddled up, side by side with Jim Halpert.

After all she had endured, she deserved this.

"Sure, absolutely." He needed to remove himself from her touch, if only for a minute, to remind himself where he was.

She is engaged. She is engaged. She is engaged.

The words bounced around his head as he crossed the room to find the remote. He turned on the television, handing her the remote with the instructions to, "Find the cheesiest movie you can, Beesly. This is Valentine's Day we're talkin' about, and dammit, we're gonna do it right!" before disappearing into the kitchen.

He returned with two glasses of water, popping off the kitchen light before handing her one.

"I don't know about you, but I sure as hell do not want to have a hangover tomorrow when Michael inevitably spends our day explaining his Valentine's Day in full detail," he quipped, a serious expression contradicting the giggles that escaped Pam.

"Always thinkin' ahead, Halpert." She wagged her eyebrows once before taking a hearty sip from the glass, the cold water refreshing to her otherwise rising body temperature.

As soon as he claimed his seat next to her on the floor, 13 Going on 30 overtaking the room, she immediately grabbed his foot between hers again.

"Seriously, Jim. Hypothermia is nothing to joke about."

He could only nod in agreement, fearing he would say or do something he regretted if he tried to respond out loud.

With his foot caught between hers, their sides were flush against one another. Thirty minutes into the movie, she lay her head on his shoulder. She wasn't tired. Wouldn't be falling asleep anytime soon. Tonight, she was going after what she wanted. And what she wanted was to feel the comfort that Jim brought into her life every time he walked into a room.

He wanted so desperately to put his arm around her, but he feared she would pull away, or he would kill the moment. For now, he was so extraordinary content with her head cradled onto his shoulder. When he glanced over, her eyes were wide, still focused intently on Jennifer Garner scuffling around her apartment with an umbrella.

She had done this on purpose.

Never in a million years would he have thought his night would've ended up like this. Rather than spending his time in this moment lost in his pattern of over-thinking, he chose to give in, relishing her closeness, her body against his.

He let his own head drop to rest against hers.

He could've sworn he saw her lips curp upwards.

Normally, under the guise of that much alcohol, she would have woken up with a pounding headache. This morning, though, she woke peacefully for the first time since she was a little girl. Her alarm was going off, somewhere in the distance, but the calmness with which she awoke was so rare that she wanted to give herself five more minutes. She reached out her arm to hit the snooze button, but hit carpet instead.

Her eyes were open immediately, growing wider as she took in her surroundings.

She was asleep on Jim Halpert's living room floor.

More specifically, she was asleep on Jim Halpert.

Somehow, in the middle of the night, they had ended up laying down. Her head rested atop his chest, tucked underneath his chin. Her arm wound around his middle, and his possessively encircled her at the waist. His face was curled in towards the top of her head, his nose buried in her hair.

The alarm going off wasn't hers. It was coming from upstairs, in his bedroom.

Well, that explained the faintness.

The clock on the cable box blinked seven o'clock.

She was frozen to the spot, but at the same time, a part of her didn't want to move anyway.

As this thought crossed her mind, she felt him shift against her, arms tightening, nose nuzzling her, before he realized what he was doing.

Before he got the chance to jump ten feet in the air-which he promptly did-she had a fleeting thought that she wanted to lock this moment away and relive it every morning for the rest of her life.

"Oh my god's!" and "W-what's?" and "I should probably-" "Should I?" "Yeah, yeah's" lay in a tangled heap on the floor.

In sixty seconds flat, she was out the door, and he was sinking into his couch, large hands covering his face, as he tried to remember every detail as vividly as possible before they all disappeared.

Pam sat in her car, doing the same, as her thoughts were interrupted by the cell phone that she had left in the center console of her car last night.

Roy was calling.

And she had twenty-seven other missed calls.