Jim was on a date.

It wasn't that he wasn't allowed to go on dates. He was a grown, single man. He could do whatever the hell he wanted.

But why, why was it bugging her so much?

You're engaged, Beesly. Snap out of it! Let the man be, put the wine down, and stop feeling so sorry for yourself.

With the television serving as lonely background conversation for her clouded thoughts, she did the opposite of her inner coach, and refilled the glass, whose crisscrossing fingerprint smudges were like footprints that dictated the course she had traveled that night. The first set, firm and clear, represented the first ten minutes of Roy being out of the house. Poker night for him. Finally time for her to let the tension from the week seep from her body. But as the alcohol crept into the cracks, it began to expose all that she had been keeping bottled up.

Pam's only goal that day had been to make one kid like her. Where she had failed, Jim had succeeded, not only winning the attention of Abby, but the affection as well. And he had done it so effortlessly. She watched two different movies play out that afternoon: one with Roy as the lead role, giving noogies and throwing cheap uppercuts at Meredith's son. Flashes of her own future children, bruises from wrestling, and many fevered, "Don't tell your mom I let you do that's," burning in her cheeks.

Glass number two gave her a glimpse into a future that wasn't too far down the road.

Friday nights left alone with young, stocky boys, who spent their evenings tackling, wrestling, and inevitably leaving something broken by the time the minutes counted down to bed, quiet only blanketing the house a good hour after they had finally settled down. Her husband, keeping to his "manly traditions," at a poker game or a bar somewhere on the edge of town. She couldn't have too much to drink, knowing he would probably call her to come pick him up. Which meant calling the neighbors to sit in the living room while the boys slept. But it didn't matter. He'd probably wake them up when he came trudging through the house, half in the bag, anyway.

Saturday mornings spent outside, boys too young for motor sports zipping and zooming on four-wheelers and jet skis, sending her heart into a constant state of fear.

She shuddered at the thought, twiddling her engagement ring with apprehension.

The second film conjured that afternoon starred Jim Halpert. He was not only softer, kinder, but so damn natural in the way he effortlessly interacted with the children around the office.

The third set of smudges on the glass walked a bit further from their predecessors, fingerprints becoming looser and more illegible as the grip on the glass mimicked, wandering with her mind back to Valentine's Day.

To basketball t-shirts with the last name Halpert stitched into the back.

To Saturday afternoons with gangly, shaggy-haired boys all piling into the minivan after basketball games had concluded, the stench mildly under control because she had remembered to pick up a new vent clip beforethe weekend this time. They'd all bunch into a booth at Alfredo's and order the largest pizza on the menu, but the boys would still fight playfully over the last slice. They would be well mannered. Say please and thank you. Win the waitress over with that trademarked Halpert grin.

It would be warm enough for just a hoodie, and hers would say HALPERT across the back. She wouldn't be choosing favorites with the number. They would all be at different ages, on different teams. And they'd all take after their father. The HALPERT 18 clan would be a running joke with the other parents, but she would beam each time she saw the boys all lined up next to one another.

Their father included.

He would be there, not just for the big moments, but for everything in between.

Glass number four's prints were far more difficult to find, smudging more like lines across a page, smeared indescribably as she slugged back the liquid in great heaps. It was finished in three maneuvers of the warm glass to her lips. With its conclusion came hazy images.

But he wasn't there.

He was on a date.

Probably right now, in fact.

Glass number four fabricated countless scenarios. Whether the nausea, creeping upon her like a slow moving fog, stemmed from alcohol or the impending what if game, she was unable to comprehend.

Was she pretty?

Did she laugh at all of his jokes?

Did that half smile of his send a chill down her spine that met in tingles in the bottom of her belly?

Where had he taken her? He was such a gentleman. They were probably out at a fancy, expensive restaurant. There was bound to be candlelight somewhere.

He'd open the car door for her on the way in and out. Pull out her chair when they arrived. Stand up if she left the table to powder her nose, and again when she returned.

He'd pay for the check, insisting almost obnoxiously that she put her wallet away, feigning offense that she had even brought it in the first place.

Would he kiss her goodnight on her doorstep?

Would she invite him inside?

And that was where fingerprints from glass number five had lain, barely registering, because the glass was only in her clutches long enough to down the entire glass in one numb dose, its medicinal properties necessary for the hell she was putting herself though.

She was entirely loose now, her body warm and tingly. She giggled, as she trudged into the kitchen, at the thought of how closely her footsteps echoed Roy's constant drunken plodding. The emptiness of the bottle brought a sadness, heightened entirely by the fact that its previous contents coursed through her veins like lightning to a tree. Releasing a displeased, "Humph," she padded, head sunk low, and threw herself obnoxiously into the couch, sinking deeply into its cushions.

It was 11:30. Would Jim be home by now? She pictured him, his long legs stretched across the coffee table. He would probably be wearing those grey sweatpants that she had become so familiar with. What would his t-shirt of choice be? Closing her eyes, she mentally thumbed through his t-shirt drawer-he didn't keep them in the closet, she decided-and selected that faded burgundy shirt, the golden knight logo worn from age, the white letters of his last name screaming proudly from the back.

Or would he be without clothes, buried deep within a woman whose last name he probably didn't know?

Would they be in his bed? Cuddled upon that same couch that, not long ago, had been molded to her body?

Would they have even made it upstairs? Could he be making love to another woman on the living room floor, in the same spot where he had so recently been wrapped around her?

The tears poured violently, angrily landing in her lap, flinging from her fists as she tried to knock them away. She shouldn't be sad. She had a fiance. Jim was entitled to date whoever the hell he wanted.

So why were her emotions crashing around her like a train wreck?

Why was she longing to be the woman whose body he was wrapped around?

Why were her sides tingling in remembrance of the way his fingers had clutched so possessively around her?

Maybe Jim knows!

In any sober state of mind, she knew that Jim always had the answer. In her drunken stupor, Jim should definitely be able to answer why she was missing him so badly.

Her fingers fumbled on the hard plastic of her phone. It took her two tries to open it, and three to find his name and press SEND. Apprehension bubbled to the tips of her skull like water boiling on the stovetop. He picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"JIM!"

"Hey, Beesly. What's goin' on?" followed a throaty chuckle. He sounded relaxed, which quelled her tension immensely. A stupid grin took up residence between her ears.

"Oh, nothin' much." Her words slurred from a mixture of alcohol and giddiness that he had actually answered her call. "I didn' wake you up, Jim, did I Jim?"

Another chuckle. Another pulse flashing through her entire body.

"No, Pam, you did not wake me up, Pam. It's Friday night. If I went to bed this early, I'd be checking myself into a nursing home."

Her giggles radiated throughout the living room, bouncing off walls, echoing back to her own ears. Her body folded at the center in reaction to his words.

"HeyJim," she slurred, regaining composure enough to focus on the mystery that she had conjured. "What are you wearing?"

Though her words dripped with laughter, he interpreted their meaning in an entirely different manner. His groin twitched, as one fleeting image of her laying in bed on the phone, fingers from her free hand dragging from her abdomen slowly towards her panty line, danced in his mind. Shaking his head, he came to a sudden realization.

"Beesly, are you drunk?"

Suddenly, the rosiness and heat in her cheeks was no longer from the alcohol.

"Um. Um. Maybe a little?" Initially, she had wanted to be quick to defend herself. But it was short lived, as the words that tumbled past her lips were not her own, but those of Pinot Grigio.

"How much is a little?" His casual tone transitioned quickly into concern. The shy embarrassment washed over her, causing new tears to bubble. Jim shouldn't be worrying about her.

"Maybe, like, the whole bottle." The final words in her sentence rushed together, as if trying to camouflage, hiding from his impending judgment. Her voice hitched, revealing to him her state of true sadness.

"The whole bottle? Whole bottle of what?" From the relaxed, lounged position that he had taken up on his couch, he sat bolt upright, heat settling into his hands, spreading throughout his body when she took too long to answer.

"Pam, are you okay? Is Roy with you? Do you need me to come get you?"

"I-'s just wine, Jim. I'm okay. Kinda a little dizzy, but not so bad."

"Are you sure, Beesly? You don't sound like you're okay."

The quiet timbre of his voice, which had dropped an octave, dripping like honey, scared her. Not in the sense of being frightened, but in the way it made her body go completely numb. The concern, the care, oozing from his words like resin from a tree.

"Pam? Are you there?"

She nodded, catching herself after the fourth, realizing that he couldn't actually see her.

"I jus...I just called because I missed you, Jim. But I don't know why. Jim, why do I miss you?"

It was Jim's turn to be silent.

It's the alcohol talking.

You read your phone wrong and it's not Pam on the other end.

You're dreaming. At this, he pinched himself. Ow. Dumbass.

Her voice was so tiny that he barely registered the choked, "Jim?"

"Hey. I'm still here."

He needed more time to process.

"Okay. I was jus' wondering. You always have the answers to all of my problems, ya know? You're like an encyclopedia. A Jim-cyclopedia!"

He was grateful for the laughter; anything to split up the ache inside of him, the longing desire to head to her house in his sweatpants and bury her head in his chest, to have her nestled up against him, right where she belonged.

"Wow. I am truly honored, Pam. Really. But, to tell you the truth, I don't really know why you miss me. If I had to take a wild guess, though, I'd have to say that it's probably because you were super jealous of how the kids seemed to flock to me today, and you wanted some pointers."

As he dismissed her as casually as he could, needing desperately to not go down this road tonight, his concern returned.

"Seriously though, Pam. Are you okay? Are you with someone else? I'm more than a little worried right now."

He was worried. About her. Why? Why was he always so worried about her? Was she safe? Did she get home okay?

"Why?"

"Um, why what?"

"Why are you wor-ried?"

His tone became stern, something she'd never experienced directly before, outside of a joke, at least.

"Honestly, Pam? Because. You're jumping all over the place with this conversation, you're slurring like a madman, and you said you drank an entire bottle of wine, by yourself, and the last time I checked, you were a pretty tiny person. I just want to make sure you're going to be okay."

Silence.

He was right, she'd give him that. But that didn't answer her question, the driving force behind this entire phone call. Why did she miss him?

"Beesly, I'm being serious right now. I'll drive across town to come check on you if I have to."

"Yes. You should do that. B'cause then I wouldn't have to miss you."

His entire body tensed. He was ridgid from his toes to the top of his matted hair. Thinking that, maybe the first pinch hadn't awakened him from some sick dream, he tried again, a biting sting telling him that this was, in fact, real.

"Pam." His voice was ragged, throaty. "You need to tell me right now: are you okay?"

"D'pends on what okay means." Her reply mimicked him in the manner of her voice, thick and deep.

He had to catch, no-to find-his breath, before he spoke, praying that his body would calm down, that the tension in his lap would settle.

"You just drank an entire bottle of wine. Do I need to come make sure that you're going to wake up in the morning?"

"Mmm mmm, no." Her head darted from side to side, eyes clenched shut as she willed the tears back into the ducts that they came from. "I'm not sick, Jim. I'm just sad."

That didn't make him feel any better about the situation.

"Sad about what? Pam, c'mon, talk to me. Is it Roy? Pam, do you need help?"

"I need help figuring out why I'm so sad, Jim. And why I miss you. And why I don't miss Roy."

That about did it.

He couldn't sit any longer. Had to stand. Had to pace. Had to run his fingers through his hair, lift his head and hands to the sky, and beg for the right words to be sent to him.

He could not fuck this up.

"Hey," he said finally, words squeaking through his tightened throat. "You don't need to be sad. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"But you did, Jim." Confusion in her silence. "You went out on a date tonight." And sudden clarification, followed by a crashing wave that nearly brought him to his knees.

The iron curtain hung between them, breathing and the occasional choked back sob pulsing here or there.

"I did. You're right," was all he could come up with. Although, if he was being honest with himself, he hadn't really considered it a date. Sure, Brenda was decent looking. But as he sat across from her at the table at Cooper's, he was under this strange impression all night that he was sitting at the wrong table. Who was this woman? Why was she eating dinner with him?

"Why?"

And here was that shy, sad, little girl again. She liked to ask questions when she drank. He knew that. But he wasn't prepared for this assault. Not tonight. Not when he had been doing so well.

He coughed. "Why what?"

"Why did you go on a date with her?"

Because I couldn't stand watching you plan your wedding in front of me.

Because watching you detail the ways in which you're going to give your life to him makes me physically ill.

Because no matter how many different ways I try to distract myself, you are still all I see.

"Where did you take her?"

He realized then that it had been too long since he had failed to respond. He had to do this. She threw her relationship around in the office. Why shouldn't he?

"Uh, I took her to Cooper's. And then we went home."

"We went home? Oh shit, Jim. Is she still there? I'll hang up-"

"No! No, Pam, she isn't still here. Never was. We actually drove separately. I've been home for a couple of hours."

"Jim?"

"Yeah?" He felt the word in his throat, but wasn't sure he'd heard it himself.

"Did you kiss her goodnight?"

Her words sighed, barely escaping her lungs. It was as if she was waiting on bated breath for his answer.

"No. No I didn't. I gave her a hug goodbye and she left."

"Oh." A pause, and then, "Did you want to?"

"No."

He had given up trying to beat around the bush. If she was going to have liquid honesty, he could pain his way through this, too. If he was lucky, she wouldn't remember this conversation in the morning.

"Why not?"

Because our conversation held the consistency of a business dinner?

Because she, in all honesty, wasn't that attractive?

Because she isn't you.

"I-I dont' know, Pam," he began, fingers threading through his hair, tugging a bit to remind himself that he was alive. "I didn't really feel a connection with her?" It was a question because he knew that his last thought was the true reason. Sure, he was correct in the sense that there had been literally no connection. But that was all due to the underlying principle: She. Wasn't. Pam.

"Oh. 'm sorry your date didn't go so well, Jim."

"Thanks, Beesly," he breathed back, a smile creeping into his words. She could change temperaments at the flick of a switch.

"You're welcome."

After another extended silence, he had to itch the scratch.

"So, are you still sad?"

He pictured her head flopping to the side, eyebrows scrunching together, lips pursing, as she pondered his question.

"I am. But not as much."

"Oh? Do tell, Beesly." He had the slightest inclination that he shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be pressing her for answers when she was so clearly drunk. But she had called him. Had initiated this conversation. He heard his mother's voice in the back of his mind, saying, "'She started it' isn't an excuse, Jimmy!" But much like his childhood days, he didn't care.

"Well, I'm not so sad about your date anymore, but 'm still a little sad that instead of me hanging out with you, you went out with that frumpy corporate scarecrow."

He was finally experiencing a hearty laugh. If the situation were different, they'd probably continue ragging on the poor woman, but he needed to get back to the heart of the matter.

"What?"

"Nothin' Beesly. You just make me laugh."

"You make me laugh, too. And you always make me happy when I'm feeling sad. And sometimes," her voice dropped low, and she cupped her lips to the receiver, as if her lips were brushing his ear directly, "you kinda make me feel a lil' tingly."

The tightness in his boxers was back, as was his own tingly sensation. What the fuck did that mean?

"Um, tingly, Beesly? I think you might be thinkin' of the wine."

"Nope," she replied curtly. "I am not."

He urged her with silence, knowing that no words could possibly make it from his brain to his mouth right now.

"I think maybe that's why I miss you. 'Cause when I see you, I get all tingly inside. When I see Roy, all I feel is blech."

He marveled through his chuckle at the way her drunkenness allowed her to be so candidly humorous. The sound effects were also a nice touch.

But at the same time, what was she essentially admitting here?

When I see you, I get all tingly inside. When I see Roy, all I feel is blech.

As he was about to continue prodding, she answered for him.

"I jus' wish it was easier, Jim. I shouldn't miss you, right? 'Cause I'm engaged." The word "engaged" dripped heavily with sarcasm. "So why do I?"

He couldn't answer her. He was too busy watching the flashing images scan before him.

Pam ending her engagement.

Roy, furious, but Jim standing strongly by her side.

Sweeping her up in his arms and finally, finallybringing their lips crashing together, holding her tightly to him, right where she belonged.

"I think...I think you have to answer that question for yourself, Pam."

"No cheating from the Jim-cyclopedia?"

"No," he chuckled. "No cheating from the Jim-cyclopedia."

"Humph. Then why'd I call you?"

He could see her throwing her free arm up in the air in exasperation, and was rewarded with a faint slap as it undoubtedly came crashing into her lap.

"I believe alcohol was involved." His mock seriousness was a facade for the urge to blurt I'm fucking in love with you! into the receiver.

"I mean, i' was. But I was sad before I opened up the bottle. So suck on that, Halpert."

He didn't know what to say, so he let his laughter trail longer than necessary. What the fuck was going on here? It had to be some sort of twisted dream, right? But it wasn't. She was on the phone, basically telling him that she had feelings for him, right? He couldn't just drive across town and go see her. But at the same time, if this moment slipped away, he didn't know if he'd ever get another one.

"Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"I jus' wanted to let you know that, remember that one time when we accidentally slept on your floor?"

"Yeah," he chuckled.

"I really liked that. I jus' wanted to let you know that. And even though you're being a prick head right now and won't help me find out why, I still miss you."

He couldn't take it anymore.

"Pam?"

"Mhm?"

"Is Roy home?"

His breathing was ragged, body tense and aching for her. His emotions were officially in control, as he stood and made it halfway to the door.

"No."

That was all he needed.

Feet absently slipping into whatever pair of shoes were closest to the front door-which just so happened to be his work shoes, that clashed rather horribly with his current pajama ensemble-he threw the front door open. The bitter wind knocked him almost off his feet, and while it didn't, it thankfully brought him back to reality.

He couldn't go over to her house.

She was engaged.

She was drunk.

He wasn't that guy. He was better than that.

But as he slunk against the front porch railing, concrete cold against his bottom, his body was still aching, still urging and pulling him towards the car. Her quiet breathing on the other end pounded against his eardrum.

"Pam?"

"Yeah."

"I think...I think we both need to get some sleep, okay?" He cursed every word that escaped his lips. They were not his. But they were the right words, no matter how hard he tried to fight them.

"Okay." Her voice was so small, so distant, that he almost convinced himself that it would be okay to make a dead sprint across town just to hear her voice.

"I just...You should really sleep, on...on all of this. And you're going to feel a whole lot better in the morning if you just drink a glass of water and go to bed. Can you do that for me?"

"I think so." He heard her motions as she sat up from the couch, wobbled into the kitchen, and uncapped a bottle of water, proud of herself for only spilling a little.

"Let me know when you finish the bottle, okay? I want it all gone, Beesly."

"Yes sir, Captain Halpert, sir."

Well, she had been proud of herself. Her salute with the water bottle sent a good amount of water to the kitchen floor. For a brief moment, she was in his kitchen, falling, but then caught, his strong arms enveloping her. Protecting her.

"Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you sure?"

It wasn't about the water, or the going to bed. He knew what she was asking. He knew what he had to respond, no matter how contradictory the rest of his body was literally screaming at him to say something different.

"Yeah, Beesly. I'm sure."

He heard a muffled, "Okay," and then the sound of glugging. "I'm all done." Plastic hitting the counter. More shuffling as she walked down the carpeted hallway. He could see the movements through her eyes: past the guest bedroom, the guest bath, the linen closet, into their bedroom. He heard her crawling under the covers, her head hitting the pillow with a soft thud. A soft sniffle.

"You in bed?"

"Mhm." Another sniffle.

"Hey, don't be sad, okay?"

Fingers itching, pleading to comfort her. To wipe the tears. To quell the pain that was threatening to overtake her. To pull her cheek against his chest so that she could feel the way his heart beat only for her.

"Mhm. I'll try not to."

Mouth agape, he looked to the stars as if the answer would form a constellation.

"Trust me. Once you get some sleep, you'll feel somuch better."

As he spoke, he felt the urge to at least be near hertugging at his heartstrings. Once inside, he found himself laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, absently stroking the empty side next to him. Where she should be.

"Maybe better like 'not dizzy,' but I don't know so much about just better."

He choked down a sob, angry at himself for letting the tears brim.

"But when you wake up, you'll have a way clearer head. You can think through this stuff a lot better than you are right now."

"I don't know if I believe that, but I feel like arguing with you will get me nowhere."

"Damn straight, Beesly," he chuckled. They sat in content silence, listening to one another's breathing, before he chalked up enough courage to finally just say it.

"Hey, Pam?"

"Yeah?"

"If it's any consolation, I really, really miss you too."

The words were strangled, coming out in scratches against his throat, twisted with the cry that stuck to his lungs.

"You do?"

"I do."

Although she was far from sober, walking around and downing a bottle-well, three quarters of a bottle-had cleared her judgement, if only a little.

You should be here, and I wish you were laying next to me right now, and You were right. I should break up with him all crossed her mind in a haze of alcohol and confusion. But what escaped her lips was entirely different.

"Hey! You never answered my question."

He sighed. Yes I did, you knucklehead. I have no idea why you're so sad, but if I could make it go away, you know I would in a second.

"What are you wearing?"

Grateful again for her uncanny ability to bust open the tension before it broke around him, he let out a chuckle. He was wearing what he always wore to bed. Sweats and a t-shirt.

"Jesus, Beesly, why are you so obsessed with my wardrobe?" he chortled back.

"Listen here, Halpert. If you won't help me figure out why I'm sad, at least indulge me a little."

Alright then. You win, Miss Beesly.

"Fine. You win. I'm wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. And socks, because I knew you'd yell at me if I wasn't wearing any."

"Right, on account of hypothermia."

"Yes, exactly."

This. This was the easy part. The banter. The laughter. This was home.

"But what kind of sweatpants and t-shirt? C'mon, Jim, stop being so difficult."

"Uhh, grey sweatpants and one of my old basketball t-shirts. Why are you so intrigued?"

"The one that says HALPERT on the back?"

Eyebrows cocked, he pulled on the sleeve of his shirt and twisted his head to confirm that he was, indeed, wearing that same shirt.

"Yeah, why?"

"Good."

Her smile washed a wave of contentment throughout her body.

"Good?"

"Mhm. Good. Now I hafta go to bed, on strict orders from Captain Halpert. Goodnight, Jim."

Her goodnight came out as a whisper. If he closed his eyes, she was laying next to him, her whispered goodnight against his lips, his neck, his chest, instead of flowing through waves into his cellphone.

"Hey, Pam?"

"Mhm?"

She was on teetering on the edges of unconsciousness.

"Can you just text me in the morning? Let me know you're okay?"

"Of course."

His body relaxed, melting into the mattress as they whispered goodnights, the click of his phone and the thud as it his the nightstand the only sound in an otherwise vacuum of silence.

Staring out his window through the slits in the blinds, he observed the calming twinkle of the stars.

"I miss you too, Beesly. I miss you too."