The last sound Pam had heard was the thud of her cell phone colliding with the bedside table as exhaustion and alcohol had plummeted her body into a deep slumber. This thud, however, was different.

Distant.

Insistent?

The red LED to her right blinked 4:37. She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her furrowed eyes. The thudding repeated itself. Was there really someone at the door?

Roy probably forgot his key again, she mused, swinging her legs to the side of the bed slowly, as she anticipated the impending heavy head and dizzy spells that usually accompanied a night of heavy drinking. Oddly, though, she felt quite at peace. Aside from the fact that she had been woken up, of course. Glancing down, she realized that, in her drunken haze, she hadn't changed out of the jeans and tank top that had replaced her drab work attire.

If he's going to wake me up in the middle of the night, he can wait.

She hated sleeping in jeans.

Slipping them off, and leaving them carelessly on the floor, she pulled on a pair of cotton shorts, slid her glasses behind her ears, and padded towards the door, still blinking the sleep from her eyes. As her bare feet moved across the carpet, she prepared her options for confronting him.

It's four o'clock in the morning, Roy! What the fuck?!

Honestly, Roy, I'd rather you have just stayed at Darryl's. Maybe you've finally drank the rest of your functional brain cells away. I never thought I'd see it happen, but hey! Never say never!

I'm not dealing with this shit tonight. You can sleep on the porch.

The knocking was growing more unrelenting as she neared the door. Braving her best "mean-Pam" face—which, in hindsight, wasn't much more than a pair of furrowed eyebrows and a sorry excuse for a scowl—she threw the door open quickly enough to wrap her arms across her chest. But the grasp that she had thought was firmly planted loosened almost immediately as her eyes adjusted to the sight on her front porch.

Standing on the top stoop, clad in only a pair of gray sweatpants, a faded high school basketball t-shirt, and—were those his work shoes?—was a rosy cheeked Jim Halpert.

Suddenly, every hair on her body was upright, the goosebumps prickling in stark contrast to the heat that had instantly consumed her body upon seeing his lank statue on her front porch. His posture seemed almost on alert; arms hung at his sides with hands that were poised, his lips parted as if waiting for a cue to speak. Her own arms tensed in their folded position, her right hand snaking to flatten against her chest where her breath was caught in her throat.

She let a faint, Jim? whisper past her lips, the word seeming to spell itself in the chilly air, the vapor floating to brush across his face. His eyes closed upon its contact, opening after only a brief minute without her in his sights.

"Is Roy home?"

"No."

And then it was nothing but hands on her body, full lips encasing her own, and heat, pure unadulterated heat that absolutely consumed her from the inside out. His arms enveloped her, shrouding her back, taking away any and all distance as their bodies positively sealed together. His lips were warm and insistent, moving across hers passionately. One large hand snaked up her back, tangling under her hair to cradle her head to his as his mouth danced fervently with hers.

Suddenly, he was pulling back, dotting shorter and shorter kisses on her swollen lips as if trying to say that he didn't want the contact to cease, but knowing that he had to say something. With the pads of his fingers still lightly massaging the back of her head, he pulled them apart only enough to meet her gaze, the intensity in his forest eyes filled with a hunger that made her nerves stand on end. He searched her eyes, trailing his down her body, coming to rest at the pair of feet on the floor that were almost comedic in size comparison.

"You aren't wearing socks, Beesly. You're gonna catch hypothermia." His words were throaty, gravelly, shooting delicious sensations to her core.

Her gulp resonated loudly in the otherwise muted room.

"I'll have to help warm you up. Wouldn't want you getting sick now."

Her nod—an invitation—almost unrecognizable to someone whose face wasn't mere centimeters in distance, began a series of movements that, to her, registered in flashes.

His hands clutching posessively to her hips.

Lips pressed together insistently.

Her body being moved urgently backwards, but always protected by him.

Stumbling through a doorway.

Knees hitting a bed that wasn't familiar.

Hands, everywhere. But not just his. Hers.

His back muscles underneath her fingertips, the ridges so new and yet strangely familiar.

His chest warm, strong, firm.

His jawline so defined, but covered in stubble that was softer than she'd have guessed.

Another flash, and her head was being cradled by a pillow. His long figure atop her, covered, towered over her petite frame.

Another flash, and his lips were tracing the outer edges of her lips, her cheek, her jawline.

Flash.

Sucking at the crook between her throat and shoulder.

Flash.

Her own fingers tugging impatiently at the hem of his shirt.

Flash.

They were both topless, heat radiating between insistent bodies.

Flash.

Only thin cotton remained on lower halves.

Flash.

Her legs wrapped around him of her their own accord, heels digging into his ass, one hand spanning so little of his broad shoulders while the other clutched to the back of his head, begging to be closer.

Flash.

Her own bucking matched the rhythm that his hips had begun, his erection grinding against her center as his lips continued their assault, breathing becoming lapses of panting as cotton friction became unbearable.

His lips ceased their assault of her neck, nose brushing slowly up her throat, as he met her passion filled gaze, eyes glowing in the dusky haze of the room.

"God, Beesly, do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do this?"

It was her, this time, clutching to bring his head down, lips meeting more slowly this time.

Softer. Riddled with something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

They pulled apart. His eyes spoke the words for him, and with a nod of her head, the flashes began again.

Flash.

His lips stormed hers once again, this time more passionate than hungry.

Flash.

Undergarments disappeared as if waved away by a magic wand.

Flash.

His fingers teased at her entrance, making quick work of the wetness that awaited. She felt him harden more so against her thigh in response to the moan that escaped her.

Flash.

Fingers slipping out. Hands on her waist. A hunger in his eyes that she had seen in no man before.

Flash.

Noses touching, his fingertips caressing her face. She felt a tear meet his thumb halfway.

"You are everything."

He was inside her, filling a void she didn't know had been empty. They were moving together rhythmically, the pulsations deep within her quickening as she neared her climax.

Flash.

"Everything."

His fingers snaked between their bodies, their rhythm building her to quite possibly the most intense pleasure she'd ever imagined, as a new thud interrupted her bliss.

And brought her crashing back to reality.

The fingers brushing up against her were not Jim's.

They were Roy's.

The thud was his large frame tumbling to their bed.

The clock blinked 4:37 AM.

His body, uncomfortably hot, stuck to her back as he spooned her, his growing erection digging painfully into her back through his jeans. His massive hands spanned her belly, itching at her waistband, as his stubble scraped down her neck, sloppy wetness dousing the cotton strap of her tank top.

The scent of alcohol was all encompassing, overwhelming.

The growled words that itched her eardrum were incoherent slurs of Pammy, baby, and Feels so good and Wanna be inside you. Not necessarily in that order. But she'd heard it all enough to know the gist. And right now, she was not having it.

Not quite sure where the forcefulness came from, she shoved her tiny hand between her back and his stomach and pushed, releasing his loose grip and toppling him to his own back. As she thrust her body into an upright position, the overwhelming sense of nausea and vertigo and pulsing in her temples collided together and took over. She was over the toilet before he had realized that she was out from under his fingertips.

As the contents of her her night spilled from her stomach into the cold porcelain, Pam tried her best to ignore the suffocating thoughts.

Was I just dreaming about Jim?

Sputtering. More vomit. Acidity burning her throat.

"Baby, yo-okay?"

It was so...vivid.

The smell, stinging her eyes. The feel of her frizzy, unkempt bed head, sweaty and matted to her forehead.

It was only a dream, but it felt so...No! You're engaged! Stop that right now!

Roy's feet, one tripping over the other, as he clopped across the carpet, landing with an enthusiastic thud on the tile beside her.

"Pammy? Why-you pukin'?"

His eyes, positively bloodshot and red-rimmed, only visible through half-lids. His complexion wavered dangerously close to grey.

She knew what was coming.

As quickly as she could on her own unstable feet, she stood and backed out the door before his own retching sounds echoed throughout the bathroom. Tiptoeing delicately but urgently down the hallway, trying her best to quell the rising sickness in her gut, flashes of her dream stopped her between steps, rendering eyes shut, hands clenching at her stomach and head.

Is Roy home?

Hands on her hips, snaking up her sides, tangling in her hair.

God, Beesly, do you have any idea how long I've want to do this?

Lips hot on her skin, her neck, her shoulders. Cotton disappearing.

You are everything.

His eyes, so intense, full of passion, of longing.

Everything.

His hardness echoing his words, rubbing at her center, making her feel positively alive.

She was on the floor in front of the guest bathroom toilet, not even bothering to throw the lid up as her head wavered into the bowl, hands clutching either side desperately as if it was the only thing keeping her grounded to planet earth. She was spent from puking, but the images in her mind, so irrefutable that she found herself wondering if they had actually happened, spun dizziness inside her body like the whirl of a carnival ride.

She had fallen asleep mere hours ago, but the telltale signs of not quite drunk but not quite sober emanated throughout her body. Head pounding, palms sweating, conscious enough to be right in the head but being betrayed by her own body. The detached interest about her fiance, who was sick of his own accord in the master bathroom, was of her own accord. A passing thought in his direction didn't even register in her mind as she curled into a fetal position on the plush of the guest bathroom rug, closed her eyes, and tried her best to solidify the images conjured by her subconscious, cementing them as close to reality as she could.

Jim, waiting on her doorstep in the middle of the night.

Jim, with lips so soft yet unrelenting, hands so possessive yet wise.

Jim, who could speak volumes of passion with only his eyes.

Certain aspects of her dreams seeped into reality as she felt a wetness that had culminated from those dreams pool even more so between her legs, yet she didn't flush with embarrassment as she may have once before. In her fuddled state of liquor and desire battling for her attention, she gave in, and let her fingers dance below her shorts, images of only one man bringing her to her peak.

Jim.


After waking into middle of the night moments that riddled her with confusion, sleep had claimed her easily. Albeit in an odd location: she awoke several hours later on the bathroom floor. Opening eyes to an incredible fog, she observed that with a little bit of luck, her face was at least nestled under the bath mat. Her body, still curved so small and childlike, was less fortunate, and would no doubt be peppered with criss-crossing indentations from the cold tile. Eventually, through a slow and painful urge of her brain to begin processing at a normal rate, she realized that she had been cloaked in softness, the chill on her otherwise tank-top-and-shorts-clad body repressed by the...bath towel?...that was draped over her tiny frame.

Roy.

Draped less than gracefully across what remained of the tiny bathroom floor. He was in an unrefined spread eagle position, drool dripping from his parted lips, one arm above his head awkwardly while the other draped across his protruding gut. He must have come to her rescue last night. In his drunken stupor, he had somehow remembered that he had essentially kicked her out of their bathroom, and had ended up here. As she slowly stirred, several snorts and jerkish movements from Roy responded to her slow and delicate stretches, the kinks and knots sure to scream at her throughout the day.

As she sat up, legs astride in front her as she gingerly lolled her head from side to side, Roy blinked bloodshot eyes several times, acquainting himself with his surroundings. His words spoke raspy through a tired smile as he lifted his head to meet her still fogged gaze.

"Looks like we both had a little too much fun last night."

Her smile was forced, tight lipped. Images of her night in comparison with what was probably his juggled in her head.

Roy, tossing back shots with the boys.

Pam, drinking herself into oblivion over another man going out on a date.

Roy, consuming copious amounts of hot wings and nachos.

Pam, polishing off a bottle as she pictured her future.

Roy, drinking and laughing and ultimately paying the price when he arrived home.

Pam.

Going to...bed?

She rubbed her temples, frantically trying to pull images to her consciousness, while Roy chuckled, obviously only seeing a hangover at its finest.

She was...upset...about Jim going on a date. Right? The more she drank, the more upset she was. She remembered being upset. But...why? Why had she been upset about Jim going on a date? And what had happened between twenty-five ounces of Pinot Grigio and waking up on the guest bathroom floor? With Roy propping himself up in front of her, she pushed the thoughts from her mind, willed the tears of frustration back inside herself.

"It's just like the good ol' days, Pammy!" he chuckled, reaching out his meaty hands to rub more harshly than he realized at her towel-clad thigh. He was, of course, referring to those nights in high school and college, when they would nurse matching hangovers after he had essentially coerced her into drinking one too many beers on a night out with more of his friends than hers.

Responding only in nods once again, she pinched her eyebrows together in the sudden realization that these were the memories he held sacred.

Slowly, cautiously, she began to prop herself to her feet, feeling claustrophobic in the confined space, filled with too many thoughts and a scent that threatened nausea once again.

"I think I'm gonna go try and sleep some of this off," she mumbled, grabbing the frame of the door for support.

"That doesn't sound like a bad idea," he replied, massive hands cloaking her waist. The touch burned her, and not in the way she would've hoped that closeness from her fiance would've done. She actually choked a bit, blaming the rising bile on alcohol rather than surrendering to the fact that it was Roy who had made her feel that way.

With a shake of her head, and a fist to her lips, he got the picture.

She felt her way down the hallway, still almost completely blinded from lack of any visual aids, and sat on the edge of her side of the bed, registering just how little she had actually slept. The red lights, still too bright in their faint glow, mocked her with the numbers 7:43.

"Hey, babe? I'm just gonna head to the guest room, if you don't mind. I'm really not feeling well, and just need to sprawl out and sleep a little."

His response was muffled in the pillow. He was already slinking back into unconsciousness.

Grabbing her phone, her glasses, and her own pillow, she found herself stopped at the doorframe of the guest bedroom. An immediate chill washed over her, although she couldn't place it. Guardedly, she slunk into the center of the bed, the cold replaced with a heat that was shockingly sudden. Her entire body was overcome by what could only be described as a hot chill: her skin riddled with goosebumps, but now a thousand degrees to the touch, and tingling.

Squeezing her eyes and fists shut so tightly that it was almost painful, she willed the sensation to disappear. What was happening? Why was this all so familiar?

Her dreamless, distressful sleep was interrupted four hours later by the vibrations of her cell phone, buried somewhere deep in the covers. It took her several attempts to fish it out of the folds, but when she finally accompanied the buzzing with her glasses, the bright light contrasted the dark shadows of the room to reveal something peculiar.

4 New Text Messages from Jim Halpert

8:02 AM: Hey Beesly. Just making sure you're okay and that you remember your promise to let me know when you wake up.

9:43 AM: You're probably still sleeping, but text me when you're up, okay?

10:34 AM: You alive over there?

11:27 AM: Hey Pam. Jim again. Only a little bit worried sick over here. Hope the hangover doesn't have you praying to the porcelain gods. Please let me know that you're okay.

Heat pooled her cheeks and tingled to her toes.

As she racked her brain trying to fill the time between liquor and hangover, her thumb moved of its own accord to the SEND button. Her last call log read:

Jim Halpert.

Tears welled in her eyes as she clicked OK to read further information.

Outgoing Call

To: Jim Halpert

11:34 PM

17 min, 42 sec

She squeezed her eyes shut, letting the tears stream to the comforter as she willed herself to remember any part of this.

Mechanically, she clicked back to her text messages and typed out a message that sounded so juvenile, she almost laughed.

Hey Jim. I just woke up. Sorry to worry you. I hate to admit this, but I don't remember a lot from last night…

She had never wanted to be this person: the girl who drank so much that parts of her night were lost in time. But here she was, with seventeen minutes and forty-two seconds unaccounted for. The only person with the answers was somewhere across town. As her mind drifted to his cozy little house with the comfortable sofa and inviting aire, flashes of grey sweatpants and the name "Halpert" in block letters suddenly attacked her. She pulled the covers back, frightened for a moment.

Suddenly, she found her thumb retracting the last part of her statement, pressing SEND when the message read only, Hey Jim. I just woke up. Sorry to worry you.

His response was quicker than she could gather her things from the guest room and reach the threshold of its closed doorway.

I am beyond glad, Beesly. Do me a favor and drink another bottle of water, okay? Throw in an omelette and a few aspirin while you're at it. Wine hangovers are a nasty monster.

As she wandered into the kitchen, observing Roy's body slumped half off the couch with the remote falling out of his hand, her body was drawn to follow each and every one of his orders. Fifteen minutes later, when she was lifting her breakfast to her mouth, she was unaware of the exact movements that were happening in a living not four miles across town, as his feet sprawled across that comfy brown sofa, acting as a table for his own breakfast.