It’s days like this- when the sky is partly cloudy and the breeze rustles the leaves and it seems like the sun knows exactly where and when to find them- that the world stands still.

They’re sitting on the porch, much as they always do when the weather obliges, and she plays with his fingers as she leans back, her head against his chest. He can feel her steady breathing and he knows she’s listening to the beat of his heart.

It’s singularly romantic in its simplicity and he’ll never admit it, but these are the moments in which he knows clarity.

In moments like this, he becomes not “Jim Halpert, Michael’s number two”, or “Jim Halpert, Dunder Mifflin salesman.” At this moment, he is only “Jim, Pam’s Jim.”

He forgets about paperwork and relationship forms and Michaels and Dwights and everything Monday through Friday.

Not later this day, not later this week, not even later this month, but later still, he’ll propose. It’ll be quiet and intimate and a surprise for both of them; he’ll look at her on this very porch and realize he needs her for the world to stand still, so he’ll propose. The words will be spoken like any other words. It won’t be grand or groundbreaking or anything thrilling. But it’ll be them. She’ll say yes and they’ll tear up and everything will freeze for them once more before their life is put in fast forward.

But for now, life stands still in a moment where the sky is partly cloudy and the breeze rustles the leaves and the sun knows exactly where to find them. Where he can link his fingers with hers, content in the knowledge that he’s Jim, Pam’s Jim.