Their first major fight came out of nowhere. Mid-December, on a Friday night when they decided to stay in as opposed to going out, Jim cooked her dinner.

Conversation, naturally, flowed easily and they laughed and talked, recapping the events of that week. They discussed Christmas and New Years plans, and decided to spend Christmas Eve at her parents’ and Christmas Day at his. The fact that it was their first holidays together was not lost on either of them but neither mentioned it.

Finally, a lull in discussion arrived and Jim used that moment to clear the dishes from the table. Pam took a sip of her wine, her eyes casually perusing the room. The cover of the local paper caught her eye.

He didn’t see her grinning but as he turned, he saw Pam lean back in her chair.

“What do you think about the Mitchell Report?” She asked randomly.

Jim cocked an eyebrow in surprise. He had not been expecting that. “The Mitchell Report? Uh . . . What? You know what that is?”

Pam rolled her eyes. “I read the paper. I watch the news. It’s been everywhere. You’re a big baseball fan.” She shrugged, pushed his chair back so he could sit down. “What do you think?”

Jim stared at her in awe. Fancy New Beesly indeed. Not only was she asking him a question about baseball – a sport, for God’s sake – she actually looked like she wanted to hear his answer. Sighing, Jim frowned wryly, shaking his head as he took his seat. “Well, I think it sucks.”

Her brow quirked and he fell in love with her all over again. He had no idea what she was doing, as she never, ever showed interest in his love of sports, but he relished the idea of talking to her about it.

“Elaborate,” Pam said.”

Well, damn. Where to start? “I just think it was a complete disaster. Nearly two years of research and he humiliates all these players based on hearsay? A bunch of cashed checks?”

“Yeah, but you said yourself that steroids in baseball was a major problem.”

“Well, it was.” Jim nodded seriously. “But I just don’t think its right to name names based on a bunch of checks and hearsay from some trainer or clubhouse attendant. If they failed a test or admitted it or were filmed or photographed doing it, sure.” He felt his neck flush. “I mean, Roger Clemens is arguably the best pitcher of all time and there’s no chance he’ll get into the Hall of Fame now. Based on hearsay.” His voice stung of bitterness and he could tell Pam caught on.

She was grinning, widely, wildly, like a Cheshire cat. “You’d make a great sportswriter.” She said it so casually, so nonchalantly; at first he didn’t even comprehend. Not until she stood up and walked over to empty the rest of her wine into the sink.

“Wait – what?”

When she turned back to look at him, she was still smiling, but there was a tint of nervousness to her expression. “You’re passionate about sports, Jim. You could totally write about them for a living.”

He was about to crack that he was a paper salesman for a living when suddenly, she walked out of the room. He stared after her wild-eyed. What was she doing? He could never be a sportswriter. To be a sportswriter, you had to have a degree in journalism. Which meant you had go to school to be a journalist. And Jim wasn’t going back to school. He’d barely made it through the first time. Standing up, Jim sought out Pam, following her down the hall and into his bedroom.

When he realized she was zeroing in on the guitar stashed in the back of his closet, his heart stopped.

That sneaky little . . .

“What are you doing?”

“Getting your guitar.” And she was. Leaning over his shoes and backpacks and miscellaneous crap he’d shoved into the closet and instantly forgotten, she wrapped her small hands around the neck and lifted it up.

Hauling it out, she turns around, grinning, clearly proud of herself. “Play something for me.”

“What are you doing?” He tried to control the tone of his voice, he really did. But he could not. Every ounce of fear – and anger – he felt at this blatant act of sabotage came through loud and clear.

The smile fell. Her face changed. Now she was upset. Hurt. “Why is it such a big deal?”

He shrugged. “It’s private.” His jaw was set. His back stiffened. He felt . . . naked. Exposed. And pissed off. Realization set in that the little sportswriter bit wasn’t random at all. It was completely calculated. He’d thought, nearly two months later, he had gotten away with it. She’d forgotten all about his Second Life avatar, the epitome of everything he’d hope for but never actually admit out loud, and he was safe.

Except he was wrong. She had remembered. And now, clearly, she intended to talk about it.

Hurt had blended into resignation. She’s quiet. The look of sadness that passed briefly across her face almost choked him. “So you don’t want to share that part of your life with me.”

When she put it like that, he felt like a complete ass and was quick to try some damage control. “Come on, Pam, it’s not like that. It’s just – embarrassing.”

“I used to be embarrassed too. When I told people I liked art.” Her eyes were on his. “Sometimes it’s still hard for me to call myself an artist. But you always encouraged me. You’re one of the main reasons I pursued my art in the first place.” Pause. “Why won’t you let me do that for you?”

Because he’d never had to. He’d always been the one offering the moral support and she was always the one who needed it, between having a job she hated, a fiancé who didn’t know how to appreciate her and dreams she refused to realize. But he couldn’t say those things to her. Instead, he just shrugged. “I dunno.”

Her eyes left his face, looked at anything but him. He saw the realization whisper across her face – he wasn’t going to open up anymore. When she brought her eyes back to his, Jim could literally feel her pulling away. “I’m really tired.” She faked a yawn, not even bothering to make it look genuine. “I’m just gonna go home.”

“Its only eight o’clock,” Jim said, watching her gather her coat and purse and head for his door so fast his head spun. She was just going to leave?!

When she turned back to look at him, there were tears in her eyes. He was shocked, sucker-punched in his gut; he had absolutely no defenses when Pam cried. “The time doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “Goodnight, Jim.” There was finality in her voice and that tore at him.

He watched her go, dumbstruck, frozen in place.

The echo of the door clicking quietly shut sounded like alarms to his ears.

He didn’t hear from her all day Saturday but not for a lack of trying. He called her apartment more times than he could admit. And her cell phone. He left messages.

Clearly, she was mad.

And her passive-aggressive avoidance of him was making him mad as well.

So he didn’t want to play his guitar for her. So what? Didn’t he get to keep some parts to himself? Pam was the one who was keeping him at an arm’s length; she was the one moving on, becoming stronger and more independent. She was the one who forgets to drive him home or blows him off when he wants to talk about Dwight. She was the one who . . .

He was fuming as he drove over to her place. If she wanted to break up – during the holidays, no less – she at least had to do it to his face. If she wanted to be mad, she at least had to tell him why.

He was angry all the way to her front door. He pounded on it, loudly, forcefully, the cheerful Christmas wreath jiving to and fro as he banged his fist between the circle of pine needles.

But when she opened the door and glared up at him with those beautiful hazel eyes, he was mollified just enough to only muster a half-hearted, “what the hell?”

Wordlessly, she stepped back to allow him into her apartment. Jim made his way right into the living room, slowing down as he took in the sketches covering the floor, couch, coffee and end tables. She’d obviously been hard at work. Drawing, sketching, sketching and drawing – oh, and avoiding his phone calls.

He whirled around to face her. “Were you going to answer any one of my calls?”

She shrugged, her back stiff, her expression not giving anything anyway. “I don’t know what . . . what you want from me, Jim.”

He did not like the tone of her voice. He was beginning to feel panic. “What I wa – Pam, what I want is what I’ve always wanted. You.”

Her face softened, for an instant, before her eyes hardened once again. “But do you really want me?”

A violent blend of fear and anger rose up within him, so strong and intense he felt sick. Fear that his worst nightmare was coming true. Anger that she’d ever doubt his feelings for her. “You’re kidding, right? You can’t possibly be asking me that question.” A brief synopsis of every night he spent aching for her for the last four years spun through his head.

“How can I not ask you that question?” Pam’s voice rose significantly, an edge to its tone. “You won’t even share-” She stopped herself; turned on her heel, walked away.

“Won’t share what, Pam?” He rose too, following her. “The fact that I wanted you for so long I didn’t bother to dream about anything else?”

“Yes!” She hissed, whirling around to face him. He was taken aback by the tears in her eyes. Feeling like an asshole all over again, Jim inwardly cursed himself for those tears. “You should be able to talk to me! I share everything with you, Jim.”

He shook his head. “No you don’t.”

“Anything important in my life, I have shared with you.”

“It’s embarrassing, okay!?” He exploded, holding out his arms in a defenseless gesture. “For years, Pam, I stayed at a job I hated just for the chance to talk to you. Look at you. Pull a few pranks. And then watch you go home to Roy. I never . . . I should have left Dunder Mifflin the first week I arrived. But you-”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Pam said, brushing at her tears. “I didn’t ask you to give up your dreams for me!”

“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice softened. God, he hated to see her cry. “There are no dreams without you Pam.”

“Do you think I don’t feel the same way?”

Nope. That wasn’t it. “I just feel like you don’t need me anymore.” He couldn’t believe that he had actually said it. And from the expression on her face, neither could she.

“Why?”

“Because you’re so . . . different now. You’re so much happier, stronger and more confident than you ever were. You don’t need me to be there for you like I used to. You just don’t need me.” At all, he silently added. He told himself he’d die before he’d ever let her see this side of him. But when she cried . . . he couldn’t be the cause of that. He’d do whatever it took to make those tears stop, even if it meant unbarring his soul and becoming completely open and naked in front on her for the very first time.

“I love you,” Pam whispered. “The reason why I’m so much happier and stronger is because everything is finally falling into place for me, Jim. My art and my confidence and you. You,” she said again for emphasis, “are the reason why I am the way I am today.”

He felt his eyes filling and turned to blink them away. He could not cry in front of her. He promised himself after Casino Night – never again. “I just feel like once you realize your boyfriend has no goals outside of being with you, you’ll see how pathetic he really is and want out.” When he was sure he could keep the moisture at bay, he turned back to her.

She scoffed, sniffling as she stepped closer to him, reached for his hands. “That’s not true.”

He shrugged, uncomfortable by the intensity of her gaze. “It kind of is.”

“Then why is your Second Life avatar a sports writer from Philadelphia?”

The reminder of their conversation from yesterday stung. Again, he shrugged, felt the internal struggle to deny, to evade, to flee. But her hands tightened on his and she looked at him with such naked, adoring love he found himself saying, “Because in a perfect world, Jim Halpert would be a sports writer from Philadelphia.”

Pam grinned so beautifully she took his breath away. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Another roll of his shoulders. “It wasn’t easy though.” But it didn’t feel like the world was ending. He had just admitted to her one hugely vital part of his dreams and she hadn’t judged him or rejected him or walked away.

“I want you to confide in me,” Pam whispered. “I want you to trust me. But you don’t.”

“I trust you,” he said without any hesitation. “But there’s still that part of me that doesn’t feel good enough for you, Pam.”

She laughed, so loud and carefree he ached with love for her. “You don’t feel good enough for me? I never used to feel good enough for anything. For Roy. For you. For art. For . . . life.”

“So what changed?”

“This guy I knew put himself out there one night. Told me how he really felt. Showed me what courage really was.” It was her turn to shrug. “Let’s just say, if I could have half the strength this guy has, I’d be a much braver woman.”

“I just needed you to know,” he whispered, echoing his words from that night. “I think I would have gone crazy if I never told you.”

“If you could tell me that you loved me when I was engaged to someone else, why can’t you tell me that you like the guitar? Why can’t you play that guitar for me? You think I’d love you less?”

“Sometimes I think you’ll wake up and realize you don’t love me at all.”

Pam raised herself on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck. Sighed when his arms slid around her waist to pull her flush against his body. “You’re the love of my life.”

“You’re the love of mine.”

“Good. So what do you say we go over to your place and you play me something on that guitar you have hidden in the back of your closet?”

His brow quirked and he looked down, blushing. He didn’t play that guitar for anyone. “It’s embarrassing.”

“So you keep saying.” She shook his hand, waited until his eyes bore into hers. “I’ll never not love you, Jim.” Nuzzling her nose against his, she grinned. “I know there’s still that part of you that doesn’t believe that yet. But it’ll learn.”

Something in his chest clicked into place. Firmly. It had everything to do with the way she was looking at him – the way he always dreamed she would. “I think it already has,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her softly. “I love you.”

“I know.”

“So come on.” He took her hand. “Let’s go back to my place. I’ll play you a little something on my guitar.”