Pam lets out a heavy breath as they pull into a space outside her apartment. "I know it's not like the best apartment complex," she remarks nervously. "It was the right price and close to work and--"

"You don't need to apologize for where you live," Jim replies. Nervous laughter fills the car, followed by silence.

"Um, should we go inside?" Pam finally asks, her hands still holding the steering wheel in a death grip. He nods and tries to smile. Her lips move to say something, but instead she just opens the car door. The walk up to her apartment is quiet until she announces their arrival. "Number 316, that's me!" she proclaims a bit too loudly.

Jim would tease her if he wasn't so nervous himself, and instead responds with an enthusiastic, "That's you!" She's still fiddling with the key when they break into awkward laughter.

"The key's a bit tricky," she explains.

"Ah," he replies.

When it's finally open, she moves to let him in, but he doesn't budge. "I always thought it was ladies first," he remarks.

"Well, you're the guest."

"But you're the lady," he insists. "What kind of gentleman would I be to go in first?"

"Uh... no kind at all, I guess," she replies, her face a bit contorted. She takes a step inside and heads for the kitchen. "Do you want--" she was going to say 'some coffee' and thankfully stops herself, "to sit down?"

He nods and follows her to a slightly worn davenport. She lets out an exasperated gasp as she plops herself down. He seats himself beside her, just far enough that their bodies do not touch. "I'm warning you, Beesly, I'm going to be off the walls pretty soon. It always takes a while for sugar and caffeine to start affecting me. So I hope you're prepared." It seemed a safe enough comment and it brings a delicate smile to her lips.

"Don't worry, I used to babysit all the time," she kids.

He raises an eyebrow. "Calling me a child, nice."

"Hey, you're the one who mentioned 'sugar' and 'off the walls'." Her mind quickly turns those words into 'against the wall', and she's picturing herself in such a position. It doesn't take much for her thoughts to turn to such things. A sly smile spreads across her lips.

"What's that suspicious look for?" he asks, turning toward her.

"Nothing," she quickly replies. "Should I put on some music?" She's up before he can respond, eager to distract herself. Because even though they are in her apartment, she doesn't want to be presumptuous. Her iPod's attached to the stereo and she has to think fast for something that will prove she has decent taste without being pretentious and set the mood without being obvious. Something not too distracting, either. She settles on Cat Power, but thinks there has to be something better on there. "Is this okay?" she asks nervously.

He withholds a comment about hoping for Barry White. "Are you trying to prove your cred, Beesly?"

"I don't know about 'cred', but us artsy types have to listen to at least somewhat obscure music, right? I'm pretty sure you learn in Art 101 to never, ever admit to liking Coldplay."

"Hey, I like Coldplay, " he replies, feigning offense.

She giggles as she says, "I know you hate Coldplay."

"I don't hate Coldplay," he says defensively, "their music just all sounds kind of the same. But they have some good tunes. You know."

"And Christ Martin named his kid 'Apple'. And I know for a fact you hate pretentious celebrity baby names."

"Now that," he admits, "is very true." He's leaning in more closely now. "Jermajesty? I mean what the hell is that?"

"It's classy. Almost as classy as Pilot Inspektor."

Jim visibly shudders. "I always liked the name Samuel," he muses.

She makes a face. "Samuel? Little Sammy? I would never name a kid anything that could end in -ammy. Not after years of Pammy, believe me."

"Okay, well, what names do you like? You got something better?" He tries to ignore the fact that he's discussing baby names with her.

"For a girl, Mildred," she says very seriously.

"Mildred?"

"Yes." Her attempts to keep a straight face are quickly failing. "Okay," she confesses, "I admit that that's actually Angela's favorite name."

"It would be," he laughs. "Can you imagine Angela having a kid? With Dwight? Little Mildred Schrute?"

Pam gasps and exclaims, "That poor child!"

"You seem genuinely concerned," he remarks, slightly shocked.

"I am!" she proclaims. "How could I not be? Can you imagine? The strict Christian upbringing on a beet farm with lots and lots of cats? You know the kid would have no sense of humor, either."

Jim carefully considers the possibilities and decides it's too much. "You're right, that's horrifying. Absolutely terrifying, and I hope that if it's ever a reality, the kid at least has some sort of cool uncle."

"Maybe we should befriend them just in case and then we can babysit. Try to instill a little sanity into the poor child."

Jim smiles at her use of the word 'we', despite the context. "Yeah," he adds, a bit distracted and looking at his lap. "What are we doing?" he asks, shifting his gaze to her.

She's perched with an elbow on the couch, fully open towards him, her smile fading with growing anxiety. She doesn't reply immediately, and instead takes his hand in hers and softly rubs her thumb across it. "I don't know," she says cautiously. He can see her chest rise and fall with every breath. She thinks this would be a perfect time for Sea Of Love to start playing, but remembers they've still got quite a few songs to go.

"It's getting kind of late," he says absently, still looking at her.

"Oh, did you want to--"

"No."

"Okay."

They sit silently for a bit, until eventually Pam's head is on Jim's shoulder, and they're just there, quiet, breathing, his hand still in hers. It's relaxing, in a way, just listening to music and being together, despite the tension. Pam takes an especially deep breath and hums as she lets it out. They're listening to Salty Dog now, the delicate notes filling the room, sending a chill down her spine. She knows Sea Of Love is up next and she shudders slightly when the pause comes between the songs.

The first few chords play, and she snakes her hand further up his arm.

Come with me, my love,

Her hand reaches to pull his face to hers.

to the sea, the sea of love.

Her breath is unbearably shaky.

I want to tell you

He brings a trembling hand to her arm.

how much I love you.

And the other to her face.

Do you remember when we met?

Her breath catches.

First day, I knew you were my pet.

A finger to her lips.

I want to tell you,

A small gasp.

how much I love you.