“What, no flood? Jim, your landlord lied to you! Bet you’re glad you didn’t leave that party now,” Pam said, and Jim smirked at the sarcasm he could in her voice as they entered his apartment. She went to the living room to set her coat on the back of his couch while he closed the front door.

With the wrappers from their quite literal midnight snack bagged up in his hand, he made his way into the kitchen.

“Would you look at that. Do you think it’s too late to call Michael? I know how much you wanted to nurse him through his break up. Dwight really shouldn’t get to have all the fun.” He opened the cabinet under the sink, dropping the remnants of their meal into the garbage. As he stood back up, he saw Pam coming to join him, pressing back against the counter while he leaned on it next to her with one hand.

“As tempting as that sounds,” she tilted her head, appearing to contemplate it deeply, “I think we should let him sleep. He’s had a rough day. Or, month. Or… however long Jan’s been living with him. He’s had a rough that.”

“Hmm,” Jim nodded in agreement.

It grew silent, and after a moment he saw her lips purse together. Her arms folded in front of her, and she stared intently at something across the room, appearing to contemplate a new thought.

Curiosity got the better of him. “What?”

The sound of his voice shook her, and her gaze rose to meet his. “Huh? Oh, just thinking.”

Before he could ask, she elaborated. “I’m hungry.”

“Hungry? Really.” He stood up straight now, making a sweeping gesture towards the trash. “’Cause I’m pretty sure I didn’t get any of my fries because someone got to them before me.”

Her response was automatic, defensive, like she expected him to make that argument. “I’d barely eaten all day!” Then the look on her face turned serious. “And I told you not to leave the bag in my lap. Don’t blame me for your mistakes, Jim, it’s a really unattractive quality to have.” And if he didn’t know her, like he does so well, he might’ve thought she was serious. Instead, he smiled.

“Okay,” he resigned, “I own up to that error in judgment.” And he was so caught up in the contenment of having moments like right then – standing there in his kitchen, casually joking as late night became early morning – that he nearly missed her quiet thank you.

“But you’re still hungry,” he said, mostly to himself because how could she still be hungry? Her response was a simple nod of confirmation, and she looked away again. He turned to the fridge.

A cold blast of air hit his face when he opened the freezer. A moment later, he grabbed what he was looking for, and shut the door quickly while attempting to shake off the brief temperature change. Turning back to Pam – who looked at him with a hint of mischief that just drove him crazy – he presented her with his findings.

“Ice cream?” He asked. “It’s just chocolate, but, nothing wrong with that.” With his free hand, he pointed back to the fridge. “I might even have some caramel sauce, but don’t hold me to it.” He started to step back towards the fridge again, but was stopped by her smile and slight shake of her head.

“No,” she said, uncrossing her arms to rest them on the counter behind her, her nails making the slightest click against the surface. “You know what I could really go for right now?”

His eyebrows rose, and again he offered the ice cream carton to her, almost helplessly.

She was looking at him like that again, lips curved into a smile. She said one word.

“Tuna.” She smiled at him, and he closed his eyes, embarrassed because he realized she was never hungry at all.

“Pam, please, not you, too.” He said, bringing his free hand to rest on top of the carton, because if only his nickname was made of the same flimsy, cold cardboard that could be crushed and tossed away so easily and never, ever mentioned again.

Her laugh did little to make him feel better. “Oh, come on, it’s funny,” she reasoned.

He shook his head to disagree. “No, Pam, I had a tuna fish sandwich. Once. And it wasn’t even that good – definitely not worth being stuck with for the rest of my life.” She looked slightly sympathetic at that, but he could practically see the wheels turning in her head at the same time.

“Well, maybe that’s the problem.”

“What?”

“Being called ‘Tuna’ makes you think of a crummy first lunch you had in Stamford.” He looked at her. Like, really looked at her because huh, he’d never thought of it that way and it almost makes sense. Except.

“And because it’s Andy’s nickname to me,” he said. She nodded, but didn’t bother to explain why he would find that irritating because he’d just done a pretty good job of it himself.

“True,” she conceded. But then she began to walk towards him, and in a matter of steps the only thing in between them was the ice cream carton that was still in his hands even though he was sure it was pretty much empty anyway.

“I don’t know, though. I think you’re being too negative about it.” Her hands snuck under the carton and came to rest lightly on his chest. “I mean, I love tuna.” Her eyes met his, and he knew that by tuna she meant Tuna and then he couldn’t concentrate because Pam’s touching me and she loves Tuna and I’m Tuna.

He wondered if she knew what she did to him, but her small smile told him yes.

“Hmm, maybe you’re right.” He matched her smile with a grin of his own. But her hands were still on his chest and it was getting more and more difficult not to do something about it. “What I’m wondering is, could you go for some right now?”

One of her shoulders came up in a shrug, her head tilted to the side as she tried to convey well, I guess. What he saw was, absolutely, I could.

And that was it. He set the ice cream down on the counter, not bothering to put it away. Instead, he used his now-free hands to grab hers from their resting spot, pulling her towards the bedroom.

She let out a gasp. “Oh my god, Jim, your hands are so cold!”

“Warm them up.”