Just then, it starts to rain.

"I love you, Jim," she whispers. She thinks the rain hitting the windows is perfect right now because it feels like he’s staring daggers at the floor and she’d almost rather them be at her.

But he doesn't move. He stays bending over her, eyes drilling holes into her shaky surface. She waits for him to say something, Jesus, say something, but it doesn't happen.

Nothing happens.

An eternity - or was it just a minute and a half? - passes before any blood leaves her blush-stained cheeks and she gets the courage to speak again. He's just been staring at her. She thinks he blinked twice, but don't ask her, she can't be sure.

"Jim, I don't --" she starts to tremble.

He clutches her face in his hands. He kisses, rough and needy, at first. So strong she literally gets weak in the knees and is grateful he's holding her up by her face. She'd be a puddle by now, otherwise.

A moment passes, neither of them have actually moved. His lips are just pressed to hers. She doesn't know how to react. She doesn't want to break it, but she knows he's waiting on her and he's just made this amazing, bold move and what kind of guy doesn't follow up on that? So she stands up a little straighter, snakes an arm around his neck, and gives it up, lets him in.

He kisses her like he has to, like she's the last source of oxygen on the planet. She moans softly and it only encourages him more. He turns and runs her back into a wall, never leaving her mouth.

And in that moment, she wants everything and nothing from him.

She coughs a little, a side effect of the tickle in the back of her throat, effectively ending the kiss and ruining the moment.

He chuckles, she chuckles, he wipes her tears.

She looks down at her feet, trying to regain consciousness. His stomach grumbles.

"Chinese sound okay?" she offers.

He counters with another kiss.

*

An hour and three boxes of Chinese take-out later, they've decided they hate work and aren't going in tomorrow. They've also decided they're finally, officially boyfriend-girlfriend. Or whatever twenty-somethings are supposed to call it. Maybe. Technically, they made out for like fifteen minutes and then he made some quip about never going that far on the first date. She reminded him it was like their thousandth, so really, they’re dating. Have dated? Whatever.

"What about Houston?" he asks.

"What about it? I can't just...not go." Yeah, it was probably really stupid to start to pay for a house right now.

"But it's like...It's a two-year thing, right?"

"To get my foot in the door, yeah. I mean. I've got a lot done just...what I've done here in Scranton. I think I could manage it in like a year and a half. It'll be heavier workloads but cheaper in the end and I could be back in Scranton by the time I'm like 29. The house'd be half paid for, I can't ditch on that. I haven't even lived there a year."

"You could rent it out."

"I was thinking maybe you could get it worn-in. Make it feel all home-y and safe," she giggles.

And to think, two hours ago she just about hated him.

"Well, I could do that," he takes a sip of his soda, "I'd also kind of like to take night classes though, so, I don't know when you expect me to prepare the palace."

"Classes in what?"

"Anything," he leans against the couch and rubs his eyes with his palms. "Dunder Mifflin is not...smart. I hate it. It'd suit me fine if I never had to go back."

She puts her carton on the coffee table and leans against the arm of the sofa. "I don't care if you never go back. I still gotta grin and bear it, though...It's paying my tuition."

"Pam?"

"Yeah?" She twirls leftover noodles around her fork.

"I hate your house."

"You’ve only ever seen the deck. And half of the living room."

"What else is there to see? It’s a three-bedroom little house in Scranton."

"I like Scranton." She forces herself not to pick the carton up from the coffee table. "I painted all the rooms upstairs. I was gonna do the living room, but I can’t reach very far up."

"I could help you with that," he leans in like he’s going to kiss her.

"Oh, no, Mister. You hate my house, you don’t get to paint it."

"Might make me hate it less. Then I could get it all lived-in for you while you’re gone."

"Nope," she scoots away, "you don’t deserve to live there."

He grabs her by the waist and pulls himself down on top of her, kissing her.

"It had to be you, didn’t it, Jim?"

"Was there ever another choice?"

"Well, yeah, there were. Choices. None of them were as goofy looking, though."

"Ouch, Beesly," he kisses her. "That hurt."

"Whatever," she kisses him quickly, "you’re kind of like a masochist, anyway. Look what you’ve put up with all these years."

*

A year later, she thinks this is where she’s supposed to be.

She’s in Houston and he’s in Scranton, living in her house. They’re not "together," like a long-distance relationship or anything, because that makes breathing hurt. They don’t date other people, they aren’t in a relationship, they just don’t date.

They tell each other they love them, and they’ve met the other’s parents, and they’ve talked about marriage and kids and real jobs, but they’re not together.

She listens to A*Teens and SClub7 while painting, he listens to bands she can’t pronounce while on the phone with her just because it makes her pout "Jiiiiimmmmmm!" and he thinks it’s kind of cute.

He has everything. He knows when she comes back in fourteen months, six weeks, and two days, the party’s at her house and it’s going to blow her ‘housewarming’ party out of the damn ocean because he’s got everything.

He gets it.