He'd be a liar if he were to say he's completely confident in his choices tonight. While the swing of his key ring around his finger reads as blasé, Jim's insides are grinding themselves into bits as he and Pam cross the lot outside Poor Richard's. Nausea overwhelms him entirely as she slips past him with a thankful grin at his chivalry and he feels the flutter of her skirt by his knuckles. He blinks hard to focus his attention into himself.

For all intents and purposes, Jim is a gigantic tool. He knows that, acknowledges it, and you can look at that from any different angle that you want, but he mostly considers himself within the 'undeniable jackass' definition – and yes, it really is shameful. He painfully thinks of Karen's stern face in tandem with Pam's glad and pretty smiles, which altogether creates a wholly displeasing cocktail of anxiety and despondence inside his middle.

But he follows Pam toward the pool table corner regardless once they've entered, his eyes trained on the straps that secure her entirely feminine heels to her feet. He marvels quietly at her grace in such violent little death traps, thinking of how sharply they contrast to her usual Keds and flats, and though he hates to think it anymore (he had been over it for months, right?) he feels desperate to just keep looking at her.

"Oh, do you want something?" Pam wonders and pauses just outside the collection of their coworkers, all of whom have not quite spotted them yet. Jim tests the look in her eyes, gauging her as conversational and not nuanced, and he tilts a smile down at her and nods. She beams in return, and he swallows around it as she holds up a finger and rounds him, her heels clicking her spiritedly toward the bar not far behind them.

Jim shuts his eyes, inhales through wide nostrils, then exhales slowly. Hold it together. With a jaunty wave, he greets his fellow Dunder Mifflinites, already thinking of excuses as to why Karen isn't there, none of them sounding at all convincing in his head.

--

Pam's fingers are sweaty when she passes the bartender a couple of bills in exchange for two beer bottles. She watches the bartender root around for her order and a couple of others, and she ponders on her luck – if you could call it that - this evening. Somehow she's managed to go from Michael's escort to bar buddies with Jim, all under the same 24 hours, and it's just starting getting to her. She hopes it doesn't show.

She glances over her shoulder to find Jim handshaking around the group of coworkers, and it's not until the bartender presents her with two labels that she comes back to herself.

With a smile, she takes them from him, but when she looks down at the dark brews in her hand, Pam stops. "Oh."

It's something insignificant, really. She knows it's not a big deal; bartenders are busy, they can't get everything right. But there's this new part of her – the part that openly watches Jim when Karen's around these days, the part that told Roy no at Phyllis' wedding, the part that wants to let the world and certain people know who she is and what she wants out of life – that makes her move. Pam faces the bartender again and sets the beers on the counter, her face determined and her fingers shaking. "Uhm, one of these is supposed to be a light," Pam tells him as certainly as she can. She's happy enough that it doesn't sound like a question.

The bartender simply takes one of the beers, switches it out for a light, and the lighter label is set in front of Pam with no excuse or argument.

Delight is not a strong enough word for the sensation that overcomes her.

--

The beer hasn't left his grasp since she handed it to him. Jim's watched her play a round of pool, has listened to her regale everyone with her heroic tale of surviving a trip to New York with Michael. Both of them share details about the party, exchange looks like 'you had to be there', and really, it feels good. It feels like two years ago. He's even almost let himself forget about Karen and her angry brow, the argument they were in the middle of having.

Pam's laughing at some joke he just told and for the life of him, he can't remember what it was. But it doesn't matter; the way she looks is all he wants. She is drowning in her glee, her eyes crinkling when she grins wide enough to show every shiny tooth in her mouth, and Jim is positively enchanted by her.

Oscar's hand is in his face, and Jim takes the gesture and hitches a smile up at him. "Later, man. See you tomorrow."

"Yeah. Don't stay out too late you guys. You know that Dwight keeps careful time," Oscar warns in that way that teasing coworkers do, a significant look shifted between Jim and Pam that apparently both are willing to ignore.

And then there were two, since Jim doesn't really count Angela, Ryan or Kelly. He peeks beside himself to find Pam's fingers itching at the label on her bottle, her eyebrows knit tight in the middle. She's preoccupied with something, with her lower lip sucked in on the side as she obviously ponders the world.

He smiles despite his concern, as his first instinct is always to stop her overworked brain. "Thanks again," Jim begins loud enough to return her to the present, her eyes so wide when she turns her face up at him. "For inviting me out, I mean," he lifts his brew for reference, and she smiles faintly at him.

"Oh, yeah," she breezes and waves her hand at him. "Thanks for giving me a ride back into town. I don't know if I could've survived another trip with Michael and Jan."

"Totally would've been a goner," Jim nods affirmative and sips his drink as she laughs. "And we all know that the Charlie's Angels roll out of the car only works for Charlie's Angels."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, Jim," Pam theatrically lifts her finger at chin level to him, her eyebrows pointedly arched. "Don't underestimate me."

He chuckles now and can't help but grin at her and her silly determination. "You're right. Life or death situations change things."

She mmmhmms around the mouth of her beer and takes a good chug. The way her throat works around the gulp has him tightening his hand involuntarily around the neck of his bottle, and he grits his teeth together and pretends like he was watching something over her head. "So—"

"Jim—"

They both stop and look intently at the other, anticipating the other's direction.

"Uh, you go," Jim laughs, feeling boyish as he gestures toward her.

"Oh, well," Pam fidgets and shrugs a shoulder, and he watches her eyes dart anxiously between their beer bottles. He feels it on the tip of his tongue, has the strongest sense of déjà vu when she looks up at him with doe eyes and parted lips. It stings in the back of his throat and burns at the corner of his eyes. But he can't bring himself to that precipice with her, even as he sees it unravel on her face before him. "I just … I wanted to say that, uhm…"

She can't quite make it that far. Pam swallows a full gulp of air and looks back to her beer for some kind of absolution, and he hates her for it. It gives Jim time to steel himself and he crooks a strong smile at her and pats the tabletop with his palm. It effectively draws her attention. "Well, I was gonna say, I'm about to head out," he pulls his thumb over his shoulder and tries to be oblivious to her sagging shoulders. "Did you still need a lift, or--?"

"Angela," Pam blurts and Jim folds his lips into a thin line. She continues nodding, like she's trying to convince herself. "Yeah, uhm, she's already offered, since she lives on that side of—"

"Oh, yeah, no," he waves off her excuses, always excuses, and he has that anger thickening in him again. It's a special brand of irritation left only for her, and he's got to be feeling like a temperamental nine year old when he pushes up from the booth a little too roughly. Her eyes follow, but he can't quite meet them, as he downs the last part of his bottle in a deep swig that only college kids are accustomed. He smacks his lips and knows he must look a little red when he nods down at her. "Anyway, thanks again," Jim tips his now-empty bottle at her and sets it on the table in front of her. "See you tomorrow?"

Her mouth opens, but Jim doesn't have the patience to wait for her response.

--

Pam has that burning itch rising up into her nostrils when he departs so hastily, and her courage has melted away. Her fingers hang at the edge of the table and the whole bar's getting bleary when she glances to the side.

There it is, black and leather and looking like something Karen would've bought him. She snatches up the wallet and leaves her purse and jacket unattended.

--

When Jim pats at his back pocket, he already knows what's going to happen next. His perfect exit will be ruined, he'll have to walk back in there, see her face, and he'll have to touch her fingers when she hands him his wallet. Her fingertips will probably tremble and he'll despise himself entirely.

"Fuck," he hisses and is sorely tempted to kick the door.

He hears her heels clacking on the cement before she calls his name. Jim turns and sees her hurrying toward him as swiftly as her footwear will permit, and it would almost be funny if she didn't look so god damn gorgeous. He's angry at her all over again when she reaches him, all winded and pink in the cheeks.

"Here, you forgot this," she breathes and proffers his wallet.

"Yeah, I just noticed," he reaches for it. "Thanks—"

Pam tugs it out of his reach. His eyes shoot up and he notices that ghosting at the corners of her mouth, where secret dimples lie. "I have something to say first," her breathing steadies as she tilts her head at him, his wallet drawn in closer to her chest. Fuck her, he thinks, and it feels sacreligious. "Okay?"

Jim studies her, fascinated suddenly by her daring. "Okay," his mouth agrees before his brain does.

"Okay," Pam echoes and bows her head with a shaky exhale. When she looks back up, there's something there he doesn't quite recognize, and it puts him off a bit. He knows everything about this girl, every nuance and look and glance and twist of her features, and when he can't place this one expression, his heart race shoots up.

"Why did you go to Stamford?"

Jim balks at her query, his hand tremors at his side and his heart forms a lump in his throat. "What?"

"You didn't even—" Pam begins, then huffs out through her nose. "You just left."

"Yeah," he hesitates and a glare levels his eyebrows together. "Yeah, I did. And you know why, Pam." Jim sees her fade a little, and tiredness aches in his bones for both of them. "Look, don't do this—"

"I called off my wedding because of you," she rushes out, and it weighs heavily in his gut. But Pam seems almost frantic now as she gestures out to him with the hand clutching his wallet, "And now we're not even friends." He watches her face hint at breaking, sees the flush rising in her cheeks and chest, and her eyes plead sharply with him. It makes him think of parking lots and heartbreak, that emptiness that corresponds with not having her, and the bubbling feeling under his chest that happens just when he sees her. He loves her, still, he does, and when she looks at him like that, how can he possibly not?

"Jim, I just—"

The words are muffled between them as he reaches for the side of her neck, draws her forward, and crushes his mouth to hers. She gasps into him, leans toward his chest, and he trembles when her hand clutches at the front of his sweater.