Jim groaned as they walked to the house. "I'm starting to regret having seconds of mom's potato salad," he said.

"That's a first. Usually you regret not having fourths," Larissa said, making Pam giggle.

"Hey," he retorted. "She only makes it like three times a year."

She made a mental note to ask Betsy for the recipe. "And you don't make it yourself because…?"

He playfully tugged on a lock of hair that had escaped her scrunchie. She smiled up at him, still glowing with the thrill of victory. And the impromptu dancing. "Secret recipe," he murmured. He was dying to kiss her, couldn't wait to get her alone. "'Riss has been trying to get it out of her for years. Me, I just enjoy it when I can."

Pam's face fell. She pursed her lips, looking disappointed. "That's too bad. It was really good."

He rubbed his stomach. "A little too good," he said ruefully, wanting to put the smile back on her face. "That's probably the only reason you won. I was full. Kinda sluggish." He faked a yawn. "Oh no, I think I need a nap."

She grinned at him, nudging him with her shoulder. "You're not getting out of the dishes, Scarn, so don't even try."

He put his hand on his chest, looking offended, feeling delighted. "Would I do that, Zeta?"

Puppy is right, Larissa thought with a smirk. It's like we're not even here. She reached over and grabbed Tom's gun, exchanging eyerolls with him. "Hey, can you guys put our guns in the shed while you're there?"

Pam took them. "No problem. Can you let your mom know we'll be there in a minute?"

"Or five," Jim suggested casually.

"No hurry," Larissa replied with a shrug. "I'll let her know you're working on Pam's marksmanship and it could take a while."

"Ages," Jim agreed. He looked at Pam, a wicked gleam in his eye. "You're such a terrible shot."

She put her gun against the back of his head. "Don't make me murder you again," she threatened him softly.

"Beginner's luck," he taunted her. "Bet you can't do it."

Instantly, she pulled the trigger, point-blank.

He sighed mournfully. "You wound me, Beesly."

"Headshots are fatal," she countered. "You're doing an awful lot of talking for a dead guy."

Tom coughed into his hand to cover his smile as, bickering, they disappeared around the corner of the shed. "Enjoying yourself, cupid?"

"Don't pretend you don't see the way he looks at her," Larissa retorted. "If anyone else had come up with that phone strategy, he would have made them forfeit on the spot." It was the kind of blatantly unfair tactic that they hadn't needed rules against. It was simply understood.

He nodded in agreement. Jim was the ultimate rules lawyer, especially when it mattered the least. "Why'd you go along with it, then?"

"I wanted to see how he'd react. And, welp—" She waved her hand at the shed. "I just think he's earned the right to a little happiness. When's the last time you saw him like this?" she challenged him.

He thought about it. "Never." He wasn't particularly demonstrative by nature, but he wasn't blind either. Jim had been seriously messed up at Christmas. Although he'd never say it aloud, the change was welcome.  "I'll ask Pete to fuck off a little," he responded in a rare display.

Larissa smiled to herself. As a rule, Tom never said a word against Pete. "Someone's gotta. If you don't, I will. But Pete doesn't seem to like my advice, for some reason."

"The term ‘heinous bitch' comes to mind, for some reason."

She clapped him on the back as they headed inside. "You know me too well."

A short while later, Jim and Pam entered the house through the back door. Finding the kitchen empty, she turned the hot water on full blast and filled the sink with soap. He took his place beside her, sliding his arm around her waist. She leaned into him and looked up.

Betsy walked into the kitchen, saw them gazing into each other's eyes. Her heart felt full. It had been so long since her baby boy had been happy. With a clink of porcelain, she set a plate down next to the sink. "You really don't have to do this."

Pam gasped as if she'd been slapped, standing ramrod straight. She picked up the first thing her hands could find and scrubbed it enthusiastically. Jim let go of her reluctantly. "I want to," she insisted, red-faced. "We want to."

Betsy smiled. "It's an old Halpert tradition. Mom washes the dishes."

"Whoever cooked gets to relax," she replied, avoiding Betsy's eyes. "Old Beesly tradition."

"You cooked too," Jim reminded her gently.

"Not as much as I wanted to," she argued, setting the clean dish in the rack. Energetically, she grabbed another.

Conscious of Pam's embarrassment, he ushered Betsy out of the kitchen. "We got it, mom."

"Jim," she said quietly. "You know I don't mind, right?" God knew the rest of her children had done their fair share of canoodling in front of the family. And in Larissa's case, frankly, more than her fair share.