Pam hears the clink of the ring hitting the table like it was a gunshot. She hadn’t realized she’d never taken it off when she stormed out of the house and left Roy. She’s not sure she’s really taken it off in years It became a part of her hand, she thinks, and taking it off ought to feel like cutting off a limb. But it doesn’t. It feels as if a weight has lifted from her heart, instead of her finger. She has to fight the urge to fiddle with the now-bare patch of skin on her left ring finger and looks up at Jim almost defiantly.

“I’m not.”

She used to think she could read his face like an open book. That illusion was destroyed when she realized she’s been misreading it all these years—or willfully denying what she read—like a magic picture that suddenly springs into focus. But she’s still pretty sure she generally knows what he’s thinking. But now she looks into his eyes and there’s just too much there. He’s been pushing her away ever since she came in; every time she tries to apologize for misinterpreting their friendship as a friendship, instead of love, he backs away from her. He’s literally in another room now, albeit one only a few steps away. Maybe she was right the first time. Maybe he doesn’t love her.

Then she remembers what he just said. It’s like an electric shock. “It is” what he feels. “You’re with Roy.” “I don’t expect.” She isn’t wrong now. He’s just…a bit slow, is all. Like she was for the past three years, she supposes.

“Jim.”

He’s still staring at her ring on the table. She skips across the few steps between them so she’s standing right in front of him. That’s when she notices the open laptop on the couch beside him, showing the same picture she first saw on the library computer, him staring up at her from his desk while she looks down. She gestures towards it, and his eyes follow her bare ring finger.

“You feel like that?”

He nods. She can tell he’s annoyed that she’s making him say it again, but this is important to her. Really important. She’s not sure why she can’t just say she loves him back. She thinks maybe the words aren’t actually enough. She needs to show him—and show him in a way where he won’t, or can’t, back away from her. If she kisses him and he pulls back she’s not sure what she’ll do. So she does something else.

“Well, I feel like this.”

She grabs the computer and clicks a few times, looking at the tabs he has open and opening a new one, where she does an image search, then flips it around. She’s showing him her face as she tells Jim about the graphic design internship. She’s not looking down at the flyer though. She’s looking right at Jim, and her eyes are sparkling. It’s the picture she found after talking to her mother, and she likes to think that if you could zoom in far enough into her eyes you’d see nothing but Jim smiling back at her. It’s not the moment she realized she loved him; it’s the moment that made her realize it. And now she’s hoping it can do the same for him.

His gaze pulls from her face to the computer and she can see that he’s puzzled. He’s staring at it intently, like there’s something hidden from his view. She rolls her eyes at him.

“Say something, Halpert.”

He looks from her to the computer and back again.

“Pam, I…I’m not sure what you mean. You feel…happy?”

She smiles at him, a smile that manages to say “yes” and “no” and “you’re an idiot” at the same time. She puts the computer down on the ottoman and grabs Jim by his arms (BICEPS, a small part of her brain cries out, almost distracting her from what she’s doing).

“Jim.”

He suddenly grins at her, his “why so serious” grin, and it’s breathtaking but also completely inappropriate because she is serious, dammit, and she needs him to understand.

“Pam.”

She smacks his arm, though it’s really just an indication of the intention to smack him, because she’s already holding his arm. My God, she’s already holding his arm. The feeling is electric, and it’s getting harder to concentrate on saying what she needs to say because all she wants to do is shove as much of his body onto hers as she can, to feel as much of this buzz as possible all over herself. But she knows she needs to say something first. Even if looking into his eyes and his grin is making it really, really difficult. She says:

“Jim, I’m saying I feel the same way you do. And I think I have for quite some time.”

Or at least that’s what she tries to say. Somewhere in that second sentence it all gets mooshed together because he’s kissing her. Jim is kissing her and she’s still holding his arms, and his hands are on her back, and the world just seems to stop for an indeterminate length of time. It’s not that she’s not aware of their kiss deepening, of them falling into each other. It’s more that she ceases to be aware of anything else, and the world can remember itself on its own time. She’s busy. With Jim.

When they finally pull apart for air he speaks first.

“Really?”

She stares up at him, seeing the happiness she’d been hoping to see since she first walked in battling with a little wariness, like he can’t believe she’s not a hallucination.

She’s pretty sure she’s not, so he’s going to have to get over that particular worry real fast.

“Really. And now Jim, there’s something I need to ask you.”

“Anything.”

“Why are you emailing with my mother?”