It was too hot to do anything.

The AC was off, and the window was closed to keep the street’s noise outside. The curtains were shut, and yet, afternoon sun pierced the thick cotton, filling the room with muted light and heat. The desire to get up and look for the remote, finally dispel this viscous substance the air inside turned into, was nagging him.

And yet, he didn’t dare to move.

She was so close. His thoughts were heavy and slow like whales, surfacing into consciousness and diving back into slumber. But, regardless of his condition, she was near, and it made him foolishly happy. Her skin was sweaty and sticky, and his arm got numb under her body, but the idea to roll away never came into his mind.

This time tomorrow, he’d be sitting in his car on the way back to Scranton, but they still had this evening. And the night. And the morning, and most of the day, and spending even a moment without touching her was a waste.

Another thought-whale surfaced, disturbing his drowsiness. It was a little wasteful that only one of his senses interacted with her now. His ears yearned for her laugh, and his lips — for hers, and he wanted so much to inhale the scent of her hair… but all of that meant having to break her peaceful sleep, and he didn’t want to ruin anything for her.

Still, there was no harm in looking.

Lazily, he turned his face and opened his eyes.

‘Jesus Christ, Pam!’

‘What?’ she blinked, and the uncanny intensity in her stare was replaced with the surprised innocence.

He sometimes wondered how he’d die, and death by a heart attack caused by the look of a beautiful woman was never on the list.

But, at least, he wasn’t sleepy anymore.

‘What was that?’ he asked her when he asked her when his heart stopped trying to break through his chest, and his limbs stopped shaking. She shifted to look at him better.

‘Nothing,’ she propped her chin on the open palm of her left hand. ‘I was just thinking.’

‘About what?’

‘Your nose.’

‘My nose?’ he was taken aback by her response. ‘What’s wrong with my nose?’ 

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she smiled. ‘You have a wonderful nose. Perfect.’

Her index finger grazed the bridge and slid to the tip, and then to its wings, drawing a curly line on his skin. He closed his eyes, spellbound by her touch.

‘If I took a Sculpture class, I’d model it,’ her voice sounded so dreamy, like she was talking about fulfilling her wish. ‘Though, maybe, I don’t need a class to do so.’

‘Isn’t it something else that people usually try their hands on?’ his own voice came out hoarse as if he hadn’t used it for ages.

‘I’d rather start with a smaller form before moving to something bigger.’

Her finger disappeared, and he instantly opened his eyes. Hers were half-hidden behind her eyelashes and fixed on his lips, the rosy glow spreading up her cheeks. The air between them felt even thicker than before, filled with an unspoken want. His arm, wrapped idly around her waist until this moment, moved up her spine to bring her closer, closer… 

‘Anyway,’ unexpectedly, she pushed him away and sat straight and he could swear he groaned in frustration. ‘It’s getting late. We should move.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ she asked him incredulously, but he only raised his brow. ‘You’re in New York, Jim. Do you want to spend the whole weekend in bed?’

‘Why not?’

He traced a line on her side with his finger, where the crumpled sheets imprinted in her body. He wanted to wipe these marks and leave his own.

‘You’re impossible,’ she muttered, dodging his touch. ‘Well, do what you want, but I’m going to go out.’

She stretched her arms over her head, arching her whole body into one perfect bow. Her languid grace transfixed him, her delicate frame looked like a peculiar harp with invisible strings.

And he knew she hated that, but sometimes he simply couldn’t help it.

‘Eeeeeeek!’ she shrieked and instantly curled into a ball. A moment later, she turned to him with a fury in her eyes. ‘You’re so dead, Halpert!’

Her first smack landed on his upper arm. 

‘Ouch! Stop it!’ He prevented the second by grabbing her wrist. ‘Have you ever heard that violence is never the answer?’

He caught the second wrist too. Again, she tried to free herself from his grasp, but there were battles she simply couldn’t win.

After a short — not even a fight — struggle, he had her pinned beneath him, secured firmly between the bed and his body. The only thing she could do was grazing the tips of her nails over the back of his hands — and she knew that too.

‘So,’ he murmured, ‘what are we going to do now?’

He looked down at her, so lovely in her righteous ire, and every playful quip he’d made up died, drowned in her widened pupils. No thoughts, no words left — only ignited hunger, and he dipped his lips to tame it.

She responded instantly, eagerly, even, probably, too much. Her teeth pulled his lower lip harder than usual, and he growled, his hands involuntarily squeezed her wrists tighter. But, all of a sudden, she froze, and he withdrew, alarmed that he might’ve hurt her.

‘I’m still mad at you,’ she informed him. He let out a heavy sigh.

‘What for? For that little tickle?’

‘You tell me.’

He leaned to her again, but she laid passive and unresponsive and kissing her felt wrong.

Not for a single second he believed that she was angry with him. It was all a ploy. Well, that’s a game for two.

‘Okay,’ he said, and the sincerity in his voice made her look up at him. ‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘You should be,’ she sounded less confident than her words were.

‘I am,’ he planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘Sorry.’

‘Sorry,’ another kiss landed on the tip of her right ear, and she inaudibly sighed. 

‘Sorry,’ his lips moved to her neck, and the next sigh wasn’t quiet. She still didn’t move, but her previous tension was gone.

‘I’m so, so sorry,’ his tongue tasted salt on her collarbone. ‘But I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

‘I want dinner,’ she said quickly — perhaps, a little bit too quickly. He smiled against her skin.

‘Okay.’

‘A romantic one,’ she clarified breathlessly.

‘Of course,’ his lips slid between her breasts.

‘In a place of my choice,’ he let go of her wrists, and her hands immediately found their place on his shoulders.

For the tiniest second, he thought if his credit card would be enough to afford dinner in the fancy New York restaurant, but he decided he didn’t care.

‘Sure,’ he kissed her navel and then sat abruptly on the bed. ‘Well, what are we waiting for?’

‘What?’ she was clearly puzzled, raising up on her elbows. He hoped his smile came out more enthusiastic than smug.

‘Dinner,’ he reminded her. ‘You want a romantic dinner. How can I deny your wishes?’

‘Yeah,’ she muttered. ‘That’s sweet of you.’

A slight regret stung him when she actually stood up and went to find a shirt. He eyed her back and butt as she picked up her jeans, her hips swaying naturally and yet seductively.

He was wondering what was on her mind.

‘But first…’ she dropped over her shoulder, ‘I want to take a shower.’

She left the door half-open.

Well, he thought as he followed her, and the door clicked closed behind his back, how he could deny her wishes indeed.

***

After some preparations — which were way longer than he'd expected — they left her dorm. The fresh wind tousled his still damp hair, and he felt alive once again. The city seemed to ignore the change of night and day; life didn't slow down, and they were about to join the rhythm.

He remembered the first time he'd visited the city, a family trip when he'd been eleven or twelve. He wished he'd saved in memory his amazement with the majesty of the Statue of Liberty or his excitement about sea lions feeding in the Central Park Zoo. Instead, he mostly remembered crowds, his father's thinly veiled irritation with traffic jams, and Larissa's unstoppable whining. The journey that should've given him the memories for a lifetime had ruined the impression of the city for long years.

He visited New York more after that first unfortunate trip but never truly appreciated the city. All of his visits had a purpose, and he'd moved from point A directly to point B, wasting no time on looking around. Even that night out he'd spent 'relaxing.' He'd said he'd had a great time, but the truth was that he'd repeated his usual route between points of destination, barely noticing anything and feeling just a tight knot in his chest instead of fun he'd needed so much. 

It was different now.

Pam called it a treasure hunt. Without any prearranged plans, they dove into the subway and left at the random station, and then… Then they walked. Sometimes they found something curious like a vintage thrift store ('No, Pam, you DON'T need a quirky lamp. No, Pam, this one doesn't have a genie inside either') or an obscure museum ('How could you be so indifferent to the latest Mmuseumm exhibition, Jim?'), and sometimes they simply looked around, drinking in life welling up in different and astonishing forms.

This time they emerged at Astor Place Station. He had no idea what they'd find here; he didn't bother to learn the map more than it was needed to find her dorm. He saw buildings, old and new, but it was Pam who pointed at how sunset light reflected from tall glassy surfaces of offices and fell on cozy residential buildings. He didn't know he could be charmed by the city, but here he was, getting thrilled by the sight of external fire escapes that looked exactly like they were in his favorite movies.

It was all her. She smiled at his delight, looking more excited with his reaction than with the city itself, but it was she who ignited that enthusiasm. He never let go of her hand, their fingers intertwined, and he felt that their veins were intertwining too.

And it was her heart that pumped the joy into his bloodstream.

The broad avenue was left behind, and now they were walking the smaller street. The cars' noises hushed here; it was hard to believe that this quiet place was a part of the big and busy city. His gaze slid over the facades and lingered on one of the windows on the third floor. What would it be like to live here? He caught himself on a random thought, and for some reason, it didn't go away immediately. What would it be like? To live here with her, in a small apartment on the third floor, with flowers on the windowsill, to walk hand in hand to the subway station and kiss her goodbye on the platform — and after a long workday to hurry back and greet her with a kiss at the same place?..

'Here,' she said. He nearly stumbled.

'Here what?'

'I want my romantic dinner here,' he traced her look and glanced at her incredulously.

'You're kidding, right?'

'Here' was a basement door under a faded blue and yellow signboard. At first glance, it looked like a low-profile place for mafia members to gather. At second, it remained the same.

'I'm not. And I'm hungry.'

He double-checked the signboard, expecting to find signs that it was some kind of exquisite underground indie bar, but found none.

'Let's look for a better place. This one doesn't look very romantic.'

'You know,' she said thoughtfully, 'I've always believed that it isn't roses and candlelights that make the romance. Right?'

He was about to argue when he spotted those sparks in her eyes he loved so much. She dared him. He wouldn't let it slide.

'You're absolutely right,' she raised her brow and smiled. 'Let's go inside and see what they have on the menu.'

He didn't let her win this round.

Besides… Jim's hand brushed the golden band on her finger as he helped her to the entrance. Their most romantic moments way too often failed to meet Hollywood standards.

It never diminished their significance.

Inside they found a little restaurant — one of those small ethnic restaurants that still miraculously survived despite enormous rent and non-existent customer flow. The room fitted only seven tables and faintly smelled of roasted onion. The only other people here were an older man, watching soccer in the corner, and the middle-aged woman — probably, a waitress — emerged from the kitchen when the bell rang. She looked slightly surprised, as if she didn't expect to see any new people. He stealthily glanced at Pam and thought that maybe she had subconsciously hoped to find the exquisite underground indie bar too. But, as the waitress came closer, Pam smiled sweetly and asked for a table for two.

She wasn't going to give up either.

Thankfully, their table wasn't sticky as he dreaded. He noticed how Pam's gaze lingered at the bouquet made of ears of wheat and artificial flowers. Even if she was disappointed, she was fantastic at hiding that. 

'It's not too late to retreat,' he whispered as soon as the waitress hid in the adjacent room.

'Shut up,' she whispered back, opening the menu. 'I kinda like it here. It's so… unique.'

'Unique' was an euphemism for sure. He glanced around at the decoration — some ceramic, embroidered towels, icons, and reverently framed portrait of a mustached man with a somber expression. Perhaps he was an important person, but his face said nothing to Jim.

'Jim,' she pulled him out of his reflection. 'Do you have the same menu as I do?'

It turned out they didn't have an English one on the table. He stared at Cyrillic inscriptions, and though some of the letters looked familiar, there was no chance they could decipher the names of dishes. "Голубці", "Борщ", "Узвар" — what the hell was all of that?

The prices, though, were so low that he wondered if they served bite-size dishes.

'Do you maybe need some help with the menu?' He was so puzzled he didn't notice the waitress approaching. 'We have an English version too.'

She obviously spotted their struggle.

'Oh, yes, that would be great,' he started, but Pam interrupted him. 

'We'd like to take numbers four, five, eight, eleven, and seventeen on the list, thank you.'

As soon as another woman took the menus and went away, he cocked his brow at Pam in question.

'Do you want to tell me anything?'

'Nope, nothing,' she grinned. 'Why?'

'How do you know this language?'

'I don't,' her smile grew even bigger. 'I have no idea what I ordered for us.'

'So adventurous,' he shook his head, and she rolled her eyes.

'Hey. I'm trying to be romantic here.'

'How so?' He looked at her with curiosity.

'It's our first date, you dummy!' she chuckled. 'Numbers five and seventeen.'

A warm feeling spread across his chest. He looked at her, and for a moment he saw her like she'd been back then — anxious, hopeful, and breathtakingly beautiful; as then, he felt aching anticipation piercing him, a mix of 'oh God,' and 'my last chance,' and 'finally.'

'I still refuse to accept that dinner as our first date,' he said at last.

'I know,' she smiled. 'That's why I took numbers eleven and eight too.'

He remembered that night, of course. Her smile had been dreamy then, and she'd averted her eyes each time he looked at her a little too intently; so close, and yet a wall of glass had been between them, invisible, insurmountable. Once again, he felt the searing desire to break it, even if that would've cut both of them.

He reached out across the table to take her hand, and there was no glass to stop him now.

'Such a dork,' his thumb brushed her knuckles. 'And the last one?'

'The last one,' she didn't take her eyes off his face, 'is today. And my expectations are high.'

And so were his.

He didn't know for sure how long they were sitting like that, holding hands and whispering silly theories about the man on the wall, when Pam's gaze slid behind his back, and suddenly she jerked back to sit straight, hiding her hands. He glanced back to see what was going on, but it was just their waitress with tableware. And… okay, he expected plastic forks and paper plates, but instead, the waitress placed before them heavy ceramic dishes decorated with colorful floral ornaments. Pam took a cup made in the same style, and it fit perfectly in her hand.

Their meals arrived next, and he was pleasantly surprised the second time in a row.

Two bowls with dumplings — one sprinkled with tiny bits of roasted onions, another served with a jug of some thick white sauce ('It's sour cream,' the waitress explained. 'It goes with everything.'). A plate of crispy potato pancakes. A pitcher with some fruity beverage. And, finally, a homemade sausage spiraled on the hot frying pan and was still sizzling. The food was unusual, but he couldn't say it was weird or that it wasn't tasty. The dumpling he took was stuffed with mashed potato and mushrooms, and sour cream surprisingly went with it quite well. He sliced a piece of sausage and found it juicy but a little bit lacking. He asked for some ketchup, but the waitress looked at him like he was a heretic and brought another jug of sour cream.

Pam didn't mind the lack of conventional sauces at all, or, maybe, she wasn't lying when she'd said she'd been hungry. He watched as she skillfully used the knife and the fork on her pancakes, generously covered with sour cream, and a sudden suspicion crept into his mind.

'So… when was the last time you've been here, Beesly?' he asked casually.

'I haven't… Hey!' 

She narrowed her eyes. 

'Are you suspecting me of going on the treasure hunt without you?'

She shook her head in mocking disappointment, and for some reason, he felt ashamed. It was stupid to doubt her. She hadn't left the city for weeks, that was true, and she spent some time going out with her new art friends (he was still waiting for a perfect moment to call her out on her drunken call last Wednesday), but the treasure hunt was something too personal and meant only for two of them. She wouldn't do that without him. It wouldn't be the same. 

'You just seem a little too confident with this place,' he shrugged. 'I was just wondering.'

'This is just me and my perfect intuition,' she replied, taking the first dumpling from another bowl. 'And you know it never… ow!' 

She bit the half of her dumpling, and the liquid part of the stuffing splattered the table with sticky red drops, splashed on her hand, and trickled down her chin.

'Oh, wow!' he instantly grabbed the nearest paper napkin. 'Look at yourself!'

'Be careful,' she started to giggle, taking no action to clean herself. 'Those have cherries inside.'

'Tsk-tsk-tsk,' he brought the napkin to her face. 'I can't take you anywhere when you're so messy.'

'And where would you like to take me?'

His hand froze.

She didn't break eye contact as her lips shifted, and kissed his thumb. This touch sent a wave of heat down his body, and he used all the willpower he had not to shiver.

'Hmmm, let me think,' he didn't hurry, meticulously wiping the red stains off her face. 'There are still a lot of undiscovered places in New York…' 

'Of course, there are.'

'…and Philadelphia…'

'I'd really like to know the Philly Jim,' she murmured.

'…and Paris…'

The corners of her mouth twitched from suppressed laughter.

'Paris in France or Paris in New Jersey?'

'Does it matter?'

He started to withdraw his hand, but she held it up and pressed it to her cheek.

'No. As long as I’m with you.'

He leaned in and kissed her. The table was an obvious barrier, and some of the cherry splatters probably stained his shirt, but he had to do it, right there, right then. And she didn't mind.

They stopped after a minute or two or a little eternity, and Jim looked around. He was about to ask the waitress for a bill when she showed up at their table.

'On the house,' she explained with a smile, replacing empty dishes with a new one, full of little buns. For sure, she witnessed their exchange, and Pam seemed to realize the same thing. She blushed adorably and thanked, using a little more words than necessary. Listening to her rambling, the waitress laughed goodheartedly and answered with phrases like 'such good kids,' 'lovely to watch,' and 'couldn't let you go without dessert,' which made Pam blush even harder. Jim said his thanks too and took one of the buns, finding it soft, sweet, and the tiniest bit spicy. He was full but still ate three.

'What do you call this pastry?' Jim asked when the waitress brought them the bill and packed leftovers they didn't even ask for. He was going to leave a serious tip, he decided.

'Sonechko, these are pampushkas.'

'What did you say? Pampushka?' he heard Pam's ask and turned to her. She looked at another woman with confusion which seemed to grow bigger as the waitress nodded affirmatively. As the waitress went away, Jim glanced at Pam with a silent question, and she furrowed her brows.

'My granny called me that,' she was still confused and strangely quiet. 'Pampushka. I thought she just messed with my name, I didn't know it's a real thing. Wow.'

Well, Pam's granny couldn't have picked the more perfect nickname for her, he thought. But, something bugged him, all little things that he spotted through the evening were resonating now; he remembered the colors of the signboard at the entrance and some of his local history lessons in school, and pieces finally fell into place.

'Well, well, well,' he said slowly as if he caught her red-handed. 'So, when were you going to tell me about your Ukrainian roots?'

She didn't parry his joke, and his grin faded.

'About my what?'

The mood shifted drastically to something he couldn't quite comprehend. The question was genuine. She didn't know.

He felt the thin ice cracking under his feet, and he didn't want to aggravate.

'Didn't you?.. I thought…'

'I didn't,' she stared at her hands. Her perfect curls fell down, shielding her face. 'She died when I was six, so… I didn't have much time with her. Never asked the right questions.'

He didn't know what to say as it was an undiscovered area to him. The Halpert clan was numerous, its branches were broad and roots deep; he always knew who he was and where he'd come from. Of course, he knew grief too — he'd lost his grandfather when he was seventeen, and there had been a tragic accident with one of his uncles. But the family had always been there for him, and he naturally assumed that Pam had the same experience.

He didn't know how it was for Pam, but he knew that right now, she was distressed.

'You don't have to say anything,' he said quietly, carefully covering her hand with his. 'Especially if it upsets you.'

'No, it's okay,' she squeezed his hand with both of hers. 'It's just… weird, you know? There was a person, an important person in my life, and I know nothing about her. Everything I have after her is a bunch of old photos. God, I'm not even sure that my memories of her are true.'

She chuckled.

'In the photos, she always had that strange face,' she pursed her lips and glared at him in a way that made her look twice as old. How many expressions like this one kept the Ellis Island archive, he wondered. 'But I remember her smiling. She had almost no teeth left, and her face looked like a baked apple, but she always smiled.'

She had much more than photos and memories. For some unexplainable reason, he was sure she had inherited her smile. And if everything went as he dreamed, their children would have the same smile too.

They probably should've left, but none of them moved, both silent. Pam was still grasping at his hand, and he regretted he couldn't give her more.

'It's so odd to realize how little I know about myself, you know?' The train of her thoughts had an unexpected turn, and out of a sudden, he saw an anxious and vulnerable girl he'd fallen in love with but hoped never to see again. 'I've always been good at listening and never questioned much the things I've been told. Never interrogated. And now… I wonder… how many things I'll never know because it's too late to ask? Oh God, this is so stupid!..'

She shook her head as if inviting him to laugh at her. He didn't.

Awkwardly operating his left hand, he flipped his phone open and started to type.

'What are you doing?' Pam asked in a small voice. He gestured to her to wait.

Finally, he found what he was looking for and pressed the call button.

'Scranton City Archive is closed right now. Our working hours are...' the robotic voice in his phone was interrupted by Pam snatching the phone out of his hand and snapping it closed.

'Why?..' completely dumbfounded, Jim looked at her and was met by her bright eyes, full of disbelief and gratitude.

'Hey,' she said warmly, and the corners of her lips went up. 'No scouting ahead of the treasure hunt.'

And he knew that everything would be fine while she had that smile.