The sky is almost black with clouds as Jim pulls into the Dunder-Mifflin parking lot. At eight-thirty in the morning, the heat is already so intense his shirt is sticking to his skin as he waits for the elevator. He pulls at his tie, can't wait to get into the refrigerated coolness of the office.

Pam's at the front desk, a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. She glares up wearily. "The air conditioning's broken. Brace yourself for the worst."

Jim throws his bag on the floor, not even bothering to aim for the back of the chair. "Ugh. It'll smell like beets in here all day."

Pam giggles. "Good thing I'm downwind. What are you doing here so early?"

He holds up a box of crayons. "What else?"

When she pushes her chair back with a grin and comes to stand beside his desk, he can't help noticing she's not wearing any stockings. She probably took them off because of the temperature, but still... "Dwight?"

"Of course." He tears open the package. The wax of the crayons is a little sticky in the heat. The smell brings him back to childhood, drawing trees and families and fire trucks. He wonders what Pam would draw with them, discretely slips the primary colors into his top drawer when she isn't looking.

***********************************************************************

The first time Dwight tries to pick up a pen, Jim has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "Jim! Where are my writing utensils?"

Jim can't respond for a second, completely wrecked by Dwight's use of the word utensils. It's inexplicably funny. "Did you check your pencil cup?"

Dwight's positively steaming, moisture already forming around his collar. "It's full of crayons, Jim. You did this."

"Maybe you left them in your drawer?" Jim glances at Pam, momentarily distracted by the tendril of hair stuck to her damp neck. She's smothering a smile in the heel of her hand and the warmth of the room is nothing compared to the admiration burning in her eyes. He turns back just in time to see Dwight's expression of fury.

"I'm telling Michael. This is going in the permanent file, Jim."

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Jim doesn't accomplish much that day, spends most of it drinking cold soda and listening to the rumble of the coming thunderstorm; it's too hot for anything else. Pam's head is barely visible behind her counter, chin propped on her palm. Through the slatted blinds, Jim can see Michael, resting with his cheek squashed against the cool wood of his desktop, jacket off. Dwight's the only one getting any work done, filling out paperwork with a borrowed pen. Maybe Angela's busy too, but he'd have to stand up to tell, which he can't spare the energy for.

Pam chucks a pencil to get his attention and overshoots his desk. Dwight snatches it up victoriously, like he couldn't just go to the supply shelf. "Psst," she hisses. "Halpert!"

He realizes he's been sitting with his eyes closed. "Go away, Beesley. I'm dead."

"Come here."

He cracks open one eye in her direction. "No. You come here."

She smiles, fake sweet. "Ladies first."

Jim resumes his nap. "Now I'm definitely not getting up. Or giving you your present."

"Present? Get over here." There's a laugh in her voice and he presses his lips together happily.

"Nope. Dead." She'll win, in the end, because he never could resist her, but it's fun, all the same.

"If you don't get up, I'm going to wake Michael and tell him we need a group sing-along to raise everyone's spirits."

He squints at her grumpily. "Foul play, Beesley. Foul play." He rolls open his top drawer. "Fine. Close your eyes and hold out your hand."

She complies, grinning. When he reaches her desk, it's hard not to press his lips to her pale eyelids. Instead, he settles for laying three crayons in her waiting palm, lingering longer than strictly appropriate, allowing his nails to scrape lightly across her skin. It's possible he has heatstroke, although her faint gasp is certainly not in his imagination, nor is the fact that she takes her time opening her eyes to see what he's left behind.

Pam looks up at him skeptically. "Crayons? Oh, Jim, you shouldn't have."

He's nervous suddenly, for no real reason. "I saved them for you. I was hoping you'd draw me something." Her expression is impossible to decipher. "Or, you know... never mind. You don't have to."

With a smile, she closes her fist around the gift. "No. I will. What do you want a picture of?"

He shrugs. There's a rivulet of sweat trickling between his shoulder blades and he can feel the pieces of hair glued to his forehead and the nape of his neck. "Doesn't matter. Whatever you want." He drums his fingers on the countertop, in love with how she winces at the next clap of thunder. "I should make a few sales calls before noon. See you later?"

She nods, free hand at the base of her throat. "Cool. Lunch?"

"Obviously."

***

When Jim gets in the next day, there's a tented piece of paper propped in front of his monitor. He unfolds it with slow smile, then places it in his shirt pocket, next to his heart.