I don't own the Office or any of its characters.

Warning: mentions of sexual assault, assault and battery, physical and verbal abuse

I'm just pouring a jar of tomato sauce into the pot of noodles when Jim gets home. He looks tired, but content. "How'd it go?" I ask as he walks into the kitchen.

"Good," he replies, grasping my hips and gently kissing me hello. "I think Dwight said I was his friend, in a really roundabout, insulting kind of way."

"How else would he do it?" I quip, and gesture to the spaghetti. "Are you hungry yet?"

He nods and goes to grab some bowls from the cabinet. "Did you already unpack?"

"Yep, there wasn't much to do." I sit across from him at our cute little table by the bay window. "Do you want to tell me what you guys talked about?"

He shrugs, blowing on his forkful of pasta before taking a bite. "I just asked Michael to tell me what you were like when you called him, and then when he and Toby came by to file the report. And Dwight told me he punched the wall, but he wished it'd been Roy."

I raise my eyebrows. "Dwight punched a wall? Wow. Didn't think he'd react like that for anyone."

"He also sort of called you his friend," Jim replies, pointing to me with his empty fork, "so maybe that's just the way he reacts when his friends get hurt."

I make a mental note to do something nice for Dwight, like bake him brownies or knit him a sweater or maybe just keep Jim from pranking him for a day.

Jim reaches into his pocket and pulls out an index card, unfolding it and setting it next to his bowl. "I almost forgot, Michael gave this to me. He told me to wait to read it with you." I lean forward, observing the well-known terrible handwriting and bad spelling of Michael Scott, and wait for Jim to start reading.

"'Jim and Pam'," he begins, "as you both know by now, life sucks sometimes. Awful things happen to incredibly good people. I've been thinking a lot about what it'll take for you guys to get through this, how honest you'll have to be with each other. I know I may joke around a lot, but I'm mature enough to know that this is hard stuff (that's what she said—okay, maybe not that mature). My mother showed me this quote a couple years ago when I thought I was in love again. It felt appropriate to share with you."

Jim takes a moment to scan the quote, and when he speaks again his voice is hoarse with emotion. "'To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.' C. S. Lewis." He wipes at his eyes and sniffs. "That's it."

I'm using my napkin to mop up my face and I sniff loudly. "Who would have thought Michael Scott could be such a softy?" I ask, my voice going all high and squeaky on the last word.

Jim's eyes are still shiny as he shakes his head, stands, and picks up our empty bowls to take to the sink. "Not me," he replies. "God, I think I've cried enough these past two days to last me two years." He nods toward the living room. "Want to go watch something funny?"

I hesitate, thinking of the disc I left on top of the TV. "I didn't know if you wanted to watch the security video. I can go check the mail if you want to watch it now."

He doesn't reply as he walks toward the living room, gesturing for me to follow him. I stand in the doorway and watch as he takes the disc in both hands and snaps it in two before placing the pieces carefully on the coffee table and dusting his hands off. He looks up and smiles to see me watching him. "So," he says huskily, walking over until he's right in front of me, "something funny?"

I place my hands on either side of his face and pull him down to me, kissing him without any worry between us for what feels like the first time in days. When I pull back I touch my forehead to his and smile. "Give me just a minute. You want to see what's on?"

While Jim flips through the channels I take Michael's note and tape it inside my journal where I record my life and store precious things I want to keep. This note is a precious thing.

After the events of the past two days Pam and I are exhausted, so we just watch two episodes of Friends before heading upstairs to bed. I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth and change and when I come out Pam's laying on her side of the bed, fidgeting nervously and staring down at her hands.

"Hey," I greet her softly, waiting 'til she looks up at me. "Everything okay?"

"I wrote you a letter," she replies, picking up an envelope that's sitting next to her and holding it out to me as I climb in with her. "I wanted to tell you some things and…I didn't know how to say them." She waves her hand around in a random gesture. "That quote of Michael's really ties in with what I wrote."

I grin and take the letter gently, reaching in to pull out a simple piece of pink stationary. "Do you want me to read it out loud?"

She shakes her head adamantly. "Just read it."

Dearest Jim,

You know I'm not good with words, not like you are anyway. My thoughts get jumbled up and I have a hard time untangling how to say what I want to say, how things should be organized, you know how I am. Seeing as I left our apartment pretty clean yesterday, I needed some way to utilize my time while you went to talk to Michael and Dwight, so I decided to write you this letter and tell you everything I would say verbally if only I had the time to first write a rough draft in my head.

You know me now. Everything about me, every fear and harm and joy and dream, they're yours. I've given it all to you. And you care for everything I've given to you. You treat me with the value and respect I've always deserved, but not always received.

I wish now I had told you sooner, but I was scared. Scared about being that open with you, scared of how you would react, scared you'd decide it was too much and leave. Scared you wouldn't want me anymore. I should have trusted you. I've never loved you more, now that you know and have treated me so lovingly these past two days. Being vulnerable was never something I thought I would like, but it's beautiful with you.

I don't have to hide anymore. I don't have to pretend to not be scared when we're at a high school football game and a strange man grabs my arm as he shoves past me. I don't have to lie, when you come into the bathroom while I'm taking a bath, and say you just startled me, when really you triggered a flashback. I don't have to tell you I'm scared of hospitals when really it's just one, Memorial, because once I drove there at 2 AM and sat in the parking lot of the ER for an hour trying to talk myself into walking in and showing the bruises on my pelvis and saying I think my fiancé just raped me.

I can trust you. I can kiss you and know you're here, despite everything, because you want to be. I can admit when I'm scared or sad or angry. I can finally tell you everything.

You finally really know me, Jim, and you still love me. You still want me. You still trust me.

I love you. I want you. I trust you.

From the love of your life,

To the love of my life

I take in a deep breath, placing the letter carefully on my bedside table before turning to Pam. "God, I love you," I murmur, brushing the back of my hand against her cheek and behind her ear as I lean down to kiss her.

She responds enthusiastically, tugging on my shoulders until I'm hovering over her. "I love you too," she murmurs, moving her lips to my neck and pulling harder on me.

I brace my forearms on either side of her head, her lips stopping what they're doing when she notices my hesitation. "What's wrong?" she whispers.

"I just…" My voice trails off as I take in the beautiful sight beneath me, her hair spread out across the pillow, a gentle smile on her lips.

She stretches up and just barely brushes her lips against mine before laying back. "I feel safe with you," she whispers, her eyes locked on mine.

I cover her body with mine and kiss her.

When she looked up at him, it was suddenly easy for her to imagine that her fears were pointless. That he would love her no matter what she told him, and that he was the kind of man who loved her already and would love her forever.

- Nicholas Sparks, Safe Haven

And it's finished! What was originally begun as a one-shot turned into much, much more than that and I have to say I'm so pleased and proud of the final result. Thank you to all who followed along and left feedback!