A/N: I know this has been done a million times, but I wanted to try my hand at it.

Jim's the kind of guy who makes you appreciate forearms.

Two, three, four deft strokes of charcoal and she has them on paper. She sketches in the crumples of his shirtsleeves, the planes of his shoulders—it all comes easily.

His hands, when she returns to them, are harder. His fingers—long and clever. She remembers the times that they've brushed against hers, to capture her attention, to direct her gaze. She remembers that touch, like the chilly sting of snowflakes on her face. It is dangerous, and tempting, and the memory makes her an artist again.

She imagines him in the winter, somewhere beautiful—somewhere outside of this ugly little place. She draws him laughing, she draws him thinking, she draws him watching her with eyes that ask a thousand questions.

She realizes that she is watching him much more than she used to.

She falters when she draws his eyes, sometimes. Not because she doesn't remember them, but because she knows them too well.

One of these days, the artist in her will go too far.

Pam closes her sketchbook, breathing hard, as though she's just been running.

She'll stick to still-lifes for now.