Disclaimer: All characters and places belong to ASP, DR, and CW.

Things are different.

The things he used to feel upon waking are different. The thoughts he has when he's showering are different from those he had years ago, even when he was with her. His mind and body looks forward to different things now, things he never thought they would look forward to.

One time, late at night after he closed the diner a little early to take April to some kind of technological convention, he sat at what once was his plain brown table now spruced up with a cerulean blue table cloth and a cactus sitting squarely in the middle and drank a cup of coffee.

It was an alien experience to him, drinking what he regularly served, drinking what coursed through her veins 24/7. And while he sat there in his slightly different apartment, drinking a beverage he shouldn't be drinking so late at night, he thought. It's not something that new to him, thinking. But this type of thinking was new-why?

He wondered why he felt different. He chalked it up to her 'now or never' speech, to the next day pleading, then the next day's begging. He chalked it up to the 'I slept with Christopher' that so easily escaped her lips. But that wasn't it. It was the thought, the persistent thought as he drove away, a single purpose in mind, that he could have done better. He sipped at the coffee and toyed with that thought. He could have done better. And he should.

He wakes up, feeling slightly together. The impulse to just lay his head back down and stare at the ceiling disappeared months ago and he gets up, stretching. Looking at the clock, he sees that it's 3:45 and he changes out of his pajama pants and pulls on a hoodie, some sweatpants, and his sneakers. He jogs down the steps and leaves the diner through the back, grabbing a beanie he leaves on a hook by the door on his way out.

Tugging it on, he starts out, the puffs of air and the sound of his footfalls the only thing to disturb the cold, night air. This is when he likes Stars Hollow the most-when it's early morning quiet and he knows almost everyone is asleep, when the day is just another date on the calendar and holds nothing.

He jogs past familiar places, always taken with how familiar buildings look unfamiliar without lights, without people going in and out. He passes Babette's house and keeps himself from making more than a passing glance at her house, from dwelling on the fact that there is a tricycle on the front porch and that her walkway hasn't been shoveled properly.

He breathes deeply when he passes her house, calming the rapid beating of his heart that picked up when he came upon the house. He doesn't torture himself with thoughts of whether she and Chris are intertwined in a sleepy embrace anymore. He can go so far as to say that the pain of knowing that they probably are lessens every time he jogs pass her house.

He slows his pace when he comes to the bridge, coming to a complete stop in front of the lake, hands on his hips, breathing in the sharp winter air. He revels in the stillness, loving how it ripples through him, settling him and if the jog didn't do it, waking him. He suddenly thinks that April might like this. Well, maybe not the waking-up-at-a-quarter-to-four-and-jogging-in-about-near-freezing-temperatures part but the stillness by the lake part.

He nods, thinking that maybe he'll mention it to her this afternoon and takes another deep breath before turning around, ready to run, when he sees her.

All thoughts flee his brain and his body freezes. She is wearing a heavy coat, a scarf wrapped around her neck, a knit cap covering long, curly, wavy dark hair. Her top half is appropriately attired, but on her bottom half she is wearing thin cotton pajama pants and what he can only guess to be footsies.

She is staring at him, not in the way that would indicate she is surprised to see him there, but in that way that has his heart pounding and his palms sweating and the flesh on his neck itching.

She takes a step towards him and his brain switches on, thoughts flooding in and bombarding every center of neural processing. Oh, God, she's there, she 's right there.

Say something. What should I say? How's Richard? Emily? Rory? Haven't seen you around, everything going good? Of course everything's going good, you idiot, like she'll tell you, "No, everything's not fine, I'm miserable and Chris…" Out early? Didn't think you exercised, you practically destroyed that gym card when we busted-no, don't bring up any reminiscing moments. No moments, you've had enough of those to last you a while and then some.

"It's cold," he says, saying the first thing that didn't have anything to do with them and they had no control over.

She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it and looks at him some more. His body is still tense and he looks like he just swallowed a spoonful of ipecac. Apparently, he didn't expect to see her anytime soon, not after the hospital.

She decides to respond to his statement, hoping to at least put him at some kind of ease.

"Yeah, I thought you didn't like cold," she says and gives him a knowing smile and he thinks back to that time when she woke him up for 'first snow' and how he grumbled while she stood there, looking up at the sky, her belief so strong.

He shrugs. "Yeah, well, I figured it's about time I acquaint myself with cold, you know, since I do live in Connecticut."

She nods. "That makes sense."

He nods and moves to say something else, but he doesn't. Small talk isn't exactly his area and he'd rather dive into the lake than stay in her presence and feel like someone is pouring vinegar down his throat.

"Well, uh, stop by the diner for some coffee later, warm yourself up," he says, moving pass her.

"Wait," she says, grabbing his wrist. Her hand is warm despite the cold and her fingers grip his wrist firmly, as though he's going to slip through her grasp.

He stops, not looking back at her, not trusting himself to do so.

"Luke," she says in a soft, slightly pleading voice and he turns his head, looking at her over his shoulder.

Those blue eyes are shimmering and he grits his teeth against them, refusing the impulse to ask her what's wrong, to forget about the diner and the bread guy and stay with her until the pain turns into a defined jab to the breastplate.

She drops her hold and hugs her body, sniffling and pursing her lips.

"I just wanted to say thanks, thanks for being there for Emily, Rory, and for…and for me. Thank you for helping my family."

He turns his head back to the path and let's out a long stream of cold air, thinking of what to say.

"Don't thank me, Lorelai. It's just what I do."

He jogs away, feeling her eyes on his back, burning him. Any other time he would've turned back or said more, but whatever personal thing she's going through, he can't be the one to help her go through it, not now, not when things are different.