A/N: Dug through my hard drive for some old unpublished stories that I thought I should put out there before the revival Josses everything. :P

Sunlight filters in through the blinds and wakes her. For a moment she forgets where she is and feels confused at the blanket, thinner than hers and smelling faintly of cigarettes, tiny balls of fabric rubbing against her skin. The right side of her face is smushed in a pillow, and her left arm clutches the blanket before her chest. She opens a lazy eye and sees the olive skin of a man's back inches away from her. Right. Jess. Last night. Finally. Her insides are still abuzz from the memory of his touch. She inhales deeply and smiles, recognizing the scent of her perfume, mingled with their sweat and his cologne on his neck. It had been a good night.

She tilts her head and squints to get a look at his alarm clock, perched on a bookshelf across the room, glowing in green. Seven-thirty-eight. Too early for a Saturday morning. Yawning, she puts her head down to go back to sleep, but the light illuminating his skin catches her attention. Pale lines, a millimeter in thickness, crisscross along the expanse of his back from his shoulder blades down to the base of his spine. Catching her breath, she realizes how little she really knows of his past, even after all the years they knew each other, and the more recent weeks of renewed intimacy. Involuntarily, she traces a fingernail along one of the marks.

He flinches and nearly tumbles out of the bed. "Don't do that!" he snarls.

She scoots away from him, taken aback at his sudden outburst. "Sorry," she mumbles, eyes downcast.

He turns and peers over his shoulder. Her long lashes are lowered, knees drawn close to her chest, body curled up in a protective ball under the blanket. He hates that he's frightened her and silently curses himself. "It's all right," he says, voice softer now. He flops back onto the bed, sliding under the blanket they shared, eyes staring at the spackled ceiling. "Didn't mean to scare you. Go back to sleep."

Biting her lip, she wants to say something but isn't sure whether to prod him or not, as sensitive as he appeared to be at the moment.

"Jess, you know you can tell me anything, right?" she asks hesitantly.

"Huh," he responded, not looking at her and continuing to stare at the ceiling.

"You don't have to tell me now, if you're not ready. But you said no more secrets, remember?"

"Right."

Rolling over onto his left elbow to face her, he extends his right arm to cup her chin in his hand. "Rory."

She blinks and looks up. "Yes."

"You really want to know?"

She nods.

"Fine." He pauses. "Liz's boyfriend when I was eight. He had this huge, stupid belt buckle." He doesn't finish the thought, letting her draw her own conclusions.

"Oh." She doesn't know how to respond, except to reach for his hand, which he gladly intertwines with hers. They are both silent for a long time before she ventures, "Where was your mom?"

"Just as wasted as he was," he says indifferently.

"I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago." Another silence passes. "I probably deserved it some of the time. I took money from his wallet, hid his" he raises two fingers in air quotes "—'good stuff.' I hated that guy."

"No one deserves to be abused like that."

"I learned to fight back." He says, lost in his own thoughts, making a fist with his free hand. "I could always defend myself on the playground when some idiot would say—" he mimics a child's sneering, high pitched voice, "'but Jess is a girl's name.'"

"Sometimes I get mail addressed to 'Mr.' Rory Gilmore," she offers. "They're the first ones I throw in the trash."

He laughs, the rumble from his belly vibrating the mattress. "From now on, we can throw away mail together."

"Asking me to move in already?" she teases. "It took five weeks for us to spend the night together."

"I've never spent the night with anyone before."

She drops his hand in exclamation. "What? I don't believe you."

He shrugs, "Usually I just put on my clothes and leave."

She winces. "That's cold."

"Did you think I was the warm and fuzzy type?"

"No."

"And less chance of having to answer questions about," he turns over, stomach on the bed, "this," he gestures towards his back.

"But you've been asked," she states, not liking to think of the other women.

"Yeah. Never answered before though."

"So I'm special?"

"The special-est," he confirms, leaning in for a kiss.

Their lips brush and then she situates herself on top of him, her hips against his. She kisses his neck at first and then gradually drifts downward, her tongue tracing the faint indentations on his back. Her hair is tickling him, and his ribcage trembles beneath her caresses. "What are you doing?" he whispers, twisting around to look at her, as she trails wet kisses all along the vestiges of his old scars.

Her eyes are wide and clear, blindingly blue even in the early morning. "Making you some better memories."