A/N: Firstly, a huge shout out to cuppacuppajoe, from whose Ode to the Avocado I stole Helix and Clio, because I'm the worst at naming things. This was written in the year or so between the announcement of A Year in the Life and its premiere on Friday. It's my take on where Rory and Logan would be almost a decade on and contains no spoilers for AYITL.
April 2015, Washington D.C.
The first time, after almost a decade, happens in the likeliest of places, even if he is surprised to see her there. He thinks he catches a glimpse of her across the Washington Hilton ballroom, the smooth expanse of her exposed back as familiar to him now as all of her once was. How many hours, a lifetime ago, did he spend mapping constellations on her skin, learning each freckle, worshipping each curve, loving her?
It makes sense that she would be here. The White House Correspondents' Dinner is, after all, where the political and media elite set aside their differences once a year to rub elbows with the glitz and glamor of Hollywood and hear the president test his comedic timing. These days, both he and Rory can be considered media elite, his work with Helix having put him on the cutting edge of new media and her reporting on Obama's first term earning her not only a place on the longlist for a Pulitzer in 2014 but a regular — and popular — byline in The New York Times as well.
She has achieved the dream — Walt Disney would be proud, he thinks wryly ("If you can dream it, you can do it!") into his tumbler of scotch as he listens to David Niedermeyer, Washington Post drivel on about his recent trip to South Korea for this or that summit on technology. The conversation is all but a wink and nudge from David, a not-so-subtle hint for the new CTIO of Huntzberger Publishing Group to remember him, intrepid and ambitious journalist that he is. Logan had, of course, accepted this — being schmoozed and propositioned by ambitious journalists — as his lot in life when he let himself be welcomed back into the bosom of the family business, full-page Wall Street Journal spread and all.
This time, though, it comes with a legally binding contract, a mandate that there be no prodigal son quips in any headlines, a lofty C-Suite title (Chief Technology Innovation Officer has a nice ring to it, he thinks), and corner office. After a lifetime of avoiding his birthright, he has fought for and won his right to it, and he's even excited by the work. Even if the Huntzberger name has been a burden his entire life, he'd be lying if he said there wasn't something almost primal about the way he pursued the position. Sure, he'd almost literally been born for the job, but that meant he would fight that much harder than Brad Attenborough and Cecilia Jacobs-Jin to make sure they all succeeded. It's his family, his name, the legacy built on the backs of his forefathers. He's just prideful enough not to be the one to destroy it all without at least putting some effort in. "If it's going to burn," he'd told the board, his father watching on stonily, "I'm going to be the one lighting the matches."
"So I tell him," David gesticulates wildly as Logan nods along politely, taking another long sip from his glass, "I tell him, 'Peter, you're never going to win them over with a pitch like that. It's boring as all hell and they're not going to —'"
Just as he considers the logistics of escape — would slowly retreating under a table be too mundane? — he feels the familiar press of a hand at his elbow and David's voice is cut off sweetly by a much more welcome one. "I'm so sorry to interrupt," she says innocently, "but I need to borrow Logan for a second, David. You don't mind, do you?"
She leads him away before David even finishes speaking, leaving the man to stand spluttering indignant yet polite agreement.
"You looked like you were drowning there," she says when they're out of earshot.
"I was considering it," he answers, tipping his glass toward her. "But the tux's a rental and I really need my deposit back."
She nods slowly in mock understanding, a small smile playing at her lips. "Yes, that deposit really set you back."
"Well, real estate in Manhattan is astronomical these days and I really need to make rent this month."
"Far be it that the new CTIO of Huntzberger Publishing be compensated adequately. It really is a shame that a fully furnished penthouse overlooking Central Park isn't part of the package anymore."
He feels unexpectedly warm that she knows what he's been doing, but then again, the news was hard to avoid, ubiquitous as it was in newspaper business sections seven months ago. And even if she didn't make it a point to flip through articles about oil futures and M&As, the flattering, if slightly clumsy, Buzzfeed article 25 Times Logan Huntzberger Made You Wish You Read the News (subtitled You may not know who he is, but he looks great in a tux.) had found its way around many a wry and prodding Yale alumni group email in which she was surely was included.
"Can you believe the state of this world?" he exclaims dramatically. "I even have to tie my own shoes."
She responds in kind, falling into their familiar pattern of banter easily. "The horror! I think you have grounds for a lawsuit."
They exchange a few more back-and-forths before a thoughtful look crosses her face. "It's good to see you, Logan."
"It's good to see you, too, Rory," he says, meaning it, too. He's repeated the phrase at various points throughout the evening, but in this instance, the sentiment is genuine. "Though I can't say I was expecting to see you here tonight — doesn't the Times bow out these days?"
"We do, what with our moral and journalistic obligation to turn our noses up at schmoozing," she confirms. "But tonight, I serve no master."
He raises an eyebrow at her questioningly, amused by the way she subtly harrumphs. He imagines she has had this exact conversation with her editor, arguing that just because she is a New York Times reporter going to the Correspondents' Dinner does not mean she is going to the Correspondents' Dinner as a New York Times reporter.
She relents, dropping her previous airs. "Hugo invited me as a guest of Clio, in my capacity as friend and dogged former member of the White House Press Corps."
"Those are some pretty swanky perks you've got there, yourself," he deadpans.
"Oh yeah, right up there with the bags under my eyes that still haven't gone away and an almost visceral urge to shout 'Follow-up' whenever I see Jay Carney."
"You've done well for yourself," he notes. His voice takes a softer tone, one that is not strictly fitting with the ballroom's atmosphere of boisterous small talk. "I'm really proud of you."
A slight blush tinges her cheeks and for a second she looks like she's twenty again, wearing a tiara at her grandmother's house. She's as beautiful as she was then, blue eyes sparkling, mouth curved into a soft smile. But she's also standing taller, more confident, no ounce of her the demure young lady she once was. He's heard that elegance comes with age, and he thinks maybe the ever-present yet ever-mysterious "they" to whom all adages are attributed are right on this one. The years and a strict sun protection regimen have been kind to her, but she carries herself with the grace of the woman she'd always aspired to be more than the girl he'd loved so much.
In no small part, it's the knowledge of belonging. She fought for and won her spot at the table, and he's unbelievably proud of all that she's been able to accomplish. If his family ambushed her now, he thinks, they'd be left trembling in her wake.
"Thanks, Logan…" She shifts, her right hand rubbing at her left elbow, modesty one thing time could never change about her. "But… what about you, Mr. C-T-I-O? I think the world invented that title just for you."
His chuckle rumbles through his chest, deep and throaty. With a practiced hand, he tips his drink at her once more. "I just picked some letters out of a hat and we had Marketing figure out something that fit."
"How incredibly Jobsian," she quips with an arch of her eyebrow, then presses forward with her own praise. "It's amazing what you've done, what you're doing." She meets his gaze then. "I'm proud of you, too."
It's his turn to shuffle awkwardly. He's achieved a lot to be proud of since his botched acquisition eight years ago and he's not too humble to deny himself that, and though he can occasionally catch a glimmer of pride in his father's eye, it's not Mitchum's way to ever give voice to those thoughts. The Huntzberger men don't deal in warmth or fuzziness with each other, and he doesn't think it has ever occurred to his mother to be proud of him, so it's nice to hear.
Just as he is about to extend the moment of awkwardness with another comment, the ever persistent and shameless David Niedermeyer approaches them, evidently fortified by another serving of Glenfiddich. "So, Logan, I'd love to continue our earlier conversation. I'm headed to a bar with some guys from the Post if—"
"Actually, David," she cuts him off smoothly, "Logan and I were about to head out."
The other man looks taken aback as Logan turns to Rory. She's wearing a graceful smile and her blue eyes glint with mischief. "Ready to go?"
"Sure," he agrees, his lips upturning into an amused smirk, her implication of innuendo not lost on him.
She waves a polite goodbye to David while Logan offers slightly more prolonged pleasantries, shaking the other man's hand and assuring him he'd be in touch. Quickly, though, Logan's hand finds its way to the small of Rory's back and guides her through the thickening crowd in the hallway, each pausing from time to time to exchange well wishes with colleagues. When they finally make it outside, he just keeps walking, giving little thought to where he's going.
They walk, her guiding them expertly through the diagonal streets and circles of the capital, still in her heels. They make their way down Connecticut Avenue, past the wrought iron gates of the White House, all the way to the National Mall, with her acting as informed and passionate guide. Along the way, his tie comes loose and his coat ends up across her shoulders to shield against the brisk temperatures of the spring night. His arm settles around her waist, offering her support when she begins to lean into him. They fill the night air with conversation — about his job and hers, the logistics of filing an IPO and the really bizarre things she's found in the AP Stylebook, Paris's surgical residency at Mass Gen and Honor's three-month-old son.
She teases him about being Uncle Logan and he asks her about her mom. As she speaks of Lorelai the second and her new sister and the goings on of Stars Hollow, he's reminded of why it was so easy to fall in love with her all those years ago. Her passion, wit, and faith were — are — undeniable and magnetic.
"I love this city," she sighs when they finally find respite on a bench by the Washington Monument, having walked miles without much of a destination. It doesn't remotely surprise him that she loves the city that houses what is essentially the country's largest library. "There's so much history here. And, of course, you can argue that at the longest, the U.S. as we know it can really only claim four hundred years, and DC even less, but we've packed so much — good, bad, and really, really ugly — into four centuries. I know it's no Rome or Athens or Angkor Wat, but it is amazing."
"That's poetic."
"Shut up," she responds good-naturedly, swatting at his arm.
He'd known when he saw her before the dinner began that, somehow, it would end here, with him deciding if he should kiss her. Because, with her, it always comes down to this.
It's a split second choice, whether or not he can deal with what comes next, whatever that is.
And while he's grown a lot this last decade — is no longer the kid who sunk a yacht off the Indonesian coast and is instead a man who can freely admit that he's grown up and who earnestly discusses quantitative risk assessments over drinks with colleagues — damned if consequences still don't bother him that much.
"Logan? You still in there?"
There's not a cloud in the sky, so when he's silent for too long and Rory turns to look at him, he can see the light dusting of freckles across her cheeks and nose, the inquisitive quirk of her eyebrow, and the way her lips are slightly pinker because she's been worrying them.
Fuck it.
He kisses her then, catching her bottom lip between his and bringing a hand to her cheek to tilt her head for better access. She tastes like he remembers, coffee and vanilla and late mornings hiding from the world underneath their covers. Eight years, three thousand miles, two jobs, and a litany of one night stands later, she's still the only woman who knows to tug on his upper lip like that. Pulling back slightly, Logan searches her eyes for any sign that he's crossed a line and finds nothing but dilated pupils and flushed cheeks.
She leans back into him almost immediately, turning a little so that she can press in closer to him. Her tongue swipes across his bottom lip, soft yet assertive, and her hands grasp at his lapels for purchase. He has always liked kissing her, even when she was in a suit and even after being found and threatened in a country club dressing room. Not even the twin disapproval of Emily Gilmore and her reverend or, it would seem, his rejected proposal had stopped him liking it.
The thought passes through his head, fleetingly but still very much there, that he wouldn't mind kissing her for the rest of his life.
In the morning, when Logan isn't particularly awkward about her continued presence or insistent on casting her out, she allows herself to dawdle, luxuriating in the 1,000-thread count sheets and eventually the smell of imported Italian espresso percolating. From her cocoon of sheets and down comforters, she watches the stretch of his back and shoulders as he types on his computer, the sight so familiar it steals her breath.
Rory had known, of course, that he would be there last night. It wouldn't be an event for the media without Logan Huntzberger, the luminary entrepreneur leading the charge.
But not even the advance knowledge had prepared her for actually seeing him again. He was as beautiful as she remembered, but more golden — the sun, she thought; it had lightened his hair and given him a tan — and she was amazed at how much older he looked. Not that he, at a wonderful thirty-three, looked old by any means. Simply, he was more a man than she remembered. At twenty five, he had been gorgeous and cocky and confident, but still a little boyish in the way he faced the world, simultaneously defensive and unsure of his own path, fighting his way into a world that had never asked much of him.
Last night, he was devastating.
She's not sure what propelled her toward him in the end, but there had always been something so magnetic about him for her, that pulled her indelibly, undeniably toward him, until she was standing so close to him that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, see the flecks of gold in his eyes, almost trace the sharp, familiar lines of his face.
It had been so natural, like coming full circle, for her to steal him away from David, reminiscent of another party another lifetime ago, before their beginning. And now, here they were, after their end.
The student of literature that she once was catches the symbolism of that parallel and, if she put her mind to it, could write ten thousand words to analyze it, could craft a heartbreaking and damning thesis about how, though he's only a hairsbreadth away, and he'd been even closer the night before, suddenly the almost decade between them feels like an unassailable gulf threatening to drown her.
In the intervening years since she returned the scintillating ring to embrace a wide open future that has taken her miles across the world and given her experiences not even her abundant imagination could have created, Rory has made a name for herself in the wide, weird world of journalism, has published well read articles on politics and economic policy as well as one particularly well regarded piece — on the eve of then President Elect Obama's inauguration — on being a child of a single mother. She has proven, if not to Mitchum Huntzberger, then to herself, that she does have it, whatever it is. She has toughened up, grown a thicker skin, and worn it well.
And it's been easy, of course, to keep tabs on the broad strokes of his career. His successes have been trumpeted in the Yale Alumni Magazine, where all Eli achievements receive their due, and which Rory skims months late when she finally crosses the threshold of her apartment again, but also more regularly and widely in The Wall Street Journal, The Atlantic, and The New York Times, all of which she receives instantly on her phone. She knows that his company has done exceedingly well and is considered a "disruptor" of traditional news in a way she's sure makes Elias fume, and that he is a frequent guest of Mark Zuckerberg's in Menlo Park, though their talks there are seemingly more secret than the president's security briefings.
She's proud but unsurprised at the success he's forged, and would tell him so in the thousand ways she's come up with while watching him, if only she could bring herself to speak.
"Morning, sleepyhead," he greets when he notices that she's awake, not giving her any more time to ruminate too deeply on the time they've spent apart or to continue drafting her dissertation on their bygone relationship.
Rory shakes herself free of the covers, pulling the sheet loose and wrapping it around her shoulders.
"You're working?" To her own ears, her voice sounds less incredulous than she feels, and she mentally pats herself on the back for the feat.
"Just catching up on some emails. There's fresh coffee in the pot and room service also sent up some pastries." He responds, though not unkindly, without really looking at her, eyes focused on the screen in front of him and tapping at his keyboard incessantly. He's so focused, in fact, she doesn't think he hears her.
"Did you just call me a work dork?" He looks up at her in pleasant surprise, smile pulling at the corner of his eyes.
She shrugs. "If the shoe fits…"
After that, it feels familiar and comfortable to pour herself a mug of coffee, slip into his shirt, and perch on the desk to peer at his computer, almost like what her life would've been had she said yes those years ago.
The what-if thoughts had been most rampant in the early days, sitting on a dirty and crowded bus with dozens of other reporters, sleeping three or four to a motel room, filing story after story about the same hopeful, passionate stump speeches from city to city. It had been a constant nagging then, imagining what her life would be like if she'd said yes. Sometimes, she'd imagine what the ring would feel like on her finger, if it would sparkle gloriously even in the dull overhead light of the bus. Would it have stopped Bill Eberwhite from The Chicago Sun-Times from propositioning her whenever he was particularly sloshed? Would they have been able to balance two burgeoning careers with their relationship, carving out stolen minutes between meetings and obligations? Would she have dared defer wedding planning to her grandmother, so she could devote her time to the campaign?
Was the steady rhythm of bad coffee, fast food, little sleep, and convention centers the wide open future she'd sacrificed him for?
Eventually, after the election and after she had found a new home and steady routine in Washington, had hit her stride and established an increasingly less modestly-sized following online, the voice in the back of her head had become quieter and quieter until it only ever came up on snowy mornings when her walk to the Metro meant she was simultaneously sodden and frozen for the rest of the day. At one point during the torrential nor'easter affectionately dubbed Snowmaggedon, she had tortured herself by looking up the weather in Palo Alto. That winter, 59 degrees and sunny had seemed like her own personal demon.
In his hotel room, though, nibbling on a flaky croissant and flipping through the Sunday Styles, the weight of could have been sits on her chest like a freight train. Even as he shuts his laptop with a decisive thud and comes up behind her, plucking the paper out of her hands and sweeping her hair off her shoulder to give himself better access to the curve of her shoulder, the heaviness stays with her.
His hands maneuvering expertly across her body, it's easy to imagine this is what their life would have been like, traveling to glamorous locales for work, forsaking colleagues to hole up in luxurious hotel rooms, taking lazy mornings together in bed. In a way that she hasn't in years, she misses him. Every inch of her aches for their once intimacy, the way she had been able to tuck the most frightening parts of herself into him for safekeeping.
Bared to Logan, him worshipping at the apex of her thighs, the waves of pleasure warming her from toe to hair, the loss of him — what exactly she had been missing — is acute. At climax, her cry is half pleasure and half sorrow, the sweat from exertion mingling with errant tears. Even after he lifts himself to settle above her, sliding into her slowly and agonizingly, even full with him, she's unable to quiet the long lost voice in her head. This, it says, you could have had this.
The sun hangs low in the sky when reality finally descends and the anxious, unsettled feeling in her chest boils over. She reads it as her sign to leave. Her attempt to pull away from him slowly and unnoticed isn't as quiet or subtle as she intended it to be, and Logan turns toward her with one eye open, making a noise that is more whine than words.
"I should go."
"No." There's not much force in his voice or in the grasp of his arm around her waist, but even still she can feel the sincerity of his request. He turns to cocoon his body closer to hers, burrowing his head in the valley of her clavicle. It's a firm reminder of how he was always neediest and most affectionate after sex, and the memories hit her hard in her already roiling gut. "Stay." She could stay — wants to stay — but needs to go, or else she's not sure she'll ever be able to bring herself to leave.
"Logan," she says, sounding peevish and impatient even to her own ears, pulling away from his hold to stand up. "I can't."
Slowly, he sits up, the sheets slung low across his hips, and looks at her with an expression she can't read. That, a second blow to her gut. She used to be able to so easily tell how he was feeling and what he was thinking from just a glance. "Rory…"
Looking at him hurts in ways she didn't remember was possible, so she busies herself with finding the various pieces of her outfit from the night before. "What did you think was going to happen, Logan?" she asks, still not looking at him, as she picks up one satin stiletto and then the other. She'll have to take them to the cobbler before she wears them again, their traipse through Washington last night having rendered the fabric scuffed and heels almost completely worn through. "We have lives, Logan. Responsibilities, obligations — we can't just stay in a hotel room forever."
She doesn't know if he's listening to her or registering a single thing she's saying, but she charges forward with her rant, heedless. The less she lets him speak, the less this becomes a conversation, the less he'll be able to convince her this isn't insane, and the easier it will be for her to make a quick escape.
Unfortunately for her, he knows her well, and can spot her diversion tactics for what they are.
"So you're what, Rory?" He cuts her off easily. "You're just going to leave and go on with your life? Pretend this never happened? Because I don't accept that."
He hadn't been angry before, just sleep-weary and basking in a post-coital warmth, but a frustrated edge has creeped into his voice now, and it puts her on edge too.
"What do you want from me, Logan? What did you think was going to happen? That we'd sleep together after almost a decade and all the pieces would miraculously fall together? That's not how life works! We're two entirely different people than we were ten years ago. For God's sake, you have an ex-wife!"
He watches her, face impassive, as she slides her underwear up her hips and hooks her bra behind her and then works frustrated fingers through her tangled hair.
"If you want to leave because you feel absolutely nothing for me anymore and last night was purely physical, then I won't stop you. But if you're leaving because you're scared of what this might mean…" He speaks slowly and approaches her even more carefully, until he's standing right behind her, close enough that she can feel the heat rising from his bare chest, but not touching her. "Rory, I don't know what any of this means, either. I didn't have any expectations about last night, and I don't have any expectations about what happens next. But I do at least want to talk about it."
"I don't want to talk, Logan." She takes a few steps forward, the sudden shock of cool air between them sending goosebumps up her spine. "I don't… I don't know what to say to you."
"Say whatever you want to say, Rory. Just don't run away from it. Don't run away from me." The please is unspoken, hanging desperate and begging at the end of his sentence.
Reticent, she sits on the edge of the bed, fingers playing with the perfectly straight hem of the shirt she's wrapped around herself.
The bed dips as he sits down beside her, again not touching her, but close enough to. She finds herself angling toward him.
What is there to say to him? She's had nearly ten years to come up with something, and has imagined what she would say more times than she has fingers, but in this moment she has nothing. No perfect, eloquent speech to stun him and leave him in her wake. No touching, heartfelt words to make him to fall in love with her all over again. And certainly no histrionics.
There are people in her life who serve as touchstones, whose competing voices in her head she uses as a sounding board. Would Lorelai Gilmore eat the second piece of pie tonight or save it for breakfast? When faced with an entire wall of light bulb options, would Luke Danes choose fluorescent, incandescent, or LED? Would Emily Gilmore wear the navy pumps or black to a one-on-one sit down interview with President Obama? Would Richard be more proud if she started anew at The New York Times or if she took on the challenge of section editing all of Clio's political coverage? And in the midst of all of that, Logan — who convinced her to just try the harissa aioli, sign up for Snapchat, and ask Barack about the Harvard-Yale game.
How does she tell him that he has been, these last eight years, a steady, significant influence on her life? That, because of his faith in new media, she has adopted a What Would Logan Do? attitude toward social media, embracing it wholly where a different Rory would have been reluctant to sign up for Twitter, and even more reluctant to press the Tweet button? That, but for him, she might not be as well followed as she is?
It feels too much like showing her hand, to tell him how much influence he still has on her. It's been nearly ten years, and while all her ex-boyfriends have had a significant impact on her life — she and Jess started their own relationship afresh post Gilmore-Danes wedding, these days sharing weekly book and music recommendations — none so much as Logan.
For all the books she's read and the charming romance of her life, Rory has always been steadfastly practical in her approach to life, and to her mind, it simply isn't realistic that two college exes, who've lived such lives between them, could end up where they are now. They should have moved on.
And yet, he has been the unwitting comparison for every subsequent boyfriend, against whom she judged if they were witty enough, or daring enough, took their Scotch neat enough, or were charming enough to her grandmother.
She doesn't let herself think too much about what it all means, but if she allowed herself to dwell on it, what would her ultimate conclusion be?
"I hate that you have an ex-wife," she says finally.
"What?"
It's nice to know she can still surprise him. Ignoring that his voice jumped up two octaves, she continues. "I hate that you loved someone else enough to propose to and marry her. That there's another Mrs. Huntzberger out there. All while…" She takes a breath. Now or never. "All while I was in a bus or a plane or a convention center wondering what it would be like to be Mrs. Huntzberger."
From the sudden, amused crinkle in his eyebrow, she can tell it wasn't what he was expecting her to say. "You would never have taken my name."
"I would've seriously thought about it," Rory contends. "I would've hyphenated," she corrects. "Or we could've been the Gilbergers. The Huntzmores?"
He laughs at that, a loud, ringing sound that cuts clearly across the hotel room. "Those are awful… We could've been the Morebergers."
It's her turn to laugh. "Now that's a winning combination, and a great mantra for life. We could be the mascots for Luke's if Luke ever decides to franchise."
Despite her attempt to maintain the light mood, he's once again looking at her with a serious expression on his face. She feels, like she so often did with him, as though he's seeing straight into her very marrow. "Look, Rory, I'm not going to apologize for falling in love with someone else and marrying her. You said no to marrying me, and I had to move on from that."
"I'm not asking you to! I'm just…" She takes a breath, trying to gather her wits and thoughts. "I'm not sorry I said no, Logan. I wasn't ready to marry you, or anybody else. I needed to be on my own for a bit, to really figure out what I wanted." She attempts a wry smile and is met with a reassuring nod. "Isn't that what all the advice says? That you have to be single to really get to know yourself? But, you have to know that I missed you every day. And I thought about you and what it would've been like to be married to you a lot."
"I thought about it too," he jokes, his own wry smile appearing. "Maybe too much. Might be why I have an ex-wife."
Incredulous, she arches an eyebrow at him. "You're not blaming me for your divorce."
"I'm blaming me for my divorce," Logan deadpans. He lifts his hand up to reach for hers, but thinks better of it and ends up rubbing the back of his neck, all the while still looking at her with those thoughtful, piercing eyes, trying to decide what explanation to give. "Rory. When I proposed to you, I was walking away from my family, Huntzberger Publishing, the destiny I'd been forced into my entire life, and that was all okay, because I had you. And all I needed was you. I thought, whatever was coming next, we'd be okay if we were together. You were my family." Preempting the indignation that rises in her chest, he continues, "It was unfair to put that burden on you and unfair to give you the ultimatum, but I needed you to be all in."
"I wish I could've been all in," she admits. "But I really wasn't ready."
"I know."
He reaches out slowly to tuck a wayward piece of hair behind her ear, fingers brushing tenderly against her cheek as he does. "I think we can work, Rory, and I think we owe it to ourselves to try." His voice is soft, but firm, and so, so sure.
He has always been so sure about her.
"We can't just start where we left off." Her voice is equally as soft, but nowhere near as firm or as sure.
"Why not?"
"Because it's been ten years!"
"Eight."
She rolls her eyes. "Close enough." She sighs. "We're not who we were eight years ago, Logan."
He shrugs. "Maybe we're not, but we'll figure it out. I told you I don't have expectations for where this goes, and I mean it. But I do want to try. There's something here, Rory, and it's not just nostalgia."
As if to prove his point, he cradles either of her cheeks in his hands and presses a tender kiss to her mouth, catching her bottom lip between his sweetly before pulling back, sending her heart into her throat. When he looks back at her, he manages to look hopeful and bashful and impish all at the same time.
"Whaddya say, Ace?" The twinkle in his eye and confident half-smile on his face send butterflies up her spine.
He has always been so sure and steady in every decision he makes, unafraid to take on whatever comes next, whereas her first and last instincts are to ruminate over every possible contingency, to make pro/con lists for her pro/con lists until she's sure she's considered every possible angle and is prepared for the eventualities. And even then, she reassesses her decision at every turn, trying to determine if it's still the right choice. She makes plans, more plans, and plans for her plans.
But not Logan. Logan makes choices quickly, based on emotion or intuition or desire, and once he chooses, he goes after his goals with unbridled enthusiasm and passion, putting his entire body and soul toward them. Over the years, she's witnessed that attitude lead him down some foolish paths and into craggy Costa Rican waters, but she's also seen it help him to an impressive tech IPO and myriad other successes besides.
Neither of them realized it then, but when she showed up at his dorm unannounced ten years ago with an ultimatum of her own, he had chosen her and never looked back. He fell in love with her, supported her, fought with her and for her, and chose her as his family.
Maybe it's taken her eight years longer to finally get there too and maybe she doesn't know what comes tomorrow, ten years from now, or in ten minutes, after she calls her mother, but she knows — more sure and scared than she's ever been — she wants to find out.
It was Logan that forced her out of the boundaries of her comfort zone and with him that she was constantly at her most carefree and reckless and stupid. It's for Logan that ten years on, she does it again, feet first and eyes wide open.
A grin fights its way to the surface and, when she looks up from their fingers she's twined together, she sees it mirrored on his face.
"You jump, I jump, Jack."