Author's Note: I think I kind of scared some people with the last chapter. Sorry, guys, I didn't realize how . . . final it sounded. Don't worry. Actually, I've been meaning to warn you . . . this story might turn out to be kind of long. Not your typical five or six chapter flick. But thanks for the great reviews, and thanks for reading it even if you don't review.

Disclaimer: I think I'm going to stop putting these and just say this applies to the rest of the story - I own nothing except for original characters I might invent later.

Feedback is appreciated!

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"Hello?" Jess answered the phone but his attention wasn't entirely on it. He was reading a manuscript of an up and coming novelist, and he was right in the middle of a thought that went something like: Crap. This is all crap. Even Hawthorne would be embarrassed. A cup of coffee that had been poured by one of his coworkers – and which he wasn't even considering drinking, he hated coffee – grew cold on the corner of the table he was sprawled out over. He scrawled a note on a sheet of paper under his elbow, having to do it with his left hand because the phone was in his right. Even though it was beside the point, he was somewhat proud at how his writing was legible with the wrong hand and wondered if he was ambidextrous.

"Hey, uh, Jess," came Luke's voice, rough and gravelly from whatever he had done in his teenage years, or maybe just from inhaling burger grease all the time. Jess kneaded his forehead with his fingers and dropped his pen. He didn't mind hearing from Luke, although he'd be the last to admit it. Their relationship was not exactly like Aladdin and Jasmine, or Harry and Sally, but they had ironed out some of their differences over the past couple of years. Yeah, he still saw Luke as a sadly ignorant and uncultured diner boy, but that was okay.

"Hey," he said, leaning back into his chair, and noticing that the ceiling needed to be painted.

"I have a favor to ask you." There wasn't any small town chit chat. Luke had given up on that a long time ago, and they both hated it, anyway.

"Yeah?"

"Well . . . Caesar has to go out of town this week . . . for his mother's birthday or something . . . personally, I just think he wants to go to the chili eating contest down in Pennsylvania, but whatever. And Lane has to go somewhere with her band, so I'm pretty short staffed." There was a pause as something dropped and Luke did his version of a swear. It made Jess laugh, and he tried to stifle it in his hand.

"Anyway . . . jeez . . . dammit, Taylor . . . I know you're busy, but . . . dammit, Taylor, wait . . . you call your own hours, and I was wondering if you could take a week off and come help me. Trust me, I explored every other option before asking . . . I'm going to shoot you, Taylor!"
Jess was instantly torn. He could easily say no, which didn't seem like that bad of an idea, and then a knife split through him as he remembered how he was hell bent on avoiding Rory. But she'd be at Yale, and Luke had done a lot for him . . . against every single instinct Jess Mariano had in his entire twenty-year-old body, the need to repay some of his debts was messing with his mind. Besides, he was actually kind of sick of reading manuscripts. And if he just stayed in the back, missing Lorelai wouldn't be too hard. He looked at the dump he was sitting in and made up his mind.

"Yeah, sure." He said it nonchalantly, as if he didn't care, but he was somewhat happy about going to a place where there was air to breathe again. God, what was wrong with him?

"That's it? 'Yeah, sure?'"

His temper starting to fray, Jess sighed. "Do you want me to send you a smoke signal or a postcard with my coat of arms? I said yes."

Luke almost sounded happy. It would be a little too much to expect, so Jess wasn't jumping to any conclusions when his uncle answered, "Good. That's good. See you tomorrow?"

Jess looked around him one more time, his eyes lingering on the cold coffee. "See you tonight."

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The music was blasting and the windows were rolled down. This was how Rory liked to drive. She'd found the freedom of acting like her mother sometimes: wild, uncharted, uncontrollable. Her fingers danced on the steering wheel as she whispered along to the song that was rocketing in her ears, unwilling to scream it just because she wanted to hear all the other things: the cold March breeze, the calling of birds returning from the South, Logan's laughter.

Because, certainly, he could not stop laughing. He had never seen her like this when she was in her element, completely untamable, her hair tangling behind her in the wind that whizzed by her face. She was beautiful to him in that moment, beautiful in a way another girl had never been, and she became even more of an enigma that he couldn't figure out. She hadn't mentioned her outburst a couple of weeks back a the restaurant again, but suddenly she was kissing him, holding him, yelling at him, dancing with him Her entire personality had been bathed with passion; she was on fire, explosive, and he couldn't stop her. He didn't want to. He was just along for the ride.

She sighed happily and leaned back in her seat before turning down the radio. "I love that song," she said breathlessly, her cheeks glowing and her eyes sparkling. She knew Logan had never heard it before. She knew she wasn't as happy as she seemed. She felt like she was drunk, on what she didn't know. Had someone stolen into her room and injected a powerful drug into her veins? No . . . just straight into her heart. She closed her eyes for a nanosecond and willed herself not to think about it, the smile never leaving her face. Logan grazed her elbow with his fingertips, and she directed her grin to him before focusing on the road again.

All the things that were so familiar to her – asphalt, yellow paint, trees, a big blue sky – looked different today. She couldn't place exactly why, or if this difference was a good or bad thing. Deep inside her heart, she felt strangely numb, like she could be speared and not feel a thing. It made her invincible, unafraid, and daring.

Logan had been to Stars Hollow once or twice and had even met her mother, but he hadn't really gotten to know her hometown. Since it was spring break and he had canceled his trip with the Life and Death Brigade, they had decided now was as good a time as any to go. She wondered what everyone would think of him, but immediately she knew. Arrogant, pretty boy who had never been forced to use his hands. Know-it-all. Sweet for the most part, yes, but quick to talk and slow to listen. Obsessed with living for the moment and forgetting to look inside of himself once and awhile. He probably didn't even know who Ayn Rand was . . .

She pressed her forehead with her hand. There was no way Kirk would be thinking that Logan didn't know who Ayn Rand was. That was Rory's own assessment, not the town's, her own thought that she had just let slip out of its covered porch into the dangerous urban metropolis that was her brain.

She had to stop comparing them. It wasn't fair. They were two completely different people with absolutely nothing in common save their gender. Logan was charming, blonde, successful, suave. He liked her, he had to, or else he wouldn't be doing this. Yes, she worried that he might cheat on her if given the chance, but one glance into his ocean blue eyes made her forget all of his vices. He sweet talked her easily, surprised her rarely, and talked to her superficially. She hoped that someday their relationship would deepen to the point where they could be vulnerable and open to each other. It just wasn't there yet. He still gave her butterflies in her stomach and was a great kisser. His kisses depended on his mood. Sometimes they were rough and desperate, sometimes soft and gentle. There was nothing wrong with him.

As much as she tried to stop it, though, the other side of the wall showed his face. He wasn't interested in being charming. He was blunt one moment and cryptic the next; he was a puzzle she couldn't piece together. A brush of his fingertips had left her dizzier than whole makeout sessions with Logan did. His mind, although he hid it, was always working, always observing, always processing. He'd be in the corner of a room reading a book, invisible, but listening to everything around him. And his kisses, instead of depending on how he felt, catered to her mood. If she was slow and tender, he would be, too, but if he found hunger or permission in her eyes he would raid her mouth like it was a treasure trove that only he could plunder, like she was made of honey. A fog would entrap her for hours after he got his hands on her. She wouldn't be able to think or –

God. This was insane. She had been eighteen, and it was done. He told her that two weeks ago. She remembered the exact words she had instructed him to use, and he had done it. There wasn't even regret in his voice. She could see him standing in his room, looking boredly at his bookshelf while she spilled her heart, and then trying to get rid of her as fast as possible. That was most likely exactly what had happened.

She kicked him out of her mind in that second and turned to look at Logan, who was talking on his cell to Finn. He turned and grinned at her and, happily, she felt the butterflies in her stomach again.

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It looks exactly the same, Jess thought with something between awe and disgust. And . . . no . . . the baseball, the lone baseball he had refused to return to the high school and thrown up on top of the building that currently housed Taylor's soda shop instead, was still there. It was too much. He shook his head with smirk of disbelief tinged with just a bit of pride.

His car was still a hunk of junk on wheels that he adored. It got him where he needed to go and he loved it because of that. As it crawled into a space behind Luke's Diner, out back where Luke kept his truck, he patted it fondly. Night was falling, and a strange, watery lavender color covered the whole town. Putting it into park and yanking the key out of the emission, he tilted his head back and examined the "alleyway" right in back of the kitchen. He swallowed heavily, not moving, hardly breathing, stock still, remembering.

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She shyly glances over at him as she walks into Luke's, just like she does every morning, and leans against the bar, again, just like she does every morning. He pours her a cup of coffee and gives it to her; she sets her backpack on a stool and gratefully accepts it. They don't exchange words, just looks, and then he is gone, bringing plates of food to other customers. He waits for a second . . . ah, there it is. He can feel her eyes on him as he moves around the diner. She thinks she's being quiet, discreet, and that he doesn't notice, but Jess grew up on the hard streets of New York City and can take the pulse of a room in ten seconds. He can always tell when someone's watching him. It's a survival skill he's learned out of necessity and perfected out of pleasure. Right now, he likes the way she can't seem to take her eyes away from him. He doesn't call her on it; she's been doing it for months, for a year even, and he never has. He never will.

He's better at watching people than she is. He's doing it right back to her, and he knows she has no idea. As her attention is taken away from him when Luke asks her something, he slides his eyes over to her and admires her soft brown hair and soft thin body. He should have been better at reading the signs when they came earlier, but now it's too late and she has him wrapped around her finger. He hates to admit it, but it's true. No one ever told him that danger could be packaged in a prep school uniform with the label of "town's virginal princess."

Eventually, she stands up. Her mother is not with her; Lorelai must have had to go into the Inn early today. Jess is glad for that, because it means that Rory's focus in only on him, which is a sensation he likes. Caesar is donning his uniform behind the counter, so Jess unties his apron and hangs it up on a tack. "I'm going to school!" He yells across the room to his uncle, who is at another table taking an order. He receives a brisk nod of acquiesce before Luke looks away again. He ducks behind the curtain on the pretext of getting his bag, and with his eyes he motions for her to follow him. Before he would have wondered if that was something she would dare do, but now he knows her too well and he's beginning to think he might have a hold over her, too. She appears next to him a few seconds later, timidly glancing up at him from beneath thick fawn-colored lashes.

"Hey," he says, lacing his fingers through her own and backing her up so she's pinned against the wall. She doesn't look afraid, and he smiles when he catches the anticipation in her face. They've only been dating for a week, so this sort of physical affection is still new to her, but he knows she likes it and she knows he knows.

"Hi," she whispers, freeing one arm from his grasp to wrap it around him and pull him closer against her. He loves it when she does this, when he can tell she wants him, when she surrenders to the power of their attraction for each other. He loves stealing kisses from her behind the curtain in the dark, and he loves the soft lavender scent of her hair as they are crushed to one another.

Just as his head begins to lower tantalizingly toward hers, he hears stomping a few feet away on the other side of the curtain and knows his uncle is coming to his apartment for something. He's always been fast on his feet, and today is no different. Immediately, he grabs her hand and yanks her past the storeroom, behind the kitchen, and out into the alley out back. She laughs when he shuts the door and holds her against the wall. Their coats smash together as she hugs him, her face turned up and her pale blue eyes sparkling.

"Hi again," he says confidently, unbuttoning her coat as she traces his jaw line. He's never done this before, and she looks at him with confusion, but he doesn't detect her wanting him to stop. Slowly, he unzips his jacket and slips her hands around his waist, against the thin fabric of his black t-shirt. Then he wraps his own arms around her underneath her coat, feeling the scratchy material of her uniform on his wrists. It's warmer this way, better, and he feels his blood pounding in his ears as her fingers begin to dance on his sides.

She's the one who kisses him this time, carefully, because she is a perfectionist and she doesn't want to do anything wrong. It's cute but annoying, and he teaches her this by taking over the kiss she started and ravaging her mouth, leaving her breathless, showing her that fast and furious sometimes works better than perfect. He runs his hands up and down her warm back under her coat, finally settling them on her hips as he pulls away. She clings to him for support and, testing her limits because he knows she wants him to, he begins to kiss her neck. The soft, murmuring noises of contentment she makes send his whole body on alert.

He knows he has to go slow with her. She's not ready for anything yet. If she were anyone else, literally any other girl on the whole frigging planet, he would take her right now in the alley. But because she's Rory, that thought disgusts him and he pushes it out automatically, denying his own desire that particular outlet and instead focusing on her. She's weakening to the point where she would have fallen if he wasn't holding her, and he feels her balling his shirt in her hands. He can tell she wants to kiss him back, to make him as weak as he's making her, but all she can do is hold on. He wants to tell her that she does the same thing to him by just standing there; he doesn't need anything else.

She suddenly presses her lips to his shoulder, gently, as if afraid he will push her away, and even through his shirt the contact makes him freeze. It's such an innocent, beautiful gesture, and no girl he's ever been with has done it before. She can't know that he has a scar right underneath where her mouth is, but he does, and when her lips touch it he can hardly move.

She stops and looks at him, a little bit afraid, and she whispers, "I'm sorry. Is that okay?"

He tries to push away the sudden deep, serious feelings that course through him with a laugh, and he succeeds. "Is that okay? God, Rory, you're hilarious. Come 'ere." Then his lips hungrily find hers again, and they stand like that for several minutes. Before he can stop himself, one of his hands slide up underneath her shirt and touch the sacred skin of her stomach. It's soft, tender, delicate, pale, beautiful, and he knows no other boy has ever touched her there before. Burned by this intense realization as well as by its loveliness, he pulls back as if he has touched scalding water. "I . . . I don't know what . . . I . . ."

She smiles, a half scared smile, but a real smile nonetheless, and she catches his lips again and tangles her fingers through his hair before stepping away to straighten her clothes.

"Rory," he moans, half thinking she means to be doing this to him but knowing she doesn't. If she had any idea what torment she was putting him in, she wouldn't let him near her. That's just who she is.

The naïve way she looks at him seals his assessment. "What?"

He shakes his head, amazed by her innocence, but enraptured with it, too. "Never mind," he says wrapping his arms around her and leaning so close to her ear that he actually feels her tremble. "Here." He holds out a book to her that he has taken from his back pocket, and she looks at the title and snatches it from him.

"A Prayer for Owen Meany!" She exclaims, immediately opening it and glancing over the first page. He grins a triumphant grin.

"So you are a John Irving fan," he says, pressing his leg against her hip. This distracts her for a moment, and she looks up at him in a way that tells him she is both annoyed at his interruption and eager to feel him against her. In the end, her eagerness wins.

"Yes, maybe," she says mischievously, pressing the book to her chest. It is caught between them as he kisses her. "Thank you," she says, serious now, and then she picks up her backpack and runs to the path that leads to the main street.

"Where do you think you're going?" He calls after her, well aware that all of his friends in New York would mercilessly mock him for being so whipped, but that's just how it is at the moment, no matter how much he tries to hide it.

"Where do you think I'm going?" She retorts, and then, smiling, she's gone, leaving him leaning against the wall. God, she's amazing. He thinks about running after her and stealing another kiss, but he doesn't. And, damn it, in the heat of the moment he gave her that book before he was finished with it.

It's sad, what she does to him, so why can't he stop grinning?

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"Hey, Luke," Jess said easily. He never called him "Uncle Luke" or any other stupid name; it had become a comfortable understanding between them that they were both on a first name basis. In fact, the few times Jess had used the title "Uncle," it had been as a retort dripping with sarcasm. That was how it worked best anyway.

"How are ya?" Luke asked gruffly, his eyes opening in only mild shock when he turned around from lugging a crate into his apartment and saw his nephew standing in the middle of his kitchen. It wasn't the first time he just appeared, and it definitely wouldn't be the last, so Luke decided, once again, that he'd just prefer not to know.

"Still alive," came Jess' typical response. He walked over to help, and the two of them pushed the crate over into a corner without Jess asking what was in it. They stood next to each other awkwardly, not knowing what to say.

"I guess you should get unpacked," Luke finally muttered uneasily, but then his eye caught the empty duffel bag on the spare bed and realized that his suggestion came too late. "Oh. Well, I have to get back to the diner."

Jess cleared his throat and tried not to look around him too much. There were too many memories. This might have been a bad idea, coming back, but he was a stubborn hardass and he knew it. He refused to allow himself to be chased away by ghosts. "I'll come with you."

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Lorelai had to smile when she walked into her kitchen and saw Rory sitting there over a mug of coffee. It seemed so normal, so right, when her daughter came back for a visit. The house was always strangely empty without her. She never told anybody about the nights she went into Rory's bedroom, staring at the empty bed silhouetted in the moonlight, sitting in a chair for hours and listening to the awkward quietness of the room that resulted from the absence of Rory's breathing.

"Mom, what do you think about Logan?" Rory asked, looking up from her coffee to stare inquisitively into her mother's eyes. Lorelai took a moment to decide whether she should lie or tell the truth, but the answer was always the same when it involved Rory. Lying was futile.

"I actually think he gets his nails manicured," she whispered, knowing that Logan would finish unpacking the Jeep any minute and be back inside. "And I swear he gets his jeans dry cleaned. Apparently he just forgot to audition for Richie Rich." Okay, so that had been a little harsh, but she, having grown up much the same way, knew how to recognize someone who had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. It was so obvious he had been pampered his whole life. Rory opened her mouth to say something, but she cut her off. "High points: he looks like a Ken doll, he has a smile that belongs on a commercial, he seems to have looked up the word 'confident' in the dictionary once or twice, and he's crazy about you." She gave her best 'whatever-makes-you-happy-dear' smile and sat down across from Rory.

"He's definitely not dull," Rory said, stroking the handle of her mug. "I really like him." She swallowed and looked up into her mother's expectant face that was obviously waiting for the rest of her sentence. Sighing, she gave it. "It's just . . . we don't have many interests in common. He's only on the newspaper because of his dad. It's not like he enjoys it or anything. And he thinks he owns the world."

Lorelai scrunched up her nose. "Have you checked the newest Monopoly edition? He just might." She meant it as a joke, but sadly, she could imagine Huntzberger Monopoly with surprising clarity. She shook her head.

"He's different than his dad, though. He really has a personality. He's brave," Rory went on. Lorelai watched her pull on the light blue cardigan she wore over a white shirt. "I don't know. I guess I'll have to wait. I just don't know."

She covered her daughter's hand with her own and squeezed it. "Don't rush it, babe," was the only piece of advice she was willing to give. When she looked into Rory's eyes, though, she wanted to say "Don't do this to yourself. Don't settle."

A thump in the hallway alerted them both to Logan's return. He deposited two large suitcases in the front entryway and then strode into the kitchen before taking a seat next to Rory at Lorelai's urging. She watched the way he blindly groped for the fingertips of her daughter without looking into her face first, immediately assuming that she'd want to hold his hand. All of her motherly instincts were on fire, but she hid them.

"Well, here you are all cleaned up and gelled down," she said to him, a fairly fake smile on her face. "And I was so looking forward to the pink spandex and leopard print cowboy hat Rory told me about."

He chuckled, but didn't carry on her banter. Her fake smile fading, Lorelai grabbed Rory's cup of coffee from her and took a sip. "So," Rory said suddenly, aware of the awkward silence and hoping to hide it before Logan noticed it, "So, you have to understand that mom and I never keep food at home. Unless you want to eat stale poptarts – "

"We're out of those," Lorelai interjected.

"Okay, well, we can order Chinese or pizza if we want to stay home."

Logan shook his head. "I'm here to see the town, I thought."

Lorelai stared at him coolly. So you think, big boy. Good for you. Then she smiled again. "Well, I'd suggest we go to the Ritz." She raised her eyebrows suggestively at Rory, ignoring Logan's confusion. God help him, he actually thought she meant the Ritz.

Rory nodded. "Oh, definitely."

As they walked to the door and Lorelai put on a light jacket, she watched her daughter and Logan talk in the hallway. He was telling her about some crazy stunt he had pulled once with one of his friends and she was laughing. Sadly, Lorelai noticed, the laugh didn't reach her eyes.

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