Hello there! Posting this much later than anticipated bc even though I had the bulk of it pre-written, there was still some missing dialogue I was struggling with... then the inspiration for my latest one shot got the better of me.

Had someone ask me about 'of chaos & art' - I'm unhappy with where my outline was going with that one, so I decided to take it down while I rework it. I do plan on eventually re-uploading it with the new edits made. Thought I'd clear that up!

A little more Logan/Rory in this chapter... the next chapter will be chock full of them! Pls enjoy.

Rory

"Wow. You really have a knack for this," her friend tells her; her voice, a reminder that she'd been in the middle of telling a story that Rory totally had clocked out for. Oops. She holds her fingers to the light and admires her handiwork. "Steady hands. You've never considered a career in medicine? You would kill in an O.R."

"I think that's the opposite of what should be happening in an operating room," Rory snorts. She tightens the bottle of nail polish shut, a subtle sandy pinkish shade named Ballet Flats. "Now, give me your hands back, woman. Time for the top coat."

Paris rolls her eyes, and places her hands back onto Rory's lap. "You knew what I meant."

"So, finish telling me about the thing you were telling me about," she says absently as she concentrates on swiping a clear coat over Paris' freshly painted manicure.

"What thing?" the blonde questions her, eyebrow arched.

"The... work thing," Rory repeats, hopelessly grasping at loose ends; Paris so clearly knows she hasn't been listening. "You were just telling me about it."

"Yeah," Paris smirks. "Why don't you tell me about your thing instead?"

She shrugs. "There is no 'thing.' All's good."

"Unconvincing," Paris shakes her head. "Spill, Gilmore."

"It's just… It's been a day, to say the least," she begins. Paris uses her free hand to carefully refill their glasses with more cabernet. "Sutton got into some trouble at school today."

"Is it that Henry kid again?" Paris asks. "I can't stand that boy."

"Yeah," Rory sighs. "She sort of kicked him… in the groin."

"Atta girl," she says, trying to stifle a laugh. Though the two of them had never formally met, Paris has always been anecdotally fond of Sutton, what with her penchant for headbands and her deep disregard for boys; specifically those who thought themselves smarter than girls.

"Paris, it isn't funny," Rory counters, though she finds herself fighting a grin of her own. "She could have gotten suspended."

"Please," her friend shrugs, "Sutton will be fine. You and I both know private schools are designed to let rich kids get away with shit like this all the time."

"Fine. But that doesn't mean it's what I want for these kids," Rory frowns. "Sutton's smart. She's focused. I want her to actually learn something from this."

"Fair enough," she nods in agreement. "So, then what happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, Rory, because I know you love those kids, but I don't think a 9-year-old getting in trouble is what has you so distracted tonight."

Rory deliberates for a moment. It's only been a couple of days, but she hasn't told Paris 一 or anyone, really 一 about her Saturday night tryst. Verbalizing the situation would mean that it actually happened. And while, logically, she knows leaving things unsaid doesn't negate the reality that those things happened… Words have a tendency of Making Things Real in a way she hasn't been ready to confront just yet.

Now is as good a time as any, she supposes.

"Gilmore," Paris speaks. "You have now applied three coats of clear gel to my middle finger. I mean, it's my lucky finger, naturally. But still. Ease back."

Rory breaks her trance and moves onto the next finger.

She clears her throat before speaking. "Okay. Try not to overreact..."

"When you begin a story that way, I can't make any promises."

"Okay," she sighs. "Well, you know how on Saturday, I went to Lane's band's thing in the city?"

"Yeah," Paris recalls, brows furrowing together. "Why? What happened?"

"Well," she continues, slowly. "I sort of… Met someone there."

"At the bar?" Paris' large brown eyes widen, expressive as ever. Still, to Rory's benefit, she does her best to maintain her composure. "Please, elaborate."

"Well, the guys got sick from eating bad fish and chips at the pub一"

"Eugh," Paris interjects to offer her disapproval. "Serves them right."

"Yeah, well, whatever. So, they had to cut their entire set short. Zach barely made it to the second verse of their cover of Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots before he ran off stage to hurl. Not pretty," Rory shudders at the memory. "Anyway, so Lane ends up having to take the guys to urgent care. She offered me a ride home, but I don't know… I guess I just felt like hanging around more."

She pauses to give Paris an opportunity to chide her for hanging around a bar alone at night, but the other woman seems too invested in the events of Rory's story to take the bait.

So, she continues. She tells her friend about the guy she finds sitting alone at the bar, about to make the mistake of ordering the same entree responsible for giving her friends food poisoning. She tells of the conversation that naturally followed after she warned him against it; how effortless their exchange flowed, how easy it felt to enjoy herself around him.

She divulges about the rest of it too; about the parts that make her blush, that make her skin feel like fire. It surprises her how freely the words seem to leave her mouth, but then, she's always judged herself a lot more harshly than Paris has. Or anyone else, for that matter.

"So, you got some? That's not a crime."

"I know that. It's just… I just… I didn't even get his name, you know? I just froze. And then I left. I feel so stupid."

"If you used protection, then you weren't being stupid," Paris says. "Was he good-looking, at least? No. Better question. Was the sex good?"

"Really good," she admits, more quickly than she would have liked too. The blood returns to her face. "And he smelled really, really good."

"Good-looking, decent lay, nice pheromones," Paris details, as if she's listing off the attributes of a car. "Sounds ideal. And you really don't plan on seeing him again?"

"See, that's the thing. I did." Rory says, bringing her wine glass to her lips. "See him again, I mean."

"You're losing me here," she shakes her head. "Where? And when?"

"Today. At Astor."

Paris raises an eyebrow. "Wait, what? So he works at the school?"

"Nope," Rory tells her. "He was there for Henry."

"Okay. I'm confused."

"Yeah. Join the club," Rory's face twists into a frown.

"Don't tell me," Paris muses, her voice going flat. "Let me guess. You think this guy is Henry's dad, don't you?"

Of course Paris, of all people, sees right through her.

"I don't know," Rory plays with the stem of her wine glass. "Maybe? I would be lying if I said the thought hasn't crossed my mind."

"Oh, come on, Gilmore. What the hell are those odds?"

"And what are the odds that I would have a one night stand with a complete stranger and then run into him three days later at an elementary school?"

"Fair enough." Paris nods in acknowledgment. "Life's like that. You've never met this kid's parents before?"

"Nope," Rory shakes her head. "I've only ever had contact with his nanny."

"Figures."

"They're pretty loaded, from my understanding. His parents. Which, I guess, they would have to be to afford that school. But judging by what Amanda says, it's lots of old money. The mom is some sort of socialite. Dad travels a lot for work, I think."

A thought seems to dawn on Paris. "Oh my God. Do you think he's one of those rich bastards who keeps an extra apartment in a separate city to use solely for the purpose of bedding other women?"

Well, she wasn't thinking that before. "Paris!" she exclaims. "That is so not helpful."

"Relax, relax," she says calmly, trying her best to sound reassuring. "I was only kidding. Mostly. Besides, you are the one jumping to conclusions. You don't actually know if he's married. And besides, even if he is and he cheated on his wife, that's on him. Not you. You got yours, didn't you?"

In a lot of ways, where it counts, Rory and Paris are strikingly similar; they're both introverted, bookish, self-reliant to a fault. They share a similar sense of humor, and a unique understanding of one another. But where they are different, those differences can be staggering; in all their years of friendship, Rory has never been able to relate to Paris' more cavalier attitudes toward things.

Specifically sex.

"That is not the point," she says sharply.

"Exactly," Paris agrees. "It isn't. The point is men are pigs. Men will always be pigs. Which might not be a very fair thing to say about pigs. I've heard they're very intelligent, gentle animals. I'm not necessarily advocating for extramarital affairs here, but still. If you got your needs taken care of, then good for you. If he cheated on his wife, it's his problem."

There's a lot of grey area in Paris' logic, Rory thinks. Or maybe it's completely black and white. She can't tell. Either way, she's not sure if she entirely sees in the same way, but still, she appreciates the attempt.

"Man, as a concept… Fine," she adds. "Great, even. But in practice… Well, that's another story entirely. The secret to happiness is found in understanding that this is a simple fact of life."

"Happiness?" Rory eyes her.

"Happiness, a healthy sex life," Paris shrugs. "Marginal differences."

"Jeez, Paris. Be more cynical, will you?"

"Hey, maybe I'm a cynic, but least I'm not a whore," she mocks.

Rory rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but smiles into her wine glass.

••

The next morning unfolds as the rest of them do.

Rory greets Clarisse on her way out the door and makes small talk with Ava as she readies herself for the office. She has about twenty minutes to herself before it's time to get the kids up and ready for school, which she spends drinking a cup of coffee and squeezing in a little reading.

Cohen is dropped off first; the kindergarten classrooms at Astor are annexed off from the rest of the building and therefore have their own separate playground and courtyard, and his teacher Miss Molly 一 who is also the light of his life - is always there bright and early.

Drop off for upper elementary is on the opposite end of the building, near the entrances for the athletic department. Sutton's fifth grade class lines up on the school's soccer field.

Normally, Rory allows Sutton to run off and talk to her friends before their teacher arrives to collect her group, but not today. Today, she owes someone a formal apology, and Rory will see to it herself that she delivers it.

They're only waiting a couple of minutes before their intended subject arrives. Again, there's no Amanda with him. Once more, a certain blonde stranger is in her place, walking toward them, his nearly identical 9-year-old clone trailing close behind.

Rory nudges Sutton forward, and the child plasters on the fakest smile she's ever seen and mutters a passive aggressive apology in Henry's direction. Henry's response is an eye roll and, reluctantly, the two of them walk toward the line for Mrs. Mody's class together.

"Jeez, what is it with those two?" the man wonders aloud, hands in his pockets and staring straight ahead, watching the children as they join the rest of their peers.

Rory doesn't offer a response. She stares blankly ahead at Sutton, whose back is turned to her now as she converses with one of her other classmates.

"You know," he starts, his tone friendly and warm, like there is nothing at all that's weird about this. She could feel his gaze shifting onto her. "I never did get your name."

She purposely avoids his question. "Where is Amanda?" she asks in a genuine attempt at casual curiosity.

"Dominican Republic. She had some family affairs to take care of," he explains. "Nothing serious, I don't think. But then again, I didn't really think to ask. I, myself, am back in town, so I thought I'd kick it with my favorite nephew for awhile. Help out where I can until she gets back."

"Nephew?"

That certainly would explain the striking resemblance, and just as well, provides a small sense of relief to her.

"Yeah. I'm Henry's uncle," he tells her. "Logan, by the way. Since you asked. Do I get to know your name now?"

She takes a beat before answering, shifting on her feet. "Rory."

"Rory." He repeats her name slowly, as if being introduced to a word in a foreign language for the first time. "What is that? Irish? Scottish?"

"Probably? I don't know. It's short for Lorelai." She isn't sure why she tells him this, or why she keeps falling into this juvenile jumble of nerves and uncertainties when she's around him. It's silly. Especially after the night they'd had together 一 he's, quite literally and metaphorically, seen her naked.

But maybe that's why it's embarrassing.

"Okay," he nods. "Well, Rory, it's nice to formally make your acquaintance."

"Right. Well, I should probably-"

"Go?" he finishes for her, a knowing smile settling across his face. "You are a very mysterious woman, do you know that, Rory? Tell me, are you secretly a spy?"

She folds her arms across her chest in discomfort and adjusts the strap of her bag. "I'm just really busy. Got a lot of work to do. A deadline coming up."

A completely fabricated deadline, but still.

"Yeah, you probably couldn't tell me if you were a spy, anyway, right?" he jokes. Without breaking eye contact, he seemingly looks right through this excuse. "Okay. If you're busy, I won't keep you. Good luck with your deadline."

"Thanks," Rory nods in polite acknowledgement and quietly turns on her heels to go.

"See you around, Rory!" he calls after her, a promise that cuts through the wind.

She doesn't have to turn and face him to understand he means it.