Disclaimer: Don't own them. If I did, this would be an episode.

Author's Note: Have you picked yourselves up off the floor yet? Yes, I'm writing another fic and a chaptered one at that. Blame it on CMM's increasingly Tristan-like hotness on "One Tree Hill." Granted, this story won't be an epic, and the chapters might seem short when compared to some of my others, but I hope the content will help make up for it. I got this idea while listening to "Every Time" by Jessica Andrews, which incidentally also inspired "If Only…" So, take that however you will, LOL. And I know you're thinking you won't see Chapter Two for another year. Never fear, I've already started on it. ;)

What You Need to Know: I suppose this could be considered AU, because I've changed some things in the show to fit my Trory universe. There was never a Dean, nor a Jess. Tristan and Rory's kiss at Madeline's party, and everything thereafter, never happened. Now before you throw rotten vegetables at me, read on. A little fluffy, a little not, and everything else in between. I think (hope) you'll forgive me.

Calling the distinguished home a mansion was an understatement. It towered above her, dwarfing her in a rectangular shadow as it blocked the orange, glowing rim of the sun. All wrought iron fences and ornate stone columns, it was as ominous as it was grand. The lawn was immaculate, dozens of flower beds boasting blooms of every hue in the rainbow. She figured a hundred gardeners probably worked their fingers to the bone each day to perfect this presentation. Okay, that was more than likely an exaggeration, but it was difficult to imagine anyone even living there, let alone doing any form of manual labor. Dirt under the nails and other things considered.

She stepped over the weed-free walkway, careful not to damage the fragile pansies, fully expecting to hear a recorded "Stay off the grass!" if she treaded into the beds. The door loomed in front of her, chestnut oak with a brass knocker shaped vaguely like a lion. A sneering lion.

Wrinkling her nose, she tested the offending object with two fingers. It was much heavier than she had expected. She slid her whole hand around the knocker, lifted it and then let it drop once. It connected with a echoing thud, and she jumped back, startled. At least it wasn't calling her "Scrooge."

And she waited.

Nothing. It would be just like him to arrange to meet her and then not be home. She would not get a zero for this project.

She threw the knocker against the door. Twice.

Silence.

Hadn't these people heard of door bells? Finally she found it, hidden behind a prickly shrub, and rammed her fist against it, holding the pressure.

"Rory!"

The voice was coming from somewhere above her. She glanced up and saw Tristan's head poking out of a window upstairs, a pair of black headphones dangling loosely from his neck.

He lifted a casual hand in greeting, and she glared.

"Hang on, I'll be down in a sec." With that, he disappeared into the confines of the house. After what seemed like an hour, the door opened, and he appeared, still holding the Discman.

She arched an eyebrow. "What? No hired help?"

"Day off." He shrugged indifferently, his eyes shifting over her in a lazy, heated observance. Seemingly taking in nothing. Consuming everything.

It was peculiar seeing him out of his Chilton uniform, but his appearance was anything but. Broad shoulders clad in a navy, long-sleeved Abercrombie shirt. Lean waist and muscular thighs ensconced in a slightly clingy, slightly baggy, worn pair of jeans. And bare feet. Yeah, he was still indisputably, irritatingly attractive.

She'd never, ever own up to that statement. But it was too late, for he had already caught her staring, and he smirked in acknowledgement. "Are you going to come in, or do you want to stay out here and check me out?"

Cheeks brightening in annoyed embarrassment, she cleared her throat as he leaned against the door to let her through. Purposely not giving her enough room, her shoulder brushed his chest as she skittered across the threshold, close enough for him to sense the fruity essence of her shampoo. She stood in the foyer, distracted, absently fiddling with the straps of her back pack. Looking everywhere but at him.

He was still holding the Discman, and in a desperate attempt to remove his attention from her, she took it from him, glancing at the CD inside. "Coldplay?

"Who were you expecting? Hilary Duff?" The laughter died in his throat when he noticed that tiny droplets of scarlet budded on the black plastic. "You're bleeding."

She tried to wrench her hand away but failed miserably. "Your fern is really a murderous cactus in disguise."

"Damn," he hissed. The tender flesh of her index finger was marred by a jagged cut, blood seeping out in minuscule beads. Wordlessly, he led her to the kitchen, sitting her down at the counter while he gathered rubbing alcohol and a Band-Aid.

He straddled the stool beside of her, taking her small hand in his larger one. "It's just a scratch." Even so, she winced as he dabbed at her finger with some gauze which had been soaked in alcohol.

"Stings, huh?"

"No."

"Right." He cradled her hand, palm up and began to blow lightly on the wound, his lips inches from her skin. A flood of shivers danced over her spine, and her hand quaked slightly with them. His head was lowered, face downcast, but his eyes crinkled, and she knew he felt it. He circled the Band-Aid around her finger and smoothed it in place.

He was still holding her hand, his fingers gently closed around hers, their thumbs interlocked. She was so close, just a mere two steps away, yet it might as well have been miles. Their palms brushed, a simple caress of skin. Innocent to the casual eye, but to him, it burned. Like a glowing flame, lapping at his ankles and melting the hard exterior of the wall he had so deliberately built. And like fire, this forbidden feeling could destroy and hurt. Make him feel pain. Yanking his hand away, he broke the contact, tossing the gauze and bandage wrapper in the trash. But it was too late, and he had lingered for far too long. The five seconds were all it took. The heat, the mind-numbing attraction… he had felt them all.

They were unbearably stronger than ever. And unlike fire, he was left wanting more. So much more than she could ever want to give him.

Back still to her, he motioned for her to follow as he exited the kitchen. He was halfway up the winding, endless staircase when she finally caught up with him, huffing each breath. "Where are we going?"

"My room." He was leaning languidly on the banister, not in the least bit winded. "Does that bother you?" His eyes twinkled suggestively.

She scoffed in disdain. "Why would that bother me?"

"Oh, I could think of several reasons."

Groaning, she waited until he turned before sticking out her tongue and stumbling the rest of the way up the stairs.

*****

His room was remarkably neat, save a pair of black boxers crumpled in one corner. He dropped them in the hamper, shooting her a devilish look. "Now you know."

"And I could've sworn you wore panties."

"Touché." Collapsing on the bed, he patted the dark blue comforter, prompting her to join him. She did so, perching uneasily there, fully aware that this was where he slept every night. Probably in various states of undress.

Pulling out the sheet of questions assigned to them by their Psychology teacher, she scanned it in disbelief for the millionth time. A study of relationships, of all things. And to be paired with Tristan… God, help her. "Describe your first kiss."

He grinned in satisfaction, reminiscing. "Alexandra Whitmore in fourth grade, behind the jungle gym. Man, she was hot, even then."

She scribbled his answer, eager to move on from this subject as soon as possible. "Wow, I'm surprised your first sexual experience wasn't in the hospital nursery."

"Nah, I was too absorbed with my own body then." A brief, agonizing pause. "Your turn."

"What?"

"Your first kiss."

"Next question." She propelled her pencil repeatedly into the holes of her spiral notebook, not daring even a glance at him.

"You have to answer."

"Make something up."

"You've never been kissed, have you?"

She avoided the question. "Hate to break it to you, but you're no Michael Vartan."

"Well, I've never been into Drew, but Jennifer Garner, on the other hand…"

"Okay, the next question is "Describe your first date."

"I'm not finished."

"Unfortunately," she retorted, wanting to run away. Take the zero. Fail Chilton. Join a convent.

"You've never kissed a guy." He was beyond curious, because, hell, she just fascinated him.

"I figured the answer was obvious by now," she snapped.

"Why?"

"This isn't part of the assignment."

"That's not why I'm asking."

She timidly picked at a stray thread buried in the thick cream carpet, brimming with uncertainty. "No one has wanted to." Why was she telling him this?

"That doesn't mean they don't think about it."

She glowered at him. "And you're the authority on this subject." Sarcastic.

"You'd be surprised."

"Then enlighten me."

He had moved closer to her on the bed now, hand edging its way toward hers. "Remember your first day at Chilton when I offered you my notes?"

She nodded, wanting to remember how to forget.

"I thought about it."

She ducked her head, hair falling in a protective curtain around her face.

"And every other day since…" A husky pause.

"What?" It was a small sigh.

"I've wanted to." He had long ago lost count of how many times.

"You're not serious."

"Deadly."

"We can't."

"I can."

"I don't have to do this," she protested weakly, knowing she had already given in.

"You don't, but you will." A devastating smile, dripping with confidence. "Here's our chance to prove each other wrong."

To be continued…