Summary: Rory/Logan one-shot (I didn't say Rogan because that makes me think of Rogaine, the hair growing stuff). " 'You make me crazy,' you say, frustrated. He's smiling and you wish he would stop."
Disclaimer: Don't own Gilmore Girls or Logan or Rory or Paris. But I own you, biznotch. Kidding, kidding… Title is a song by The Scene Aesthetic.
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The sun leaves a lovely glow on your face through the open window, a stiff breeze grazing the back of your neck. The office smells musty and used, with hints of intelligence and eloquence. It fits the newspaper perfectly, you think. The door creaks open and he's smirking at you.
"Hey, Ace," he begins, making his way to your desk. To behind your desk. In fact, he's standing right next to you and your swiveling chair. You are suddenly very aware of your plunging neckline and his fingers creeping toward your shoulder.
"Logan." Your voice is flat and low, and it doesn't sound like you at all. You quickly clear your throat.
"Ace," he repeats, and you see confusion in his smart eyes. You shut down the computer in front of you and whirl around to face him. It's quiet for a few minutes. The kind of quiet where nothing needs to be said because everything would sound awkward and it is wonderfully fine listening to the birds and murmurs of students talking. You blink back the sunlight and close the blinds. His face becomes shadowy. "What are you, a vampire?" he derides. You scowl and tuck your hair behind your ears.
"You make me crazy," you admit, frustrated. You cast a sideways glance at him, as he straightens his collared polo shirt.
"Good." He's smiling and you wish he would stop. You stand up, fists clenched, eyes stormy. His smile fades. You realize that he's coming closer. His nose is brushing yours. His breath is steady and warm. Your right hand moves to his chest and you have absolutely no idea what you're doing. Then your mind kicks in to high gear and you back away, stuttering excuses that don't mean anything.
The moment is gone. You wish you could go back for, like, a millisecond, which is precisely how long it took you to screw this up. You're furious. Mostly at yourself, but a little at him for being so impossibly cool. You feel like one of those plastic toy soldiers that you used to heat in the microwave until they melted, or exploded.
He covers his face with his hands and exhales sharply. He looks at you. Your collarbone juts harshly through your thin, maroon, pseudo-cashmere sweater. He notices how tiny your wrists are, and how the bone protrudes on the left side. He fingers the cord of the blinds and decisively tugs it. The room fills with light.
You think of leaving, but his eyes are pleading and you remain seated. Paris waltzes in, and the tension is broken. You slowly open and close your eyes a few times. Paris gives you both a "look" and grabs a manila folder. He walks around your desk.
"Maybe when you're not so afraid?" He says over his shoulder, and waits for your reaction. You simply nod, and it's over with.
You don't know why, but you stop by his dorm later. He invites you in, without a word, and you smile when he brings you steaming coffee and a book.