A/N: The feedback is very much appreciated. Thank you. This chapter should clear some things up. To Mai, who reminded me that I needed to update. To Lee, for being helpful and nice.

Chapter Three: You are calm and reposed

Petals, soft and pink; she brings the flowers close to her nose under the pretense of devouring their scent, but really, she likes the way they feel, brushing her face. Closing her eyes, she sees outside, never-ending green fields, and they're like fairy wings, light on her cheek. She blinks, and they're gone with a glittery trail, carried away by the wind. When she takes a step back, she catches him staring at her, his eyes burning. She likes this look, and makes a mental note to keep it as her own secret, locked away in her mind.

He wants to know if she's gone old fashioned, bringing him flowers (and if so… where the hell is his heart shaped box of chocolates?). She explains that they're a gift for someone's mother — she doesn't say his name, but Jess gets it, he knows who she means — and that it was her job to pick them up. On the way to the apartment, she stopped at a floral shop, and nearly let the polite French owner manipulate her into purchasing outrageously priced roses. Then, Rory had seen the tulips and knew that she had to have those instead. A whole bouquet of them, riding next to her in the front seat, and she's not sure why she brought them inside with her. It's not as if he cares about trivial matters of birthday gifts for people he's never met and never will.

She watches, transfixed, as he pulls a flower from the bunch. Lightly, she hits his arm, a weak attempt at chastising his actions. He hands her the flower, saying that if she likes them so much, she should keep one. It's not as if anyone will notice one missing. She rolls her eyes and decides not to fight this. Instead, she sits back on his bed, and plucks a petal, twirling it between her fingers. He loves me… he loves me not… He loves me…

Before she knows it, the flower is ruined, and petals litter the mattress. He pointedly tells her that she has to clean that up before she leaves, but she's too busy pouting over the loss of her delicate tulip. She looks up and he's standing right in front of her, another flower in his hand. This moment, she'll never forget: a shy boy, young, awkward, offering a flower, and waiting for acceptance. She wouldn't have dared to refuse it, even though it was another one taken from the bunch that was not meant for her.

Now there's an idea forming in her mind, and this time she means to shred the tulip, petals everywhere. He protests, of course, but she ignores him. The bouquet thins as his bed becomes covered. Then, she initiates a slow and tender kiss. He returns it, following the pace she has set, and takes small steps toward the bed. He lays her down without breaking contact, and she melts.

It's the most glorious thing, really: making love on a bed of flowers. It's just the kind of sappy cliché she needs, and it'll stick in her mind, saved right next to that first look he gave her earlier. Sweat turns into an adhesive that causes the petals to stick to her skin, his skin as they roll, twist in sheets that are cooler than their body temperature, so they send shivers up their spine. Later, she'll finally leave after a lingering kiss, a longing look, and few words. She'll arrive at her destination twenty minutes late, without the promised flowers; only a couple of petals still scattered in her hair.

He awakes to blue eyes, and her fingers dancing across his chest. Drawing lines, circles, symmetrical shapes; for all he knows, she woke up as Michelangelo, and was currently repainting the Sistine Chapel across his body. He's caught her doing this before, and has yet to understand her fascination, but he doesn't over-think it. This seems to be his morning wake up call, though. She sits on the edge of the bed, already showered and dressed. He wants to fall back asleep.

"Good almost afternoon," she chirps.

"Rory," he groans. "I'm sleeping."

"You're not sleeping. You're having a conversation with me."

"You call this a conversation?"

"Yes. Yes I do," she answers seriously.

He pulls on her arm, causing her to pitch forward and clumsily land on him. He wraps his arms around her back, almost a bear hug, and he turns so she's lying fully on the bed. He mutters incoherently, something like 'sleep' or 'shhh', and she sighs into him.

"Jess…"

"No energy. I feel like doing absolutely nothing."

"You know, doing is a verb, which implies an action, which means you're obviously doing something. You can't do nothing."

"You have gotta be kidding me…" he mutters. He pushes her away, and flops onto his back. "Leave me alone."

"This is my room. You can't stay here all day."

"Watch me."

"Tana thinks we're sleeping together," she blurts out hoping it'll cause him to move.

"We are sleeping together."

She continues, ignoring his remark, "She came in this morning while I was in the shower and saw you. I feel bad, because Paris said she got all blush-y and nervous, and that her new motto is 'always knock'. Although I really don't see how knocking would have helped in this situation."

"It wouldn't have."

"Come on, get up, it's almost lunch time, and I'm hungry."

"Me too, get me something good from the cafe, will you?"

"Jess!" She stands up and begins to yank on his arm. He is dead weight, however, and remains stubbornly still. Frustrated, she takes his shirt that hangs on her desk chair, and throws it at him. This has absolutely no effect, so she then takes his shoes, and stands over him, holding them threateningly. "These look awfully heavy…" she trails off.

"They're my shoes. I don't think they'll do much damage."

"Alright then," she shrugs. First she moves her hand farther down, so they're now hovering over his lower half. Before he can say anything, she drops them from quite a high altitude: perfect aim, it seems from his painful reaction.

He sits up in bed and chokes out, "That was low."

"Yes, very low," she smiles at the double meaning.

He puts his shirt on, glaring at her the entire time. Then he slips on his shoes, and stands up and stretches, arms high in the air. Promptly, he falls back into a sitting position, completely spent from the little movement he just completed. She offers him her hand, and reluctantly, he takes it, allowing her to pull him up.

"Alright, fine, geez, you're so pushy. Now, I believe you mentioned something about food?"

"You only got up for the food, huh?" She asks, hand still in his, turning to walk to the doorway.

"No," he insists sarcastically, "I did it all for you."

"Naturally," she smiles.

He takes a step in front of her, stopping both of them to the side of her closed door. It's comfortable; the atmosphere is light, and she's very happy that he spent the night. If there was any doubt in her mind the night before, there isn't now: everything is fine between them. Everything would continue to be perfectly fine. Now, if only he would stop staring, and lean a bit closer…

A knock at her door.

"Who is it?" She calls out.

"It's Blake."

She stands very still, deciding that any sudden movement could have a negative effect. Back and forth, her eyes dart between the two men in front of her. They both stand straight to their full height, their gazes smoldering. She's perched by her desk, waiting for one of them to make a move. It reminds of her of a standoff, a gentlemen's duel, and any second now, she's sure that they will turn, and begin to count off.

Finally Jess, shorter by three inches, offers his hand. She wants to smile, because he's doing it for her. Hesitantly, Blake takes it, and they shake. This goes on several seconds too long, and it's obvious that they're both testing the other's strength. Eye contact never breaking, Blake nods his head in a form of real acknowledgement, and Jess returns the gesture. They are officially acquainted, and it leaves the most uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She really wants the two to get along. Finally it's time to leave, but first she hugs Jess goodbye to show that he is a nonnegotiable, permanent fixture in her life. Something Blake cannot change. But once outside, the fresh air filling her lungs, the uneasiness continues to follow her closely, hanging on to her coat sleeves.

Eyes wide, her heart literally skips a beat. Jess doesn't look quite as alarmed — he's more pissed off than anything else. She has exactly three seconds to push him back a couple of steps. Then the door swings open, hiding her right hand, which still rests on his chest. She grabs the doorknob with her left, and offers a thousand watt smile for her boyfriend.

"Hey Blake, what are you doing here?"

"I thought I'd take you out for the day," he grins.

Jess holds his breath. At the sound of the man's voice, his hand instinctively moves up, and grabs Rory's wrist, his grip loose. Even though he can't see him, he can still imagine Blake in his mind: khakis and a T-shirt, his appearance never altered. He has a face that seems to belong in the past; a man in a tux, a cigar hanging out of his mouth, martini in hand, sitting in the Gentlemen's Smoking Lounge. Jess could picture him playing cards and tipping the waitress, because her shirt hung lower than the rest: Blake, a man of money, spending his time flitting away cash he didn't need in poker games. It fit. However, in the twenty-first century, a man of his age couldn't be idle. He's a senior at Yale, interning at his father's company in his spare time. One day he'll take over, become the head honcho who has more money than he knows what to do with. Jess wouldn't expect anything less.

"I have a paper to write today," Rory says, apologetically. "I really can't."

"How about you come out for the afternoon, and I'll drop you off for dinner?"

She sighs and glances down, knowing she shouldn't agree. She can feel Jess stroking her hand, and she wonders if he even realizes he's doing it. Any second now, she expects him to cough, to speak, to breathe, and then he'll be discovered. It's bizarre that Blake hasn't found the fact that her right hand is hidden odd. Maybe he believes it's just resting on the other side of the door; her fingers tracing invisible hearts on the wood: RG plus BL forever and always…

"I guess, but you have to drop me off for an early dinner. I still have some reading to do, and then the actual paper…"

"Sounds like a plan," he smiles before leaning down. His hand lands on her cheek, and he kisses her gently. As his tongue enters her mouth, she flattens her palm against Jess's chest, so she can feel his heartbeat.