A/N: Hey, look! Midtowngirl89 is continuing a story that was originally a oneshot! --Shock from the audience, cheers from readers.-- Yes, I know. I was curious as to where it could go. My only fear is that the one chapter really does not blend with this one. I mean, it's a very different format. Let's say the first chapter was more like a preface, then. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it! And I will most likely continue it more. Most likely. Oh, and this chapter picks up where the last left off. If that wasn't obvious.

Disclaimer: I borrowed lines from "Let the Games Begin".

XxXxX

"Coffee?" He waves the foil envelope over the white counter and her eyes wander to his fingers.

"Do you even have to ask?" she replies, her tongue protruding the corner of her mouth. His shirt rises and falls as his arm swoops to pick up the coffeepot, exposing small strips of olive skin below the hem. The air is still and she smells wet snow even now, inside his living room. She surveys the small apartment; the rectangular kitchen permeates the bedroom and the den, and the bathroom, off to the left, is the only room with a proper door. Her voice breaks the quiet, "I like your place, Jess."

"It's no pool house," he scoffs, leaning against the rusted refrigerator.

"No, really, I love it. I mean, I've never had a place of my own. It must feel good." She finally shimmies out of her scarlet overcoat, brushing icy fragments off the sleeves, and lays it over his straight-backed chair. Her words settle and he thinks she's right. This is his.

"How do you take your coffee?" he asks abruptly, scouring through the drawers next to the sink, retrieving handfuls of pink, blue, and white packages. "I've got it all."

"Same as always." She flickers her sapphire eyes, awkwardly looming around the room, dragging her fingers along the sparse picture frames on the end table. He catches this; she assumes he remembers her sugar and cream preferences, and actually, it's almost mechanical as he opens the minute packets, shaking them into the steaming mug.

XxXxX

She sighs audibly, her hair strewn across her pallid complexion, thick bangs shadowing her forehead. The glowing digital clock, neon in the muted light, strikes two (impossible, but he hears the seconds tick). She faintly touches her ear, gesturing to him, and he imitates her movement, feeling the coarse cigarette still settled where he'd left it hours before. "So, tell me, what's your decision on smoking that depending on?"

"On what's gonna happen." He smiles, jerks his lip to the left, and cocks an eyebrow.

"When?" she formulates, following his lead.

"Now."

"You remember that?" Rory laughs, tilting her head back in a childish fashion. But her breath suddenly hitches and she recalls his hands on her hips, her fingers behind his neck, skin on skin, lips on lips, and the distressing smell of gasoline.

"I just…I just remember wanting to kiss you so badly," he stutters, forcing air from his lungs. The room has never felt quite so heavy, and the mood alters, reminiscent to now. He doesn't believe she's so here, so existent in the cold of his apartment, her thighs printing ellipses in the cushions of his couch. Her eyes fall to the floor.

"We're going to break up, I know it. My name will be crossed out of his little black book before the week is over," she wavers, changing so quickly, and he wanted to stay back in three years ago. But he's pulled to this night, his head struggling to stay above the tide he feels swallowing his body. He blinks.

"What?"

"Logan. We had a fight. This is it. No fixing. No trying. He can't see me trying."

"Oh. Right," Jess nods, but he's a thousand miles away. No. Scratch that, more like a couple hundred. How far is it to Stars Hollow?

"I'm sorry. It doesn't matter. I interrupted your whole night, and I sit here complaining about my obstinate boyfriend," she apologizes, toying with the impractical lace of her dress, the ribbon skimming her knees.

"It's fine, really."

"What were you doing before I got here?" Rory asks curiously, nibbling her already stunted fingernails. She stifles a yawn and her eyelids flutter.

"Writing…or trying at least. It's frustrating," he admits, his eyes lingering on the heap of paper concealing a small table near his bedroom.

"Then get back to it. Now. I insist. Don't quit on account of me being here. Write me something, anything."

"But I…" His words stop short and he fears he's all out of them; his mind floods with only pictures, flashes, clips of her eyes, pale hands, tight curls splayed across her collarbone.

"No excuses. Go, Jess!" she persists, and he yields, dejectedly walking to his desk.

His hand is slow to pick up the pen, his fingers winding around the plastic. Unconsciously, he scrawls letter after letter, loopy y's and strict r's. He realizes minutes later that the word is coming without consent, filling the paper as his muscles tighten. He turns his head and watches her form slip into the couch, closed eyes, parting lips. Rory Rory Rory.