A/N: This chapter took a bit longer than the last one, but that was unfortunately unusually fast and this will probably be the more normal rhythm. However, I right now have no intention of leaving this story unfinished, and if people will keep liking it I will continue as soon as possible. Oh, and someone pointed out to me that Logan's mother's name is Shira, and not Sheila, like I wrote in the first chapter. Sorry for the mistake, and from now on it will be Shira and nothing else.

Chapter Three

For three days she didn't see him again. For three days she was more distant than ever in her relationship with Logan. For three days all she could think about was – what? Him? What she had suddenly blurted out and told him? She wasn't really sure what she actually had been thinking about, since she all the time had strained herself so damn hard to push those thoughts far away. Because there was no point in even thinking them, she told herself. It didn't matter, none of it mattered. She had made her choices so long ago, it was way too late to change any of it now. That was what she had decided, and though maybe she wasn't completely satisfied with this decision, she knew it was the right thing to do. That was why she stubbornly avoided her favourite coffee place for three whole days (Logan wondered of her crankiness, but he never asked, which bothered her even more – Jess would have asked, or, even better, he would have just known). Because staying away was the best and wise thing to do.

Yet, now, she found herself lurking in the doorway of The Bean House for the second time, not certain whether to hope for him to be there or not. If he wasn't, then she would attempt even harder in forgetting their little encounter a few days ago, and she would force herself into succeeding. And if he was there – well, the time had not come to think of that just yet. Either way, she knew she had to know, and therefore she entered.

He wasn't there, she discovered with a surprisingly sinking feeling in the stomach as she thoroughly searched the café without any results. She should be relieved, really, because this way she could go back to living her life. And that was good, it had to be. She had Shira and Logan and her job and she was happy, right? Jess would only complicate things, and she could never count on him, not even for remaining there as her friend. He had always let her down; there was no reason to give him another chance. It was good that she didn't let him get so close to her this time. She probably should have known better than to talk to him at all, or at least than to let herself have coffee with him.

Still, she sighed heavily as she sunk down at her regular table in the corner, feeling as though her legs lost all their strength. She barely grunted a response to the waiter who also was an almost-friend of hers when asked how she was doing. After that she was left alone – they weren't that close. She could feel her eyes watering up, but she refused to set the tears free. She wouldn't cry for him, that was ridiculous.

Now it was official: she and Jess were done – forever and ever. She should feel grateful for this, that she it was over before she had got involved deeper. That she hadn't done anything to be feeling guilty about. That she wouldn't get in any trouble with her husband for hanging out with her ex-boyfriend. Logan was quite the jealous type and now he never had to find out anything, because there was really nothing to find out about. This was good, she tried desperately to convince herself. But still, she had to blink really hard to keep those tears from where they did not belong – out for the world to see. The word "done" kind of hurt, even though they really had lost their chance so many years ago.

And then he suddenly was standing there at the door like an imaginary ghost and their eyes locked and her breath got caught in her throat somewhere. He leaned nonchalantly at the door and was just standing there, being so much Jess that it hurt her, physically hurt her. And it was just: screw all morally correct reasoning and screw all the vows she had just made to herself that she wasn't supposed to be breaking. He also wasn't supposed to be there and yet he was. She could do nothing but beam back at his small smile, her eyelashes still glittering with unshed tears.

Jess didn't think he'd be back here after seeing her run out that day. Each of the three days since then, he had made plans to himself to just go out for a walk. Every time he had ended up here, no matter how many turns he had taken to avoid it. It was like magnetism, cliché as it may sound to say that he was drawn to the place – to her. It was the same thing whenever he had been in Stars Hollow in the past. Without thinking, sometimes even while thinking otherwise, his feet led him to the bridge (their bridge). Now it happened again and he wasn't at all sure he liked what she was doing to him, still. He was loosing control and he hated that. He wasn't one to rely on others, but she was like his drug, his abuse. He just couldn't keep himself away, even though he knew it was only self-destructive.

Now he was there again, and she was too, for the first time. He knew she had been avoiding him, and though he should be worried and all overwhelmed with the alarms going off inside him screaming "WARNING! DANGER!", he just couldn't do anything but smile at her, just a little, but genuinely happy to see her. Because he was – he shouldn't be, but he was.

Without having pondered what he was doing, or even noticing it, he suddenly had taken the last steps up to her table and found himself standing there, just in front of her. Not sure what action would be appropriate to perform next, he just let his fingers draw through his hair in a seemingly casual gesture, which really was a nervous one when it came to him; one he used in situations where he didn't know where to place his hands. She just sat there, looking up at him wide-eyed. Her eyes seemed wetter than usual and he wondered if she had been crying, and why. But he didn't trust his vision that well, and he didn't dare asking. In case he was wrong, and that would be embarrassing, or in case he was right and that would scare her off again. He kept his mouth shut, just silently wondering.

Suddenly she seemed to be awakening from something, as she abruptly looked away, broke their stare and shook her head violently, like she was just trying to regain consciousness. When she turned back to him, the pureness of her expression had vanished and she looked collected once more. He felt a small disappointment at the obviously plastered-on smile she now offered him, compared to the so genuine one that she had just shook away.

She motioned for him to sit down and he did, following her hand gesture without taking his eyes off her, which seemed to make her a tad uncomfortable.

She started to speak, obviously trying to make some light conversation. It was too bad that they had lost their ability to just stay silent with each other over the years.

"So, you never told me what it is that you do nowadays," she said, indicating that an answer was necessary. He hesitated a little, not sure if this was the right time to let her know.

"I mean, you're alive, right? That usually requires some sort of payment, and unless you've resigned to the worlds of bank robbing and drug dealing - or maybe those do count as some kind of jobs?" she babbled on, getting herself lost in what she was saying. "Anyway, you must have done something during all this time, since you're, well, alive."

He put on an amused smirk, because this rambling thing he recognized, even though he remembered it coming out a lot less frantic and hysterical. There was silence for a moment, because apparently she was embarrassed now and had decided to rather wait than go through more of the humiliating attempts at persuading him to talk. Still, he could see her impatience growing and if he didn't speak up soon, she might misread it. It really was the time to start forming some words.

"I'm a writer," he suddenly blurted out. This wasn't exactly how the moment was supposed to be, but he didn't have much of a choice and maybe this was the best opportunity he would ever get. Her eyes stared blankly at his form, not grasping the words that just came over his lips. "You're – what?" she asked in confusion.

He took a deep breath. "I'm a writer," he repeated. "I write. Books, you know. Letters on pages. Got a few published too," he added, thinking he might as well tell it all to her now, because he just couldn't not when her eyes were so deep into his and the disbelief he had seen in them was fading into something else. "I mean, it's no Hemingway, but -"

She cut him off roughly by attacking his lips with her own. The softness of her lips, her touch, made him delete all else from his mind and the world outside their mouths didn't exist at all (except maybe her hands, and his hair, as she was tangling those two together, in a plead for intimacy.) It was all familiar and yet so new, so much more passionate and intense than it had ever been back then; she used to be so innocent that he didn't dare touching her in the ways he would have wished. Still there were no cliché fireworks exploding in front of his eyes, just plain need for more meetings of lips and tongues.

Then it was gone, tragically, and through the most violent protests of his own mind, he himself had taken the initiative to pull away. They stayed close, forehead leaning against forehead, breathing into each other, panting slightly – in sync. He hated himself for crushing that little smile playing on her lips, but his mouth didn't think about the consequences of what it said would have (or maybe that part of him was really the only one to actually pay attention to the real consequences).

"You're married," his mouth pointed out, the voice of it only a whisper.

The satisfaction in her eyes transformed into confusion, to worry, to plain screaming fear in seconds. She almost jumped away from him, frantically starting to gather her stuff together (without really getting anything done), mumbling "Oh my God" to herself repeatedly. Soon she dropped her handbag on the floor and gave up the already failed attempt of getting herself composed and together again. She leaned back in her chair and her eyes were suddenly neither angry, nor scared; she just embodied tiredness, hands massaging her temple.

He didn't want to leave her this broken, and he wished there was something he could do to fix this by staying. He knew there wasn't though, and he had done enough damage as it was. He didn't even say goodbye to her now closed eyes (maybe this was because his eyes reflected his pain and that was something she just couldn't bare to watch) before walking away unwillingly.

Once he was out the door, he took one last glance in through the window and it took all the strength he had to stay true to his decision of leaving when he saw her head drop down into her hiding hands, violent shakes going through her whole body. He forced himself to look away and just keep walking.

A/N: I want to thank all of you reviewers of my story so far. If you're still liking this, please let me know (this of course also goes for new readers). If you have anything you think could be better – tell me, and I'll try to do better in future chapters. I live off reviews and took the time to write this in a really busy week just because I thought so amazing reviewers deserved an up-date. Okay, now I'm gonna stop rambling about it. My point is; reviews are very welcome.

Also, if you think this is getting too depressing – it can't just keep going downhill from here, right?