A/N: Heeeeelllllloooooooo, folks. Thanks for all the great reviews, and more is always better (hint, hint). I'm not really sure how long this fic is gonna be; I'm kinda just seeing where it brings me. I know how I want to end it—even the last few sentences and everything. I'm just not sure how I'm gonna get there.

Disclaimer: Are you kidding? If anything, GG owns me.

I moved back.

What?

I moved back.

But—what—why?

Just wanted to.

Rory smiled in her sleep, dreamily remembering the way his mouth felt on hers. He had a certain taste; cigarette smoke mixed with spicy cologne, heat and sweat and something else that she couldn't quite explain. Something that was just…Jess. She rolled over and floated along in her dream, that kiss never ending. Falling, falling, flying, soaring, gone.

She woke with a start, turning over on the couch. She had told Logan that it was better if she didn't sleep next to him—that he would catch her flu. The lie had taken almost no convincing.

She felt guilty about not wanting to sleep with her husband, but she knew that she would feel guiltier if she dreamt about Jess while sleeping next to Logan.

Carefully tiptoeing across the kitchen floor, she filled the coffee pot with water and picked up her book. No matter how many times she read and re-read it, she never got tired of hearing Jess's words. It was as close to kissing him as she could come.

God! She thought, subconsciously smacking herself in the head. She had to get over this obsession. Remember what he did to you, she told herself. Remember how he never called. How he didn't communicate. How he left, twice, without saying goodbye.

Still, her mind drifted to other things. The way his lip drooped adorably a little to the right. The way he kissed her, in that spot behind her ear, that no one else did like he could. The way he would always have a cup of coffee ready for her when she came into the diner. The way he would snake his arm around her side, almost protectively.

She let out a sigh, not sadly, but sweetly, playing with the hem of her shirt. She picked up Jess's book and flipped through it, searching for one of her favorite passages. The one where he talks about the first time he saw her.

She sat down on the couch, resting her feet on the table in front of her, propping up her elbow on a pillow. She had read it so many times; she knew the words by heart.

At first, the boy was startled, but he tried not to let it show. Cool, he thought, be cool. "Hey," she said, and he instantly loved her voice. It reminded him of sunlight, of apples and sand and warmth. As he came closer, he was struck by how beautiful she was; but not in that Marilyn Monroe, plastic-surgery kind of way. She was all sugar, innocence and spring. "Hey," he said back. And that's when he knew that she would be his everything.

Rory closed the book, hugging it tightly to her chest. He wrote in third person, even though it was clearly about himself. That sentimental jackass, she thought, smirking. It was one of the ways she knew that he had grown up. Back when they were seventeen, he never would have said something like that; let alone written it down. He was still her Dodger; she could still hear his eye-rolling, sarcasm-drenched words in his book, but there was also that side of him that she had barely seen, and no one else even glimpsed at.

She flipped through the book some more, but then heard the coffee maker beeping. Not wanting it to wake Logan, she dropped the book and ran to the kitchen to turn it off. After she had poured herself a substantial amount of coffee, she went back to where the couch was, placing the cup on the table.

As the reached down to pick up the book, her eyes caught on something printed on the back cover.

A number.

A phone number, actually.

Gotcha, she head a voice in the back of her mind say. It sounded suspiciously like Jess when he would catch her with one of his pranks.

She stared at it for a while, pausing to take a sip of coffee. So what? She thought, her logic-voice setting in. So what if there's a number to contact him with? Why should you care? It's not like you'd ever talk to him. Especially now that you're married. Especially now that he told you that he was still in love with you.

She closed her eyes. But maybe, a tiny, rebellious part of her mind said, maybe you should call him. Just to tell him thanks, or something. You know, for the book.

She wanted to agree with the second voice.

Oh, please, she heard her logic-voice bite back. It's not like he'd ever do the same for you. Don't you even remember the day he left?

She scrunched up her face.

So you'll call me? She heard her 18-year-old self say.

Yeah, I'll call you.

She bit back tears, shaking her head slowly. Her eyes filled with a disobedient glare.

"So he left," she said out loud, that tiny part of her head taking control. "Big deal. It was a long time ago. And he did come back," she added, almost defensively. "He always comes back. I should at least have the courtesy to call."

And with her eyes still shining with defiance, she picked up the phone and started to dial.