A/N: And here it is. Thank you all so much for your support of this story. It's really, really helping me write. Plus, it makes me super happy to know I'm not alone in supporting Rogan all the way. There isn't much left for this particular plot - maybe one or two more chapters. Not sure when they'll be written, unfortunately. I'm currently one week into a six week vacation in England where my WiFi and time are limited.

Enjoy!

A Game of Love | Surprising Revelations

Wimbledon was Rory's favourite grand slam of the four. She imagined it was everyone's favourite—how could it not be—but it was especially hers. Her grandfather had sat her down after her first tennis lesson at age six and showed her footage of some old matches, commentating the entire time. He explained the significance of this particular fortnight, how it towered in importance over the other three grand slams. Ever since that moment, Wimbledon had been her special favourite.

She loved the crowds. They were so quiet and considerate. Whenever she scraped enough money together to see US Open matches in New York, the stands were full to the brim of obnoxious, drunk Americans. Their cheers were premature and rude. But here, in the quiet town of Wimbledon, the stands were silent except for when a player gained a point.

Rory had a feeling everyone was holding their breath at this point. What she had told Dean earlier was true. Don't waste your money on the final—come to the semis and see some absolutely breathtaking play. Logan had one match point against his opponent, who just so happened to be ranked No. 3 in the world. It was the fifth set, which meant no tie-break. Logan had to get this service game, otherwise Rory was worried he would be too tired to get ahead in the next game which would lead to him losing the entire match.

The tickets he had provided were left at the entrance for her and Dean, but she was forced to decline the second and go sit by herself. The spot beside her was not empty, though. Wimbledon wouldn't leave a ticket lying around for this match. She was seated near Logan's box. She recognised his sister's blond hair from YouTube videos and replays of Logan's old matches. Next to her was Paris Geller. She hadn't cheered once out loud during the entire match, though Rory had been watching her clench her fist whenever Logan got a point.

From where he was positioned, sun behind him, Logan could have looked up if he so desired and seen Rory staring directly at him, creases lining her forehead. She was sweating out of nerves for him, something she usually only did when Dean was playing (and Novak Djokovic, but he didn't count. She didn't know him). The prickling sensation beneath her arms was getting increasingly uncomfortable as she waited for Logan to serve. She kept trying to discreetly itch her armpits, but was afraid she would miss something important if she became too distracted in easing her discomfort.

Logan decided he was ready to go for it. He retrieved one of the balls in his pocket and spun it in his hand a few times before dropping it to the ground. It bounced once, twice. He grabbed for it, holding the ball tight against his racquet. His opponent was bent at the knees in preparation for what was sure to be a massive serve.

The ball went up, and Rory actually heard herself catch her breath, eyes following the yellow ball as it flew into the air. A loud clang travelled through the court as Logan struck the ball into the net.

Cold sweat ran down Rory's back. She lifted her hand briefly, noticing a slight tremor rattling her fingers. She turned her hand into a fist and focused on the speed of Logan's serve. 158 mph.

"Whoa," Rory breathed. That was fast. It broke Isner's official fastest serve from the Davis Cup earlier that year by five. Had it gone over the net there was no way Logan's opponent would have been able to reach it.

She eyed Logan taking a fresh ball from one of the ball boys, no trace of that carefree smile she'd grown used to seeing on his face. Nobody was smiling in that stadium. Even the air seemed tense.

Returning to the service line, Logan took in a visible breath. His chest rose and fell, arm coming up to wipe sweat from his forehead. Rory almost wanted to turn away. This bit was always hardest to watch no matter her relationship—or lack thereof—with the player. Double-faulting when one was so close to winning the match . . . Rory couldn't imagine the sheer disappointment and exhaustion that no doubt followed.

As Logan was testing the ball, his eyes flicked towards his box. Rory could hear his coach mumbling something. Paris's hand was relaxed against her leg. Then, he did something funny. He looked up at her. His hazel eyes, sunken from so far away, found hers in the sea of people awaiting his triumphant win. Rory kept her gaze locked on Logan. He watched her for only a moment longer before tapping the ball on the grass one last time.

She tried to breathe as he looked away, but her lungs constricted immediately following Logan's ball toss. He needed another serve like the first. Fast, but with slightly more precision and care.

Logan's racquet tore down and his thunderous grunt filled Rory's ears. She watched the ball ricochet off of his racquet in stunned silence at its speed. It soared over the net faster than anything Rory had ever seen, hitting just inside the fault line and bashing loudly into the wall by the linesmen.

Logan's opponent didn't even have time to react. He was standing in place, racquet on the ground.

164 mph, Rory read on the screen as cheers echoed through the crowds. She followed soon after, getting to her feet and clapping as annoyingly deafening as she could.

After dropping to the grass in exhilaration and shaking the umpire's hand, Logan turned to his audience of supporters and whooped. Like they couldn't help themselves, his eyes found hers once more in the multitude of adoring fans. He cheered one last time, his face scrunched, staring directly at her. She stared right back, hands moving a mile a minute for him.

—

Paris Geller clearly did not appreciate Rory Gilmore's presence outside the press room. She kept looking over at Rory, dressed in what she had originally thought to be an okay shirt-and-skirt ensemble, and shrivelling her nose as if she was wearing nothing more than a burlap sack. Paris was, of course, dressed head-to-toe in designer clothes. Her Kate Spade bag in powder blue rested lightly on the hip of her elegant white dress, and she wouldn't stop tapping the toe of her expensive shoes.

They were silent as they waited for Logan to exit the room. Every now and again, laughs could be heard from inside as he no doubt told some joke or another. Rory thought she maybe heard her name once or twice, but decided she was imagining things. Perhaps when she and Dean returned from this dinner she would try to find Logan's press conference from earlier in the week that he managed to fill with praises for her game.

When it sounded as though the conference was wrapping up, Rory's mobile began to ring. She answered, ignoring Paris's look of disdain thrown in her direction.

"Hello?"

"Looks like I'm going to be a little late to the restaurant."

It was Dean.

"What? Why?" Rory touched a hand to her forehead, moving strands of hair from her eyes. "You aren't trying to get out of this, are you?"

"No, Rory, I'm still coming. I'll just be a little late. Luke needs me to grab something for him in central London before the shops close."

"Fine. I'll see you soon. Be safe."

Dean hung up quickly after that, and Rory put her phone back in her bag.

"You're not special, you know."

Startled, Rory looked up and saw Paris Geller eyeing her curiously. She couldn't believe Paris was actually speaking to her.

"Excuse me?" Rory asked, confused.

Paris tilted her head towards the door behind which stood Logan Huntzberger. "You're not special."

"I was never under the impression I was special," Rory said. She crossed her arms, feeling suddenly overexposed. She was never a fan of confrontation. Especially with strangers who were far more successful than her.

Paris nodded. "Good. He's a player, I'm sure you know that. Just, don't get your hopes up, hon."

Uncrossing her arms, face reddening, Rory frowned. "I've got a boyfriend," she explained. "I'm not interested in Logan." Maybe if she said it enough, it would become true.

But anyway, she would never cheat on Dean. That was something unimaginable. They had agreed when they started dating all that time ago that if one of them ever fell for somebody else while they were together to the degree not cheating became a struggle, they would break up before anything happened. Rory could deal, she thought, with Dean leaving her for somebody else. She couldn't deal with him lying to her about it and going behind her back, though. And she imagined Dean would say the same thing.

"Oh, please," Paris laughed. "Everyone's interested in Logan."

"You're not," Rory pointed out.

Paris showed her left hand upon which, on her third finger, was a large diamond surrounded by rubies. "I'm very taken."

Eyes wide, Rory had to stop herself from grabbing Paris's hand and observing the ring up close. She vaguely remembered reading Paris had gotten married to the owner of a tennis racquet manufacturing company. Doyle Something-Or-Other.

Rory was going to respond that she too was taken. Not married or engaged taken, but three years taken. That had to count for something. Before she could open her mouth, however, the door to the conference room burst open and out popped Logan, that all-consuming smile threatening to swallow his entire body.

"Paris. Ace." He grinned, stepping next to Paris. He raised his eyebrows and looked at Rory. "Getting to know each other?"

"Oh, yes," Rory responded, her own smile tight. She felt hot suddenly. Sticky in her outfit.

"Is Dean joining us?"

Paris decided she would answer the question, nudging Logan's side with her elbow. "Rory's boyfriend has to run some errands in central London. It'll be the three of us for a bit."

"Excellent," Logan said, making Rory's chest tighten. "Excellent."

Surprisingly, Dean had behaved himself at dinner. Yes, his arm had been slung protectively around Rory's shoulders the entirety of the meal, but he, for the most part, was civil towards Logan. Their dinner conversation had drifted in and out of things pertaining to tennis. Nothing of personal lives was shared, which wasn't a bad thing in Rory's opinion.

Now, two hours after the dinner's completion, Rory stood alone in a tennis court, hair tied up, practicing her serve. She had told Dean when they returned from the restaurant she needed to sleep and had crept—she had the oddest feeling she needed to creep—into her room to find that video of Logan Huntzberger's press conference. After browsing the Internet for a few minutes, she came across the video. It was nearly half an hour long; the thumbnail was a stolen moment from the conference of Logan looking somber, staring at something the camera did not show. Clicking on it had made Rory's heart want to burst out of her chest. Her throat had tightened considerably as it began playing. She watched the entire thing, waiting to hear her name spill from his lips.

"Logan, there are a lot of spectacular players here at this tournament. You're obviously one of the brightest, but who do you personally feel is the best?" The question had been asked by an older gentleman with a very traditional, posh English accent. The crowd waited to hear Logan's answer.

Rory had watched from her chair as Logan's face screwed in thought. She had imagined he was pulling files from the Tennis Database that was no doubt his brain.

"I'll be honest, you're going to be surprised at my answer," he had said, mouth pulled into such a smile that made Rory want to know everything there was to know about him. She wanted to sit inside his head and dive into his memories—see what happened to him to make him the man with whom she was steadily becoming friends. "Rory Gilmore is an absolutely fantastic player . . ."

He had said those things about her. The reporter from earlier wasn't lying. Rory had been stunned as she sat there, witnessing Logan Huntzberger explain to a crowd of similarly stunned reporters and photographers that she was the best player at that year's Wimbledon. A lowly mixed doubles player with a famous grandfather and a tall boyfriend.

Following the video's end, she had come to the realisation she needed to get out of the hotel, so she packed her training gear and came to the courts. Nighttime was nearing in London. The floodlights were blazing, keeping the court lit as the moon slowly took its place in the sky, the sun leaving streaks of orange and pink in its wake. No other players were about. She had the whole place to herself and as she hit balls against the chalk, she tried sorting through the multitude of thoughts that had been whirring inside of her mind since her and Dean's win earlier that day.

She didn't get very far before the sound of the gate to her court rattling distracted her. Dropping the tennis ball in her hand, she approached the gate and spotted a tuft of short, blond hair.

"Need a hand?" Rory asked as Logan struggled to unlatch the lock. He had his racquet bag slung across his body.

Logan startled, straightening at once. He smiled when he saw Rory's arms were folded in amusement. "Not a chance, Ace," he responded, rattling the gate again. "I've definitely got this."

Rory let him flounder for a few seconds longer, helping only when he gave up and shot her an embarrassed smile.

"So, what are you doing out here by yourself?" Logan asked once he was inside. Just like last time, he crouched and began pulling his racquet out.

"I needed to clear my head," she said, keeping eye contact with Logan when he stood up. "What's your excuse?"

"Well," he said, "I wanted to find you."

Shaking her head, Rory poked Logan with the head of her racquet and turned to grab a tennis ball. Obviously this was going to be another training session. She ignored the sudden rise in her body's temperature.

"I don't believe you," Rory said. She watched as Logan, smirking the entire way, stepped casually over the net to the other side. "Why are you really here?"

A glint of something mischievous shone in Logan's hazel eyes. His skin turned milky in the moonlight, his hair shone like silver. With the harsh floodlights hitting him, his face appeared sharp and angled.

He said, "Don't you know?"

Her dream from the other night rushed through her mind. Don't you know. The way Logan said it now—the words melted into the pores coating her skin. They manifested themselves in her blood and floated through her veins, becoming a part of her.

He should not be getting to her like this. It made no sense, but she would be lying if she said it didn't enthral her.

Clearing her throat, Rory tried to act as though his words had no effect on her. "Just serve. We can rally back and forth for a bit," she suggested, wondering if Logan could hear the shake in her words as loudly as she could.

"Sounds good," he said. Logan tossed the ball and served it straight to Rory.

They played like that for a good half-hour before Logan said aloud what she had been thinking: "This is really kind of boring."

Rory laughed. "That's really kind of an oxymoron." Logan feigned hurt, his hand smacking his chest right above his heart. Rory rolled her eyes. "What do you suggest we do to spice it up, then?"

"Let's play a game," he said, "but not any kind of game. Last time we served for bragging rights," he reminded her. "This time, let's play for secrets."

He whispered the word secrets in such a way that Rory's flesh became dotted with goosebumps. His figure, as the moon had now stapled itself above them, was shadowed. Wind, soft and warm, blew across them, and his Wimbledon-white clothes wavered against his torso, highlighting the tight muscles beneath.

She was staring. Quickly, Rory raised her head and nodded. Secrets. She could handle spilling a few, couldn't she? Oddly enough, she felt more brave here than she did with even Lane. The idea of Logan knowing some deeply held private information didn't seem to scare her.

"Okay," she agreed. "I'm in."

"Alright, Ace. We'll serve to each other from different areas on the court. If it's a foul, a net ball, or if it's an ace, we have to answer a question asked by the other. Agreed?"

Rory didn't even think about her answer. "Agreed," she said, confident.

"Then let's play."

Because she was already in possession of the ball, Rory went first. She served deep and fast. Logan only just managed to clip the ball with his racquet and sent it towards the fence.

"You didn't let me get that, did you?" Rory checked, eyebrow kinked accusatorially.

Logan laughed as if she were crazy. "Of course not, Ace. You got that one fair and square. Now shoot, you're stalling is making me nervous."

"Fine." Thinking for a moment—Rory had an innumerable of questions she wanted to ask Logan—she decided on the perfect one. "How did you and Paris meet? You guys seem like the epitome of an odd couple. Not including the blond hair."

While retrieving the ball, Logan answered, "We don't have any kind of awesome story for the ages, unfortunately. We met at a tennis camp when we were ten. She really hated me back then." Logan laughed as if recalling a fond memory. Rory didn't know why, but she was overcome by the slightest hint of envy. "Which was totally understandable—I did accidentally hit her with my racquet." He eyed Rory then, and she couldn't help the blush that blossomed over her cheeks. "Over the years, we showed up in the same camps and clubs constantly. One day, a few years back, one of our coaches put us together and we've not been apart since."

Rory couldn't help herself. "So, have you ever slept with her?"

"Oi," Logan reprimanded. "One question, Ace."

Reaching into her pocket, Rory produced a tennis ball and served another ace. She smirked, awaiting her answer.

"That doesn't count," Logan said, but he answered nonetheless. "No, I've never slept with her. That's gross to even think about." He made a blech noise to further his point and took his place on the service line.

An ace. Could she expect anything less?

"What's it like having a mom only sixteen years older than you?"

"Wow, that's . . ." Rory searched for the right word. "Deep. Are we allowed to go that deep?"

"I mean, you don't have to answer if you don't want to," Logan assured her, ruffling his loose, blond waves. "I won't pressure you. But yes, if you'd like to ask me something personal, go right ahead."

Rory decided she would be brave tonight. Regrets be damned.

"I love my mom more than anything in the entire world. She's my rock. Without her, my whole life would crumble. The age difference has never been an issue to me. When she was a teenager, I was too young to know any better, and by the time I grew up a bit more, she was still sixteen years ahead of me.

"I remember the first time somebody made a comment about the fact that my mom had been a teenager when she'd had me. I got so mad I hit them." Logan laughed at that, as did Rory as she played the scene behind her eyes. "First and only time I've ever been sent to the principle.

"Honestly, it doesn't feel any different," she revealed. "I don't know what it's like to have a mom that was fully mature and of a 'proper age' when she gave birth. Sure, we get funny looks every now and again, but I'm used to that. If anything, it's great that she's so young. We kind of get to grow up together, in a way."

Logan seemed satisfied with her answer. "Alright. You're turn."

Somehow, Rory managed another ace. The dream fresh in her mind, she remembered a question she'd been dying to ask. "Your tattoo," she said, pointing with her racquet towards Logan's hip. "What is it and what does it mean?"

Logan raised his eyebrows. "One at a time, Ace," he reminded her.

Lifting his hand, he beckoned her forwards. She complied, walking over to the net. Logan lifted his shirt, revealing his toned, smooth stomach. She eyed his hip and tried to make out the tattoo. It was words written in black typewriter script.

"Master and Commander," Rory read out loud.

Logan dropped his shirt and Rory lifted her gaze, searching for his eyes. His expression was almost pained. His pupils were dilated, forehead creased. A moment later his face returned to normal, blistering smile and all.

"My turn," he exclaimed, running backwards towards the service line.

Obviously the tattoo meant something extremely personal. She would tell him when she got the nerve to speak that he didn't need to divulge its significance.

Logan's next serve slammed directly into the net. The collision was harsh and loud. Rory jumped, surprised. She half-expected to see a tennis ball shaped hole in the mesh.

"Sorry," Logan apologised. "I'm kind of glad it didn't go over. So, what does it mean"—

—"You don't have to say it," Rory interrupted. "Really. I don't need to know."

"Don't be silly, Ace. It's all part of the game. My dad," he began, trying to sound light and airy—Rory wasn't convinced. "He used to call me Master and Commander. I have sister who's five years older than me, and my dad was thrilled when I turned out to be a boy. Finally, someone to take golfing who wouldn't whine about having to tie up their hair. Finally, someone to whom he could impart all of the Huntzberger wisdom too manly for my sister's delicate ears. Finally, someone to be a man."

Rory was completely caught up in Logan's story. There was passion in each of his words. His throat quivered.

"Master and Commander, my father's favourite book. He hates the movie. Thinks Russell Crowe ruined Jack Aubrey's character." Logan paused, realising he'd gone off track. "Anyway, my dad always wanted me to be something great. Not necessarily the commander of a naval ship, but something more than a tennis player. I got the tattoo out of spite, I think, on my eighteenth birthday—the day after I became nationally ranked. I got it to remind myself that even if I'm not doing what my dad wanted to me to do, I'm still turning myself into someone great."

Logan finished his tale with an incredulous laugh. "Not even Paris knows that story."

Heart beating outrageously fast, Rory scrambled to say something clever and reassuring, but came up blank. All she could do was stare at Logan's sullen face and wish she could climb over the net to comfort him.

"Right," he said after a full minute of heavy silence. "I believe it's your serve."

Rory shook her head.

"No, no. I'm giving you a freebie," she said. "I shouldn't have asked that question. I'm sorry."

Logan clicked his tongue. "Please, Ace. This is a game and it's your turn." Reaching down to the grass, he tossed Rory the ball.

She caught it and sighed.

"Okay, fine."

Rory served a foul. She covered her sigh of relief with a yawn. "Your question."

Logan stared at her, deadpan. "Did you do that on purpose?"

"No," Rory emphasised. "Ask your question."

"Why are you with him?"

Logan spoke so quietly, she wasn't sure he had said anything at all. And what she thought he had said sounded so strange to her ears she must have misheard him.

"What?"

Suddenly, Logan was on her side of the court, walking towards her. His racquet was no longer in his hand. Rory stood in stunned silence as he approached her, her heart lodged firmly in her throat.

"Rory." He stood right before her. So close she had to crane her neck to see his eyes. The sound of her name dripping from his lips pulled Rory to full attention. "Why are you with him?"

"Logan, we were having fun. Don't do this."

They weren't having fun. Not really. The tennis court was charged. Palpable energy set Rory's hair on-end. But Logan wasn't allowed to ask this question. And not just because Rory didn't have an immediate answer.

Logan's fingers curled around her wrist. His index finger pressed gently against her palm. She could feel his pulse galloping, each beat striking her like lightning.

"I like you. I shouldn't, but I do."

"No, you don't," Rory insisted, growing increasingly flustered. "You can't."

"Hey, don't tell me what I can and can't do," he said calmly. He stroked her palm. "Why can't I like you?"

Rory searched her head for an answer. "Because you've . . . you're always in bed with supermodels and seeded female tennis players. I am nobody." She also had a boyfriend, but that, at the time, didn't sound like a good enough answer.

"You're Rory Gilmore," Logan said enthusiastically. "You're amazing."

All Rory could think of to say to that was, "Paris said I'm not special."

Logan grunted. "Paris doesn't know what she's talking about. Ace," he said urgently, eyes blazing, "why are you with him?"

It aggravated Rory to no end, but she could not come up with a response. The realisation that she didn't know the answer to Logan's question was frightening her.

"I"—she stopped, reaching for anything. She came up blank. "I don't know," she said finally, rolling her eyes towards the moon. The city smog clouded the stars from view, but she knew they were up there, laughing at her.

"Rory," Logan said for the third time that evening. The force of him calling her by her given name nearly knocked her over. "I like you."

Rory had grown too tired to argue. The match she had played earlier was catching up to her. Gelatine replaced her bones and she felt herself sag under the weight of Logan's confession which, startlingly, she was becoming more inclined to believe each time he said it.

I like you.

"Look," she said, voice trembling. "It scares me. It does—it scares me how easy it is when I'm with you. You make me forget everything. You make me forget Dean. It's just you and me when we're together." Giving a voice to the wild thoughts that had been racing around in her mind since she met Logan was relieving some of the tension in her shoulders, as was the mild pressure being applied to the inside of her hand by Logan's calloused finger. "I mean, we've known each other for a week! How is it you're able to replace everything in my head? How do you do it?"

"Huntzberger charm," Logan said breezily, though Rory could tell his throat was clinched.

Despite herself, she laughed, staring at the ground and kicking the grass. Logan still held her by the wrist.

"What do we do?" she asked. She hoped that was enough of an answer. She couldn't provide anything more.

Logan let go of her, and her arm swung back against her leg. She watched him clench and unclench his hands. He was thinking. Seconds passed by without either of them saying anything. Rory was sure their hearts had ceased beating. Given up after the stress of this conversation. Then, Logan sucked in a deep breath through his nose, calling Rory's attention back to his moonlit face. He was smiling, but his lips were lined in white. His eyes were sad.

"Nothing," he said. "We do nothing. This is new territory for me, Ace. I can't expect you to leave your boyfriend of three years for some guy you just met—even if I am quite obviously the better choice."

The tack-on joke made Rory laugh despite herself.

"Nothing?" she repeated, her heart deflated.

"For now. I have the strangest feeling I'll still like you tomorrow. And probably the day after that, and so on and so forth," he professed, lips curled in a humourless half-smile. "You have time to sort through things."

Rory's head was spinning. Of all the things she imagined happening to her at Wimbledon, this scenario had never even crossed her mind. Remembering back to the day she arrived, she was still very much content in her relationship with Dean. But since getting off that plane things had been spiralling out of control. Meeting Logan had sparked something dangerous inside of her—the sense that she wasn't truly happy, but that she was too comfortable to move. Stuck in familiarity. The more time she spent with Logan, the more she became aware of how boring life in Stars Hollow had become. Maybe she had always known, only now she realised how badly it bothered her.

"Time is good," Rory said, though she wasn't so sure she believed herself.

"Yeah, it is," Logan agreed, and she heard the same uncertainty in his voice.

Silently, it was decided their game was over. Both packed their bags and headed for the exit. Outside of the training centre, Logan again took Rory's wrist. Her blood boiled inside her veins, awakening her. She stared up at Logan and held her breath in suspense.

"I'm sorry if I ruined everything," he said quietly. He tilted his head to the side, lifting his other hand to stroke a loose strand of hair out of Rory's eyes. She blinked repeatedly until he dropped his hand.

"You didn't ruin everything," she assured him. "If anything, I think you've fixed some things. Strange as that may sound."

Nodding, Logan released her wrist and turned to walk away, leaving Rory standing still, watching him disappear from view.

"Hey!" she called out. Logan turned expectantly. "Why'd you say those things about me in that press conference?"

Rory couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw a genuine smile lift Logan's cheeks.

"Come on, Ace," he said before shifting his weight and heading back from where he came. "You should be able to figure that one out on your own."

This time, Rory didn't wait for him to almost disappear before walking back to her hotel. When she arrived, she headed straight for her mother's room and knocked on the door. Lorelai opened it after the first couple knocks. Her hair was messy and her eyes looked glued shut, but when she saw Rory standing in the doorway she stepped back and allowed her entrance, no questions asked.

Rory went to the bed, glad Luke wasn't anywhere to be seen, and waited for her mom to return.

"What's up, kid?" she asked, sitting next to Rory.

Mouth dry, Rory spilled everything that had happened that evening with Logan. If there was one person that made her feel safer than the blond tennis player, it was her mother. No doubt about it. She hadn't lied when she had said Lorelai was her rock. And her rock listened patiently as Rory spoke, face scrunched in concentration.

"Mom, what do I do?" Rory begged when she finished.

Lorelai thought for a few minutes. To Rory—poor, stressed Rory—they felt like eons.

"You like him too, don't you." It wasn't a question, and Rory nodded guiltily. She felt like she was going to be sick. "Honey, these sorts of things happen. Trust me, you are not the first woman to fall for another man."

"But I've only known him for a few days. How is this possible?" Rory choked.

Lorelai pulled Rory in for a hug and stroked her hair. "You're human. That's all I got."

"What about Dean, though? Our partnership will be ruined. Professionally and personally."

"I like Dean, I do," Lorelai said, "but you were only eighteen when you started seeing him. It's perfectly okay to not still be totally head-over-heels in love with him, Rory. Just, don't waste time on Dean if you're not sure about him anymore. Life's too short to be stuck and it wouldn't be fair on either of you if you stayed with him because you're too scared to take a risk with this Logan guy."

"So, what should I do?" Rory asked desperately. She wanted her mother to give her all the answers.

Lorelai huffed a small laugh. "I can't tell you what to do. You're an adult. You've got to make your own decisions. Just know that no matter what, you're not the bad guy, even if either of those boys makes you think that you are."

"But Dean and I are so close to winning this whole thing."

"If Dean storms off and sabotages both of your chances at winning Wimbledon, he's a much worse guy than I think either of us thought him to be and you're better off without him." Lorelai squeezed Rory tight before releasing her. "Do you want to sleep here tonight?"

Rory nodded. She removed her trainers and jacket and snuggled beneath the covers beside her mother.

"Thanks," she said, staring up at the ceiling. Her mind felt less foggy now.

"No problem, kid."

That night, Rory again dreamed of Logan. They were standing in the same hotel pool. Peering at his hip she could see the words "Master and Commander" clearly on his skin. Bravely, she reached into the water and touched the scarred tissue, her fingertips pulsing as she grazed his flesh.

"You are special," he told her, hand coming beneath her chin and lifting her head. His hazel eyes were burning. "You are."

A/N 2: How's that for some Rogan action? Let me know what you thought!