Chapter 38
Logan Huntzberger woke up to the unmistakable discomfort of Rory's couch.
It wasn't the worst night of sleep he'd ever had—there had been plenty of questionable beds in far-off corners of the world thanks to business trips, bachelor weekends, and late-night escapades—but his back still protested as he shifted, untangling himself from the throw blanket draped over him. He blinked against the soft light filtering through the window, the morning creeping gently into Rory's living room.
It took him a moment to gather his bearings. The space was small but warm, lived-in. A stack of books, half of them meant for the younger audiences, sat on the coffee table, joined by the tiny pastel chaos of Nora's toys. A soft hum of quiet filled the air, broken only by the occasional creak of the old apartment building settling into the day.
For once, Logan didn't feel the pressing urge to check his phone. He didn't have any meetings to race off to or fires to put out on behalf of Huntzberger Media Group. For the first time in months—maybe longer—he felt still.
He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, his thoughts lingering on the night before.
Nothing monumental had been changed between him and Rory last night. There hadn't been any life-altering revelations or dramatic breakthroughs in how they were going to do this co-parenting thing. She hadn't offered answers to the thousand questions he couldn't quite articulate. And yet, it had been good.
It had been good to just be here.
To sit on that couch as she sat beside him, keeping a casual distance, her words careful but kind, and talk—really talk.
About everything. About nothing.
About how bad things had gotten in London—how it all seemed so much clearer now that he'd stepped away. About Finn, Colin and Honor. About what had been going on in Stars Hollow, with her mother, her grandmother and friends.
Logan sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face as his thoughts drifted to London—a city that had once felt like the center of his life but now weighed on him like an anchor.
It had started with promise. He'd been young, hungry, eager to build something of his own outside his family's shadow. Work had been his anchor—demanding, consuming, distracting. But somewhere along the way, the cracks had started to show. The long hours. The constant meetings and conferences. Friends who weren't really his friends. Odette. The baby who wasn't his.
Logan closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head as if he could dispel the memories of it all—the betrayal, the humiliation, the months of pretending everything was fine when it wasn't. London had become a series of masks he wore to please everyone else. Too much work, too many lies, and not enough substance.
He opened his eyes again, letting them settle in the room.
This was better. Even if this wasn't even remotely his.
Simple, messy, and full of life.
Rory's apartment didn't feel like any of the polished, empty homes he'd walked through in London. There was no cold precision here—just signs of a life being lived: a blanket half-off the arm of the couch, a pair of tiny baby socks kicked under the coffee table, a well-worn notebook abandoned on the bookshelf.
The sun had fully risen now, casting slanted gold streaks through the window. Logan stretched his legs out, groaning as he tried to work out the stiffness in his shoulders.
His gaze wandered to the window, where the view outside pulled him further from his London haze. Stars Hollow was waking up.
The leaves had turned their deepest shades of gold, crimson, and copper, some still clinging stubbornly to the trees while others drifted to the ground in slow, lazy spirals. A few cars passed down the street, their drivers waving to pedestrians because, of course, that's what people did here. Logan swore he'd already seen the same guy jog by twice, another guy was sweeping fallen leaves off the sidewalk outside a small shop, muttering to himself.
It was quiet, but not in a lonely way. The town seemed to breathe in sync with its residents.
A corner of Logan's mouth lifted. This felt like being on a holiday, almost. The thought surprised him as it settled into his brain, uninvited but not unwelcome. He'd always liked Stars Hollow — it was eccentric and a little too slow for his taste, but he'd respected the way Rory came alive here. It had never been his place, though.
His gaze flicked back toward Rory's room. But maybe this was a sign it was time for something different for him.
Logan leaned back into the couch, his head tipping against the worn fabric. It wasn't a plan, not yet. Just a whisper of an idea that planted itself somewhere in his mind and refused to leave.
And for the first time in a long time, Logan Huntzberger didn't feel like he was drowning.
Suddenly, the sound of a soft giggle broke through his thoughts.
Logan froze, tilting his head toward Rory's bedroom door, which was still ajar from the night before. Another giggle followed, this time punctuated by the muffled sound of Nora babbling to herself.
Logan smiled, and after hesitating for a second he pushed himself off the couch.
The old wooden floor creaked under his steps as he approached Rory's door. He paused there, leaning against the frame, and peeked inside.
Rory was still asleep, curled on her side, her hair a mess against the pillow. She looked peaceful, her face free of the worries she carried during the day. He let his gaze linger for a moment longer before shifting it to Nora.
The baby laid on her side in her crib, her tiny fingers gripping her toys. As son as she noticed him, her eyes widened. For a moment she stared at him expectantly.
"Morning, Nora-bug," Logan whispered, stepping inside, hoping Rory wouldn't mind.
Nora's eyes lit up, and her babbling grew louder as she reached toward him. Logan grinned, scooping her up carefully and cradling her against his chest. Rory stirred in bed but didn't open her eyes just yet.
"Let's not wake your Mommy yet," he said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
Nora squirmed, her little hands tangling in his T-shirt collar, but Logan didn't mind. He walked quietly back out into the living room, the creak of the floors softened under his careful steps. Once there, he settled onto the couch, Nora perched on his lap.
For a moment, Logan just held her, studying her small face as the light from the window fell across them both.
He'd studied her before, too—memorized the curve of her nose, the way her lashes fluttered when she blinked, the softness of her cheeks. But back then, it had been fleeting, his time stolen in fragments of visits or phone calls.
Now, with her here in his arms, Logan felt like he was truly seeing her for the first time.
"Good morning, little tornado," he murmured.
Nora blinked up at him, gripping the fabric of his shirt tighter as if it anchored her. Then, after a moment, she let out another giggle.
Logan's chest tightened. He didn't know if it was joy or regret—probably both.
"Sorry I missed so much," he whispered. "I'll make it up to you. I promise."
Nora stared at him for a beat before shoving her fist into her mouth with determination, a string of drool trailing down her chin. Logan chuckled softly, reaching for the burp cloth on the arm of the couch to wipe her face.
"Yeah, I get it," he said. "Words are cheap. Actions, right?"
Nora offered no response, but Logan didn't need one. The weight of her in his arms said enough.
Outside, Stars Hollow continued its morning routine. The sun climbed a little higher, turning the golden leaves into fire. Logan glanced out the window again, his gaze drifting over the quiet town.
Maybe he didn't need London.
Maybe he didn't want London - That was now a sentence he could wholeheartedly agree with right now. He was reluctant to return to his former life. For the first time in years, Logan Huntzberger felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. It wasn't about Stars Hollow, he still couldn't quite picture that, or this particular apartment - it was all about Nora, the baby in his arms.
The opening chords of The Smiths' "There Is a Light That Never Goes Out" played softly through the car speakers, and Rory couldn't help but smile. It was a song she hadn't heard in years, not since her college days when her iPod was crammed with bittersweet anthems and Morrissey's melancholic croon. She hadn't been a mother then. Back then, she was just Rory—stressed, bookish, and slightly unsure of herself, but full of hope for what was coming next.
Now, she wasn't entirely sure how the song had made it back into her rotation, but she didn't mind. As the music filled the car, she found herself singing along, her voice quiet and soft against the backdrop of the fall morning.
The lyrics hit differently now. The romanticized loneliness, the yearning for connection—it was all so wrapped up in a version of her life she'd left behind. Yet, something about the song still felt true. Not in its literal sense, but in the way it captured the ache of wanting to belong, to have a place where everything fit.
Logan's visit had been good.
Not the sweeping, movie-moment kind of good, but something far more grounded. For so long, she'd imagined his role in Nora's life as one marked by big events—holidays, birthdays, first steps. The major milestones that filled photo albums and family stories. Gifts and grand gestures - even though she'd told him not to. But last week, she'd realized something else entirely: it was the quiet, ordinary moments she cherished most. And it seemed - Logan did, too.
Logan sitting on her couch, gently burping Nora after breakfast. Logan laughing instead of complaining when drool soaked through his shirt. Logan watching Nora stare at her own hands with utter fascination. Him asking Rory to show him videos of the moments he'd missed, watching them intently as if he were studying every detail.
Those moments mattered more than she'd expected. It wasn't just about Logan knowing what Nora's current favorite color was or whether this year's party theme was going to be unicorns or Barbie—it was about him knowing Nora. The way she wrinkled her nose before chuckling, the way she rubbed her eyes when she was tired, the way she reached for her favorite toys.
And for a brief, quiet week, she'd let herself think of Logan as him being closer. Not geographically - that part having remained the same - but emotionally.
Rory glanced at the empty seat in her rearview mirror, her chest tightening briefly at the sight. It always felt strange to be out without Nora, like missing a limb. But at the same time, there was an odd sense of relief in the freedom—no pacifiers to hunt for, no diaper bags to haul around.
For the next few hours, she was just herself again.
The song faded into silence as she pulled into Hartford, navigating the familiar streets with practiced ease. Her destination loomed ahead: the apartment Emily had traded her mansion for. It was smaller but still grand.
Emily had explained her reasoning once, with the brisk practicality Rory had come to expect. "There's no sense in rattling around a house that big all by myself," she'd said, adding - "Besides, I have plenty of friends here, and I like to keep roots." So, even while she mostly chose to spend her time in the Sandcastle, about once every two weeks she tended to find her way back to her old tracks.
Rory parked and turned off the engine and sat for a moment longer, glancing a look in the mirror. She was dressed according to her grandmother's standards, wearing the cardigan she'd insisted on getting her, and a simple skirt and ankle boots. She didn't visit as often as she should—Emily was always quick to remind her of that—but the arrangement worked for both of them. It gave Rory space to be a mother and Emily room to enjoy her social circle. Still, Rory knew her grandmother missed the Friday night dinners.
Grabbing her purse, she stepped out of the car, feeling the crisp autumn air nip at her cheeks. She was glad for the reprieve; today was just dinner with Emily, no Nora in tow.
It wasn't that Emily didn't love her great-granddaughter—she adored her — but Rory could use an evening of adult conversation that wasn't punctuated by the sound of baby babble or a shrieking giggle. Even if conversations with Emily tended to be on the cautious side — sharing enough but not too much. But Rory had to admit that Emily was great at anticipating needs, even the mental kind, and she'd made sure Lorelai was available to babysit.
Trimmed hedges bordered the walkway, guiding visitors to a stately set of wrought iron doors adorned with frosted glass panels etched in precise geometric patterns. It was the kind of place that exuded quiet permanence—wealth that didn't shout but spoke confidently in whispers. Rory adjusted her bag on her shoulder and took a steadying breath before pressing the intercom.
As she waited, she shifted on her feet, a familiar wave of anticipation bubbling up. Dinner with Emily was never just dinner. And with ten floors of elevator ride ahead, Rory had plenty of time to wonder what her grandmother had in store. There was always something.
Emily greeted her at the door with a smile that bordered on conspiratorial. She was dressed impeccably, of course — a cream silk blouse paired with an understated strand of pearls.
"Rory, welcome! Come in - come in," Emily said eagerly, stepping aside to let her granddaughter enter.
Rory didn't make it more than two steps before she froze, noticing the tall man standing in the living room, sipping from a crystal tumbler. Her initial thought was worse than the reality though, but it would take her at last an half an hour to be sure of that.
"Ah, Rory," Emily said, her tone suddenly brisk, "you remember Donnan Anderson, don't you? I believe he attended one of our Yale-alumni gatherings at the house when you were still a sophomore yourself. And just to refresh your memory - this is my granddaughter, Rory Gilmore."
Donnan Anderson—of course. Rory vaguely recalled him as one of the many polished faces she'd seen at the so-called all-male Yale alumni event she'd been paraded around for that one time. She'd only really remembered him as "one of those future businessmen," but now she recognized him as the name she'd seen in headlines recently. The man was running for city council, his platform focused on modernizing Hartford's schools while preserving its cultural roots.
"Miss Gilmore," Donnan said warmly, stepping forward to shake her hand. His grip was firm but not overbearing, his salt-and-pepper hair impeccably groomed. Rory quickly tried to do the math on his age—while the hair leaned more toward salt than pepper, he couldn't have been more than five years older than her. "Emily has been singing your praises," he added with an easy smile.
"Has she?" Rory asked, glancing at her grandmother, trying to appear unbothered.
"Absolutely," Emily said, her voice the picture of innocence. "We've been discussing his campaign, and I thought it might be interesting for you two to meet. Sit, sit—dinner will be ready shortly."
Rory found herself seated across from Donnan in Emily's immaculately decorated dining room. The table was set with china patterned in soft blues and silvers, and a small bouquet of white roses served as the centerpiece. It was elegant without being ostentatious—a skill Emily had mastered.
"Rory, what would you like?" Emily asked, pausing by the drink cart in a familiar manner.
The conversation began politely, revolving around Hartford's recent autumn festivals and the enduring quirks of New England weather. But soon, it shifted.
As the first course was served—a delicate butternut squash soup finished with a drizzle of crème fraîche—the evening's true agenda began to reveal itself.
"Emily tells me you're a journalist," Donnan said, folding his napkin neatly as the soup bowls were cleared.
"Well, sort of," Rory said, her smile faint. "I'm freelancing right now. Editorial work, some writing." She paused, thinking of the long days mostly spent at home with Nora, where deadlines and diaper changes blurred together, but she got a sense that for whatever this was, the topic was best left untouched.
"Ah, writers," Donnan said, smiling appreciatively. "They always seem to have one project they're chasing. Emily mentioned you covered politics for a time."
"I did, a while back," Rory admitted. "Right after college, I worked for an online magazine, covering the Obama campaign trail. Later did a couple of pieces for The Atlantic, but it's been miscellaneous really," she added.
"She's underselling herself," Emily chimed in, leaning forward slightly. "Rory covered some very important stories. Sharp, insightful, and she has a knack for digging into the details others overlook."
Donnan nodded thoughtfully. "That's a rare quality. A good journalist knows how to find the story; a great one knows how to frame it."
The comment felt loaded, but Rory smiled politely.
"And," Emily added smoothly, "Rory has a deep understanding of only did she go to school here - it's in her blood."
The main course arrived—herb-crusted salmon with roasted root vegetables—and the conversation turned toward Donnan's campaign.
"Donnan's been working tirelessly," Emily said, her tone warm with approval. "His platform is everything Hartford needs right now—progress without sacrificing our history. Of course, he has many connections through the D.A.R., but this campaign is about reaching new audiences."
Donnan chuckled, raising his glass of white wine. "Emily's been my unofficial advisor for months now. Between her social connections and her sharp instincts, I feel like I'm cheating."
"Hardly cheating," Emily replied with a wave of her hand. "It's called utilizing your resources wisely."
Rory listened, her curiosity piqued despite herself.
"We're focusing on a few key issues," Donnan said, addressing her now. "Historic preservation, infrastructure improvements, schools and with that attracting younger families to Hartford—all tied to modernizing the city while keeping its character intact. But campaigns like these don't win themselves. The messaging is everything."
"Of course," Rory said. "People want something they can connect with."
"Exactly," Donnan agreed, continuing, "And I'll be honest, we're not reaching everyone we need to. The messaging needs sharpening—more heart, less spin. Authenticity."
Emily smiled, her expression triumphant, as if the conversation were following a script she'd written herself.
"Rory could help you with that," Emily said, turning toward Donnan. "She knows this city, she knows storytelling, and she has experience in political reporting. She's exactly what your campaign needs."
Rory blinked, startled. "Grandma, I —"
"Hear me out, Rory," Donnan interrupted, his tone persuasive but kind. "You're clearly talented. And you've seen both sides of the media—the creation and the coverage. That's invaluable. You have connections. If you're interested, I'd like you to join my PR team. Help us craft a message that resonates."
For a moment, Rory could only stare. The offer felt sudden, though she couldn't deny the logic behind it. Well — grandma wasn't trying to set her up with the guy - at least that was a relief.
"It doesn't have to be full-time," Donnan added. "We can work around your other commitments. But I think you could bring in some fresh ideas."
Emily leaned back, her expression smug but silent.
Rory took a sip of her wine, her mind racing. A week ago, she'd been struggling get anything done, wondering if she was doing enough. And now here was an opportunity—a real one—to step into something challenging, something impactful. Something new.
"I'll need to think about it," Rory said finally, her voice steady but polite.
"Of course," Donnan replied with a polite smile. "Take your time." His words lingered as Rory found herself pondering whether her grandmother's meddling leaned more toward welcome or unwelcome territory.