The streets of Nantucket's old town sparkled under strings of white lights, the scent of pine and cinnamon weaving through the crisp winter air. Rory adjusted Nora's hat for what felt like the tenth time, her daughter's cheeks rosy from the cold as she kicked her legs in excitement from her perch in the stroller. It was Nora's first Christmas.
"Slow down, Speed Racer," Lorelai teased Rory from a few paces behind, her arms wrapped around a box of gingerbread cookies she'd "rescued" from one of the stalls — meaning she'd overpaid after declaring the baker a "gingerbread Picasso."
"I still can't believe you paid fifteen bucks for a cookie," Luke said, his voice half-scolding but softened by the way he hovered next to her, clearly ready to catch the box if she dropped it mid-waving gesture.
"It's not just a cookie," Lorelai argued. "It's art. A cookie like this should be displayed, admired — maybe even donated to a museum."
"Until you eat it," Rory called over her shoulder.
"Until I eat it dramatically," Lorelai corrected. "I plan on making it an experience. Candlelight, music, maybe a sonnet beforehand."
Luke groaned, "I told you we should've just bought the plain gingerbread men and called it a day. Who needs cookie drama?"
"Everyone needs cookie drama," Lorelai shot back. "It's Christmas!"
Rory smiled faintly, but her focus drifted as she adjusted Nora's blanket again, making sure her legs were warm against the bite of the December wind.
"You're going to tuck that blanket into oblivion," Lorelai said, suddenly beside her. "She's fine, Rory. Rosy-cheeked and happy, just like a Hallmark 's just going to kick it off in five seconds."
"I know, I just—" Rory trailed off, looking down at Nora's tiny mittened hands. She did look adorable.
"You just can't turn off the Mom-O-Meter," Lorelai finished knowingly. "You're doing great, kid. And if it helps, she's definitely the cutest person on this island right now. Luke excluded, obviously." She went on to snap a selfie of herself and Nora.
"Gee, thanks," Luke muttered.
Rory smiled again, this time a little more genuinely, but even as Lorelai looped her arm through Luke's and started pulling him toward another booth, Rory lingered behind, looking at the handicrafts sold at the Christmas market with some distance, not wanting to have to interact.
She needed to clear her head.
There were important deadlines coming up — revisions she'd promised to send after the holidays. But even as she tried to focus on work, her thoughts drifted.
She knew Logan had plans to spend Christmas with Honor and her family. He'd mentioned it when they last talked. He'd sounded almost relieved, like having somewhere to be had taken the pressure off.
And yet, Rory couldn't help but wonder if it was enough for him. If the Logan Huntzberger, heir to an empire, was what he'd walked away from, was he really content playing the part of the laid-back co-parent who jetted off to family gatherings with a smile on his face, had spare time to casually read books whenever he wanted and shoveled his own snow.
Could he really settle into a life like that? Doing some simple management job Hartford had to offer him? Or was he just playing along, pretending it fit while he waited for something — or someone — to tell him what came next? How long would it be until he got bored and faded into the background of Nora's life again. That was what Rory was afraid of.
A small squeal broke through Rory's thoughts, and she looked down to see Nora's tiny hands waving excitedly toward a cluster of Christmas trees lined up outside a shop window, each decorated in a different vivid color.
"You like the trees, Nora?" Rory said, smiling as she leaned down to tuck the blanket more securely around her legs. "Lots of colorful Christmas trees."
"You okay back here?" Lorelai called over her shoulder. "You're going to miss the kettle corn stampede."
"I'm fine," Rory replied quickly, forcing a brighter tone.
"Uh-oh. That didn't sound fine." Lorelai was suddenly there again, peering at Rory's face with that sharp maternal look that never missed anything.
"It's nothing," Rory said, brushing it off, as she reached up with her mother. "Just a bit tired, I guess."
Lorelai didn't look convinced, but before she could press, Luke shouted something about finding decent coffee and Lorelai was swept away again.
Rory exhaled slowly. Nora's toy caterpillar, the same one Logan had gotten her, suddenly dropped to the ground from Nora's stroller, leaving the little girl looking distraught. Rory crouched down, dusted off the powdery snow and handed it back to Nora. "Here you go," she said.
As she looked back up, and searched for her mom and Luke in the crowd. She noticed Luke, taking a phone call, apparently waiting up for her mother. But just behind him, a few houses down the street, Rory noticed someone else entirely.
It took Rory half a second to process the sight of Logan walking down the street, and her first instinct was denial. It couldn't be him - what were the odds? Fine, there were small odds - he'd mentioned Martha's Vineyard for Christmas, but still - not Nantucket.
But then he turned slightly—profile sharp, hair tousled from the wind—and there was no mistaking it.
It was him.
Rory watched his mouth move. He was talking to someone. It took her a moment to search the crowd for his counterpart.
The woman beside him was striking. Short, dark hair cropped close to her jawline, effortlessly framing her face. Her outfit was bold —an emerald-green coat with oversized buttons and a pink chunky scarf looped loosely around her neck, the colors clashing just enough to look intentional. She had an artist's flair, the kind of style that felt curated but still personal, like she'd stepped out of a vintage shop with everything perfectly mismatched.
The woman laughed at one of Logan's jokes, it seemed.
Rory's stomach twisted—sharp and sudden, like the snap of cold air when you stepped outside without a coat. She hated the way it lingered, hated herself for letting it bother her, knowing that it shouldn't.
What did she expect? That Logan would spend Christmas alone, staring wistfully at old photos of them from a decade ago, regretting everything? That he'd somehow be stuck in the same emotional purgatory she seemed unable to escape. But moving on this fast, having just recently signed th divorce papers, did come as a shock.
Don't be ridiculous, Rory - she scolded herself, wanting to shrug the thoughts off. Logan had every right to spread his wings a little and relax - flirt, date, have sex - casual or not. It wasn't her business.
She adjusted her grip on Nora's stroller, her fingers tightening as if holding onto something tangible could steady the rush of feelings threatening to spill out. It wasn't just jealousy — it was something heavier, something lonelier. Single dads still seemed to have options, while nobody was really lining up for her - perhaps?
The sight of Logan so at ease, looking like he belonged in this picture-perfect holiday scene, made her feel like an outsider in her own story. She swallowed hard and forced herself to look away before he noticed her. Actually having to converse with him right now was the last thing she wanted to do.
The white lie that she was a little tired, never really a lie for a mother of a baby, was convenient enough to bring them back to the Sandcastle soon enough. Lorelai and Luke stayed in the house across the street - the Sandy Toes - Lorelai had teasingly named the place, while Rory and Nora stayed with Emily.
Rory knew that living with her grandmother required a certain decorum — a carefulness in tone and gesture, like walking through rooms meant to be admired rather than lived in. Even now, with Emily having softened into a more relaxed version of herself, there was still an undercurrent of expectation woven into the walls. But Rory could handle it. She was grateful for the peace and quiet — something her mother's house, or any house for that matter, rarely provided.
The Sandcastle smelled like evergreen and vanilla, the warm glow of candles flickering along the mantle. Each piece of nautical-Christmas décor—from the starfish-adorned wreaths to the garland twined with seashells and twinkling lights—felt carefully curated, as if the house itself had dressed up for the season. Rory stepped into her room, cradling Nora, whose tiny fingers curled around the edge of her blanket as her eyes fluttered shut, already teetering on the edge of sleep. The quiet hum of the heater and the soft creak of the old wooden floors only added to the coziness, wrapping them both in a stillness that felt rare and precious.
"Nap time," she whispered, placed her down in the crib her grandmother had gotten her, and brushed Nora's hair back gently before pulling up the blanket.
She waited until the rhythmic rise and fall of her daughter's breathing settled, then stepped back, sinking onto the edge of the bed to properly exhale from the busy day so far. Soon, she found her staring at her phone.
She didn't want to text him. She shouldn't text him. But before she could overthink it, her fingers were already moving.
Rory climbed onto the bed to sit cross-legged and rested her back to the headboard, as she scrolled through the photos on her phone. Most of them were of Nora — bundled up in her tiny knit hat, wide-eyed at the Christmas lights, her cheeks pink from the cold. There was one where she was sitting in Lorelai's lap, reaching for a gingerbread cookie almost the size of her head, and another of her staring up in awe at the towering Christmas tree in the square.
Perfect snapshots. Tiny pieces of magic.
Rory hesitated, her thumb hovering over the screen. It wasn't unusual for her to send Logan pictures of Nora, but this felt different — loaded somehow. She hated that it felt that way.
Still, she tapped out a quick text before she could talk herself out of it.
Rory (3:21 PM):
Today's highlight reel. Nora vs. Christmas.
She attached the photos and hit send. Then she set the phone down, her heart already pounding as though it might vibrate right along with the next notification.
It didn't take long.
Logan (3:28 PM):
Wow. She's getting so big. Looks like she's having the time of her life.
Rory smiled softly, but her stomach twisted at the same time. She could picture him now — probably sitting at some corner table in that cozy café she'd seen him disappear into earlier, or maybe already on his way to the airport, still looking unfairly good in that coat.
She tried to ignore the mental image and typed back.
Rory (3:30 PM):
She loved the lights. And the trees. Kept waving at them like they'd wave back.
A few minutes passed this time. Long enough for Rory to start doubting herself for sending the pictures at all. She was about to put the phone away entirely when it buzzed again.
Logan (3:37 PM):
Wish I'd known you were there. I was half-wondering if I might run into you, but I guess I missed my chance.
Rory stared at the screen, her breath catching for just a second longer than it should have.
He'd wondered.
Her pulse quickened at the thought, but she tamped it down immediately. It didn't mean anything. It couldn't mean anything.
Could it?
She started typing a response, then deleted it. Twice.
Finally, she settled on something safe.
Rory (3:41 PM):
You were there?! Small world. We've been soaking up the Christmas charm while we can.
She hit send and set the phone down again, but her eyes lingered on the screen.
It wasn't the kind of reply that invited more conversation. She knew that. And maybe that was for the best. But the hollow ache in her chest didn't feel like the best. It felt unfinished. But at this moment she couldn't really think of much else to say that wasn't outright inquiring about his company or his reasons for being there. But for now she just had to live with not knowing everything, and knowing she needed to learn to accept that.
By late afternoon, the Sandcastle glowed with candlelight and twinkling garlands, getting ready for Christmas Eve dinner. The table was set with Emily's best china—her version of "toned-down elegance" that still managed to look like something out of a lifestyle magazine.
Rory was in the sunroom, carefully folding the last corner of wrapping paper around another one of Nora's presents. It was just a board book, but she fussed over the ribbon anyway — partly to make it look perfect and partly to distract herself from the uneasy feeling that had settled in her stomach since the night before.
Nora babbled happily from her playpen in the living room, her fingers curled around a teething ring, completely unaware of the carefully managed chaos around her.
Rory was just reaching for another small strip of tape when the front door opened, letting in a burst of cold air and the unmistakable sound of Emily's voice.
"And then I told him, absolutely not. He was coming, and that was that!"
Emily sounded triumphant, as though she'd just single-handedly solved world hunger rather than returned from a quick trip into town. Rory paused, her hand hovering mid-reach, and then straightened, straining to hear.
"Señora Emily, I'll take these," Berta said cheerfully, the rustle of bags following her words. The woman could actually speak some English by now.
Emily's voice floated closer. "And he tried to protest, of course — so polite, you know how men like that are — but I wouldn't take no for an answer," she insisted.
Rory's stomach tightened. Who?
She went to place the present under the Christmas tree and moved toward the hallway just as Emily swept inside, cheeks ever so slightly flushed from the cold and looking entirely too pleased with herself.
"Rory - you'll never guess! I ran into the most delightful surprise in town!" Emily announced as Berta followed behind with an armful of bags.
"Oh yeah?" Rory reflected politely.
"Logan Huntzberger," Emily exclaimed.
Rory's eyes widened.
"Oh, don't tell me you're still uneasy about crossing paths with him," Emily said, her tone light but pointed. "I distinctly remember you mentioned once, a few years back though, that you two still kept in touch occasionally, so I assumed it wouldn't be an issue. The poor man was stranded on Christmas Eve — I simply couldn't leave him to fend for himself. And really, he's always such charming company."
"I don't," Rory replied, but didn't sound entirely believable.
"You're sure? I can call and say we have to cancel," Emily offered, but sounded far too disappointed. Maybe she truly missed her society functions sometimes, and this looked like the perfect opportunity to feel involved again and gather some useful gossip to last her months.
"I'm sure," Rory said, though her throat felt suddenly dry. The last thing she wanted was for her grandmother to suspect any lingering tension — hurt feelings, unresolved emotions, or, worse, that there had been something between them far more recent than Emily would deem appropriate — or she'd never hear the end of it.
She was supposed to have moved on, to have distanced herself from him, and that was exactly the role she'd have to play now — complete with a touch of Ms. Manners.
She certainly wasn't supposed to be raising his daughter — conceived while he'd been engaged to another woman. Emily wasn't exactly one for understanding modern nuances like open relationships. In her world, lines were drawn cleanly, and propriety was non-negotiable.
She didn't want him there.
But, somehow, she did.
When Logan arrived a couple of hours later, he looked slightly rumpled — his coat unbuttoned, snowflakes clinging to the wool, and his hair tousled just enough to suggest he'd been braving the wind rather than carefully styling it. Somehow, though, the effect only made him seem more infuriatingly effortless, like he'd stepped out of a catalog for men who always knew exactly where they were going and how to look good getting there.
He paused in the doorway, brushing snow from his shoulders as though he belonged there already. And maybe he did.
When his eyes locked on Rory, the flicker of something unreadable passed between them — something that sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the cold still clinging to him. For the briefest moment, she thought he might say something, but instead, he lingered in the doorway, like he was giving her the chance to set the tone.
Rory swallowed, willing herself to breathe, to keep her expression neutral, even though her pulse had jumped the moment she'd seen him.
"Logan," Rory nodded in greeting. Her voice came out sharper than she meant.
"Rory," he said, his voice carrying a note of something she couldn't quite place—relief, maybe, or hesitation.
She saw the flicker in his eyes, the subtle sweep of the room, and recognized it instantly. It was the same instinctive scan she did whenever she picked Nora up from daycare—locating her in the crowd before her heart could settle. Only now he was supposed to be meeting this little girl for the first time.
Emily nodded approvingly. "He was stranded, poor thing. And Christmas Eve is no time to be alone in some soulless hotel room."
"Stranded?" Rory repeated, curiously glancing at Logan.
"It's just fog," Logan said quickly. "Nothing dramatic. The charter company grounded everything until tomorrow morning."
"Apparently, there's some kind of technical issue with their instruments as well," Emily added, indicating with her hands that the technical jargon being a little over her head. "I told him it was fate. He simply had to join us."
"Emily can be very persuasive," Logan said, and the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. "And I just couldn't refuse."
There was something in the way he said it — layered, pointed.
Rory knew what Emily could be like, but she still believed that he could've if he'd really wanted to. Maybe in this situation he truly hadn't wanted to and Emily had just conveniently played into his hand.
Rory's stomach twisted again. She told herself it was because of Nora. Because Logan had wanted to spend Christmas with her and now, stranded here, it made sense that he'd want to see her. She could even understand that—rationally. But that didn't mean it wouldn't be complicated, awkward even.
Another thing Rory would have to manage—on top of everything else—was making sure her mother, who was due any minute now, didn't blurt out something dangerously close to the truth. The thought alone made Rory sigh, long and heavy, as if bracing herself for impact.
For a moment, it was just the two of them, Emily having excused herself to go check how the dinner was coming along. The faint strains of Christmas music hummed in the background.
Logan smiled—a little tentative, a little familiar. "So. Merry Christmas?"
Rory wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or possibly throw something. Instead, she turned toward the kitchen.
"I'll get the drinks," she said, being unable to just sit still.
She felt him follow her, but neither of them spoke as she reached for the glasses. Her hands were steady, but her heart wasn't.
"Thank you for letting me stay," Logan said finally, his voice low.
"You didn't leave much room for me to say no," Rory replied, not looking up.
Logan exhaled softly, almost like a laugh. "No, I guess I didn't."
When Rory finally turned to hand him a glass of his usual scotch, his eyes were waiting for her — steady and intent. For a moment, she forgot what she'd been about to say.
Instead, she swallowed hard and stepped back.
"Dinner's in an hour," she said.
Logan didn't move right away, but when he finally did, his voice was quieter.
"Looking forward to it," he said simply, his voice smooth but carrying an undercurrent Rory couldn't quite pin down. Then, with a slight tilt of his head and a playful glint in his eyes, he added, "So, where's that little girl of yours Emily couldn't stop talking about?" His gaze narrowed — not unkindly, but with a focus that felt both teasing and deliberate.
And somehow, Rory knew—just knew—that the night was far from over.
Dinner was almost painfully civilized.
Emily kept the conversation flowing — stories about Nantucket traditions, local history, and a detailed rundown of the gingerbread house competition she'd judged earlier that week. Lorelai occasionally dropped in sarcastic commentary that Luke attempted (and failed) to rein in.
Lorelai had been thankfully cautious enough to steer clear of any comments towards Logan's presence, only making eyes at Rory every now and again. Rory knew this meant she'd be forced to dissect the topic with her later - but at least for now things seemed to be under control.
Rory barely spoke.
Logan, for his part, played along, charming Emily and politely fielding Luke's cautious questions about his job—or lack thereof these days. But every time Rory looked up, she caught him watching her. And every time it happened, she felt like her carefully constructed walls were slipping.
Nora, oblivious to it all, alternated between charming everyone at the table and demanding bits of mashed potatoes from Rory's plate. It was the only thing that grounded her, giving her something meaningful to focus on instead of the tension tightening with every glance Logan sent her way.
Emily, ever the hostess, dabbed her mouth with a linen napkin and turned her attention to Logan. "So, Logan, how is life in London? I do hope you're enjoying it. Such a cultured city — and so international. I imagine it must keep your social life quite busy."
Logan set down his fork, his expression still polite but suddenly more guarded. "London's… behind me, actually."
"Behind you?" Emily tilted her head.
Logan nodded, reaching for his water glass. "I moved back to Connecticut fairly recently. Things didn't exactly go according to plan."
Emily, never one to let a hint of personal drama go unexplored, politely of course, leaned forward slightly. "Oh? I hope it wasn't anything too unpleasant."
"No disasters." Logan's mouth twitched, almost like he was trying to smile but couldn't quite manage it. "Just personal changes. I got divorced."
The word dropped into the room like a stone, landing with a soft but undeniable weight.
Lorelai needed to clear her throat and quickly drowned half of her wine glass in one sip, but pretended it was unrelated.
Emily blinked, clearly thrown for only a moment before recovering. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Divorce is always unfortunate. But I suppose—" She gave him a sympathetic smile. "At least there weren't any children involved?"
Logan's pause was barely noticeable—just a fraction too long before he shook his head. "No," he said evenly. "No children."
Rory's hand froze on her fork. The words felt like a punch to the stomach, even though she'd known they were coming.
Emily, apparently satisfied with the response, offered him a kind but practiced smile. "Sometimes it's for the best. Fresh starts and all that."
"Fresh starts," Logan repeated, but his voice sounded distant.
And then, just as Emily turned her attention to Luke, Nora squealed, flinging mashed potatoes onto Rory's sleeve and then giggling triumphantly at her mess.
The table erupted in laughter—everyone except Logan, whose sharp inhale and sudden, almost involuntary grin betrayed him completely.
He looked at Nora the way Rory knew she looked at her — like someone who couldn't help but see the world begin and end with that tiny, brilliant smile.
Rory felt her heart lurch.
Emily, of course, didn't notice. She was already reaching for a napkin to dab at the potatoes. "Oh, dear," Emily said, dabbing at the mashed potatoes with a napkin. "She certainly has spirit — though I can't say I'm surprised. She reminds me of Lorelai at that age — always making her presence known. And just as impossible to keep clean."
Rory chuckled politely, glancing back and forth between her mother, grandmother and Logan.
But Logan's gaze didn't shift. His eyes stayed on Nora, his smile softening even as he caught himself and turned away.
Rory couldn't breathe.
And suddenly, it didn't feel like the walls she'd built around herself were slipping.
It felt like they were gone.
The room had gone momentarily quiet, forks clinking against plates as seconds were served. Logan set his down abruptly, his jaw tight.
"I can't do this," he said.
Emily blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I'm Nora's father." The words cut through the room like glass shattering.
No one moved.
Rory's stomach dropped. "Logan—"
For a moment, all Rory could hear was the faint hum of the Christmas music in the background. Then Lorelai set her fork down carefully, her eyes wide but unreadable.
"Okay." Lorelai's voice was calm—too calm. "So… we're doing this now?"
Logan ignored her, his focus locked on Rory. "I should've talked to you first. I know that. But I couldn't sit here pretending like—" He broke off, shaking his head. "Like I don't know exactly how she likes to make a mess and smile at the outcome," he added, gesturing at Nora.
Rory felt like she couldn't breathe.
Emily was the first to speak after Lorelai, her voice sharp but oddly restrained. "You knew about this!?"
Lorelai raised her eyebrows, feeling surprised but not truly that her mother would find this to be somehow her fault.
"I—, " Rory started, but Logan cut her off.
"It's my fault," he said quickly. "Not Rory's. She told me a long time ago. I just…," he wanted to continue.
"Logan," Rory snapped, finding her voice at last. "Stop."
He did, but the damage was already done.
Nora babbled happily in her high chair, completely unaware of the tension pressing in around her.
Emily stood, smoothing her napkin down over her lap before carefully placing it beside her plate. "I think," she said, her voice clipped, "that I'll go check on the dessert."
No one stopped her as she walked out of the room.
Lorelai let out a long breath. "Wow. Merry Christmas to us, huh?"
But Rory didn't respond. Her eyes were still on Logan.
"What the hell were you thinking?" she hissed as soon as Emily was out of earshot.
"I was thinking," Logan said, his voice quieter now but no less intense, "that it's Christmas Eve, and I'm tired of pretending like none of this matters."
Rory opened her mouth to respond, but the words stuck.
Because, as much as she hated to admit it, part of her had been pretending too. And hating it.