Summary: For once you're glad that you're not living in the fictitious worlds you're so prone to escaping into. Lit one-shot.

Disclaimer: -Sighs heavily- No, I don't own a thing. If I did, the lives of the Gilmore Girls and all of their friends would be very, very different.

A/N: Random fic inspiration! I have no clue where it came from, so don't even ask. But since I am a curious girl, I decided to write it, so … I hope you like. Reviews are love, and if you leave one I'll adore you.


You think you're incredibly stupid. Laying here, his chest under your cheek, sweat soaking the brunette strands of your hair, dirty sheets tucked snugly around your intertwined bodies. You're certain this isn't how things are supposed to be.

Not this easy. Not after what you've been through to be with him.

Your mother has left a dozen messages on your cell phone in the past two hours and you just don't care anymore, because his hand is tracing your spine and ohgod, does it feel incredible.

He whispers something in your ear and you open your mouth to protest but his tongue soaks up the words like a sponge and you lose your train of thought to a broken track. His teeth nip at your lower lip and you shiver, sliding underneath him as he trails sinfully hot kisses down your neck and across your collarbone.

His tongue dips into your navel and then he crawls off of the mattress, searching in the dark for his boxers and heading for the bathroom.

You turn your head into his pillow and close your eyes.


The morning is playful, your laughter filling the quietus of the apartment and his mouth making designs on your skin. You feel alive for the first time in years - two and a half, to be exact - and when his mouth finds its way in between your thighs you lose your breath.

Somewhere amongst the piles of clothing on his bedroom floor your phone can be heard but you just don't care anymore. Trimmed, practical, princess-pink-painted fingernails scratch at his shoulders and then color has no meaning when he laughs against your mouth and his fingers curl inside of you.

None of the fantasies you've had have ever compared to this.

For once you're glad that you're not living in the fictitious worlds you're so prone to escaping into.

You don't hear the twentieth voicemail your mother leaves for you. You don't really want to. Because he's smiling against your mouth and you're still shaking in the aftermath of bliss and when did he get a tattoo?


His couch is leather.

You think it's insanely funny that he owns a leather couch, but you don't get the chance to tell him that. His hands are under your shirt and your legs are around his waist and then he trails his mouth across that spot on your neck and …

Your jeans end up on the coffee table.

His shirt is flung over the lamp.

Your shoes land somewhere near the entertainment center; your shirt falls somewhere close to them.

A giggle is let out against the salty skin of his stomach as you fumble with the button on his jeans and he takes your hands in his, pinning them above your head as he flips you over on the couch and takes them off himself.



That's how many messages you have according to the automated voice in your ear and you close your eyes with a sigh, snuggling further into his side. He writes his name across your arm in cursive and it makes you shiver, but the sound of your mother's voice forces your whole body to go stiff.

He presses a kiss to your temple and takes the phone from you.

He tells you to call her while he makes dinner that night and you shake your head with a sad smile. You can't call her; not yet. You have to know that this isn't just a moment.

You have to know that this is how things are going to be from now on.


You cry when he tells you he loves you and the words fall out of your mouth before you realize it. His eyes widen almost comically and you laugh, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you sit on the couch together.

And you mock him for owning a leather couch and he promises you can pick out the next one.

You can call your mother, now.


She wants to yell at you: this much you know is true. But when she hears you laugh happily as he collapses beside you in his – your – bed, she smiles through the phone and asks you to be careful.

She doesn't want you to get your heart broken again, especially not by this man.

You tell her that it never fully healed without him there and that you feel like it's whole again now. Your boyfriend (because you labeled this last night) presses kisses against your neck and then lays his head on your stomach with a sigh, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist.

She asks you to call more often and you sleepily promise to oblige.


He tells you stories of his life in New York, of his thoughts that first day in Stars Hollow. He confesses that he was jealous of Dean before he had even met him and you press lazy kisses against his mouth when he talks about California and the brainstorming process for his book.

Your eyes fill with tears when you tell him about the last few years and he holds you against his chest. He doesn't say anything when you tell him about losing your virginity and you kiss his shoulder in apology.

He was supposed to be your first.

But you assume that he's okay with being your last. When he whispers the words to you later that night you smile against his neck and hug him closer.


He asks you when you have to go back to school and you visibly cringe at the subject. You don't want to leave him, this, the home you've come to call your own. You tell him as much and he smirks a little, eyes sparkling at the admission.

You call your mother that evening and she tells you to do what you need to do.

But you all know that you want to finish school.


You're the one to answer the phone when his boss calls and gives him permission to take more work in Hartford. You almost drop the phone when he steps out of the shower.

Instead you thank the man on the other end of the receiver and smile, running toward him and wrapping your legs around his waist with a squeal.

He laughs against your mouth while you tug at the towel around his waist and the suitcases sitting by the door are forgotten.

This is how things are going to be from now on.

The thought sends you spinning as his fingers burn letters – his name, your name, unspoken questions – into your skin.


She hugs him when you visit her and Luke in Stars Hollow the next weekend and you can't stop grinning no matter how hard you try. He visibly stiffens at the contact and then relaxes, returning the gesture before returning to your side and drawing your hand into his.

He travels back and forth between his home and Hartford while you try and find a balance between Yale and Philadelphia. Eventually your last year of studying ends and you say a tearful goodbye to a blonde girl you used to hate, ignoring the stare of your ex-boyfriend when Jess sweeps you up into his arms and kisses any skin he can reach.


It takes you by surprise.

A simple, elegant gold band with a humble diamond and tiny sapphires sparkling from the center of it, glinting in the sun that's filtering through the window in the living room.

You think you cry when you tell him yes but you can feel laughter bubbling up your throat as well.

And here you thought you'd gotten over him all those years ago. Now you think you were incredibly stupid.

(He's never thought anything of the sort.)