"It's open."

He lingers in the entryway. Watches as she reads Blood Meridian on the couch. She snaps her head in his direction.

"Hey." It's pleasant. Casual. Like she'd been expecting him this whole time.

"Hey."

"You can come in."

"Yeah," he says, finally shutting the door. He hangs his jacket over a chair and takes a seat on an ottoman, far far away.

She closes her book and brings her knees to her chest.

"So, what's up?" she asks.

"I was kind of hoping you could tell me that." She bites her lip. Suddenly not so sure. He presses on. "That was quite a scene in the diner earlier."

"Yeah. I don't know where that came from."

"So, you're definitely broken up with Dean?"

"I'm definitely broken up with Dean."

"Okay." He nods, slowly. Processes the information. A moment of silence passes.

"Okay?"

"You hungry?"

"I- Yeah, I could eat."

"Let's get some pizza."

"I'll go change," she says, half in a daze. Whatever awkwardness hangs between them is bookended by an almost preordained comfort. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world for the two of them to go get pizza fewer than 24 hours after Rory and Dean hit Splitsville.

"So what do you think of Blood Meridian?"

"It's incredible. It's my first McCarthy."

"You're kidding."

She shakes her head, no. "I tried to read it when I was in 8th grade, but the violence was a little beyond."

"Considering I know that you've seen most of Tarantino's filmography, I find that hard to believe."

"The first three times I saw Kill Bill, I watched it like this." She laces her fingers over her eyes to cover them.

"That's precious."

"Like you're so punk rock."

"Hey, I went to the school of rock."

"Really. And what did you learn there?"

"Jack Black is lactose intolerant, for one."

"Huh."

The pizza arrives just as Rory's stomach starts to grumble.

"Are you ever not starving?"

She scrunches her face up in serious contemplation. "Two years ago, mom and I went to the Fairfield County Fair and ate every single fried food item available. I was full the entire drive home."

"Why did I ask?"

She laughs. They go on like this through the meal. Never quite broaching the Most Important Question, opting to sidestep around the Future of Them for as long as their pop culture references will sustain them. But eventually, as they walk through town, breath rising and falling, visible in the cool air, the subject begins to weigh heavy on the pair. Like a wool blanket.

"Jess."

He is grateful that she is the first to speak. It would almost contradict their whole thing if it was him instead of her. Up 'til now, he's given her her time and her space, and he doesn't want to break the chain lest it be the straw that breaks the camel's back.

"We don't have to be anything," she says.

"Okay."

"But, I don't want to be nothing."

"Rory." He stops her in front of a beautiful townhouse on Peach.

"What?"

He jerks his head toward the house, mischievous. It takes a moment, but she gets there. "This is Taylor's house."

"Yes it is."

"We're trick-or-treating 7 months early?"

He pulls a roll of toilet paper from his messenger bag.

"Oh." She's not sure what to do with this. "Did you have that with you this entire time?"

"I grabbed a roll from the bathroom at Al's."

She remains quiet for what seems to Jess like centuries.

"Listen, I, uh...I don't think that's...It's 5 pm."

"Yeah. Forget it."

"No, it's. It's actually, kind of sweet."

"Yeah?"

"In a twisted, close-up-magic, juvenile delinquent kind of way. But, tip, if you ever want to hang out with me ever again, tee-peeing Taylor Doose's house in broad daylight is probably not at the top of the list."

"Noted."

He places the roll of toilet paper gingerly on Taylor's mailbox, and the pair continue their stroll through the town.

"You never answered my question," she says.

"It wasn't phrased as a question."

"Okay. How do you feel about...?" she motions between them, like she's allergic to the word "us."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Maybe, anything other than, 'hey, let's throw toilet paper at Taylor Doose's house?'"

"I like you, Rory."

This shuts her up.

"But, if you still need to figure stuff out, I get it."

They walk for a while in total silence. Eventually, she remembers the speech she practiced late last night and works up the nerve to say it.

"I don't want to jump into something just because I feel like I'm supposed to. I was with Dean for so long. I know that's lame, but it's real, and...I'm sorry if I made it seem like I'm this completely together person who makes rational decisions all the time and does whatever she wants, but I'm, I don't know. I'm working on it. And I really...like you, too. But, in my world, there's not really a way to like you without getting my mother or my grandparents involved, and the thought of that happening is just so awful. Like, Panopticon."

"I get it."

"You do?"

He shrugs. "Panopticon, no. But, the rest of it. The not rushing."

"That doesn't mean... Um." She hates how nervous she sounds. Every sentence an apology or a qualification, but she can't help this feeling with him. From here on out, she's in uncharted territory.

He knows what she doesn't mean. She doesn't mean that she doesn't want to explore with him. Which means - Rory does. She wants him. It's like a lightning bolt to his nervous system. Rory Gilmore wants him, but he can sense her uneasiness, and while he's definitely on board to help her through it, he also knows that he's not going to get any points by pushing her.

"So we're, casual."

She laughs out loud at the word, like he knows she will. It's a silly juxtaposition. Rory Gilmore. Casual.

"When you say it like that... Have you ever read The Unbearable Lightness of Being?"

He nods. "Kundera, yeah."

"I've been thinking about it, kind of constantly. There's this whole thing about 'poetic memory-'"

"'Love begins at the point when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory,'" he quotes, interjecting.

She nods, contemplating her next move. "That always seemed like a better explanation for love than anything else." They're at the bridge now. Her heart is racing. She can feel it in her earlobes, her fingers, arms, arse, her collarbone. Every vein exposed. Minutes ago she was telling him that she wanted to take things slow, not commit. Right now her entire body is a nerve. They are alone. There is nothing and no one else. She pauses, looks him dead in the eye. "Jess, would you like to be in my poetic memory?"

He grabs her, quick. There is nothing fast enough for him in that moment.