1

A/N: A heartfelt thank you to Bridges for being a phenomenal beta!

Lorelai sits on the couch, surrounded by darkness and silence. The movie is long over, Judy Garland's last notes played out and finished this time. Uninterrupted.

The now-muted TV flickers light across the room and she just stares, lost in memories. It's been three months. Three incredibly lonely, uninterrupted months.

Three months since she left him standing in the street watching her walk out of his life. Three months since she made it impossible for him to ever walk back in.

She never thought she could hurt someone that badly, be so hurt in return. It wasn't the way their story was supposed to go. It wasn't supposed to end with her angry tears and his bitter accusations.

The sound of a truck door slamming has her leaping from the couch, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. He's here. It's like she's conjured him up, willed him to her through her thoughts.

She stands by the front door, waiting for the knock, feeling weak with anticipation. But the knock doesn't come.

She shakes her head, frustrated by the delusions she's created. It must have been the replay of the movie, the crispness of the memory, that has her quaking inside. She hasn't wished for him this badly in weeks now.

She wanders to the window, and her knees go weak. Light spills from the garage and she realizes it wasn't her imagination, that he was in fact there. Except not at her door. He's come for the boat. The boat, but not for her.

She steps on to the porch, wary to bring on a confrontation, but unable to stay away. The late August night is humid and sultry, the air thick with an impending storm. The air feels electric, as the tension crackles around her. Her tank top clings to her damp skin, her shorts to her bare legs.

She slips quietly into the garage, watching him for a moment, unnoticed. She's surprised he doesn't hear her heart beating, the pounding in her chest is so loud in her ears. She exhales the breath she's been holding as she searches for something to say to get his attention. She isn't fast enough; he notices her before anything of wit or value comes to mind. She sees his muscles tense, his t-shirt ripple as he freezes in place for just a second.
"Luke," she whispers, standing directly behind him.

"I'm almost done in here; I'll move it out to do the painting," he responds without turning around.

She pauses, looking away from him. Her eyes fall to the boat. "You've been working on it," she states, realizing that in the months she has avoided the garage, the boat has been transformed.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he says defensively.

Suddenly it all becomes clear to her: he's been here before, maybe a lot of befores, and she never knew, never heard him until tonight.

She watches as he braces his left hand against the boat and sands with his right, casually dismissing her. She knows this is her cue to leave, to walk back in the house, but she's unable to tear herself away.

She's suddenly caught in the little details: the way his muscles flex as he leans into the wood. The dampness of his hair curling softly against his neck. The smells of man and sweat and wood and heaven. And she reaches out her hand to touch him, before snatching it quickly back.

He is not hers to touch anymore.

She should leave him to it. Leave him to his beautiful boat, his handiwork evident in every loving detail. But her knees still feel weak and her heart is still pounding and this is the closest she's been to him in so long.

And before she can stop herself, she has reached out to slide her hand along his arm, the skin taut, the muscles flexing beneath her fingers. He is hot to the touch, and her body responds, heat rising to her cheeks. He stiffens but doesn't retreat, and she steps closer behind him, her right hand smoothing the damp material across his back.

She leans into him, her breath a whisper across the back of his neck. She can see him shiver in reaction. He takes a deep breath and she hesitates for just a moment, holding her own, praying he won't tell her to stop.

She slides her hand around his middle, fingers splaying across his abdomen. She steps closer still, until she can press her cheek against his shoulder in a soft caress. He stops pretending to work now, bracing himself with both arms against the rail of the boat.

She's not sure of what she is trying to prove, not sure of where she has left her pride, not sure of what she is feeling. She just knows it's more than she's felt in forever, that nothing has felt this right in longer than she can remember.

"Lorelai," he breathes out, more of a sigh than a word as she kisses the back of his neck, trembling now with each step she's taking.

His hand covers hers, and his fingers circle her wrist, in protest of her touch. But she resists his attempt to dismiss her, pressing herself even tighter to him. Her anguished moan is muffled against his shirt, as she drinks in just another moment.

"Let me," she whispers in his ear, pleading to continue.

There is something dream-like about their actions, something caught out of time, that has no thought of consequences or of regrets. Only this moment matters, this moment where she's captured him once again, if only physically. Her heart shudders slightly at the acknowledgement of that little truth, but that will be the price she will pay . . . tomorrow.

She bites gently at his shoulder, her movements rhythmic and arousing. She's totally caught up in the sensations, the warmth of his body, the feel of his strength.

He tugs at her wrist to turn her, and she slides easily around him. She gives them no time to hold each other's gaze or to mutter empty words. Her lips slide hungrily against his, her tongue asking entrance, as she continues her assault on his senses.

Their dance is familiar, the movements practiced and sure. They've held each other like this many times before. She slides her foot up the back of his calf, and his knee slips between her legs.

But she can feel his resistance, his hesitancy, as he slows her movements, checks their progress, steadies himself. She can almost feel the battle going on in his mind as she braces herself for his rejection.

She releases his lips slowly, twining her arms around his neck. And she can't be the first to step back, because somehow that wouldn't be fair. And fair is all she wants now, as forgiveness and regret are things best left in the past. She leans forward again and kisses his neck, burying her face in the hollow of his shoulder.

"How many nights?" she asks. Because it suddenly seems important to know.

"Every night," he answers, his voice soft with emotion.

She catches her breath at the sudden pain of his confession, at the shame it causes her.

"Luke," she whispers, her eyes closed tightly against the burning tears she won't let fall. She doesn't want to ruin this moment with futile tears or selfish indulgences. She doesn't want to cry and wail against fate or what wasn't meant to be. There will time enough for tears later, when he's gone, when she's alone again.

And so she drowns her feelings of remorse in the simple touch of him, denial a tangible force between them as she places soft kisses on his lips once more, one and then two, brushing and teasing the way he likes. She feels compelled to please him, helpless in her attempt to tempt him. For there are no words that she can say that can wipe away the pain she has caused him.

More than anything, she wants him to be the last one to have ever touched her, to ever touch her again. And although she knows the thought is selfish, and maybe even cruel, she's unable to push it from her mind.

Her soft caresses are suddenly mocked by his strong demands, as he deepens the kiss, drawing her into his tight embrace. She luxuriates in every touch, memorizes every feeling, imprints him in her memories; as she feels him take control. She's not sure what has made him change his mind, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters, except this moment. It will be enough for her, she swears, something to replace the bitter past, to replace the touch of another.

Their eyes meet as he releases her suddenly. The resignation she sees in the depths of his causes pain to radiate swiftly across her chest, making her sway momentarily. His look says it all: nothing will change the past.

The loss of his touch has stolen her breath, making her unable to utter a sound. She stays frozen in place, waiting for him to turn away, unable to hide her disappointment.

When he does, her heart drops, even though she knows this is the way it should be. He takes one step, then two, stopping without turning to face her.

"Are you coming?" he asks, impatiently.

It's her turn to hesitate now, to fear what new pain this will bring. But she can't deny him, not now, not after she's put this all in motion.

She can do this, she thinks. She can savor this night, savor every touch, every last moment.

And she can let him go in the morning.

The storm has broken and large raindrops soak them as they race across the lawn to the front porch. Once there, he stops to face her, running his hands up and down her rain-slicked arms for just a moment, before kissing her softly, giving her one last chance to walk away from what she has started. In response, she leads him, up the stairs and to the bedroom

And so their dance begins again, as soft touches turn to passion, and melting kisses turn to demands for more. They each draw out the moments, trying to remember the last time they tried this hard to make it perfect for each other.
He pauses over her, removing his lips from her skin to whisper, "Do you still love me?" His words break the silence and he slows his movements, drawing out the moment. It isn't hard for her to answer; he deserves her honesty and she gives it. She only wishes he could truly know, truly believe: it's always been him. Always, even when it wasn't.

"Yes. . . I love you, I love you," she chants over and over, as he begins to move once more, his steady thrusts bringing them to a point of no return. She grasps at his arms, unable to stop the sudden fear of their completion, of the end of something she will never get back.

And if for a moment she begs in her mind to hear those words repeated back from his lips, she excuses herself for her weakness. Excuses herself from wanting something that she once so carelessly threw away.

"I'll always love you," she whispers, tightening her arms fiercely around him. When her words are met with silence, she wills her heart to turn off once more, unwilling as it is to accept the rejection she feels. Her heart shudders in protest at the finality of it all and she reminds herself: having him here is more than she deserves.

She heard him leave when it was still almost dark, when dawn's light hadn't quite reached the room. She kept her promise to herself: she let him go, even though she wanted nothing more than to beg him to stay with her.

She curled up on herself and willed her mind to go back to sleep, but any pretense of that left when she heard the click of the front door and tears began to flow.

She doesn't know how long she's laid in bed now, tears drying on her cheeks, going over each kiss, each touch, filing the memory in her mind to take out again later.

She just knows there is no room for regrets, no room for recriminations, no room for thoughts about a future that just doesn't exist anymore.

Rising, she splashes her face, staring at herself for a moment in the mirror. Does she look older? she wonders. She feels older somehow, like she's aged overnight.

Dressing quickly, she makes her way downstairs. As she wanders into the kitchen, she realizes that there's nothing to show that he was here last night: no coffee pot on, no shirt left carelessly over the chair. It all could have been a dream.

She wanders to the front door, intent on seeing the boat, on proving to herself that she didn't imagine it all. She needs to see it, the last little piece of Luke.

She steps out into the bright sunlight, intent on her purpose, only to be caught off guard by the figure sitting on the porch steps.

"Luke," she says quietly, her heart racing, wondering why he hasn't made his escape yet.

"I thought you left," she adds, meeting his eyes as he comes to stand in front of her.

"I made it to the stairs," he shrugs, looking older himself this morning. She doesn't know how to react to that, what to say next, so she just waits for him to continue.

"I forgot to tell you something," he says finally, looking at her closely, his serious gaze making her apprehensive.

She braces herself for his words, her arms wrapped protectively around her middle. She just feels so tired. Tired of the guilt, tired of the mistakes, tired of so many nights spent wishing he was here.

"I love you, too," he says softy, making her eyes fly up to meet his.

For a moment, she just takes in his words, letting them soothe her. She's tempted to throw herself into his arms, to do anything to ease the weariness she can see in his face. But in the harsh light of day it's just not that easy, not that simple.

He shuffles his feet, inpatient now for her to respond, and that little action has her heart stuttering back to life.

"Do you want to come back in?" she asks, a soft plea in her eyes, a hint of a smile forming on her face. And it's just a question, just a small request, but it feels so huge, so scary.

"Yeah," he answers, smiling gently back at her.

"I'll make us some coffee," she states, as she holds the door open for him to follow her, daring him to contradict her.

"I'd like that," he replies, meeting her proud gaze for a minute with one of his own, before closing the door firmly behind him.

i fin

And now. . . I'm glad I didn't know. The way it all would end, the way it all would go.
Our lives. . . are better left to chance. I could have missed the pain.
But I'd of had to miss the dance. - Garth Brooks /i