Because this time of year always reminds me of the Gilmores.

He knows he's been distant lately. She carries on as if nothing is different, as if everything is perfectly aligned in this carefully crafted universe they've formed over the last few months. Every evening this week has looked the same as any other—her, streaming in somewhere between 5 and 6, cheeks pink from the cold and her movements choppy and upbeat. He used to tease her mercilessly about her post-work high. Most people were elated to come home and rinse away the residual tension of a long day at the office. Not Rory. She breezed through the door with tales of success, triumph, and glory—all in the name of a tiny political column in an obscure news magazine with mediocre circulation. But, of course, she had visions of grandeur. She'd be the one to take that magazine to the top…and honestly, he assumed she would. Optimism never came naturally for Jess, yet with Rory, there was no limit to his conviction. That girl wouldn't rest until she accomplished something worthy of a Yale degree and a whole lot of gusto.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe all the grandeur she was painting around him was starting to get in his head. He'd been writing again—not exactly a sequel, but some sort of self-edit resurgence or continuation of The Subsect. And it was hardly genius, but he couldn't leave it alone. Somewhere between work trips to Philly and freelance book reviews, he started feeling…unfulfilled. That was an unaccustomed idea to him, that he ought to find some kind of greater satisfaction with his professional life or whatever the hell he should call it. Moving back to New York had been a hard decision, but long distance with Rory had been ruthlessly eating at him to the point of insanity. So he did it. He was in his own city again, still keeping up with Truncheon and traveling down when they needed him, but he did it. He did it for her.

He's no fool though. She can shed her clacking heels and long wool coat every night with the same chipper smile and bubbly tone, but she can't strip away the unease in her crystal blue eyes. It's him. He's gradually sloped downward, descending into the old pattern of monosyllabic one-liners and sardonic retorts. He hasn't cooked in days and he hasn't shaved in longer. He isn't getting up to kiss her hello. He just nods and keeps plucking away at his keyboard.

Shockingly, she hasn't asked what's wrong, hasn't even come close to insinuating that he's been miserable company. She buzzes around like usual, maybe a little subdued, but goes on nonetheless. Tonight, there isn't even a pretense of a 'what's for dinner' conversation. The refrigerator opens, the microwave pings, and leftovers from last night's Lo Mein are placed in front of him.

"…and it really smells like snow out there, Jess. I mean it this time, we are bound to get the first snowfall in the next few days. I can feel it. Mom said that Stars Hollow had flurries last night and it looks like its moving right down the coast."

Her dark hair bounces around her face and shoulders as she shakes her head with glee. He grunts in response, but it doesn't deter her. She finishes her share of the remaining takeout and flicks on the Weather Channel while she washes dishes. Jess types, his mind churning with dissatisfaction as he attempts to edit the load of crap he wrote this morning. He decides that he's punishing himself, not her…

But he also knows that punishing himself really looks the same as punishing her.

He glances up, his eyes drowsy. The apartment is eerily silent. It could have been silent for hours and he wouldn't have noticed. By some miracle of nature, he's actually found a decent rhythm. As his eyes flicker back over the glowing screen, he has this gut instinct that this will be the turning point—he knows where this is going now. It has direction.

And suddenly the desire to tell her is overwhelming his entire nervous system. He's ready, he's rounded a corner. He can peel back his brain and let her take a look without that repellent pool of doubt hindering his ability to give her the confirmation she needs.

A different sort of doubt begins to pool in his stomach instead. She calls the apartment cozy. He calls it cramped. Either way, they both agree—it's small. So when he doesn't find her lounging on the couch, curled up in their bed, or occupying the bathroom, he goes into a frenzy. He doubles back and snakes his way through the apartment again, but it's only because he doesn't know what else to do. She's not there.

After digging around for several infuriating seconds, he finds his half-dead cellphone wedged between his pillow and the headboard. No messages.

Even worse?

It's almost midnight.

She didn't have a lot of friends in the city, but even the people she did go out with—mostly coworkers—never stayed out this late, especially not in the middle of a workweek.

He clumsily finds her contact at the top of his recent call history and presses the icon with dangerous force. His heart sinks deeper as her ridiculous Jingle Bell Rock ringtone chirps from the mirrored dresser. Wherever she was, her phone was not with her.

Every mumbled answer, every stupid shrug of the shoulders, every impatient nod…it all slaps at him with vicious retribution. This was Rory Gilmore. Not only did she deserve some damn fairytale prince with a heart of freaking gold, but she was characteristically skittish when it came to relationships. She prefers order, she works tirelessly for every box to be checked off with efficiency. She didn't do well with offhand uncertainty.

He had a hunch that a childhood of relative instability—an absentee father and hostile family drama that stemmed from her very existence—had produced her control freak tendencies. It was as if her whole life was a shred of evidence in a case to disprove their miscalculated dismissal. Ironically, he was the opposite. Instability had manufactured an underachieving loner with a barbed wire exterior.

Which had apparently sent her running. Again.

Doesn't she know? He would do anything, anything, to make her stay.

He scrambles across the room, stubs his toe on the trunk they use as a coffee table, and yanks his jacket off of its hook. A scorching curse plows past his lips, but somewhere inside he knows that the word has more to do with her absence than the pain he feels in his foot.

Her thick fluffy coat is missing, along with the big knit scarf that Lorelai sent a few weeks ago. How did he miss it? How could she get by him wearing all of that?

Scrounging for his keys in the bowl next to the door, he is fractionally distracted by a puzzling sight. The electric blue light inexplicably shines from the Keurig.

She always claims to have some inane aversion to that particular appliance; something along the lines of, "coffee was meant to be served from a coffee pot!" Couple that with an almost religious devotion to fresh coffee grounds and you had the anomaly of Rory Gilmore's Keurig boycott.

It was really just his. He only used it in the morning, just a cup or two and that's it. Then it switched off with the command of some automated feature…

That's weird.

His brow scrunched together but there wasn't time to process it further. If she was really in a rush to get out, the Keurig was the fastest caffeine outlet. Maybe she caved in and stole a cup on her way to the door.

And maybe she didn't leave at all. The deadbolt was on. From the inside.

Jess drops his keys and practically uproots his hair as he tugs it away from his face. What the hell. Was he having a mental breakdown? Was he living out the plot of a Stephen King novel? How…

One look out the window and he has the epiphany. It's snowing.

Oxygen returns to his lungs and his legs begin to function again. He's there in a flash, pushing the freezing window pane as high as it will go. She's swaddled in a plaid fleece blanket, her eyes bright as she glances back at him. "Hey, handsome."

If he hadn't been experiencing the shuddering aftermath of dire panic, he probably would have laughed. Her demeanor—as usual—is in sharp contrast to his. Her voice is velvety smooth and spilling with unwarranted love, her sympathetic eyes roving over his face and her lips climbing into a wide smile.

"Hey." It isn't even the tip of the proverbial iceberg, but it's all that he can manage as he throws one leg over the sill and hoists himself out into her white world. She pats at the space next to her steel perch, beckoning him to join her as she reigns over her fire escape empire. One glimpse at her and he's convinced—she's the bundled Eskimo queen, holding court from above the winter streets, her booted feet dangling and her favorite mug clasped between her gloved hands.

And she lets him sit beside her. He's pretty sure his place is somewhere down in an alley with the other peasants, but he sits with her anyway. You don't deny the queen.

"It's perfect, isn't it? God, I'm happy."

He'll never get over the wonder that fills her voice in still moments like this. Some part of her will always be innocent and free and childlike. He isn't sure if there was ever a time when those three words accurately described him and it's one more reason he adores her. For maybe the hundredth or thousandth time since he met her, he realizes that she's the only positive person he's ever felt connected to…the only glass-half-full type who he deems as sincere. She's real.

"Are you happy, Rory? Truly happy, here…with me?"

Her whole head snaps toward him, the sparkle in her cerulean eyes dimming slightly. It isn't like him to ask for reassurance and it catches her off guard.

"Yes. Can't you tell?" Her voice is low but still warm. She nudges closer, the plaid blanket opening to include him in its protective covering. It's a move that feels strangely maternal and he knows she's worried about him.

"I…I've been a little off lately. I'm sorry." Apologies don't come easily for him and he cringes as he hears the way his words stick in his throat.

"Jess," she sighs and hums and slides an arm around his waist…the puffiness of her coat impedes the action a bit, but she doesn't withdraw. "I know you, remember? It doesn't surprise me that real writing brings out your brooding side."

"Do I have other sides?" He arches a cynical brow and watches as a relieved giggle escapes her with a punctuated stream of visible breath in the early December air.

"Of course you do, silly boy. For example, there is sarcastic Jess, which might seem similar to brooding Jess, but he's known to crack a smile every once in a while."

"This guy sounds like a real joy." He sends a dry smirk in her direction before scattering a few kisses across her forehead. "I didn't tell you I was doing real writing."

Her slim figure sags against him, her cheek resting on his shoulder. "You didn't have to. I know what you look like, how you act, when you're doing reviews or whatever else for freelance. You like to take breaks, turn on music, snack on those nasty dried fruit things…but it's been a lot different lately."

"And you weren't wondering if…?"

"If it had to do with me?" She raises her head and meets his probing eyes.

"Yeah."

Her lips twist a little to the side. "Well…yeah…but I refused to believe it. Even if I went to bed without you every night this week, I also woke every morning all wrapped up in you. That seemed like a favorable sign."

His conscience immediately rejected the notion that she should have to look for signs. She was better than that, worth more than juvenile guessing games.

So he said the most honest thing he could. "I thought you left. I totally freaked out."

"What? When?" Her thumb caresses his scruffy chin.

"Right before I found you out here." She looks at him as if he's said something outlandish…like that snow was ugly or coffee was poison. "I don't know, Rory, I was finally getting somewhere with that damned word document. For days, I've been pounding away at that thing with no real results. But tonight…"

"You broke through? That's great!" A lazy snowflake floats into the line of her dancing lashes. He kisses it away. Her lips replace her thumb for the shortest of embraces before she ducks her head with a crinkled nose. She hates the scratchiness of his facial hair against her skin, which is usually enough to keep him from growing it out in the first place.

"Yeah, I think I did. I'm actually good with it for now. But my enthusiasm was short-lived when I couldn't find you. I'm talking missed calls, keys in hand, ready to hunt you down in some 24-hour diner kind of reaction."

"Till you saw the deadbolt?"

"First the Keurig...that threw me off the trail. Then the deadbolt."

She has the audacity to giggle at his paranoia. "Sorry, Sherlock. We're out of normal hot chocolate and I'm not quite as dedicated to the purist perspective on this one. I conformed and used that utopian device of yours."

"You say utopian like George Orwell says utopian." He rolls his eyes as he threads his arm around her shoulders.

"Well George and I agree for once." Her head falls back to rest against him, the gentle cadence of her voice swirling in time to the powder from above. "I'm not walking away, Jess. Not tonight, not ever. You're stuck with me this time. And I'm not letting you walk away either, mister."

"Good," his mouth moves to whisper softly at her ear. "No one else heats up Chinese takeout the way you do, baby."

"That's beautiful, Jess. I actually want that on my tombstone someday." He can hear the grin in her voice without having to see it, her body shaking with quiet laughter.

And they sit, entwined, shivering, content. She oohs and ahs over the snow globe kingdom that belongs solely to her. He holds her, his foot playfully bumping hers, his eyes following whatever path she draws over the city skyline.

December never held any magic for him. He never bought into the Santa myth, never went caroling, didn't write to the North Pole. Winter was a season. Nothing more, nothing less.

Until her. For the first time in his life, the magic is tangible. He hears it in the silvery threads of her speech, smells it in the crisp swish of her fragrant hair. It explodes like dynamite when her mouth aligns with his. The entire galaxy halts from its infinite spinning and fleetingly zeroes in on one distinctive fire escape. He's nearly drunk as she pulls away with a zealous mirth that both illuminates and consumes him. Snow sticks to them, melts in, bonds them together.

"I swear there's magic out here. God, I love snow." She nuzzles deeper into his side.

"Me too," he murmurs in reply.

Somehow, she's converted him. And somehow, he's okay with it.