A/N-A little short that popped into my head and won't leave. This is also for Nikki (someone5) and our new club ;).

This is rated M because it is full of innuendoes. It's a little Season 4 tidbit, I figured you might want a taste after that whole "not until after graduation" thing.

Here it is, Rearview Mirrors (like most of my stuff, based on a lyric, this one is Cold Shower Tuesdays by Bowling for Soup).

He sat down on the edge of his desk, lighting a cigarette.

He hadn't quit, yet again.

"I'll get over it," she said from her reclined position on the bed, speaking like that conscience on his right shoulder. Maybe he didn't have one before her.

He nodded. He was submissive.

She nodded. She was bored.

He walked to the window of his dorm, cranking it open and ashing his Marlboro. She always found that a little sexy. A thought of "screw the surgeon general" flashed through her mind. That little reflexive dirty flitted through once too. She didn't smile, she didn't need to. He didn't see her anyway.

His head was halfway out the window, inhaling a combination of New Haven air, Ivy League aristocracy, late summer haze, and his little smoldering piece of the city. He'd missed her. One month in the summer was enough absence. His heart was plenty fond.

"I missed you," he said quietly as she closed her eyes and reveled in the sunlight that glowed beet red through her eyelids. She heard him perfectly.

"I missed you too," she responded, still not moving. He fidgeted, eager to touch. He checked for passerby and dropped the cigarette. He watched it float away like slow motion from his hand. He blew out that last puff of smoke.

"I made it," he said obviously, sitting on the side of the bed. He had his head turned to face her. She looked exhausted. He sighed.

"You did. So did I," she said, smirking at him and sitting up to be more attentive.

The conversation would end there.

She drew her hair away from her face, sticky from the Indian summer heat. She has a reminiscent thought of their few summer days together in the heat, their skin stuck together and praying for the rain.

She didn't need rain to feel chemistry catalyzing between them.

He watched her fingers trail up her face and revel for a minute in the touching of her skin to skin. She pulled that hair back up into the messy bun she had been in since she came to school.

She saw him let his eyes linger for a few more moments than he had intended.

She inched toward him absently, feeling herself as she settled herself on his lap, her legs on either side of him. She felt the bed press down a few inches and let her knees sink in.

He fell into that stupor. That blue-eyed stupor. She looked so awake sometimes those eyes looked like ice. He curled his fingers into her belt loops. He always held on to her.

She felt herself clench the shoulders of his green t-shirt and stare at him, those eyes of his melting all at once into drops of ecstasy residing behind those Italian long lashes.

Their lips wavered a few hairs widths away from one another. She could smell that cigarette on his lips and he could taste her perfumed body and its smell coming over him in amazing waves.

They connected with ceremony, the electricity building with every press he made against her and every breath that she let out against his skin. He felt the hot air and the hotter breath and he felt himself lay down.

She felt herself roll slowly onto her side and then onto her back, him wavering just a few inches above her. That airspace was so intense.

Finally, absolutely squirming because he wouldn't touch her, she leaned up and took his lips, grabbed his shoulders, and anchored him on top of her. She loved that weight so much. She was so accustomed and so in love with that weight against her.

He ran a hand under her shirt. She was also absolutely obsessed with the feeling of his skin against the grain of hers.

He felt her tug a little more at that shirt. They were both removed at the same time. He brushed his lips against her neck discreetly, traveling to his beloved land of her collarbones.

He didn't know what his deal was with those collarbones. It would go on his gravestone—Jess Mariano-In love with Rory Gilmore and her perfect collarbones. It was almost catchy.

He kissed those bones for what felt like an eternity. She let out a sigh that wanted to be a moan and he undressed them both as she kneaded her hands through his hair. The texture in this heat was so memorable.

They slid together easily, amiably. She loved him, even in his post-nicotine mustiness. He loved her in that post innocence sadness. He was sad about it too, but he loved that maybe she could overcome that sadness. She did a little every time she smiled.

He pummeled into her the way that he was normally pummel her with his quirks. A cigarette here and there. The first book that his late mother gave him that still sat at the bottom of his trunk. The first pair of earrings that she left over at the apartment.

She was absolutely drunk. Stinking drunk and loving it. It would be post-coital, but never hang-over. She loved being this drunk. He was better than any liquor she could ever taste against her lips. He was just so much better than that.

He felt her blend into him as he neared the end, felt her psyche go blank. It made the room feel very quiet when her mind stopped working.

It was hazy again. Not that Indian summer hazy. It was hazy like sweet May rain making fog that you only see in your rearview mirror.

He was her sweet May rain in her rearview mirror.