They're beautiful eyes.

And they're looking at him, caught in his. He wonders about all the men in her life that have let her down - her father and Christopher - and he wants to be one of them, because she still loves them so much. He wonders what it would take to be that man in her life. Would he have to stop stocking coffee? Be cruel to her? Indifferent? But he can't imagine doing any of those things because that would mean seeing those eyes fill with tears again.

How did Christopher just walk away? He knows, logically, that he probably didn't have any say in the matter, given her headstrong ways, but if it had been him, and he knows where that fantasy leads, having followed it one too many nights, he wouldn't have gone. Wouldn't have walked out of her life. He would have been there, somehow. Some way. Any way she'd let him.

Like he's here for her now.

"Lorelai?"

"You're not watching the processional."

She's not either, but he doesn't mention that. "It's just a practice."

"But it's beautiful all the same."

"So are you." He doesn't recognize the words as they leave his mouth, certainly doesn't recognize the voice speaking them. He doesn't ever remember sounding so soft and caring, so in love. He knows what they mean, the words that is, but he can't fathom them in the context he's just uttered them, can't figure out what he's just said, what he's just done. But there's a warm swelling in his stomach that tells him he's done the right thing. The irrevocable thing.

"All the same?"

"What?" It takes him a few minutes to realize what she's said. What he said and how it might have sounded. "You know what I meant."

"No," she's grinning and it's infuriating, like most everything about her. "I only know what I heard, which was you giving me some sort of strange backhanded compliment. Or maybe it was front-handed and just not a very good compliment at all."

"Maybe it was more than you deserve."

"And now you're just deliberately trying to hurt my feelings."

Her lower lip slides out in a pout and he shakes his head, wanting to reprimand her more, to see how far she'll take it, but that's pushed aside by the nearly overwhelming desire to lean down and capture the full lip with his teeth then slide it between his lips, suck gently until she moans and then hold her, maybe carry her upstairs and lay her down on his bed, stroke that luminescent skin until she's naked and shivering and he's so close and hard and inside her…

"Luke?"

He clears his throat, fights to clear his mind. She's looking at him curiously, the corner of her mouth tipped up in a slight smile, as if she maybe knows what's going on in his head. Maybe she realizes that he wanted to lean forward when she put the hat on his head, wanted to kiss her and hold her. Maybe he's not as cool and collected as he thinks he is.

"I was trying to think of new ways to hurt your feelings."

"Ah, the old ways aren't good enough anymore?"

"Not really." He reaches out and grabs her shoulders. In the brief second of first contact, he hears her breath catch slightly and feels compelled, hungry, desperate to pull her to him, prolong the touch, lengthen it, make it full bodied and something more. Tightening his fingers against her jacket, he turns her toward the window. "Watch the processional."

"Yes, sir." She lets him turn her, not resisting. Her body's warm under his hands, firm and strong. He knows how hard she works, how strong she is. He wonders if she'd ever let anyone take care of her, or if she's too used to taking care of herself to relinquish control.

He stands somewhat behind her and she leans back into him. Seeking comfort? Or more? His eyes close of their own volition and he breathes her in, wondering at the smells of her. Most women smell like perfume or lotion or something sweet and fruity, but not Lorelai. She smells like the cold air outside and the sliver of warmth that you search for when you slide into bed.

She snuggles closer, her head on his chest, her back against him. He drops his hand and it rests against her hip, just the lightest of pressure as he opens his eyes. He can see her reflection in the mirror, far more interesting than Kirk and Taylor and all the others walking by. Her eyes are electric in the glass, staring straight ahead as he realizes that his hand is moving, stroking her jeans, sliding higher to slip underneath her coat, her sweater. He's touching her skin and it's just as he's always imagined, silky smooth and addictive.

He swallows hard as she shifts in his almost embrace, the soft curve of her body molding to his. He nearly groans as she presses back against him, feeling her feeling him. His hand is flat against her stomach, his thumb stroking her. Her hand moves, resting against his thigh and his muscles tighten as she rubs the worn denim of his jeans lightly.

"It looks like they found a new before-Mary." Her voice is hoarse and foreign, but he recognizes the thrill of desire in it. "I didn't think there was anyone else in town that was expecting."

He's about to answer when she pulls away. The words stick in his throat as she pulls off her coat and tosses it gently onto one of the tables near them. Without thinking, he reaches out and drops the shade. "She's someone's cousin, visiting for the holidays. Taylor roped her into it."

"Just what every pregnant woman needs." She's facing him now and he wants to touch her, but suddenly needs her invitation. He wants to strip her shirt off of her slowly, make it last forever, since he's petrified of this moment. Fantasy and reality clashing together like some mythic tale. "A gentle dictator."

"Do you want to get pregnant again?"

He can tell the question shocks her and he hates the words as he speaks them. Then she smiles and relief floods through him. "Not tonight."

"What…" he stumbles over the words, over her smile. Her warm, inviting smile. "What do you want to do tonight?"

"I'm not quite sure," she admits honestly. "But I don't think I'd mind if you kissed me."

"You don't?" His voice is gruff and thick, forced out of his too tight throat. He's tried not to think about kissing her, knowing that it's the first real surprise of any relationship or coupling, knowing that too much expectation can ruin it, too much build up makes it meaningless. Trying hasn't stopped him though. He thinks every night about what it would feel like to have her lips on his skin. Sometimes he lies in bed and picks a random spot on his body - his hip, his stomach, his thigh, his chest - and wonders what it would be like to have her kiss him there. He imagines their softness, her playful nibbles. He has to believe that she'd nibble. She's a nibbler.

Her eyes as shining brighter than the lights hanging outside, brighter than the stars. "No. But you're losing the moment, I think, so if you don't do it soon, reality's liable to settle in and it's all going to be over before we know it and who knows when the opportunity's going to…"

He breathes her in, breathes her words as she rambles until he touches her lips with his own. He's expected and dreamed and thought and fantasized, but nothing is like the real thing. No amount of anticipation could have made the first taste of Lorelai be anything less than what it is. Soft. Delicious. There's a slight coffee taste to her kisses and he suddenly sees the appeal of the drink as he licks it from her lips, slides his tongue over hers and absorbs the warmth of her, the heat of her. His hands creep around her waist and pull her closer as her arms slip around his neck. She's all warmth and flesh and tender and demanding at once as her tongue wars with his, fighting for dominance. He smiles in the kiss. He knew it would be like this, even though it's like nothing he ever imagined.

When they pull apart, they're both breathless. He tries to remember the last time he kissed someone like that and realizes how long it's been since he kissed someone, because he knows he's never kissed anyone like that. Simply because there's no one like her.

There are questions in her eyes as she looks at him, and he wishes he had the answers, but he knows he's as confused as she is. Maybe more so. He raises his hand and touches her cheek and she leans into his palm, still looking at him. "What now?" She asks quietly.

"I don't know." He's surprised by the admission. But she smiles and maybe she doesn't want him to know more than she does. That certainly would fit her personality. He smiles and she responds, smiling back. Her lips are parted just slightly and her breath is heavier than it was before, catching somewhere in her chest or throat or someplace else he'd like to strip and kiss. "What do you think should come next?"

"You could kiss me again."

"I could," he nodded in agreement. "But I have to warn you."

"What?"

"Kissing you makes me want to do other things to you."

"Oh really?" She smiles in earnest now and he falls a little bit further. "Such as?"

"Well, I really shouldn't say in mixed company."

"Given that the mixed company is likely the person you'd be doing said things to, I don't think you're going to offend any delicate sensibilities by putting the action into words."

"Kissing you here," he leans in and kisses her again, lightly, quickly, pulling back before she has a chance to respond, reveling in emotion as she leans forward, chasing his kiss, "makes me want to kiss you other places."

"Other places?" She laughs softly and it's nervous laughter. She knows what he means, what he wants. "Such as Timbuktu? Hartford? The zoo?"

"Here." He touches her neck lightly with his fingertips. "And here." The hollow of her throat just above the opening of her sweater. "And here." He pushes the sweater aside and touches the curve of her shoulder. "And, I have to admit, the zoo."

"Luke…"

"And I think that it would be better for everyone if maybe you left right now so that I didn't do those things, kiss you those places, because this is a small town and we have to live here, and we have to see each other."

"Luke?"

"And you're sort of involved with someone else right now and it's completely unfair of me to put you in this position and it's unfair of you to keep looking at me like that and make me think of other positions I want you in and why am I talking like this?" He shakes his head, trying to break the hold of her gaze. "I never talk like this."

"Luke?"

"What?" He looks at her, his voice shaking, his hands shaking as she takes a step back, a step toward the door that leads to the stairs that lead up to his room.

"The zoo's closed."

"Obviously," he clears his throat. "It's night."

"And without sounding like a Dr. Seuss novel, will you kiss me in your room?"

"If I kiss you in there, Lorelai, I can't promise you'll go home tonight."

"My dad got out of the hospital tonight. Rory's over there helping keep him company." She glances down at the floor then back up at him, her eyes full of secrets, of desire, of need. He swallows hard and lifts a hand out to touch her and she backs away, his fingertips skimming over her sweater, touching the soft swell of her breast. Hunger surges through him and he realizes that she doesn't want to go home tonight, doesn't want to be alone and scared. And it scares him, because tonight will turn into tomorrow and everything will be different, they'll be different and he'll never get the taste of her out of his mouth.

"Go home, Lorelai."

The tears that shimmered coalesce and fall, slipping down her cheeks and he hates himself, but he'd rather hate himself than have her hate him. As it is, she'll just chalk it up to another man hurting her, or maybe she'll pretend it never happened. They're getting good at pretending things, the two of them.

"Fine." She moves past him, angry and hurt, grabbing her coat and heading for the door. He wants to stop her more than he's ever wanted anything, wants to carry her up the stairs and lay her down and make love to her, make her want to be there every night. But he can't have that guarantee, so he won't have anything.

It's better that way.

"Lorelai…"

She shakes her head, hiding her tears from him, not knowing that hurts him more than if she would face him. Or maybe she does know. "Goodnight, Luke."

And then she's gone.