It's something different than that, something deeper. She feels it at every moment, but even more at odd moments when she's least expecting it. There's something that's offbeat, off-center, which she thinks, in her life, means it's exactly as it's supposed to be.

That's what scares her.

But it doesn't, not really. Because she knows, if she thinks about it, she'll know that the reason is lying in bed beside her, looking absolutely ridiculous, but twenty times more manly for it with a frilly pink ruffle tucked under his stubbled chin.

She reaches over and tugs the comforter down, moving slowly so that he doesn't stir as she exposes his chest, the dark hair matted with sleep, tamped down from her tongue where she'd tasted his skin, licking the salty sweat from their lovemaking.

That's it, she knows. They've never had sex, no matter how many times she tries to convince herself that that's all it was at one point. Pressure and desire that had built up so long, finally given an outlet as he'd pushed inside her. But she knows it's a lie, and it's one that she doesn't even want to believe if she's honest with herself. She likes the fact that she and Luke make love. She likes that he looks at her as if she's something made of glass, and treats her like she might break until she breaks him down, begging him to push harder, thrust deeper, make her scream.

He shivers when she screams.

Lorelai's world has fallen apart more times than she can count, and he's always there. Right now she doesn't know where the future will take them, or what will happen or why. She's full of more questions than an Abbott and Costello baseball team, but she still stares down at Luke's sleeping body and trails her fingers over his chest.

Things are different now. Lorelai has always liked being different.