Dean laughs. "Well, she has had to do all the baby work for nine months. It's only fair that she gets a break."

"That's what she said."

"And," Dean practically hollers, because Miss Patty has taken over the karaoke machine and she's even louder than Kirk, "She already did it with you, so you probably owe her a little bit."

"She said that too."

"You should probably get her a bell. She can ring it when she requires ice cream."

Rory's eyes widen. "You do a startlingly good Lorelai," she said. "I forgot that about you."

“What did you do tonight?” Rory asks.

“Hors d’oeuvres with the duke and duchess, dinner at the club. Then we went waltzing. With bears,” he adds matter-of-factly.

“Did the bears get fresh with you again?”

“I showed them your picture and they knew they couldn’t compete with that.”

Stars Hollow is always going to belong to Rory. It doesn’t matter that he’s called it home for almost nine years now, or that she’s been as good as gone for the last six. He was Rory’s boyfriend; now he’s Rory’s ex, and he’s never going to be just Dean Forester. Not here.

So he packs up and moves. He doesn’t tell many people he’s going – his family, Gypsy, Tom and Taylor. It’s a small town – word will get around sooner or later, and anyway, it was never his to begin with.

“You know there’s a lot you’ll have to give up,” he says softly, and pulls her panties down, away from her slick, overheated skin.

“Heroin,” replies Rory sagely.

“Coffee,” Dean tells her, grinning.

Rory’s got a smile for every occasion: the big grin when she makes an obscure movie reference and he gets it, the smirk that means something’s funny but she’s not sure she’s supposed to laugh, the early morning at-the-bus-stop smile that lights up her eyes. And the one she gives him as she leaves at the end of the night, fluttering eyelashes and the corner of her mouth twitching, a smile to hide something else.

Summary: "Tell me I belong."
Music: sundrenched world - joshua radin
Size/format/length: 100MB, wmv, 4:21 (on sendspace and imeem)

Good girls don’t, she knows, but that’s not really why she doesn’t. There’s no time, and she wants time, hours and hours, wants to savor it, and lie in Dean’s arms afterwards and talk about nothing in particular and feel his laughter under her c

He used to associate everything about this town with Rory, every eccentricity and bizarre local ritual–he still does, but when asked, Dean never says he’s from Chicago anymore.

“Can I–can I touch you?” Dean’s breath is warm on her face, his kisses damp on her neck.

10 PM, Saturday night in his truck. Parking. Rory didn’t mean to, exactly. But she’s become a kissing addict, and he’s Dean.

She knows Dean hears her because his step falters, and Dean is generally a very consistent walker. He keeps moving, though, and she can see his shoulders straighten under his t-shirt so she calls again. "Dean!"

Rory’s own brand of sweetness though, that’s a flavor that always seems real to him. Vivid like technicolor yet subtle, girl-tart and addicting.

He smiles and says, “Hey,” his voice low and soft and molasses-y, and she thinks about how odd it is that Dean had that same deep voice back before he’d grown into his long limbs–back when he used to love her.