AUTHOR: The Corruptor
RATING: G/PG
CHARACTERS / PAIRING: Tristan, Rory, Lane, Henry, and others
SUMMARY: Picks up a few months after The 3rd Lorelai (b/c all other eps that happened after that one cease to exist in this author’s universe). Rory and Tristan are friends, trying to decide whether or not to go to a Chilton dance.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Some of the characters may be slightly “off.” I had to borrow Henry and give him a last name (since the GG writers don’t seem to like to give their characters last names), and I didn’t really want to introduce any other new characters. And yes... *groan*... the use of the way overused "school dance." For anyone who needs audio aids, I was thinking along the lines of "Helplessly, Hopelessly" by Jessica Andrews for Part 5. :-P
DISCLAIMER: I wish I could have HA all to myself, but these characters are owned by Amy S-P, The GG, and the WB.
FEEDBACK: Yes, please! Click on the box below, and please don't forget to write the title of fic in the subject line. Thank you!

He didn’t think he could stand it for much longer. But really, there was no cause for concern. After all, the night hadn’t changed anything. They were still friends. And the next day, they would still continue to be friends. It didn’t matter that they had shared only one brief tension-filled conversation at the dance. It didn’t matter that as soon as she and Henry had arrived at the party, she had been whisked away in a crowd of Henry’s friends. It didn’t matter that even though he had been pining for her for months, that the absence of anything more between them had, for some reason, affected him the hardest that night. It didn’t matter. Because she was having fun. And she would be back. As friends.

Only it did matter. And he didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to pretend that seeing her with other guys – seeing her turn that beautiful but shy smile in the direction of guys who were not him – did not affect him. Didn’t tear at his heart. Didn’t cause him unbearable agony and longing.

She was enjoying herself. That was enough. It had to be. So he stood aloof, watching as she sat on a sofa, surrounded by Henry and new friends. Henry engaged her in conversation, and she laughed. And he couldn’t help but think that it should have been him sitting there beside her. Brushing these thoughts aside, Tristan shook his head to himself, catching the sight of his date waving to him from across the room. Frowning, he deliberately ignored her. He didn’t think he wanted any company at that moment. Especially not his date. And Kristen, giving up, turned her flirtatious smile on the nearest guy. Sighing, Tristan turned and stalked away.

Rory was only half-listening to the conversation buzzing around her. She had opened her mouth to make a point about something that had been mentioned, but her eyes had gravitated towards Tristan. And that had effectively ended all verbal and mental processes for her. He had been standing off to the side by himself, looking less despondent than defeated. And she wondered why, during a time when he should have been at his most charming and overconfident best, he would appear to be so miserable. What confused her even more was his blatant refusal to pay any attention to his date, who had tried unsuccessfully to gain his attention. And the fact that he hadn’t caused a scene -- the way he had at Madeline’s party with Summer -- when Kristen immediately found comfort in another boy’s arms.

Admittedly, Rory had ignored him all through the dance, certain that he would have had other things to do than allow her to tag along, cramping his style. But at times, while he seemed like he would have liked to have sought her company, he almost actively put forth the effort to avoid her. His actions not only confused her, but ate away at her. Because even though she was having fun – an impossible scenario she hadn’t thought feasible with anyone other than Tristan – she instinctively knew that she would have had much more fun with the intolerably charming Tristan. That she actually preferred his attentions to any of the other boys who had suddenly become enchanted with her that evening.

She watched curiously as he turned and ambled away. Possibly to seek out one of the hundreds of girls who fought for his attention everyday. And after a few minutes of torturing herself with probable scenarios, she got up and excused herself, quietly making her way through the loud crowd pulsating around her. She’d put the turmoil plaguing her mind to rest, even if catching him with another girl would only break her heart. But at least then, there would be some finality to answering the questions that Paris’s ominous “just friends” had posed.

Threading her way towards the back of the manor, she was positive she had seen him take this very direction. She hadn’t found him in the dancing crowd around her. Hadn’t heard him call her name, boldly teasing her for trying to stalk him and seek him out. And she was almost certain he hadn’t left the party. Kristen was still there, albeit now dancing with another guy. And as she made her way towards the quieter recesses of the large mansion, her bewildered mind assured her she was indeed heading in the right direction. She just knew. In the same way she could always sense his eyes on her, even when he was hidden from view. Or the way she could anticipate every smirk, every lewd comment, every mocking eye roll and flirtatious tease before they actually passed his lips. Or even the way she knew he was thinking of her just from the emotions she found hidden in the depths of his eyes.

Noticing a door half ajar, she popped her head in. And found him. He was slouched over a shiny black grand piano, brow furrowed in concentration as he picked at the keys. Silently thanking whoever had the presence of mind to keep the door hinges oiled, she pushed the door open wider, slipping undetected into the room. And was afforded an uninterrupted examination of his profile. He had discarded his jacket and tie, now wearing only his dress shirt. The top few buttons were undone to reveal the white of an undershirt. His sleeves were rolled up, allowing her a view of what promised to be strong muscular arms -- arms which she wondered what they would feel like wrapped around her in a protective embrace. Her mind was freed from those senseless thoughts as soon as he started on the beginning bars of what sounded like a familiar piece of classical music. He was picking through the song slowly, carefully, gingerly. And as much as she would have loved to have stood there and listened to him play, she didn’t. Because she was afraid of what he might conclude when he discovered her standing there, watching him, listening to him, dazed, and struggling to come to terms with her newfound conflicting feelings towards him.

“You’re neglecting your date,” she said suddenly. Her voice was too loud in the peaceful room.

Startled, his hands came crashing down on the keys, producing a loud dissonant sound that mirrored the turbulence of his rapidly beating heart. He glanced sharply at the intruder, tensing, but immediately softened when he saw who it was. “What?” He tried not to exude too much joy at seeing her there, desperately trying not to think about what it meant. That she had cared enough to come looking for him. That she had found him in this crowd of people. In such a large house.

“Your date,” she repeated. “Do you even know where she is?” she asked, as if testing him.

“Where’s your date?” he countered.

She took a few steps into the room, shrugging nonchalantly. “I told Henry that I’d get another ride,” she fibbed. “And since I saw your date leave with someone else…” She didn’t finish, knowing he would come to the correct conclusion by himself.

“Oh.” He rolled his eyes, exasperatedly. “Now you want a ride.” She only smiled back shyly, causing his heart to flutter against his will.

Not acknowledging the reproach, she nodded towards the piano. “What is it with you and pianos?” she teased, not sure if she wanted him to answer.

“I’m a musical man, Rory. One of my many talents,” he joked.

“Ah. Chilton’s own Piano Man,” she shot back, just as easily. She glanced down at her shoes as he gave her a quizzical look. Suddenly, her head snapped up. “I just thought of something,” she reflected aloud. “You didn’t dance with me.” There was a challenge in her voice. Her chin jutted out defiantly. She waited to hear him turn her down, to defy her unspoken invitation. It was the only way she would be able to alleviate the nervousness she suddenly felt around him. Because of him.

He quirked a brow, amused. “And this just occurred to you?”

“Well, no…,” she confessed, taking a few more deliberate steps towards him, unsure why she was being so bold. Just Tristan, she repeated to herself. Her face lit up into a playful expression. “I was going over my dance card with Henry, reliving all the guys I danced with tonight, and I noticed that I had penned in a spot for a guy, who left it unclaimed.” She pretended to be mildly offended that someone could have stood her up in that manner.

“Penned? Really? Not penciled?” he asked, a doubtful expression on his face. “That’s kind of permanent, isn’t it?”

“Well, he was special,” she quipped. She was practically at the piano now.

Tristan suddenly found the room too hot. But he fought the urge to pull at his shirt, not wanting her to see how nervous she was making him. “Really. And who was the lucky guy?” For some reason, he was afraid of the answer, even though he was sure there could be only one answer.

“I can’t remember,” she admitted, ruefully.

This caused him to smirk. “He was special, but you can’t recall his name?”

She shrugged, as if it made no difference to her. “Well, he obviously doesn’t deserve the honor if he’s going to leave me hanging like that.” There was feigned haughtiness in her voice, daring him to dispute her statement.

“Looks like you’ll need to punish him,” he murmured, pensively, keeping his eyes on her.

She glanced around at their surroundings. At the solitude. The isolation. And silently questioned why he had placed himself here. Only a faint whisper of the current song playing in the main rooms could be heard in this one. She pursed her lips. “I think he’s already doing a good job punishing himself,” she told him, softly, pointedly. There was a sad lilt to her voice.

His mouth was suddenly very dry. And his hands itched to reach out and bring her to him. For some reason, based on the expectant look on her face, he didn’t think she would have minded. But experience dealing with her obliviousness cautioned him not to take a chance. Not yet. Even though it was slowly killing him to wait. “Oh?” he asked, voice coming out raspy, in an attempt to repress his emotions.

She didn’t answer, deftly changing the subject, as she swayed right up to the piano, unaware of how her movements caused him unspeakable torture. “What are you doing, sitting here all by yourself?” she inquired, lightly, but not meeting his eyes.

“Reliving the past,” he responded, simply. He watched for her reaction.

She sensed his eyes on her, and she felt the temperature of the room rise a few degrees. “Oh?” The word came out as a near whisper.

She was afraid to ask exactly what part of the past he was reliving. The piano automatically brought to mind the last time they had found themselves alone during a party. And subsequently, the way they had planted the seeds of the friendship they were now happily ensconced in. The way he had let her in on his vulnerability. The way she had opened herself to him and learned to accept him. The way they had found common ground. The way he had leaned over and kissed her. The way she had unwittingly and unconsciously encouraged the move. The way she had been overwhelmed by a flood of unexpected emotions for him, and bogged down by the dreadfully heavy sense of propriety that she needed to get over Dean first before she could fully open her heart to anything new. And ultimately, the way she had ran out on him.

And she wondered exactly what part he could be recalling. And whether it was with fondness or despair. Then, assuming a lighthearted and unaffected demeanor, she revealed, “Well, I’m warning you. I’m not going to give in so easily. If you want a kiss, you’ll actually have to work for it this time.”

“Really.” The possibility of a “next time” where a kiss was concerned caused his heart to palpitate. But he managed to sound unconvinced, afraid that she was only playing a friendly game with him. As was often the case in their unique relationship, which always seemed to balance precariously on the border between mere friendship and something more.

She grinned. “Yes. Like magically turn yourself into Edward Norton or Ben Affleck.” She racked her brain for something – anything – that might deter him from actually agreeing to work for a kiss. Even though the thought of his lips on hers again did not sound like such a bad idea.

He chuckled, amazed at her ability to make his heart heavy and light at the same time. He shook his head, almost apologetically. “I have a lot of powers, Rory, but I’m afraid that one eludes me. You’ll have to make do with just me.”

“Fine,” she remarked with an exasperated huff that made him laugh. “Then play a song or something. You know how to do that, don’t you?” She wiggled a brow at him.

“And what if I can’t?” he asked, amused.

She gave him a defiant look. “My mother always said not to give in too easily. A song will get you a kiss. But if you can put your feet behind your head, you can get to first base.” She grinned, seeing the look of shock pass across his face. And when he composed himself and turned his amused smile on her, she began to fidget, wondering where she had found the courage to even put forth such an absurd challenge. Knowing Tristan as she did now, she knew he would not be deterred.

“And what will get me all the way?” he teased, leering at her.

She rolled her eyes. “I told you,” she informed without hesitation, sounding a lot more confident than she actually felt. She wanted to melt into the ground under his intense gaze, not banter with him. “You’d have to turn yourself into Ben Affleck or Edward Norton. A girl has to have standards.”

He grinned, then glanced at the keys. Seeing that he might actually give in to one of her demands, she took the seat beside him on the bench, trying not to flinch when her bare arm skimmed his. Even with the thin material of his shirtsleeve separating them, she could feel the heat emanating from him. Through her. Spreading throughout her body. She shivered, feeling goose bumps traveling up and down her arm. He swallowed, thickly, clearing his throat. Then he hastily played the first thing that popped into his head. Fingers moving swiftly over the keys, let he forget and embarrass himself, he finished with aplomb.

“Chopsticks?” she asked dubiously, incredulously, as he finished and gave her a satisfied look. His eyes immediately flickered to her slightly parted lips, lingering there a little too long to be considered just friendly intentions. She reddened in response, absently licking her lips.

He looked at her curiously, tearing his eyes away from her mouth. “I wanted the shortest song possible for that kiss you promised.” He hid the seriousness of his disclosure under a teasing lilt.

She bent her head in an embarrassed smile, soft ringlets falling down to obscure his view of her pretty features. He wanted so much to reach out and run his fingers through them, brushing them aside. And then he wanted nothing more than to let his hand linger on her cheeks, memorizing the texture of her skin under the ultrasensitive tips of his fingers.

She tried to frown at his audacity, but it only came out amused, faint traces of a smile fighting to break free. “The untapped talents you must possess,” she sighed, dramatically.

His eyes sparkled, foreshadowing a lewd and flirtatious comment. She hadn’t scolded him for being so forward, and that had given him hope. “You don’t know the half of them… yet.” There was promise in his voice. One that sent tingles up her spine.

She quickly got to her feet, suddenly afraid that he would collect his kiss. When she was not prepared. She was scared of what would happen when she let him. Because it wasn’t a matter of if, but when, she let him. And she was resigned, if not stalling. “It still doesn’t change the fact that you owe me a dance, Louis.” She had put a subtle barrier back between them. But it was one he knew he could break through. Easily. She had already shown her weakness.

Raising a questioning brow, he complied, standing up. He took her in his arms, not commenting on the slight tremble of her body under his touch. Because there was no way he could be sure he wasn’t the one who was actually guilty of the action. They awkwardly placed their hands on each other, fumbling clumsily in a need to seem natural. Unaffected by the other. Failing miserably. The corner of his mouth quirked up in a teasing smirk when her hands brushed against the back of his neck. She pulled away quickly, as if burned. Then realizing what she had done, she let them settle again, an embarrassed expression on her face. He rested his hands behind her, on the small of her back, and instinctively pulled her close to him. Feeling their bodies make contact, her hands absently clutched at his shirt collar. It felt right. Too right. Too perfect. And it frightened her.

“There’s no music,” she whispered, wishing it had come out as strong and as loud as it had in her head when she had been forming the sentence.

He only smiled. “Shh…”

She bit her lip, falling silent. She didn’t think she had the mental capacities to object, in any case. In the quiet, they could hear the soft strains of music drifting into their own private dance. Punctuated by the thudding of her heart in her ears. She prayed he couldn’t hear it, not realizing that he was too preoccupied with the severity of his own rapidly beating heart. Which he was convinced would cause him to die young. Whether he died happy, however, rested in that night’s events. And in Rory.

He led her around the room. Their eyes locked on each other, blue lost in blue. She didn’t even realize they were moving. Time had slowed. Her senses had numbed, and yet had also become hypersensitive. She was lost in his touch, relaxing as his palm made slow, luxurious little circles on the small of her back. Lightheaded, she placed her head on his chest for support, feeling the warmth of his skin through the light material and hearing the rapid beating of his heart. She felt like she was floating ten feet in the air. Only this was Tristan, and she should have been firmly grounded. And instead of feeling friendly affection towards him, she wished he would put her out of her misery by kissing her. Because her lips ached to feel his. Craved to feel the gentle pressure of those lips melding with hers. Just Tristan, she repeated silently in her head, hoping the two words would act to ward off any inappropriate actions she was contemplating with regards to her friend. Just Tristan. Just Tristan. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping it would help. But it only added to her sense of disequilibrium. She felt like she was falling. In more ways than one, and for the life of her, she wanted it to stop. If only to end the sense of vertigo she was experiencing. But while the only one who had that power was holding her in his arms, he was withholding his kiss – the only acceptable panacea to the yearning that coursed through her body.

Just Tristan, she reiterated like a silent prayer.

“What?” he asked, suddenly eyeing her inquisitively.

Her eyes flickered open. And she was just unable to hide the horror on her face, mortified that she had said it out loud. How would she be able to explain her mantra when it wasn’t even doing what it was supposed to do? “I, uh.. I…” she stammered horribly. “I can’t dance.” Her face blanched. That wasn’t what she had wanted to say. Because now, he would pull away, breaking contact. And that was the last thing she wanted at the moment. Even though she knew that they would have to do just that if she were to regain her composure around him.

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t dance,” she repeated, more firmly this time, assured she had not given anything away. That they were both still blissfully ignorant of the repressed emotions churning deep inside her. If he knew, he would tease her mercilessly. Ruthlessly. Especially if he didn’t return the feelings. And why would he? Tristan had his choice of girls, and she couldn’t compete with any of them.

“I saw you dancing before,” he pointed out, perplexed.

“I know… but I can’t dance. And I think maybe we should stop.” It came out almost a plea.

He gave her a puzzled look. “We have stopped,” he informed, just as quietly.

“Oh. Well…” She blushed, disoriented, not having realized that sometime during their dance, they had slowed to a complete stop. They had been too engrossed in each other’s presence, in their own thoughts, to have noticed. And yet, she still felt like she was floating. “Then I don’t think I should do it anymore.”

His lips quirked into a grin, trying to ease her sudden discomfort around him. “Well, I can’t sing, but that’s never stopped me before…”

She bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “Stop it…”

“Why?” He tilted his head to one side, contemplating her. Wondering why she was struggling with retorts that usually came so easily. Why she was stammering when he was the one who had become nervous around her.

“Because you’ll make me smile, and I’m determined not to like you right now.” She decided she liked how her voice had taken on a slight edge. It was more comforting than the quiet, introspective, and almost pining voice she had found herself using just moments before.

He raised a brow, amused. “Why?”

“Because it’s easier to be upset with you, then not upset with you.” She bit her lip. It had always been easier to hate him than give into whatever feelings she had categorized as being unacceptable regarding him. Because girls like her were supposed to be immune to guys like him. And guys like him weren’t supposed to fall for girls like her.

“Why?” The question was repeated a third time.

She was flabbergasted. And wished he would stop asking that question. As if he were playing with her, on one hand. And on the other, prodding her to give what he considered the correct answer. Whatever that was. “Because… because you… you…” She was stammering again, struggling for words. Any word that would appease his curiosity. And make him stop looking at her with that look. The one that suggested she was the only thing in his field of vision. The only thing he wanted to see. The only thing he wanted, period. The only thing that mattered. She could lose herself in that look. But he was just…

She hadn’t even realized that his head was inching towards her with a fluid mobility. And he silenced her disquieting thoughts by lowering his head, lips locking onto hers. Crossing that boundary of friendship, right smack into something more. Her lips fully caught in his, she tilted her head up, increasing the contact, increasing the pressure. And instinctively, her body leaned against him, reveling in his warmth. In the feel of his arm wrapped around her. In the feel of his hand, cupping the back of her head, tugging lightly in her hair. He could taste the silky smoothness of her strawberry lip gloss as her lips parted, letting him in. And as he felt her yield in his grasp, he idly wondered if this would be how it felt to die happy and content.

But while his tongue slowly explored the recesses of her mouth, her mind rebelled against the absurdity of what was happening. And yet, she was helpless to stop it. It felt too good to stop now. It felt too right. Too comforting. Too perfect. And that was what made it absurd. Because if this electric chemistry between the two of them had been there all this time, then they had expended way too much energy fighting it. And Rory hated wasting time. Just Tristan. Just friends. Those words filtered through her head and became meaningless. Pointless. Futile. She found she couldn’t think. Didn’t want to think. Just wanted to feel. And he had been right. Her knees did go weak. But then again, she had known that the first time he kissed her.

To her chagrin, he broke contact first, breathless. And as he did so, a soft moan escaped her lips. She could still feel him close to her. Still feel those soft lips on hers. But suddenly, and infuriatingly, there were a few inches of empty space between them. And in a moment of lucidity, she stared at him.

“Rory,” he started, seeing the panic enter her eyes. And he wasn’t sure he liked it. Wasn’t sure it boded well for him. Wasn’t sure he had prematurely crossed the line, stuck his foot in his mouth one more time. This time permanently erasing all the progress they had made up to that point.

He braced himself for a verbal lashing. Or a slap to the face. But she only stared at him, and he knew she was gathering her thoughts, unwilling to speak until she knew exactly what direction she was going to take this in. She was either going to kiss him back, or tell him off. And he waited until her lips parted, her eyes flashing, confused, to rush back in, trying to stop her from saying the first thing that came to her mind. The thing that would rip his heart in two.

She remained silent, and he could see a mix of conflicting emotions make its way across her face. “You’re not going to run out of the room again, are you?” He had meant it as a joke. Something lighthearted that would dissipate whatever had made the air in the room thick with nervous tension. She didn’t say anything, and he wasn’t sure whether the quiver of her lips meant she was about to smile at his audacity for making fun of the last time they had found themselves in this predicament, or the prelude to crying. He decided he didn’t want to wait for her to decide. “Rory, I…”

But she merely glanced at him, caught his eyes with something of distress in hers, and let go of him. Backing away. Without another thought, she turned on her heels and ran out of the room, seeking refuge in the anonymous crowd beyond. He watched, slack jawed, too shocked to call her back. Frustrated, and filled with despair, he ran his hand through his hair, silently cursing himself for having been too eager, too aggressive, too impatient. He had sent her out of the room again, albeit dry-eyed this time, and he was certain he had single-handedly ruined everything. Just friends had surged ahead to just more, and then finally settled on just nothing. He was crushed. And he knew the only thing he could do now was to prepare himself for life without her.

He saw her at her locker early Monday morning, and couldn’t help the usual awestruck smile from flitting across his lips. She was on her toes, trying to reach a book hidden in the recesses of the top shelf of her locker. She finally pulled it out, grinning at it triumphantly. Then crouching, she placed the book in her knapsack, which resided at her feet. As she zipped it up, she turned her head, almost sensing someone’s eyes on her. The smile faded a notch when she saw him. Standing there. Looking at her with a sad, absent gaze. She stood, clumsily getting back onto her feet, and faced him.

She had spent most of the weekend debating on the direction she had wanted to take this, on what she would say to him when they undoubtedly faced each other in school for the first time post-kiss. And even though every other waking moment, and sometimes in her sleep, all she could think about was his passionate kiss and the fire it had awakened in her, she had yet to determine whether she wanted to take it further, or just remain friends. She was scared. There was no doubt about it. For the implications and consequences of either scenario. She was scared that opting for mere friendship would preclude them from anything more in the future. Especially now, when she knew she would want more. If not now, very soon. But she was deathly afraid that opting to take the plunge to the next level with him, would cause her to lose herself so much in him, that she would never be able to find herself again. Even if she didn’t think she wanted to anymore. She was terrified of falling too hard. Especially for him. But she was more frightened of losing him, in any capacity, at all. So that very morning, she had decided on a third option. She would wait and see, and let her heart and mind battle it out. And now, seeing him for the first time since the party, and since she ran out on him for the second time, she wanted nothing more than to go to him and throw her arms around him, while pulling his lips back into a passionate kiss. But it wasn’t just about the kiss anymore. She wanted to feel his arms surround her, enfolded around her like he had done that other night. When everything had felt so magical with her head just resting on his chest.

Taking a deep breath, he took the few steps towards her, trying not to seem too flustered. She felt the lump in her throat and the apprehension in the pit of her stomach grow, wanting to cry at the caution he was taking in approaching her. He had never been so hesitant before, as if anything and everything she did would cause him excessive pain instead of comfort and contentment. Had he blatantly avoided her, she knew she would have broken down right there in front of everyone.

He cleared his throat, uneasily. “You ran out on me again,” he said quietly.

“I know.” Just as quiet. She glanced down at his shoes, trying to concentrate on his laces. Anything but on his face and how sad he sounded. How she had made him sound. When she knew that all it would take was a few words of encouragement on her part to wipe away the distress and despair in his eyes. But she couldn’t. Not yet. Not when she was too scared to admit anything. When she was fearful he was too upset with her to be consoled.

He cleared his throat again. “I’m beginning to think it’s the kiss.” There was a hint of teasing in his voice. It was the only way he could get the words out. Because he knew that if it weren’t because of the kiss itself that had sent her running out of the room again, away from him, then it had to be something else. And he was sure he’d rather die ignorant than have her tell him the only other possible answer for her flight.

She flushed, wondering how he could ever think it was the kiss that had sent her fleeing from him. He would never have jumped to such rash conclusions if he only knew what his kiss had done to her. She kept her eyes on the floor. “It wasn’t the kiss,” she admitted, softly.

He didn’t think he could take the tension anymore. He was used to effortless conversation with her. And this was killing him. “So it was me?” he asked, lightly incredulous, hoping she would contradict him.

“Oh no,” she assured hurriedly, emphatically, passionately, disbelief aimed at him for even thinking that of her. Her eyes lifted to meet his, before averting them once again in embarrassment. Just meeting his eyes brought back reminders of that darkened, longing look he had directed at her right before he had kissed her. That look had been there the first time they kissed. That look had been there the other night. And she was now having a hard time trying to convince herself that she wasn’t the one who had put that look in his eyes. That she could inspire so much longing and passion in a guy like Tristan DuGrey was incomprehensible, scary, and exciting. But how else could she explain his actions, his behavior towards her. He dropped almost everything to be near her, with her, by her. And she berated herself for being so blind.

He let out a sigh. “You were thinking of Dean again?” He quirked a brow, trying to infuse as much lightness into the question. It pained him just to mention the name again. But it had to be done. And he waited for her to say yes. Because if she hadn’t run because of him, or because of the kiss, then Dean was the only possible answer. She had only broken up with Dean recently. And even though she could try to persuade him that she was over him, the other boy still weighed heavily on her mind. And if that was the case, then Tristan didn’t think he had a chance.

“No.” The word came out firmly. Pointedly. Final.

He held his breath, unable to let it out. Afraid that to do so would break this moment, which had now seemed to stop with time. She had said no. And his mind tried to grasp the implications of this statement. Unable to stand the silence her one word had created, she cautioned a glance, raising her eyes timidly towards him. And what she saw caused her heart to leap and took her breath away. There was an air of indescribable happiness, tempered with reluctant caution, on his face. In his eyes. On his lips. And the familiar teasing smirk was back. Gone was the brooding, wistful gaze. The Tristan that stood before her seemed to be regaining his confidence around her.

“So the kiss was very nice?” he asked, the amusement returning to his voice, recalling another moment when he had felt so relieved, so happy. With her simple answer, she had lifted the fog and the heaviness he had been experiencing over the weekend, ever since she had left him behind, alone with the piano.

Hearing him this way made her smile softly. “Yes.” She didn’t trust herself with anything more than one word answers. But just like him, she allowed herself to return to their familiar banter, instilling some room for dispute in that word. As if she were teasing him. Because in reality, she was. She had heard the sadness erased from his voice, from his posture, from his eyes. And she knew it was because of her. It was comforting to know she had that power over him. Because he had always had that power over her. Even when she was infuriated with him.

“I don’t believe you.” Mock arrogant tones filled the air around them.

“Ok,” she retorted, easily, the grin widening. “It wasn’t nice at all. It was spectacular.”

“You’re just making fun of me now,” he frowned. But there was no sadness in it. All of that had gone away with her simple declaration of release from her ex-boyfriend. With that gentle smile that was now directed at him.

Her eyes flashed. “Wonderful,” she added.

“Rory.”

“I ran out and fainted,” she teased again, wanting to see him exasperated with her. Wanting to hear him tease her back. Wanting to see the familiar and comforting smirk, followed by one of his lascivious comments. All aimed at her.

“Rory.” He shook his head in wonderment. But he was grinning. Exasperatedly. He took a few steps closer to her, and before she knew it, one of her hands was caught gingerly in his. She didn’t protest. It felt right. It felt nice. He stared at the smaller hand within his. Wondering just how it had gotten there, even though he had been the one to put it there. She didn’t need to stare at their joining. She only stared at his face, reveling in the look of awe her hand within his had put there. As if he still couldn’t believe it. That she hadn’t pulled away yet. He looked up, meeting her eyes, questioningly. “Rory, I…” Too many emotions. Too many things he wanted to tell her. Wanted to admit. Wanted to say.

She shook her head, adamantly, silencing him. She understood. She knew. Because she felt the same things. She had realized that. Because standing in front of her mirror at home, after the party, staring at her lips, and wondering why Tristan would find them so interesting, she realized that she never looked happier than when she was thinking of him. Or picturing him beside her. Or even doing the simplest act of recalling his lips pressed against hers. Just thinking about him had brought a myriad of sensations and tingles through her body, causing her to tremble slightly even now, when they were barely planting the seeds for something more than friendship.

Impulsively, she placed a soft finger on his lips. She blushed, remembering that those lips had touched hers not days before. And longed to touch hers again. “Slow,” she said, smiling. There was promise of more to come in that word. “We’ll start off slow. You can start by teaching me how to dance.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

And in a moment of extreme joy, he blushed himself. “And how to play the piano,” he offered, lightly.

“And the piano,” she agreed, squeezing his hand.

He chuckled. He didn’t think he would ever stop being amazed by her. “Rory…”

She shook her head again, refusing to hear anything he had to say. Refusing to allow him to break their moment together. And yet, she had to know. “Were you afraid?” she inquired, her voice barely audible.

He swallowed, averting his eyes for a brief second, before meeting her inquisitive ones again. In the instant when he had seen her run out on him again, he had felt many things. But they all came down to being scared of losing her. In any manner. “Yes.” The revelation was a whisper, causing her heart to beat faster.

“Why?” she asked, tilting her head to one side, pondering his statement.

He took a deep breath. “Because you do that to me,” he replied, simply.

His admittance caused a fresh wave of shivers to flood her body, making her knees weak. If he hadn’t been holding onto her hand, she was almost positive she would have melted into the ground. She beamed coyly at him, wanting to put him out of his misery. Because sometime over the weekend, in a moment of deep introspective analysis of her own feelings, she had discovered that over the past few weeks, without even realizing it, she had suffered with him. “Well, don’t be.” It came out as a playful order.

It was his turn to ask. “Why?”

She rolled her eyes, giving her head an irritated shake, one that was incapable of brushing the huge smirk off her face. “Because, stupid, the kiss was very nice,” she assured, firmly, recycling an intimate joke.

Her smile made him lightheaded, and her sauciness triggered the familiar smirk. He leaned closer to her, as if about to kiss her again. And she held her breath, fully expecting him to make do on an unspoken promise. Only, he didn’t. Lowering his voice seductively, sending tingles down her back, he whispered into her ear. “Tell me again how spectacular it was.”