Jess leans against the counter at Luke’s, twirling a pencil between his fingers while you flip through a secondhand poetry book you found at the town fair. It smells like dust and lemon rind. “You’re gonna get ink on your fingers,” he says. You glance down. “Already did.” He shakes his head, smirking. “You’re the only person I know who treats books like they’re alive.” “They are alive.” He shrugs. “Fair.” Outside, Stars Hollow hums along—someone’s playing guitar near Doose’s, and Babette yells something about her cat. It’s all familiar. The kind of familiar you never think to question. You hand Jess your mug. “You drink the rest. I made it too strong.” He takes it without blinking. You’ve been doing things like that lately—splitting coffee, trading jackets, not really keeping track of what’s yours and his. He never complains. He tilts the mug toward you. “You realize this means I’m basically drinking dirt water, right?” You smile. “You’ll survive.” Jess watches you for a second longer than necessary, then slides the mug back. “I always do.” There’s no grand moment. No music swells. Just him bumping your foot under the counter, a quiet kind of closeness that doesn’t ask for anything. You don’t say you’re his favorite person. And he doesn’t say you’re the only one he waits for in this sleepy, strange little town. But both things are true. And that’s enough.