𝓒𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓲𝓽 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚☕︎

The house was quiet, the kind of lazy-afternoon quiet that hung in the air like honey.

A fan hummed from the corner of Brooke's bedroom, ruffling the pages of the novel open in her lap — Little Women, naturally.

Her feet were kicked up on the windowsill, a bowl of popcorn beside her, and Grease was paused on the TV across from her bed, Danny Zuko frozen mid-swoon.

Downstairs, the clatter of a wooden spoon echoed against a saucepan.

Sienna was humming along to The Bangles, barefoot in the kitchen, tossing basil into a pan of bubbling tomato sauce with the flair of someone who'd grown up on Stars Hollow diner food and learned to do it better at home.

Then—

Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dongdingdongdingdon

"Brooke!" Sienna shouted, over the doorbell's frenzy. "Can you please get the door before whoever's out there breaks the button?"

Brooke rolled her eyes, half-annoyed, half-curious. She tossed her book aside, adjusted the -red scrunchie in her hair — and bounded downstairs.

She opened the door.

And then suddenly she was not standing anymore.

"Brooke!" Rory Gilmore launched herself forward like a caffeinated projectile, wrapping Brooke in the kind of hug that nearly knocked her back into the entry table.

"Oh my God—you're—wait, You're Back?" Brooke gasped, laughing, hugging back like her life depended on it.

Rory stepped back just enough to flash a mischievous grin and hold up a folded bundle: a Harvard sweatshirt, fresh and perfectly Rory-coded.

"You got me a—"

"—souvenir from my academic pilgrimage," Rory finished proudly.

At that moment, Sienna rounded the corner from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel—and froze.

"Lorelai Gilmore!" she cried, one hand flying to her chest like a sitcom character reunited with a long-lost love.

"Look what the road trip dragged back in," Lorelai teased, sweeping Sienna into a hug. "I missed the smell of your cooking more than I missed good coffee."

"That's saying something," Sienna said, eyes welling up a little.

The kitchen smelled like rosemary and roasted garlic. The kind of smell that wrapped around you and made you feel like everything was going to be okay. Sienna had pulled a casserole out of the oven, something bubbling and cheesy that Lorelai immediately pointed at like it was treasure.

"Is that lasagna I smell?" Lorelai asked, already grabbing plates.

"Technically, yes," Sienna said, smirking as she set silverware on the table. "But I took liberties. I added mushrooms. And love."

"Love and mushrooms—the two essential ingredients of any great dinner," Rory said as she settled into her usual chair at the table, pulling Brooke down into the one beside her.

" I thought you guys were staying longer I expected at least two more postcards."

"We thought we were staying longer too," Lorelai said, dragging her fork through the steaming slice of lasagna Sienna served up with a proud flourish. "But turns out there's only so many times you can listen to classical music in a bed-and-breakfast parlor full of elderly couples talking about their bone density before you start to question every life choice you've ever made."

"There were doilies on the remote controls," Rory said solemnly.

"Stop," Brooke said, cracking up. "Did you meet anyone? Was there, like, a cute concierge named Oliver who offered to run away with you to Vermont?"

"Oh, totally," Lorelai said. "Except Oliver was ninety and had a hearing aid that picked up radio stations from Canada."

They laughed, all of them, as the evening shifted into one of those golden-hour dinners where time seemed to slow.

Sienna poured lemonade into mismatched glasses while Rory and Brooke caught each other up—school gossip, Brooke's current enemy in AP Lit, the girl who wore perfume so strong it gave her migraines, the history teacher who may or may not be going through a divorce based on the amount of coffee he drank.

Rory recounted the week away, from the moment they'd packed up in the middle of the night to the bizarre continental breakfasts, the late-night walks in sleepy neighborhoods, and Lorelai's sudden obsession with antique mailboxes.

"They had one shaped like a miniature Victorian house," Lorelai said. "I'm pretty sure it had a ghost."

"There were so many old people," Rory said, lowering her voice like it was a secret. "Like, no offense, but every single one of them was named Margaret or Harold and had strong opinions about blueberry scones."

"I had to convince one woman that 'independent women' weren't what was ruining America," Lorelai added, gesturing with her fork. "She said my 'aura' looked like I had 'refused marriage at least twice.' I took it as a compliment."

Brooke was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes by the time dessert appeared—store-bought chocolate bars Sienna had dusted with powdered sugar to make them look homemade.

The air was warm and light, full of shared glances and clinking forks, and a kind of peace that had been missing before.

"You good?" Rory asked quietly, nudging Brooke's foot under the table.

Brooke glanced around. Her mom humming as she washed up. Lorelai pouring more lemonade. The Harvard sweatshirt folded beside her.

Her best friend finally home.

"Yeah," she said. "I really am."

The front porch light flicked on as night crept in, fireflies blinking across the backyard. Inside, the Gilmore girls were home. And for the first time in a long time, everything felt right.