Speak Now—T.S.

When Luke Danes sees you bolt into his diner, wild and beautiful and clearly dressed for your own white-veil occasion, he isn’t sure what to do.

Your veil is slightly askew, hair half-out of a complicated updo. The gorgeous white dress you’re shamelessly dragging along the tile has a semi-sweetheart neckline, intricate lace details, and a five-foot-long trail behind it.

The silence is deafening.

“What?” Your voice is firm, unwavering.

Everyone goes back to eating, though the conversations of the people in the diner are less loud. The subject matter has clearly changed.

Your sharp eyes set on Luke, and you promptly lift your skirt and dart towards the counter. You take the last seat from a scandalized-looking teen girl, shooting her a sharp glare. Not today.

Luke blinks. “Uh—”

“Menu.” You hold out your hand like a queen expecting tribute.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, just stares like you’ve sprouted a second head.

“Menu,” you repeat, sharper.

Luke wordlessly drops one in front of you, muttering something about “town’s gotten weirder, somehow.”

You don’t even look at it before snapping it shut. “Burger. Fries. Extra pickles. Coffee—black. Keep it coming.”

“…right.” Luke scratches his jaw, still processing the trail of lace across his diner floor.

You fold your hands on the counter, as composed as someone in a shredded half-updo can be. Your breath steadies. Your eyes narrow, focused solely on him.

For the first time since you walked in, your voice lowers—confessional, but not yet unguarded.

“I don’t have a lot of time before they figure out where I went.”

Luke’s eyebrow goes up. He sets down the coffee pot and leans against the counter, arms crossing. “…And who exactly is ‘they’? Please tell me this isn’t, like, a mob situation. Because I don’t do mob situations. I run a diner.”

You stare at him, unsmiling.

“Not the mob,” you say.

Luke nods once, like that’s supposed to settle him. “Good. Great. Because I really don’t need mobsters showing up in Stars Hollow. We’ve got enough problems.” He tilts his head toward Kirk, who’s pretending to butter toast but is clearly watching you like you’re the season finale of his favorite show.

“Anyway,” Luke continues, voice dry, “you planning on telling me why you came in here dressed like—” he waves a hand vaguely at your gown, “—that? Or am I supposed to just take your order, keep the coffee coming, and not mention the fact you look like you ditched Prince Charming at the altar?”

Your jaw tenses, but you say nothing.

“Because, look, that’s fine. I don’t need to know. I don’t even want to know. But if a guy in a tux barges in here with a bouquet of roses demanding to see his blushing bride, I should probably be prepared.”

Still, you don’t answer.

Luke sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay, you don’t have to tell me anything. You can just sit here, eat your burger, drink your coffee, scare the life out of every customer in the room, and leave. But…” He glances at you again, at the lace trailing on his diner floor, at the veil tilting to one side like a flag of surrender. His voice softens, just barely. “You look like you ran a marathon in that thing. And people don’t usually run marathons in dresses that cost more than my truck. So forgive me for being curious.”

You pick up the steaming coffee mug he’s set in front of you, sip it like it’s oxygen.

“Not curious,” you say. “Nosy.”

Luke lets out a sharp laugh. “Fair. I’ll take nosy.”

He leans forward, lowering his voice, eyes fixed on you now. “So. Who’s chasing you?”

The question hangs in the air like a challenge.

The diner hums around you—forks clinking against plates, hushed whispers passing between tables. Taylor Doose sneezes loudly in the corner, and someone giggles. But all of that is background noise, fading into nothing as Luke waits.

You place your mug down carefully, nails tapping against the porcelain once, twice, three times. Then you glance up at him with sharp, defiant eyes.

“That’s a long story.”

Luke shrugs. “Good thing it’s a slow day.”