"Butt out, Berry, I was here first," Santana grimaced at the look of shock on Rachel's face as she held the door to the bathroom ajar just enough to look at the other girl while blocking access into the space.

"I have a very strict routine, Santana-"

"Uh-uh, you don't get to argue your way around the same thing you tell Quinn every morning. You can use the bathroom downstairs." Santana's eyes narrowed as she watched Rachel's face. The girl was barely listening, nervously glancing past and over Santana's shoulder to the products that lined the counter top. Santana held her stare for a moment longer before the anxious looks from the shorter girl made her twist her head back at the sink and let out a low sigh. There were definitely too many random bottles and containers for Rachel to carry all down the stairs without multiple irritating interruptions.

"Fine," Santana said, stepping back and returning to the sink, leaving the door open fully for Rachel to enter.

"Oh. You're not going to…?" Rachel tilted her head to the side expectantly.

"I will share the space with you, but I'm not leaving. I was here first."

Rachel gave a meek nod, noting the subtle tinge of Santana's wrath in her tone. She stepped forward and sidled up next to where Santana had stood, reaching for her toothbrush at the exact same moment Santana did. The resulting collision made Santana lift her elbow to shove Rachel to the side, and in protest, Rachel returned the gesture. A silent moment between them ensued of knocked elbows, gritted teeth, and frustrated scowls until they both had their own toothbrushes in hand. Just as quietly, Santana offered Rachel the toothpaste. They stood brushing their teeth with their opposite dominant hands, again clashing elbows, before Santana forcibly almost picked Rachel up to trade places.

"God, you can be so grating sometimes," Santana grumbled, shoving her toothbrush back in her mouth. Rachel rewarded her with a huff and an eye roll before silence fell over them again. It wasn't until after rinsing and starting to pull out her things from the side drawer that Santana spoke again.

"Sorry," she muttered. "You're really not, I'm just not in the best mood."

Rachel glanced up from dabbing facial cleanser to her skin and gave a gentle, understanding smile.

"I know."

Santana's eyes rose to meet Rachel's in the mirror, and for the briefest moment, her expression softened. The lack of a tension produced by her typical glare revealed the exhaustion beneath it - red eyes, dark and puffy circles contrasted against unusually pale cheeks, along with a crease in her brow that had formed from worry instead of anger. She tore her eyes away from Rachel's as she shook her head and tussled her hands through her hair, quick motions that tied her hair back to prepare for her own skin care and make up. Rachel froze and watched Santana wrestling with a bottle cap, and suddenly jumped to attention and rifled through her own accessories. Santana hardly paid it any attention until a container was thrust in her face.

"Rach, I'm not interested in your homemade herb infused oil treatments-"

"It's for your eyes," Rachel interrupted.

"I-"

"I use it when I've been crying, too," Rachel continued. She swiftly pulled it back close to her chest, opened it, and dabbed a little under her own eyes.

Santana shifted her weight to her other foot and a small exhale escaped through her nose. Quickly, she snatched the container, twisted it back open, and mimicked Rachel's movements to apply the substance to her own face.

"…I'm sorry."

"Everyone understands, S," Rachel shrugged, leaning in closer to the mirror as she continued along her skin care regimen.

"No, I mean, I'm sorry to you," Santana sighed. Her shoulders rounded as she pressed her palms against the counter. "I've generally been pretty awful. To a lot of people, but often you without real reason. And even now, I feel like I'm taking up all the support of everyone, like an emotional black hole." Her fingers clenched against the surface of the counter as she gripped tightly to the edge. "You need support too-"

"I'm perfectly capable of asking my friends when I need help," Rachel said, her tone somewhat matter of fact, but her mouth curved into a small smile.

"Just because I cry a lot doesn't mean I'm not getting support, Santana. The world doesn't revolve around you. And the weight you've finally unburdened yourself with isn't as heavy for the rest of us," she continued, more cheerful than the words she said should have been. "Just because you haven't been able to support me - understandably so, all things considered - doesn't mean I don't have it from Kurt or Quinn or my dads or everyone else."

"Yeah, but…" Santana paused, her brow furrowing. "I want to be a better friend."

Rachel laughed, causing a scowl to reappear on Santana's face.

"Why is that funny?"

"Because Santana Lopez just told me she wants to be my friend."

"I said better friend, I didn't mean to you, specifically," Santana snapped. Rachel continued to smile and returned her attention to applying her make up.

"Mhm, you can't lie to me, Brittany already told me that you care about me."

Santana waited just long enough for Rachel to lift the brush away from her face before she shoved Rachel sideways again, causing a small screech of surprise to escape the smaller girl's throat.

"Shut up!"

---

Something soft and gentle brushed against the side of my face, and I felt my body shift, my hand stretching out at the folds of the bedsheet in front of me. My nose twitched and I scrunched my face in dissatisfaction. I opened a bleary eye as I leaned forward, seeking out my girlfriend in the empty space beside me. I sat up abruptly, a huff escaping my lips, hair falling into my face as I did so. A quiet chuckle from behind me caused me to jump.

"Santana…" I muttered, rubbing my eye as I twisted to look at her. She was half seated on the edge of the mattress, already dressed.

"Hey, sleepy-head," she whispered, lifting her hand to brush through my hair again.

"What time is it?" I grumbled, my throat scratchy. I made an attempt to clear it as I looked around. The room wasn't quite dark but not quite bright either.

"Not really time for you to get up," she said glancing at her phone. "You still have a several hours before class."

"Mhm," I hummed, leaning into her hand as she continued to play with my hair. "I'm still usually up before you."

"That's true," she said and leaned forward to kiss my forehead. "Sorry for waking you. I didn't mean to."

I reached around to place my hand on her waist, holding her close. I think I surprised her because I felt her muscles tense under what I thought was a pretty delicate touch. I nuzzled my face up against her neck and cheek.

"I never mind," I said, feeling my lips brush against her skin. I could smell some product in her hair, but it wasn't unpleasant. "How come you're up so early?"

She pulled back to look down at me, a small smile spreading on her lips. Now that my hair was out of my face and I was looking at her more clearly, I could see that the smile was barely covering the sadness behind it. She looked tired too, even though it was clear she'd put effort to conceal it.

"Couldn't sleep," she shrugged lightly. I could feel myself also unable to hide my concern, and she reached for my hands to squeeze them. "It's okay, I have some work to do before my class anyway."

She gave me another kiss on the forehead and started to stand. I attempted to grip her hands so she wouldn't pull away, but I was a moment too late as her fingers slipped from mine. I tried to mask my disappointment, but a tiny gurgle came from my throat.

"Go back to sleep," she said, and leaned down to pick up her bag and shouldered it. I wanted to fight the tiredness in my body, but I ended up falling back into my pillow. The lack of sleep I'd had over the past few days had really caught up with me. I watched her move towards the door and she gave me a small wave before she exited. My hand lifted weakly to wave back, dropping with a thump into the covers. Twisting my face into the pillow, I sighed and blocked out the light.

Bzzt. Bzt. Bzzzt.

I groaned into my pillow, hesitating a moment as I heard the buzzing of my phone. I had mostly used it to text, but I recognized the longer form vibrations as a phone call. It kept going, and I silently cursed at who would be calling so early. Oh. Maybe not so early. I had dozed off for a little longer than I thought. Still, much earlier than I normally got up on a Friday.

"Hello?" I croaked.

"Finally, you Butt-head."

I squinted at nothing. Finally?

"Allie?" I grimaced, sitting up fully and rubbed my hand with my face. Wait. Face with my hand.

"Where have you been?" Her voice sounded sharp and irritated.

"Uhm… school?" I blinked a few times.

"Duh," she said, and I could practically hear her shaking her head on the other end of the call. "Mom said you haven't called. And you didn't reply to my text."

"You texted me?"

"Yeah, a while ago. Like a week or two?"

I hummed and thought back. I hadn't received a text from her, had I? Maybe I had missed it.

"Why didn't you just text again?"

"I'm not your keeper. I'm just tired of mom bugging me. Seriously, she wants you to call her. You moved and we haven't heard anything since," Allie sighed. "She's threatened to call the cops at least twice."

I swung my legs over the edge of Santana's bed and stared hard at the wall across from me. I guess I had been really focused on everything else that had been going on, and I hadn't really thought to call mom or Allie. Shoot, two weeks ago?

"My phone broke!" I almost shouted and smacked myself on the forehead.

"Yeah, right." She definitely rolled her eyes with that tone.

"No, it did, it-" I paused. I didn't really want Allie knowing about my classmates. The last thing I needed was my little sister worrying about me.

"It's okay, I got a new phone," I said hastily. "It must not have transferred the text messages."

"…Why didn't you call mom or dad after? I know she made you get your own phone plan, but dad would have sent you money."

Why hadn't I called? I froze and glanced around Santana's room. I hadn't even really thought about it since, but Santana had taken care of everything with my phone. It was all so technical and complicated, I sort of checked out of the conversation when she talked to the sales associate. There had been some technical stuff about my SIM card and my contacts that Santana made sure was okay. But Santana had also said something about a family plan, and she even paid for the new phone. My hand slipped down from my forehead to pinch the bridge of my nose. How was I supposed to explain this to Allie, let alone my mom?

"I don't want every call home I make to be about money," I groaned. "You know mom and dad think I'm irresponsible as it is."

In honesty, this actually was a pretty good example of me being irresponsible. I did throw my phone off the roof, even if it was already broken.

"Britt, mom wants to know how school and stuff is going. Dad just doesn't like surprises when it comes to finances."

"Me breaking my phone is gonna come off as a surprise-"

"You losing it again would piss him off," Allie interjected. "You can't control your phone breaking. What happened?"

"It's a long story, Allie-kat," I said, pushing off the bed with another sigh. "We took care of it-"

"We-?"

"Yeah, my-" I paused again, staring at myself in the mirror on Santana's closet door. "-Roommate."

Girlfriend.

"Why would your roommate help you with your phone?"

My girlfriend.

"Allie, can we talk about this later? I have stuff to do right now."

"Alright, whatever. Just call mom? She wants to know if you're coming home for the summer."

The summer. Shoot. Was it already so close? I scrambled to pick my clothes up off the floor, including my pants. I hadn't brought a change of clothes to Santana's room, and I started to pull them on so I could reasonably walk down the hallway to my room without Quinn or Rachel coming across me pant-less again.

"Okay, I will. I'll text you later."

"You better," she threatened.

"Yeah, yeah. Love you, bye," I said quickly, fumbling with the zipper on my pants with one hand.

"Love you, dork." A click and the call ended. I closed my eyes as I dropped my hand away from my ear, silently cursing to myself. Sometimes it felt like Allie was more put together than I was. And mom could have called, too. Why was it always a one-way street? I was busy with school and work… and Santana. My cheeks flushed. How was I supposed to explain to my kid sister that the reality was, well, I had been too busy falling in love?

My phone buzzed in my hand and I looked down.

Call mom. — Allie-kat

My nose scrunched in irritation. I had other things to do today.

"I will. Later. I have class." I texted back, even though I knew my class was cancelled.

You got a fucking iPhone?! — Allie-kat

What the heck? How did she know that?

"How did you know?" I tapped back quickly.

Do you not know what a blue text is? Dad is gonna be so mad at you. You spent like $700 without telling them? — Allie-kat

Fuck. I didn't, but Santana did.

---

"You're up to something."

My head jerked upright and to the side to find Quinn placing a mug down on the dining table with a knowing smirk on her face. Her brow was arched as she stared up at me from beneath mussed up bangs one could only attribute to bed head. I didn't know how someone that clearly hadn't been awake much longer than I had could have such a keen eye.

"No, I'm not," I said, popping the corner of the toast I had just finished buttering into my mouth and biting down with a crunch.

"It's one thing for Santana to be out of sorts, but you're more dressed up than you should be for your Friday dance class."

"I'm gonna take Santana out after class," I shrugged, and turned fully to face her as I munched my way through the piece of toast.

"I' 'riday," I said with my mouth full. After a gulp, I continued, "It's a good day for a date."

"Look even if it made any sense for you to do up your hair and make up before a dance class that would obviously ruin all that effort no matter how graceful a dancer you might be… this isn't how you dress for Santana."

My face screwed up a bit in confusion as I looked back at Quinn.

"How do you know what a dress like for Santana?"

"Well, you wouldn't be so sharp. I don't think I've ever seen you rock straight up black eyeliner."

I leaned back against the kitchen counter and chewed the bit of toast left in my mouth slowly to buy some time as I glanced down at myself. She wasn't wrong, but damn if she wasn't intrusively perceptive sometimes. Normally, on Fridays I'd throw on something for my dance class before heading out, paired with a simple ponytail. Since I didn't have class today, and had some other plans to use that time, I had taken some time to dress up. In truth, yes, for Santana, but also because sometimes I felt like clothes were an expressive way to build up one's confidence. Still, I didn't think my outfit was a far cry from something I could dance in. I could dance in all my clothes.

"You're reading too much into things," I said, glancing to the kitchen table at a book that always seemed to manifest itself near her whenever we spoke. It was my turn to raise a brow as I pressed my palms against the counter to push away from it.

"I'm not-"

"You're always reading into things," Rachel said, causing both Quinn and I to snap our attention to the living room where she was seated on the couch. I don't think either of us realized she was there. "And not just because you work at a bookstore."

"Rachel…" Quinn rolled her eyes.

"Your suspicious nature is making Brittany uncomfortable. We don't need to be all in her business."

"I am not suspicious, I'm observant," Quinn retorted. "She's usually not even awake this early."

"So then how do you know what she dresses like for her classes?" Rachel stood up and held a hand to her hip. "And shouldn't you be getting ready for work?"

I used their sudden bickering as an opportunity to sneak past them and towards the door. As I crossed Rachel's path, I caught her gaze and she winked at me. I mouthed a silent 'Thank you' and grabbed my backpack.

"Oh, Quinn," I said. "Can I borrow something?"

Quinn gave me a puzzled and still curious look. After a quick exchange, and a bit more insistence on my end, I said my goodbyes and hustled out of the apartment.

A few moments later, I received a text.

Whatever you are up to, you'll catch me up after? ;) — Rachel

---

Britt is really worried about you, you know — Quinn

Santana stared at the screen in her hand as she stepped into a room. The lights were currently out, but a series of pin pricks illuminated in the dark along rows of equipment. She exhaled audibly as she tossed her bag on the ground and flicked on the lights of the control room to the sound studio she had entered.

I know — Santana

She slumped into one of the chairs in front of a control panel and gazed up at a microphone that was hanging a few inches from her face. She grabbed the arm and pushed it away. The phone in her other hand buzzed.

Don't keep her in the dark. She's your partner. You need to learn how to talk to her about your feelings — Quinn

"Seriously?" She huffed and rubbed the back of her neck almost to keep from rolling her head along with her eyes.

I'm not shutting her out, I know — Santana

You made a big show of getting her to trust you. You should try to trust her, too — Quinn

A scowl formed on her face as she twisted around in her chair to stand up. She started to press a few buttons on various pieces of equipment while also furiously typing back a reply.

How many times do I have to tell you 'I know' before you stop talking AT me about my problems? — Santana

She leaned down to grab her laptop and headphones out of her bag.

When you actually take it to heart and do something about it. I'm worried that you bottling things up is going to make Brittany do something stupid — Quinn

Santana's brow furrowed and she started tapping quickly at her phone's screen, pausing a moment later as a bubble appeared indicating that Quinn was typing.

***Irresponsible, sorry — Quinn

Britt isn't irresponsible either — Santana

Her words, not mine. She sometimes acts without thinking it through — Quinn

She sat back down in the chair as she set her laptop on the table. She hated to admit it, but Quinn usually had pretty good instincts. And Brittany was fairly impulsive. But there was no way she was going to side with Quinn over her girlfriend. Her nostrils flared and her fingers danced across the glass screen.

Whatever Britt does isn't really your concern — Santana

You two made it my concern when I drove all over Manhattan trying to help clean up your last mess. I don't want to do that again — Quinn

Santana closed her eyes and lifted a hand to rub over her forehead. Quinn may have been overstepping, yet again, but she also didn't want Quinn to be involved in another fiasco like that ever again.

Look, Quinn, I get it. You're telling me to talk to her. I will. I'm not ignoring her or pushing her away or keeping her intentionally in the dark. But I also have class rn — Santana

Bullshit. Your class isn't for another hour — Quinn

Santana grit her teeth together.

I have shit to do for class — Santana

So you didn't do your homework? Not surprising — Quinn

A frustrated sound escaped Santana's lips as she kicked out of her seat, grabbed her bag, and walked out of the control room to the larger sound stage. It was dark, but the form of a large piano could be seen from the light still on inside the control room. Santana paused and leaned against the wall for a moment to finish her reply.

This is a long term project, Q. Look, leave it alone, alright? Me and school and Britt. I'm not in the mood. I get what you're saying and I'm not ignoring it, I'm just not going to rush it either — Santana

A tiny bit of text appeared under the text bubble that indicated the word read underneath it, but there was nothing else for a moment. A white bubble and some dots appeared and disappeared a few times. Silence again. Then.

Okay — Quinn

Santana shook her head and tapped back at the screen, annoyed with Quinn's reply, but stopped herself and erased the body of text she that had spewed from her fingertips. The conversation wasn't worth her time or energy to continue. Instead, she clicked the button on the side of the phone and pocketed it. She let her head drop backwards with a small thud on the wall and sighed audibly.

Eventually, she pushed herself forward and dragged her hand slowly along the wall, flicked a switch, and stepped towards the center of the room after the lights came on. She dropped her bag at the foot of the piano and looked around. It was a warmer light, unlike a lot of rooms around campus. The floor and some portions of the wall were wooden - maybe white oak or something similar - and maroon foam panels flanked the walls. It was clear that the department had put a lot of effort to ensure students had access to quality equipment and a proper setup for recording. For Santana, however, the luxury of the space was not what she noticed the first time she walked in here. Her eyes closed and she breathed in a long, deep breath and held it as her fingers dragged lightly over the top of the piano.

Scuffed linoleum tiles. Uncomfortable red chairs. That obscenely large dry erase board that frequently only ever had a single word scrawled across it in terrible hand-writing.

Santana exhaled slowly and opened her eyes. Her gaze was fixed on the foam panels as she sat down on the bench in front of the piano. It was as if she was studying them for an answer. Whatever guidance she sought seemed to allude her as she shook her head and gently placed her fingertips on the keys before her. A clink followed as she pressed down, and after a few soft strokes, the notes rang together like a whisper in a hollow. Soft, unspoken words meant to convey the enormity of the weight on her heart. It was slow and steady, with her hands moving in a precise yet somewhat hesitant manner that revealed tenure and training, but a lack of commitment. Her expression soured, with her brow knitting together as her hands stopped and gently pressed into several keys all at once. Even the frustrated clatter of keys was soft and equivocal.

She lifted her fingers, shook her hands in the air briefly, and settled back in. Another deep breath followed by an exhale and she tried again. A similar pensiveness permeated the room. This time, the mournful tune was accompanied by a low hum, and Santana closed her eyes again as she delved into whatever place this sound came from deep in her heart. A slight bob of her head followed, and she leaned in towards the piano as if listening for something between the notes. Her lips parted, but no words came out as she silently mouthed something to herself. After a few moments, she stopped again, shook her head, and slumped forward.

She sat still for a while, staring down at the keys, holding up her head with her elbow pressed into some of them for support. In her pocket, her phone vibrated. She pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and rolled her eyes.

"Stop pestering me, Quinn," she grumbled under her breath, and tossed the phone into her open bag on the floor. She rubbed her neck and looked back over the keys in front of her. One more time. She had barely made it through the first few segments of her composition when a voice spoke.

"Doesn't quite sound like anything you'd want to dance to."

Santana snapped up from the keyboard and twisted to the source of the voice. A scowl replaced the frown she had been wearing previously.

"Class isn't starting for another like, thirty minutes," Santana hissed.

A woman stepped forward from the entryway of the sound studio, her heels clicking beneath her feet with exactness. She was well-dressed in a fashionable looking tan suit, her hair pulled back in a long, high ponytail.

"I'm pretty used to you not even showing up, so I guess it's my fault for assuming you could tell time," the woman replied. She stood at the edge of the piano and looked down at Santana, who shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

"I haven't missed that many classes, Professor Santiago," Santana said with a scowl.

"Oh, you definitely have, and I've told you before you don't have to call me Professor, it's weird and it makes me feel old," the woman shook her head.

"Calling you Camila sounds weird. And you are old," Santana squinted into another grimace.

"Do you argue with all your professors whose classes you might be failing?" Camila placed her hand on her hip and stared incredulously down at Santana. "Call me old. One more time. You want to fail?"

"You can't fail me for telling the truth."

"I can for eight missed classes. And no progress report for this month. Or last, for that matter," Camila said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I can't have missed that many, there's only like sixteen total in the semester. Besides, isn't this an independent study? Where's the independence?"

Camila tilted her head back a bit as she inhaled deeply. Her hands clasped together and she held them to her lips briefly.

"Santana. Look, I like you, believe me when I say that. There is a reason I've let a lot of this lack luster performance this semester slide. But also believe me when I say this. You are a horribly frustrating student to work with."

Camila pressed her palm against the piano and leaned into it. Santana averted her eyes and audibly sighed.

"I have been working on my project," she said quietly.

"I know you think you have been, but I don't see any results of that work," Camila said. "When you're here, you're combative and distracted. A few weeks back you looked like you'd been in a fight?"

"That was like a month ago," Santana muttered.

"Do you even want to be here?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" Santana had suddenly found herself on her feet and the piano bench skidded backwards with a tiny screech. Camila didn't seem fazed by Santana's small outburst and simply held her gaze.

"So you have something to show me?"

"I-" Santana's mouth held open. She looked down at the piano and her head fell forward. "…No."

"Okay," Camila replied and stepped around and sat down on the bench, tapping it once and gesturing for Santana to sit back down. "Where are you stuck?"

Santana bit her lower lip and sat down beside Camila.

"I've been taking dance classes," Santana shrugged. "And I have a few compositions I've assembled, but I'm struggling with the lyrics."

"I never asked you to write your own songs, Santana," Camila said, leaning forward and folding her hands together.

"You said I have to have vocals in my stage performance." Santana shifted back, frowning at Camila.

"Yes, because you're a talented singer. One that hides behind headphones and a laptop, instead of standing in front of a mic."

Camila watched as Santana's shoulders slumped even further and looked sadly at the ground. The older woman's own expression softened and she shook her head.

"I am impressed that you want to write your own songs, Santana. And that you are incorporating dance. We talked about stage presence and making it a show. But most importantly, this class is supposed to help you further your career goals. You're a Recorded Music major. Wouldn't it be easier to just put your own spin to someone else's music?"

"Wait, you're the one that insisted I sing and dance, so that's what I've been working on. And I thought that meant I needed to write my own music too. You rejected the other proposals. I had composition and recording on there."

"Along with stage performance for some reason," Camila stared at her hard. "Weird thing for a ReMu major with your emphasis to put on there."

Silence fell over them as Santana held a bewildered expression. Camila smiled and stood up, patting Santana's shoulder lightly.

"Seems like you might be on the wrong path, miss Lopez," Camila said, stepping forward. "Might want to talk to your advisor next week when you sign up for your classes for the Fall."

Santana stared after her before suddenly standing up.

"Professor Sa—" she shook her head. "Camila, you're my advisor."

"I am, aren't I?" Camila smiled and waved lightly. "Why don't you email me the song you're writing and I'll send you my notes?"

A few short clacks of her heels indicated her departure, and Santana sighed and shook her head as she looked at her bag on the floor. She reached for it and pulled out a folder. It was thick, and inside had printed sheet music that Santana had scrawled all over. She placed a hand on the top page, tracing some of the music notes with her finger.

"—Oh, one more thing."

Santana snapped her attention back to the doorway where Camila had popped her head back in.

"I just want to be clear, you do know you have more than one song you need to perform, right?"

Santana scowled.

---

It smelled of dust, cigarette smoke, and the unremarkable damp smell that indicated there probably was mold in at least one corner of the space somewhere, hidden beneath decades of put up and torn down posters and flyers that plastered the walls, along with the misaligned frames of old records and a few signed t-shirts. It was the sort of old, worn, eclectic chaos that just fit perfectly against the rows and rows of folding tables and shelving that were heavy from the weight of cassettes, CDs, and the larger tattered boxes of remarkably weathered vinyls. Along the walls, cabinets held more valuable merchandise, and there were even quite a few instruments that were placed haphazardly, some hanging from the ceiling, with paper tags on strings twirling slowly with their hand written prices.

To someone who wasn't accustomed to an overpacked, self-owned music store like this in New York, it might have seem run down and not much to look at. But like most places in the city, hidden gems like Backstage Pass existed because of the love and passion of the artists that lived here. It was one of the reasons I'd picked this spot - it was a well-established space and one you wouldn't want to tarnish your reputation over. The other reasons included that I actually needed to look at some options for music. And that it was down the street from The Rabbit Hole, and with Quinn working today, made for a perfect spot if I needed a quick getaway.

The door closed behind me, clattering shut against its worn frame and causing a light cascade of clinking from an assortment of bells attached to it. I smiled politely at the man behind the counter, who acknowledged me with a nod and snapped his headphones back over an ear. Similarly, I had my in-ear headphones in, the cord dangling loosely over my clothes with the other end tucked into my pocket along with my iPod. Santana offered to help me transfer my music over to my phone, but I was sort of attached to the beat up old thing, so I'd been putting it off.

I passed a stairwell that led to more space of the store, both above and below, upstairs being sort of exposed with an open wall where you could look down. I could hear some instruments being played over the song coming in through my headphones, so I instinctively turned the music up. My hand stretched out to drag over the tops of some vinyl records, fingers dancing and sifting through them with a light flick.

Santana hadn't given me a list of songs yet to help with her independent study class like I'd asked her to. I knew it was probably because she had all this personal stuff going on, but I also suspected she might be struggling to figure out what would work for both singing and dancing. I figured I'd be the first to arrive here, since it was early, so I'd use the time wisely.

I felt myself hum quietly and my footsteps fell into place with the song I was listening to as I perused.

I don't mind letting you down easy, but just give it time—

There were so many options to look through, and it was easier to rule out songs or artists than to narrow down a specific one. Santana's voice had a certain nature to it. I was certain she could sing almost anything, but the song she chose needed to have the same level of grandeur she did.

"—I don't care what you think as long as it's about me. The best of us can find happiness in mi-i-i-i-sery."

I looked up from the CD in my hand and couldn't help but roll my eyes. Upstairs, a familiar mohawk sporting figure stood, wailing out loudly as he strummed on a guitar that clearly came from the wall. He'd arrived earlier than I expected, and I wasn't sure how I'd missed him. Maybe he had been here all along. Either way, his voice was grating and loud enough to overshadow my music. Indignantly, I turned the volume up again.

Where you're from you might be the one who's running things, where you can ring anybody's bell and get what you want. See, it's easy to ignore trouble when you're living in a bubble.

I had wanted to do this with a cooler head, but the sight of Puck had already elevated my heart rate. I could feel my nostrils flair a bit as I continued, trying my best to ignore him until he was finished fooling around. The store was hardly occupied at this hour, so I was certain he knew I was here too, but I had a feeling his intentions were to stir up trouble. Continuing down the aisle I was in, I flipped through a few more albums with renewed effort to focus. But I didn't really know all that much about vocal work, all I knew was that Santana could sing pretty much anything and it would make me want to melt on the spot.

"-I don't caaaaaare-" Puck's voice interrupted my thoughts again somehow over my headphones. My nose scrunched in irritation as I looked up and noticed he had walked down the stairs and was moseying slowly towards me on the other side of the aisle while strumming the guitar in his hand. I rolled my eyes and turned around, my hair whipping lightly as I adjusted the volume again on my iPod. Dear god, Hayley Williams, save me from this self-centered jerk.

-So what are you gonna do when nobody wants to fool with you?

I got to the end of the aisle and realized I didn't have much a plan. Did I turn and go down the next aisle and surely have to face him again or just dramatically exit the store? Ugh, I felt like I'd been set up. I didn't have much choice but to face him. I twisted abruptly and had to immediately take a step back because he was directly in front of me.

"-Sweat it out, shut your mouth. Free love on the streets but in the alley it ain't that cheap-"

I don't really know why I did it, but suddenly I yanked my earbud out of my ear and jabbed him directly in the chest. My mouth hung open and I gapped at him for a second. He smirked at me as he took a step back and something in me snapped. I hated his smug expression. All I could think of was how he was such a piece of shit to look at me like that when Santana had spent the last two nights upset and crying over him. I took a forceful step in his direction.

"-Ain't it fun? Livin' in the real world," I sang back, much to my own surprise. I felt my brow furrowed angrily as I continued to walk down the aisle towards him. His grin got wider and he continued to step backwards, his fingers shifting on the guitar and his strumming suddenly shifted. I had almost forgotten everyone Santana knew was divinely gifted with musical talent, and I hadn't expected him to so seamlessly shift the song to match my voice.

"-I don't care what you think as long as it's about me," he harmonized back, but practically nodded for me to continue. He was enjoying this.

"-Don't go cryin' to your mama, 'cause you're on your own in the real world," I sang a little louder, trying to at least beat him in volume. I knew that it was fool's errand, since I was a dancer, but I surprised myself again when he gave me a somewhat impressed nod. He didn't try to overpower my voice, but instead matched it with a few more wails of his song in sync with mine.

"Ain't it fun, ain't it fun? Baby, now you're one of us. Ain't it fun, ain't it fun? Ain't it fu-uh-uhn. Ain't it fun?"

I felt myself getting a little angrier for a few reasons, but primarily that he actually was having fun. He was mostly humming along with me now, giving me space to sing as his hand smacked rhythmically on the strings. He was even nodding his head.

"-Ain't it good, ain't it go-oo-od, being all alone? Ah-ah, ah-ah, ah-a-ahh-"

"-I said I don't care!" He suddenly got louder and took a step forward, causing me to stumble back. His expression shifted and I knew instantly that he'd been toying with me the whole time. He strummed louder, advancing on me with mock aggression. I felt my chest puff up as I regained my footing and confidence.

"-'cause you're on your own in the real world-"

"-I said I don't care just what you think-"

"-don't go cryin'-"

"-AS long as it's ah-bout me-"

"-on your own-" I felt my voice falter as his voice boomed.

"-I. Don't. CARE what you think as long as it's about me," he practically howled, completely overpowering my voice. I stopped abruptly to stand my ground as he got closer to my face as he sang, my chest heaving up and down as heavy breathes expelled from my lungs. I was absolutely glaring at him.

"-the best of us can find happiness in mi-i-i-i-i—" he held the note for a lot longer than was necessary before strumming on the guitar to pluck out a quick few notes of an outro. "-sery."

He dropped the guitar and held it with one hand, triumphantly looking down at me for a moment. He was huffing as well and might as well have been equally - okay, maybe just noticeably - out of breath as I was. I locked my gaze to his, unwilling to acknowledged he had out-sang me as I stared him down, until a small cough came from behind him. He twisted as I tilted to the side to look past him. The man from the counter at the front of the store was glaring at us and coughed politely into his closed fist as he pointed above him.

A crude, hand-written sign with boxing tape as a sort of lamination was overhead that read, "No rap battles, battles of the bands, or musical melees of any kind."

My eyes widened as they snapped back to Puck, who just grinned at me with a shrug.

---

I was already angry enough with him, but this was the second time in a week I'd been kicked out of a store because of foolish behavior - this time, specifically his foolish behavior and not cute silly things Santana and I did.

"I can't believe we got kicked out of a music store," I grumbled.

"First time, huh?" Puck looked down at me with another frustrating smirk.

"I actually had a reason to shop in there-"

"Don't get so worked up, he won't care if you come back later. We're a dime a dozen. I get kicked out stores all the time," he shrugged.

"Unbelievable," I huffed, shaking my head.

"You actually think stores keep photos and names of the customers they remove?" Puck asked, eyes widening as he looked at me seriously for once. I opened my mouth to speak, but paused. That was… actually a good point. No one had taken our names down or photos at Whole Foods the other day either.

"Whatever," I replied, waving his comment off.

"So…" Puck awkwardly picked at the bridge of his nose. I frowned and pushed away from the wall we had been leaning against.

"I don't think we should talk here." I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at him, waiting for him to move.

"This is as good a place as any," he said, extending his hand to gesture at the sidewalk. In doing so, he almost smacked it against a passerby. They twisted around and gave us both an irritated look that I mirrored almost exactly to Puck.

"Okay, okay," he said and stood up fully.

We had, or rather I had, decided we were going to walk a few blocks away to a nearby plaza that was in the same direction as the Tisch building. Not that I wanted Puck anywhere near Santana right now, but I was really running out of time.

"You really don't like me, do you?" Puck said, a shit-eating grin plastered to his face as he leaned forward to look down at me with his hands shoved roughly into his pockets.

"No, I don't," I scoffed, hitching my shoulder up to adjust the strap of my bag as I stepped forward quickly along the sidewalk, forcing him to pick up his pace. I really didn't want to chat on a crowded street. "You've done nothing to make me like you."

"Hey, I got you drinks that one time," Puck said, still smiling. What an irritating man.

"No you didn't. Sam did."

"Well, my band got us that VIP spot-"

"Isn't Sam in your band?"

"Yeah, well, either way. It was a fun night, right?"

"No. You interrupted my first date with Santana," I scowled.

"Oh, shit. Really?" He paused to look at his hands, visibly and audibly counting out loud. "You've been dating that long?"

"Ugh," I groaned and rolled my eyes. I suddenly felt like I was channeling Santana's irritation in my own behavior, but it was absolutely warranted. Not that Santana's wasn't. I was learning quickly why she got so annoyed with him. Still not at all why anyone liked him. "I don't want to talk here. Wait until we get to the plaza."

The rest of the walk was awkward and uncomfortable. He would get distracted, start kicking at the ground and slow down, only to jump up and quickly give chase at least halfway through each block. By the time we got to the plaza, I was convinced he didn't actually have any urgency to talk to me. Whereas I was on a bit of a schedule.

"Okay. We're here. What did you want to talk about?" I said sternly, tired from all of his stalling.

He shifted his footing and kicked at black and white tiles of the plaza as he looked up and around. There were some benches and a bit of grass with large rocks and such scattered around, but thankfully at this hour it was practically empty aside from us.

"Have I done that a lot? Interrupted you and Santana?" He wanted to know that? Was he really reflecting on his behavior?

"On more than one occasion, yeah."

"Huh. No wonder she's been so mad at me lately."

I stared at him incredulously. Really? How had that not occurred to him before?

"Is this really what you wanted to talk to me about?"

He didn't respond. Instead he just looked down at the ground again, a little sad. I wouldn't quite say he looked like he was deep in thought. Maybe just in thought.

"Puck," I replied, shifting my weight to lean backwards, crossing my arms across my chest. His gaze fell over me, looking me up and down. I wasn't quite sure why, but instead of mirroring him, I stared sternly back.

"No need to be so serious, dude," he grumbled, lifting a hand from his pocket to scratch the side of his lightly shaven head.

"You're the one that asked to talk, so here I am," I said, surprising myself yet again with my calm tone.

"Yeah, I did," Puck nodded. "Why'd you choose that music store anyway?"

"I assumed as a musician, you probably wouldn't want to cause a scene. Obviously I was wrong about that. But… we're also still only a few blocks from The Rabbit Hole." I assumed he knew Quinn worked there, and I took a leap that he might be as afraid of her as I was sometimes.

"Heh," he huffed before smirking. "You're smarter than you look."

"And you aren't," I remarked.

"I never claimed to be smart," Puck laughed. "No need for the fangs, Brittany, I'm not here to fight."

"Then what do you want?"

"I just needed to get a better idea of who I was dealing with," Puck sighed. "Who Santana chose and why."

My eyes narrowed and a pursed my lips tightly.

"Why?"

"So I can let go?" He shrugged. "I don't fucking know."

"That's a pretty poor reason to call me out here," I grit my teeth. "You stir up a lot of trouble for someone that doesn't know what they want."

"I know what I want," Puck grimaced. "I want Santana… to be happy."

He twisted around, looking up at a fountain in the middle of the plaza and sighed.

"I thought," he lifted his hand and gestured weakly to himself, hand spread wide. "I thought at one point I could be a person that made her happy. And it fucking hurts that she never could have that from me."

He waved his hand at me, sheepishly looking away.

"But she wants you," he muttered. "And obviously for reasons I don't have a lot of control over."

"Then what do you want from me?"

"You fit the bill of being… her type," Puck said, slowly shifting his gaze back to me and looking me squarely in the eye. "But I don't know anything else about you."

"I don't have to prove anything to you, you know," I shook my head.

"No, you don't," he said. "But you're here."

"I am." I stood my ground and stared back.

"Why?" He asked, his eyes widening a bit.

"Because I wanted to know if you had anything more to say to me than the terrible things you told her."

He gapped at me, and I stepped forward, jabbing at him with my finger and poking him hard in the chest again.

"I'm not going to fall for all this 'she used to be like this or that' crap everyone keeps saying," I snapped. "So if you're just going to tell me more of that, then there's no conversation to have."

"I wasn't," he said. He lifted his hand and gently brushed my hand away. His hand was steady, and for a moment he held it against mine before pulling his hand back and shoving it in his pocket.

"I'm a fuck up, alright?" He said, spreading his hands from within his jacket pockets. "I know that. But I try to be a fuck up with a, you know, like heart of gold or whatever."

He shook his head and stepped back from me.

"Santana took advantage of that," he sighed. "That I do care. And I still care."

He shuffled his feet, and looked away.

"Why'd she do that? Why me?" He looked genuinely puzzled. I was beginning to see that this man didn't have any thought behind his actions. He was all emotion. I felt my shoulders slump. This is what Quinn and Mike meant. He wasn't… a bad guy. Just the wrong guy. So many times, the wrong person for the role he wanted. For Quinn. For Rachel. For Santana. He was just. A guy. An emotional one at that.

"She trusted that you'd do right by her, even if she couldn't for you," I said softly. He looked up at me, a mix of sadness and surprise in his eyes.

"Why does everyone think I can shoulder all that?"

It was true, he didn't look or seem like a reliable person. His presence overall read as someone that only wanted a fun time, like a person you'd want to go out for drinks with. But definitely not the kind of person you'd ask to do anything important with. On the surface, anyway.

"I don't know, I don't know you, either," I shrugged.

"Huh." He let out a small laugh, and I felt one bubble from my throat.

"That sucks for me," he laughed.

"It does," I agreed, a small smile on my face. My brow creased and I gave him a sympathetic look.

"Par for the course, I guess," he sighed and turned to lean against the back of one of the benches.

"Mhm," I nodded, mirroring him to lean back as well. "I'm not sorry though."

"What?"

"I'm not going to apologize for loving Santana," I said softly.

"If you did, I'd punch you," he laughed. I looked up at him, eyes wide.

"Santana deserves someone that loves her wholeheartedly," Puck elaborated, hugging his arms to his chest as he tilted his head. He glanced over at me. "Without an ounce of doubt."

I hummed, and looked at the ground for a second before smirking at him.

"I already told you, I don't have anything to prove to you," I said confidently.

"Alright, alright," he laughed.

"You're not very good at getting your intentions off clearly," I said quietly.

"What does that mean?"

"I thought you called me out here to fight," I laughed.

"And you showed up?" Puck's eyes widened. "I didn't know Santana was dating such a bad ass."

"I'm not a bad ass," I replied. "That's not what Santana needs."

"Huh," he sniffed. "Then what sort of person are you, Brittany Pierce?"

"Mhm," I hummed quietly. "To Santana? I'm the person she trusts her heart with."

A small smile spread over my lips and I shrugged lightly.

"I'm still learning why, but," I looked up at him. "I'll protect it with all of mine."

I held my gaze with his, determined to show him and all of Santana's other friends that I had what it took to be a good girlfriend to Santana. There were a lot of reasons I had given them lately to not believe I could, but Puck of all people knew the least about all of that. And it really was easy to love Santana, but I was starting to realize love needed to be tended to a bit more carefully. For her sake and mine.

"Hell yeah," he nodded. "That's what I needed to hear."

"Really?"

"Yeah, or something like it," he shrugged. "Just don't break it. Her heart."

"You're not the only one whose given me that warning," I sighed. "What about you? You both did a number on each other."

"Yeah we did, didn't we?"

"Is it possible to mend?" I asked earnestly.

"My heart or my relationship with her?"

"Both, I guess?"

"I don't really know, Brittany," he sighed.

"Do you really hate her for what she did to you?"

"No… hate is way too big a word. I'm hurt, dude, but I'm not a bastard."

"Then I think you'll figure it out," I said. "Your heart at least."

"You think we can be friends again?" He squinted and frowned.

"I dunno, you seem to bounce back okay from all the other stuff you've done to these girls," I said quietly.

"Yeah, but this one is pretty serious."

"More serious than what you did to Quinn?" I arched my brow at him. His eyes widened and he grimaced quickly after.

"She told you about that, huh?"

"You're a real problem, you know?"

"Yeah, I am," he laughed.

---

Quinn had helped me in more ways than one today. I had a note in my hand with her handwriting on it. She'd even given me her school badge, which she absolutely was not supposed to do and she made me swear up and down not to lose it or get caught with it. I figured since my class was cancelled today, I had ample opportunity to learn more about what Santana's independent study was all about. Well. Maybe not ample time, thanks to Puck. Her class should be over soon, and I wasn't sure I was going the right direction.

I was walking down a hallway in the direction of where the numbers were increasing towards the one Quinn had written down when I heard a single keystroke. I froze, eyes widening as a shudder went up my spine and lingered in a tingling sensation across the back of my neck. I glanced to the windows beside me and back down the hall towards the numbered plaques flanking the doors. A wave of familiarity shot over me, and I closed my eyes to focus on my breathing.

Another keystroke. And another. Similar to, but not exactly like my dream from the other night. I shook my limbs lightly along with my head and looked sternly down the hallway. This was no time to be pathetic or panic. I huffed and pushed onward, counting the numbers as I passed them. When I was outside the number Quinn had written down for me, I heard more than a few keystrokes of a piano.

The combination of notes strung together was soft and delicate. The door to the room was cracked slightly, so I inhaled to brace myself and pushed it open. Peering inside was a larger room than I had expected. I really hadn't known what a sound studio looked like even after Quinn described it to me. There was a room inside the room to my right, where a door was closed. Beyond the glass were a bunch of dials and knobs like the thing Santana had on her desk at home. For some reason there were screens, and, for more obvious ones, speakers in the room. But that's not where the melody was coming from.

Deeper in the room there was a larger space outfitted with several instruments around it. A whole band could fit in the room, probably because it was intended for it. A large piano sat amongst the equipment sprawled around, and at the piano sat the very person I had been hoping to find.

Santana's eyes were closed, and her fingers skated across the keys in a controlled and fluid motion. I could see her breathing in rhythm with the tempo of the song she was playing, not that I recognized it. Even though she was playing delicately, the low rumble of the slow song made me feel intensely an emotion that I was sure was the inspiration for her composition.

Pure, bittersweet, melodious sadness. The air was saturated with melancholy.

I had no idea Santana played actual instruments. All of her work she usually did at her computer. I stood in awe as I watched and listened, all too aware that I was intruding on something deeply personal to her.

With a sudden abruptness, the sound stopped. For a moment, I thought I had been caught. Her eyes opened, and a heavy sigh heaved itself out of her body. She pushed herself away from the piano, the bench scraping lightly on the floor as she moved across the room. She paced for a moment, deep in thought. Her hand lifted, ruffled her hair, and then she approached a wall of instruments, scanning them over carefully. I watched with anticipation as she eyed a few different guitars, ultimately choosing one over the others for reasons I couldn't decipher. She pulled the strap over her shoulder and found a seat, using her leg to prop the guitar into a peculiar position.

She made a few small twangs, her hand swiftly moving to adjust the tuning pegs at the top of the neck of the guitar, and after she made a few test strums on the strings, she looked satisfied. She inhaled softly before placing her fingers on the strings just where the opening to the hole was. In an instant, her fingers began to move, both hands dancing across the strings, occasionally sliding against the metal and creating an extra little sound as she shifted between chords.

I had seen plenty of people play the guitar before, including as recently as this morning, but usually with simple strumming techniques or using a guitar pick. But the way Santana's fingers flitted over all the strings in tandem, plucking at specific strings as she moved her other hand, was unexpected to say the least. Her eyelids were heavy, looking occasionally at her fingers on the neck of the guitar, but mostly her head bobbed gently with the song she had started to play.

The tone of this song was equally as sad as the previous one, but I almost felt from her movements that she was more of an expert with this instrument. Her eyes fluttered closed, and the soft hum of her voice added to the melody. It accentuated the piece exponentially and I had to brace myself lightly against the wall of the mixing room. The movement caught her attention, and her eyes darted up to me, her hand snapping on the neck strings and strangling the sounds of the guitar immediately. I gasped at the gesture, and I think she did too.

"Britt," she huffed in surprise. I smiled apologetically at her and waved lightly.

"Hi…" I murmured.

"What are you doing here?" She swiftly removed the strap of the guitar and set it aside, her cheeks flushing.

"A-admiring you," I replied sheepishly. "I thought since you always come to my class, and it was cancelled… I might see how you were doing."

"Why was your class cancelled?" Santana ran her hands over her front to smooth out any wrinkles that had formed from her seated position, before fussing with her hair. Had I surprised her so bad… or intruded?

"I guess my professor was sick," I shrugged lightly. "He didn't really specify. We have a make up class next week."

"Mhm," she hummed, placing a hand over her mouth as she kicked her feet at the ground, moving back towards the piano.

"I didn't mean to startle you," I said, closing the distance between us so I could catch her hand. She looked up to me, weakly holding my hand back, her cheeks more red than I expected.

"I-It's fine," she replied, averting her gaze briefly. "I'm not …usually one to play to a crowd."

"I'm hardly a crowd," I laughed.

"To me, you can be my whole world, sometimes," Santana sighed softly, her eyes fluttering closed, swinging my hand lightly in hers. I think my heart skipped a beat.

"Y-yeah?"

"Mhm-hmm," she nodded. I leaned forward and held her close.

"Sorry I caught you off guard then," I replied.

"It's alright, really," she hummed and pressed closely to me, wrapping her hands around my waist. "This is just a bit personal… and intimate, I suppose."

"I got the feeling I may have been intruding," I nodded. "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing," Santana sighed. "You've seen me way more vulnerable than this."

"That's true… practically naked. Wait, no, literally," I chuckled. I felt her nose scrunch against my neck, and her palm smacked my arm gently.

"I'll be serious," I giggled, squeezing her a bit and swaying her in my arms. "I didn't know you could play any instruments."

Again, she made a scrunchy face into my skin and murmured quietly. "I'm actually a little offended by that."

"Oh?" I pulled back a bit. "Really?"

"I mean, yeah, I'm a music major," she chuckled.

"Yeah, but I've never seen you play."

"You never asked," she laughed. "Do you see a piano in our apartment?"

"True…" I looked sideways at the guitar she had placed against it. "But I'm sure there could easily be a guitar somewhere."

She tensed and I glanced back at her.

"Yeah, I suppose that's true," she nodded. "There isn't, though."

"That's quite surprising, considering how good you play."

"I'm really not," she muttered, averting her gaze. I felt my face fall, and she definitely noticed. She pulled away from me and let out another sigh, twisting around and letting her hand catch the neck of the guitar as she sat down on the bench of the piano. She spun it lightly in her hands, with the base of the guitar resting on the ground.

"Playing guitar makes me sad," she admitted. I let my body lower to the ground and I sat cross-legged in front of her. I reached out gently to hold her hand.

"Did something happen…?" I asked, hesitantly. Maybe this had to do with Puck - Puck was in a band, and he obviously played guitar. Maybe he had taught her?

"Mhm," she swung our conjoined hand lightly. "My dad and I used to play guitar together."

"Oh."

"Oh yeah," she sighed. "It's something my family did together. Play music."

I watched her gaze fall to the ground, and her mouth opened and closed a few times. The loneliness I had diagnosed her with to Quinn and Mike felt palpable as her hand slipped away from mine and she held the guitar closer to her. I looked over it and noticed it was well worn. The varnish that I expected to be smooth was scuffed and there were even a few chips in the wood. The strap that hung loosely from the neck had a colorful woven pattern along it that was a little frayed. I realized now why there wasn't a guitar at our apartment. Even the strings to this particular guitar… they were strung for someone left-handed.

"Sometimes it's just so hard to be here," she murmured. "I wanted to do this so badly, but I didn't know that it would impact things so much."

"With your parents?" I asked softly. She flinched.

"I thought they'd understand. Music… used to be so important."

"Oh, Santana…" I felt my heart break for her. Over and over again, this girl. She had so much love, but so much heartache. No wonder she was so afraid all the time.

"It's fine, Britt," she smiled softly. "It's been a long, long time."

"What changed…?" I felt like I was prying too much. I meant to come by and cheer her up, not open up old wounds.

"My parents careers," she gave me a light shrug. "I don't have a specific cause. After grade school, they just weren't around anymore. Not that they were around much before that, but… yeah."

"So your Abuela raised you?"

"Mhm," she nodded. "Basically. They pop in and out of my life to tell me what to do sometimes. Cast judgement. Make demands. Used to, anyway.

"We had a big fight. A while ago." Her gaze was trained on the guitar in her hands. "About college. Haven't spoken since."

"They didn't want you to study music?"

"No."

"Why? You said it was important to them-"

"It was," Santana smiled weakly. "But music doesn't pay the bills. They know that first hand. And it was enough to make them afraid that it would be the same for me. And maybe…"

She paused and stared at the guitar in her hand, squeezing the neck gently, before whispering mostly to herself. "…they were right."

She looked at me and sighed, tilting her head to the side and lifted a hand to cup my cheek.

"Don't look at me like that," Santana said quietly. "I'm not someone to feel sorry for. I wanted for nothing most of my life."

I placed my hand over the one she held to my cheek and nuzzled it.

"Except for the love and support of your family," I murmured, taking her hand in mine and peppering light kisses over her fingers.

"I had my Abuela," she said softly.

"Was that enough?"

"I try not to be greedy," Santana shrugged.

"That's not greedy."

"It's more than most," she said, turning to the guitar in her hands. I could tell she didn't want to keep talking about it, but I really didn't like her accepting her circumstances the way she had. I couldn't imagine having such a distant relationship with my family. We didn't talk all the time, but my mom and dad loved me. They showed it often.

Santana deserved so much love and care, and it was easy to see how much she desired it when it came to the people that were important to her. People like Quinn and Puck. How afraid she was to lose it. She'd harbored and squashed her feelings for Quinn, and built up all this courage to tell Puck only to have it thrown her face. And yet somehow, she'd found a way to be brave all this time for me.

I think she could sense the gears turning in my brain, and how I was stitching the pieces together of how she worked. She adjusted her hold on the guitar again and cleared her throat.

"Mhm, do you want to hear something I've been working on?"

I blinked and nodded.

"One second," she sat up, and moved to unclip something from to the neck of the guitar and adjusted its position.

"You'll like it," she smiled softly. She fidgeted a bit and I slid back to give her some space. Her fingers found their place as naturally as one might imagine, and after a beat, she exhaled and her fingers strummed notes I immediately recognized.

"Take my hand," she spoke more than she sang. "I'll teach you to dance…"

A wide smile grew on my lips and I beamed at her. Her fingers danced across the strings and the light hearted tune was such a contrast to the songs she had played before. She scrunched her nose at me, a smile on her face, continuing to pluck along the strings. The song transitioned slowly from finger picking to more strumming and she put more of her body into her movements, swaying the neck of the guitar as she threw a bit more weight into her hand. She had stopped singing to focus on playing, and slowly petered off around the time the song transitioned again.

Her eyes lifted from the guitar and met mine. In spite of her hurt, she had so much warmth left for the looks she gave me. I felt like a puddle.

"Santana…" I whispered, leaning forward and giving her the gentlest kiss I could muster. I saw her eyes close just before our lips touched, and I stayed as close as I could as I stroked her cheek gently. It wasn't a needy kiss, desperate or pleading, like we had often lately. I didn't want to trade expectations with her right now. I just wanted her to know I was here. I'd always be here.

"Brittany…" she whispered back, nudging my nose with hers.

"Did you learn that for us?" I murmured.

"For you, yes," she whispered back, her lips ghosting lightly against mine. She pulled back a bit, looking shyly at the guitar. "Mostly by ear, so that's as far as I've gotten."

My cheeks flushed. When had she found the time? It would have taken some time to learn it, but we spent so much time together, I didn't think there would have been able to. In fact, this was supposed to be her independent study time. Wasn't her focus for her assignment supposed to include dancing?

"Have you been goofing off, playing love songs for me?"

"Mhm," she smiled. For a brief moment, it faltered, her eyes flicking towards the piano. "Sometimes… big feelings need an outlet."

I hummed, recollecting my class from yesterday. So Santana's outlet for her feelings was her music, just like mine was dance. But what were we supposed to do when our feelings compromised our art? Just sing and dance more?

"The songs you were playing before, were those…"

"Oh, I don't know," she shrugged, leaning back. "Just something that felt right to play."

"You wrote those?"

She looked down at me and huffed.

"Don't look so surprised," she rolled her eyes. A shy smile appeared on her lips, and she waved her hand dismissively in the air. Maybe if the music hadn't been dripping with raw emotion, she'd feel more proud of them.

"Your big feelings sound sad, Santana," I whispered.

"I'm always a little," she admitted.

"Really?" I looked up at her, feeling my eyes water. She bowed her head.

"I have a lot of regrets," she murmured. "Sometimes they sneak up on me."

"You don't have to-"

"-Keep punishing myself?" She gazed at me and I was surprised when she lifted her thumb to my cheek to brush away a tear. Shouldn't she be the one crying?

"I'm not," she promised. "Maybe feeling a little sorry for myself. But I have you to keep me in check, right?"

I nodded, squeezing her hand.

"A little sorry…?" I muttered.

"A lot sorry," she chuckled. "Quite melancholy, I know."

She gave me a light shrug.

"I do love to be a dramatic bitch sometimes."

"You're really not," I said softly.

"Oh, I'm definitely dramatic, Britt-"

I leaned forward and kissed her to quiet her. My hands ran down her arms to squeeze her hands tightly.

"You're not a bitch," I said sternly. "I don't like that you think you are."

"I-" she paused, and a small laugh bubbled from her throat. "Okay. I'll work on that."

"Good."

"Anything else you don't like?" She asked, lifting a hand from mine to brush my hair out of my face. I stared up at her, studying her expression. I really hadn't expected to come to her school and have her focusing on me as much as she was. The point had been for me to be there for her and make her feel better.

She kept soothingly playing with my hair, and I leaned my cheek into her palm affectionately. Santana was always taking care of me, sometimes at her own expense. That didn't feel balanced or fair, especially with everything she was going through. I wanted to help her with her problems, but I still wasn't really sure why Puck had made her so upset. What did her sad feelings about Puck have to do with her parents?

"Did you love Puck?" I blurted out. It was something that had been on my mind a while, and I regretted that I hadn't asked more carefully. I cursed inwardly. I must have made a face because she suddenly laughed.

"No, no, Britt. Not like that." Her smile quickly vanished, and I watched as her chest heaved like a hundred pounds of weight rested on it.

"So… why are you so upset about him?"

"I've spent my whole life trying to be the perfect daughter to my parents," Santana sighed. "Until Glee club…"

She looked solemnly at the ground.

"It was the first time I felt like I'd found myself, even if I hadn't figured everything out, you know? They were like a family that I, like most of us, needed more than I knew.

"It was exhilarating and inspiring. I started to have dreams I never let myself have before," Santana smirked. "Mr. Shue, for all his flaws, really believed in that. And we were kids, with lots of hope and ambition. It felt good."

I nodded and looked expectantly at her. She was staring around the room and I followed it with curiosity.

"And it was. Still is. But…" Santana let her fingers drag along the neck of the guitar she held dearly in her hands. "…Then I grew up. High school was over. Glee club was over. And my relationships… changed. Along with my priorities."

Santana closed her eyes as a pained expression swept over her face.

"Do you get what I'm saying?"

"…I wish I did," I hummed and scooted closer. I really did.

"I had built this family," Santana said softly. "I had this found family, one I thought I could be myself around. But then things started changing, and I felt myself realizing things about myself I was scared might change the things I cared about, too.

"Puck wanted more. I couldn't give it to him. I couldn't have what I wanted from Quinn," Santana said softly. "All of it risked the foundation of support I'd worked so hard to get."

Her frown deepened. "And it has. What if this thing with Puck breaks up our friend group?"

Santana looked up at me sadly.

"What if he doesn't forgive me?"

I hummed quietly and gazed at her hands that rested delicately in mine. I could tell her that Puck wanted to mend their friendship too, but in talking to him earlier I had learned a few things. He wasn't ready for the responsibility of bearing the weight of someone's heart. Anyone's really. Rushing to fix things between them when Santana was so vulnerable and Puck was so… thoughtless. Reckless even. That wasn't a good idea. But I learned something else. Like Santana, Puck did care. He treasured their Glee club as much as the rest of them did. This wasn't going to get fixed today, but it wasn't going to get worse either.

"…then you forgive yourself, Santana," I spoke softly. I stroked my hands gently over hers and leaned up, hesitating just a moment before kissing her lightly. My palm had found its way to her cheek. "You didn't mean to hurt him and you wouldn't do it again. You care so much."

"…you see that?" Santana whispered.

"I see a lot of things you do for your friends that they don't seem to see," I murmured, kissing her again lightly. A small hum rumbled from her lips against mine and I pulled back to look at her. She twisted her fingers in her hands, wringing them gently before gazing up at me.

"You're the first person I've loved that loves me back." Her eyes were wide, full and earnest and also glossy and sad, like she had never admitted it to anyone, including herself. They shifted back and forth, scanning, no, searching mine. It was then I realized she was being very vulnerable with me. Maybe the most she had so far.

It made my chest tighten. Had I been as honest and open and vulnerable with her? I was asking her to talk to me, share with me her deepest thoughts and fears, something she clearly struggled with. And yet, I was the one that felt the heat of shame flush up my neck and twist my stomach. I wanted to share every thought and concern I had with Santana, but often times I couldn't find my words or I'd open my mouth and nothing would come out. Or worse, it would come out wrong, and… and stupid.

I closed my eyes for a moment, the pressure of her seeking a bit too much as I tried to focus on a reply. Upon opening them again, I saw something new. My hesitation caused a wave of panic to flash across her face.

"I've never loved anyone before you," I said quietly, my voice constricting in my throat. It was hard to admit, even though I was sure she already knew. But she needed to hear it. I watched as fear that had infiltrated Santana's expression disappeared, and her brow creased ever so slightly, accompanied with a tiny curl in her lips.

"Love is confusing… and sometimes scary," I admitted. I was worried she might take it the wrong way, but I was surprised when the curl to her lips turned into a knowing and playful smile. She reached over and squeezed the top of my hand before working her way around and linking my pinky with hers.

"But it's worth it, right?"

My head inclined in a slow nod. I didn't know how she could do that. Be so confident and smart and caring for me when she seemed to be bearing her own soul and sorrows for the first time. Santana might not have received love she wanted before, but she definitely read the play book. She knew how important it was, like she studied every love song and story with thorough thought and analysis. Her friends said she bottled up her emotions, but no one mentioned how much she must have tended the jars with precious delicacy and care. She knew the power of her feelings, the strength they could give, but also the hurt caused by carelessness if someone dropped the fragile containers they were held in, herself included.

I gazed at our hands, imagining her handling a container of her feelings. She would have been meticulous, memorizing each one. The hurt and loss when her family rejected her dreams. The fear that Quinn might not share the longing she had at the height of her crush. The shame that she had inadvertently broken Puck's heart. And around the fragile feelings that threatened to break her, she'd designed a steely exterior, like… a bird cage. Both something to protect her that ultimately kept her trapped.

And how long could a songbird sing if all it echoed back was loneliness? When it couldn't leave its cage because of the invisible bars it had built itself in the open door?

But then… Santana could be so brave and so strong.

"Do I make her brave?" I wondered for a moment. I really wanted to be that for her, too. So she could see for herself how amazing she was. How did she take that fear and let love transform it into strength? Was it false? I looked back up at her eyes, and was met with a scrunched nose and a bright smile. No, that smile was nothing but honest.

"What's going on in there?" she laughed softly and a finger tapped me squarely on my forehead.

"You trust me with your heart." The worlds spilled out again without much thought. I blinked and shook my head, opening my mouth to clarify but stopped as she let out a heartier laugh then before.

"I do," she said, taking both my hands in hers.

"Why?"

"Because I love you. And you love me."

"Aren't you scared I'll break it?" I whispered. "It's been broken before."

"The right person will take care of it. And a heart isn't just something you break. If you treat it right, the right person will help it grow."

"Like in How the Grinch stole Christmas?"

"I was thinking more like a plant, but… sure. That too."

I guess that made sense. Plants could still have their pots break. But what if they grew too big for their container?

"Britt?"

I looked up again. I had to stop getting distracted, this conversation was important. But love really was confusing.

"What made you feel like I was the right person?" My voice was small. I was a bit terrified of her answer. Another laugh escaped left her lips, and I didn't mean to but I frowned. She stopped short and made an obvious effort to frown back at me. I could see a smile break through her attempt.

"Aside from having already told you I feel like you're my soulmate?" she trailed off and tapped my nose. "Which I don't mind reminding you of as often as you need to hear it, by the way."

"Santana," I whispered. I was being serious.

"Because, Brittany. I… I fight a lot. Mostly with myself. To let myself be myself. And when I'm with you, I don't feel like I have to pretend. You don't let me."

"Oh." I whispered. I did that? I didn't feel like I did anything. Not anything anyone else would do differently, anyway. A squeeze from Santana made me look back up. She was gazing at me softly, and smiling again.

"I guess… sometimes I don't really feel like I do anything in particular. Um," I broke her gaze and inhaled softly. "And I kind of feel like I don't really deserve it."

"Deserve?" Santana's brow furrowed and her lips pressed together in a small pout.

"Britt, love isn't something you deserve because you do so many deeds to earn it," she said firmly. "It's freely given. By someone who wants to. That's what makes it so special."

"Oh." I repeated. I must have sounded pretty silly. That made a ton of sense. I was right to think Santana knew the ins and outs of love and romance. She explained it so clearly. It was hard to believe she hadn't been on of the receiving end of it more.

"Don't you think…?" Santana looked at me expectantly.

"Yes, that makes total sense," I nodded quickly. "It helps to talk about it."

"Hmm," Santana shook her head and pulled my hands up to her lips. "I'll try to be better about that too."

"You're not doing anything wrong," I murmured.

"No, but if talking more about our feelings helps you," she leaned forward and kissed my forehead. "Then I'm more than happy to. Like I said, I'm happy to remind you how much I love you."

My nose scrunched up and a wide, toothy grin spread over my face.

"You know how forgetful I can be." This time we both laughed. I hummed quietly and stood to take the guitar out of her lap. I set it on top of the piano next to a small pile of papers that had slid out of a folder. I glanced at them and noticed they were pages of sheet music, but the music notes were curiously hand-written. Some even had some words scrawled under the notes in the practically perfect curves of Santana's handwriting. I smiled as I looked back at her and she was beaming at me. For the first time in several days, there was no hint of sadness and it was all warmth. I stretched out my hand to take hers and gave it a little tug to pull her up.

"So if you trust me with your heart… how about some of your music?"

"Oh, god, giving you my heart was easier."

"Was it?"

"Honestly, it was one of the easiest things."

I pulled her forward and stepped back to give her a little spin, and she elegantly allowed me to do so. Laughter bubbled between us as I led her around the piano in a few well practiced steps before twirling her again, catching her and dipping her down in my arms.

"So, miss Lopez," I said, titling my head to the side. "I think I found a song for your independent study."

"Oh yeah?" She giggled. Her smile turned sheepish and she averted her gaze. "Well, hopefully it's enough, because I need three songs."

"Three?!" I said incredulously. So much so I almost dropped her. A small gasp escaped her lips as her hands clasped tightly to my waist and I pulled her up with me as I stood upright.

"Well, the independent study is on stage performance," she sighed. She twisted out of my hands. "I need more than one song to work with to… appease my professor."

"And how many do you have so far?" I grimaced, afraid of her answer.

"…none…?" She looked up at me, her eyes big and apologetic.

"Okay. I can only help so much, Santana," I frowned, my brow furrowing with worry. "I have one song. And I don't even know if you'll like it-"

"A song you thought of for me?" Her smile returned. "I'll love it. I'll sing it right now."

"You've sung it to me before," I said, stepping forward. "You like Amy Winehouse, right?"

"Yes, absolutely-"

"Then how about you… stop making a fool out of me," I said plainly. Her brow furrowed and I lifted my finger and gestured for her to come closer. I sing-songed the next few words. "Oh, why don't you come on over—"

"You think I should sing Valerie?" Again, I was on the receiving end of the brightest smile that accompanied a practical squeal of excitement. She grasped my hands again and practically fell into me.

"I don't know why I hadn't even considered that song," Santana shook her head. "Mike and I even worked on our own choreography for Sectionals-"

"Mike danced with you to it before?"

"Yeah, we performed it in Glee club. But I don't think it would be a problem to do it again for this class. It's not like my professor has heard me sing it before."

"But Mike danced with you…?" My cheeks puffed out slightly.

"Britt, you can't possibly be jealous. That was before I knew you," Santana said, her brow furrowing as she looked at me like she was holding back a laugh. I gave her my saddest, puppy-dog pout I could muster.

"I thought I was your dance partner."

"Britt!" She laughed. "You are my one, true, and only."

The way she said it made me smile big. It wasn't just about dancing.

---

A/N: I used to think that this story was really mostly about Santana, somewhat unreliably narrated by a hyper-focused and unconfident Brittany. But I'm realizing it's actually about how one person can make a difference in enriching other people's lives, even if it's small, subtle, or intangible — and I think Brittany is coming into her own in the next few chapters, for more than just Santana.

Anyway, this chapter was a really long time in the making. Last chapter was hard to write for so, so many reasons I won't get into, but it was a necessary one to build up into this one. I'm not sure if I've recaptured the voice and spirit of what I was doing a decade ago, but I have a better, clearer vision of the story I'm meaning to tell ahead. Thank you for your patience with me and this story.

As per usual, I have a chapter playlist for you:

Little Bird - Imogen Heap (for Brittany's confusion over Santana, inspiration for the chapter title)

Ain't it Fun - Paramore

I Don't Care - Fall Out Boy

Sorry - Halsey (instrumental) (for Santana's feelings about Puck, not spoken because this song came out in 2017)

Sad Songs - Illenium, Annika Wells, and Said The Sky (instrumental) (for Santana's feelings about her parents, not spoken because it came out in 2019)