In the minutes since that kiss, she senses something's missing. Something falling, something pressing. The concrete wall she's struggled to hold up seems to fold up and drop. The weight is lifted, and in its place, lightness drifts.
Instantly, the situation is shifted. Brittany has taken the reins, and Santana sees, again, at last, how freeing it can be to relinquish control. Something inside struggles again to dominate, but as it creeps in, she breathes deep and banishes, for the moment, the old habit.
Brittany may have left the room but never her. Never.
And Santana has never left Brittany, not really. And Santana has never, ever, not once, let go. And Santana, let's be real, has never wanted to.
(Dani knew it, Dani felt it, and Santana knows she knew. It was so easy for Dani to vote her off the band. Santana was just a truck stop on Dani's roadtrip. And, truthfully, vice-versa. But it's clear, since that kiss, Dani is history.)
Brittany's exit has made a tsunami in the room, sucking out before swamping back in, and as Santana senses its pull, she follows. She follows. As if her body knows better than her brain what she needs, she allows Brittany's undertow to draw her.
(She allows it, knowing the undertow is relentless, dauntless, endless.)
She finds herself at Brittany's side. Once she's in range of the smell of Brittany's shampoo, her pulse eases. Brittany doesn't even look at her. She doesn't have to. Proximity is enough. Santana feels the air that touches Brittany's skin, feels the difference from the air that doesn't. Something about warmth, something about calm, something about home draws her near.
Brittany takes her hand and leads her from the stage out into the parking lot. Santana again tries to take the lead, but Brittany throws her a wicked look and runs, holding Santana's hand, so Santana runs, too, and they run all the way home.
(But home is wherever she's with her.)
It's raining, so they're soaked by the time they get there. But that's ridiculous— Santana's been home since surrendering. She can't help herself. She is— she has been all along— awesomely in love. It's just that control was so seductive, so elusive. Her control was illusive. She was just trying to blend in. Camouflage was her superpower, she thought, but now she knows, complementary, like yin and yang (like 69 she thinks and giggles to herself), she and Brittany belong together; awesomeness is their superpower, together.
Brittany lays her across the bed and begins to remove her clothes.
Santana yields completely.