Author's note: Nearly five years ago now, I wrote two Puckleberry fics, All Roads Lead to You and Baby, What a Big Surprise, that explored Puck and Rachel in Seattle. At the time that I wrote those, I was living in a farmhouse surrounded by cornfields in Indiana. I'd never been to Seattle, but I instinctively knew that I'd love it if I ever got there. It had been a long-held dream of mine when I wrote ARLTY.

Four months ago, I moved to Seattle. Thanks to the amazing company I work for, I had the opportunity to transfer out here, so in August, we drove 2300 miles from our old home to our new one. I live twenty miles south of the city in a house where I can see Mt. Rainier when I step outside my front door, and I work in an office building that sits on Elliott Bay, where I can see the snow-capped peaks of the Olympic Mountains when I bother to look. Every single day, I see the ferries crossing Puget Sound – the same ferries where Puck and Rachel got married in ARLTY. What was just a dream a few years ago is now my everyday life, and I'm so thankful for that. As a dear friend told me recently, "It's kind of cool to watch someone's dream come true right before your eyes." Amen to that.

I haven't done much writing in the past few years because I have a pretty demanding career, and while I love it, it has sapped my creativity. Even still, I had the desire to revisit Seattle one last time with the greatest OTP I'll ever have. I'll never ship any couple harder than I ship Puckleberry, and I'll never love any city as much as I love my new home (even if the traffic is absolutely, completely HIDEOUS.) So consider this short, two-part fic a love letter to my favorite OTP in my favorite city, and to the many fans who still read my fics every day and send me nice reviews and notes. You guys are and have been amazing. Most of us have long-since quit Glee, but we haven't quit Puckleberry. And we never will!

The cops are outside Noah Puckerman's house. Again.

He strolls down the steps, guitar case and backpack over his shoulder, his eyes on the action across the street. The SPD have old Marty Willhousen shoved up against the cruiser. Again. Looks like he made an ass of himself. Again.

Puck shakes his head, a smirk on his lips, and veers across his yard and three others, in a hurry to get to the corner before the bus swings through and misses him. He dodges an empty beer bottle, what looks like some weave jerked from some poor bitch's head, and a used condom before he skids to a stop just as the bus pulls up. He nods to the driver as he climbs aboard, swipes his ORCA card, and plops down in an empty seat near the front. And older lady across the aisle gives him an appreciative look, her eyes practically bulging out and running over him like in the cartoons. He nods at her and turns away, hoping she doesn't try to hit on him, and stares out the window, watching the neighborhood whiz by when the bus picks up speed.

He lives in a little cracker box house in Rainier Beach with two other airplane mechanics. They all work for different airlines and on different shifts at Sea-Tac, so they're always coming and going. Between them and the chicks they bring home, it's like a fucking revolving door sometimes. Puck keeps telling himself that he's going to move to Seattle even though it'll make for a hellish commute, but every time he looks at the apartment listings, he nearly shits himself. $2100 for a 600 square foot studio? They fucking kidding? Sure, he makes good money, but if he moved closer to the city he'd have no money to actually enjoy the damn city, so he stays put on the edge of the ghetto with two guys who are bigger pigs than he is.

The buses are crowded on Saturday. The sky is blue and the winds are light, making it one of those perfect Pacific Northwest summer days that nobody believes they actually get out here. He figures everybody's heading out to Alki Beach or down to one of the weird festivals the city is always hosting. He knows where he's heading, of course. The most money from busking always comes from the rich tourists in the shopping district.

Puck can see that the sidewalks are thick with crowds as he nears his stop. The throng of people means his tips will be good, which translates into a case of some good beer in his future.

When the bus squeals to a stop, he steps off and slings his guitar over his shoulder as he eyes the sidewalk in front of him. It slopes downward for three solid blocks, and down the way he can see that the shoe shine guy has already staked out the best spot right outside the entrance to Pacific Place mall. Shrugging, he turns and heads toward the entrance to Westlake Center instead. Rich assholes shop there like crazy and the weird hippies hang out across the street. Puck loves it because it's like the blending point of Seattle's two extremes – the money and the stoners - and both of them like good music.

His backpack thuds to the ground next to his guitar case as Puck bends down. He gets a whiff of pot from somewhere nearby and cracks a smile. Has he mentioned that he loves this city? 'Cause weed is fuckin' legal here, even if he can't partake because he could get randomly tested for drugs at work at any moment. Since they have an issue with mechanics who work on machines that, if not working right, could kill scores of people, Puck gets it. He does… but damn, that weed smells sweet.

He pulls his guitar out, leaving the case open for tips, and arranges the strap around his body while his eyes apprise the crowd. Lots of Nordstrom's bags today bouncing against the Coach purses thrown over the shoulders of thin women with defined bone structure. Puck's grin broadens. The tips will be good today.

It takes him a few minutes to get settled, get the guitar tuned, and figure out what the hell he's going to play. For some reason, the tourists seem to love upbeat rock, so he breaks into a Journey song and smiles when the first rich chick tosses a five into his case after only a few bars.

Street performance is an art and Noah Puckerman knows he's great at it. He gets so lost in the music that he doesn't notice the hot little number in the short shorts and heels as she marches past him, her nose in the air. It's the first and only time he doesn't see her.

…

She's being punished. Rachel Berry can't prove it, but she knows without a shadow of a doubt that she's being punished for some unnamed transgression possibly committed years ago. It's the only logical answer to the question of why she was selected as nothing more than an understudy in her theater company's performance of Jane Eyre: the Musical. The idea of being an understudy after having had the leading role in Mary Poppins at the end of last season is unfathomable. Understudy roles are for people… not like her.

She steps around a scraggly skateboarder sitting against a building at the corner of 5th and Olive. With the kind of day she's had, the only thing that's going to make her feel better is retail therapy, which is why she checked her credit card balance before she left her apartment. She has exactly $184 before she hits her limit and she's fairly confident that she can spend that amount of money in 79 seconds flat. She hears her father's voice ringing in her ears while she stomps up the steps and enters Westlake Center. Rachel doesn't care what either one of her fathers says, she's not getting a "real" job anytime soon. Nana left her an inheritance which, until now, she hasn't touched, but that's about to change. She will not give up her theater dreams, even if that means dipping into her nest egg.

Sixteen minutes after she enters the mall, she leaves again, a Lush bag on her left arm, a Candy Tyme bag on her right, and $11 left on her credit card. The tension has eased from her body, partly because shopping is the greatest way to relieve stress (other than sex, which she hasn't had a lot of lately), and partly because the soothing smells in her two favorite store just sucks the stress from her body. She has every intention of tossing a bath bomb in a warm tub and soaking until her muscles are soft and relaxed (while enjoying a cinnamon sucker), but as she turns the corner to head back up 5th Avenue toward her apartment, she hears a faint rendition of one of her favorite songs. She slows her steps, her eyes searching for the source of the music. Her gaze finally settle on a tall guy, a guitar in his hands. She walks closer, not wanting to appear eager, but she loves his voice and wants to hear more. It's kind of gravelly, with a touch of rock and roll, and a lot of soul. He's singing John Legend's "All of Me" and the women in the crowd are eyeing him with a combination of lust and teenage infatuation. Rachel would roll her eyes but she can't because she can't look away herself. The guy's eyes are closed, allowing her a moment to appreciate the strength of his jaw and the strong veins and muscles in his arms and hands. His deep brown hair is closely cropped to his head and he's… well, he's rather cute, actually.

When the last strains of the song softly echo out into the crowd, he pops his eyes open and they seem to immediately land on her. Rachel finds that she can't help but suck in a breath. His eyes are penetrating, glittering almost, and they're searching over her face. Just when she thinks she's going to get woozy from the intensity of his gaze, he shoots her a lopsided grin and then turns away to thank someone who has just thrown some cash into his guitar case. When he looks at her again and winks, she blushes and turns away. She doesn't have time for flirty street performers, regardless of how handsome they might be.

…

Puck's entire body is aching when he gets home on Saturday night. He spent over four hours inside the landing gear of a 767, an asshole pilot screaming in his ear most of the time because the repair meant flights had to be delayed. He drops his backpack by the couch when he stumbles into the dark apartment. All he can think about is grabbing a beer and a sandwich and falling into bed. As he slaps some turkey onto some wheat bread and squirts mustard over the whole thing, he hears the bed in his roommate's room smacking rhythmically against the wall. Seconds later, the high-pitched wail of female meets his ears and Puck feels himself get hard beneath his scratchy work pants. It's been so damn long since he's been laid. He hasn't thought about it too much, but listening to Matt's flavor of the week cry out as she comes nearly makes him stick his hand down his pants. Instead, he leans against the counter and eats his sandwich, a little more than relieved when the house goes silent again. He goes for a bag of Cheetos and one of those little six-packs of Oreos when he finds himself thinking about that cute little brunette from last weekend. She was this weird mix of tiny and fuckin' sexy.

Puck shoves his napkin down in the trash and grabs a beer bottle, along with his snacks, and heads to his bedroom. He decides that he has a date with Brunettes Love Anal, Volume 4.

…

"I'm very sorry that you're going to have to have surgery." Rachel tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and bites her lip in the hopes that she appears demure and sincere, even as a thrill shoots through her small body. Her fellow actress and the woman who was, until 12 seconds ago, the lead in the musical, crosses her arms and looks unconvinced. "But ultimately, the most important thing is you, and you have to what's right for your health, right?"

"Yeah, whatever. Just don't fuck up the role, Rachel."

Rachel leaves the smile plastered on her face as her companion departs. Only when she's alone and the three locks on her door are secure again does she grab her iPhone from her purse and call her parents. As soon as Dad answers, Rachel screams into the phone, "Thanks to ovarian polyps with a 95% chance of rupturing in the next sixty days, I now have the lead, Dad!"

She hangs up with her fathers a few minutes later and glances around her Belltown apartment. She's broke, her best friend, Kurt, is out of town "finding" himself with a bunch of Tibetan monks, and her other best friend, Mercedes, is at a bridal shower for someone Rachel doesn't even know. She's so excited, though, that she can't stay home. She has to get out and celebrate.

…

It's one of those rare Fridays when Puck, Sam, and Matt all have the same day off. Sam spends an hour trying to cajole them into heading down to Déjà Vu into Tacoma, but Puck doesn't have enough money to waste any of it on strippers. Sam finally relents and the guys hop the Light Rail into downtown Seattle, arguing most of the way about where they're going to end up. Puck wants a burger at Blue Moon but Matt is craving seafood. Since he already shitted all over Sam's stripper idea, he gives into Matt and they head to the waterfront. After he stuffs himself with crab, the guys watch the tourists take pictures of themselves in front of the Ferris wheel for a while, then watch some stoners try to sell those same tourists some pot. They both have that snip-nosed, horrified look on their faces that signals that they're from the Midwest. Hell, they might even be from his home state of Ohio.

"Wanna get a drink?" he asks Sam and Matt as the sun starts to set over Puget Sound. Sam peels his eyes away from a dark-skinned girl with huge boobs and nods, so they make their way back up over the sea wall and head for Radiator Whiskey, their favorite little bar near Pike Place Market.

The bar is pretty packed when they walked in. Matt scores them a table near the back and Puck veers toward the bathroom to take a piss before ordering his first (of many) shots. When he comes out, he's re-doing his belt, his eyes on the floor. He hears an "oomph" before he realizes that he's run into someone. There's a woman stumbling backward, her tall heels about to give out on her. Puck lunges for her, his fingers circling trim wrists as he catches her. She barely weighs anything and she has a mass of long, shiny hair that nearly obscures her face.

Once she studies herself, the woman pushes her hair back off her face and grins up at him. Puck feels like he's been kicked in the nuts by the sex fairy. Damn.

"I'm so sorry," the woman says. "I was trying to the find the bathroom but I sink I've had too much to drink." She slaps her hand over her mouth for a second before she lets out a laugh and asks, "Did I say 'sink'? Oh my, I'm definitely tipsy. I'm so sorry. I need to get past you."

Puck's too busy watching her plump lips to even hear what she's actually saying. Even in the cruddy bar lighting, he can see that she's got this ridiculous bronzed skin (who the hell can actually get a tan out here?) and these sparkly eyes, even when drunk. She also looks like she's about seventeen, which doesn't do much for his nearly thirty-year-old self. Before he can even get his shit together, the woman slip-stumbles around him and disappears into the bathroom.

After he sits down next to Sam, Puck knocks back his shot and stares at the bathroom door. He's got this nagging feeling that he knows that chick or that he's at least seen her somewhere before. He refuses to look away from where she went because he's afraid he'll miss her coming back out. He ignores the conversation Matt and Sam are having (why farting in a hot tub is one of life's greatest pleasures) and waits.

It seems to take forever. Either she got a zipper stuck, or she fell in, or she fell asleep on the toilet. Something's happened, because it seems like ages before the door opens again and she comes out. When he looks at her from a distance and sees how tiny she is, the memory of her hits him at the exact same time that his dick gets hard. It's the girl from two weeks ago outside Westlake. The really hot one with the long legs who looked at him like he was dinner.

She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and glances around the bar. When Puck realizes that she's looking for him and is now heading in his direction, he nearly chokes. It's his fuckin' lucky day.

She stops by the edge of their table, the look on her face timid as she says, "I'm so sorry for running into you back there. I'm just really excited and it's been a great day and I'm probably not making very wise decisions."

Puck studies her, letting silence fall between them. Finally, he asks, "What's your name?"

"Rachel," she says shyly.

With his foot, Puck pushes the empty chair across from him back until there's room. "You're welcomed to have a seat, Rachel," he offers with a smile. He feels like he's scored a touchdown when she accepts his offer.

…

By the time Rachel makes back to her building, she's sober. She's also been staring into the eyes of one insanely hot guy who insists that she calls him Puck for the last three hours, so she's horny. Really horny. It takes everything in her to climb out of the cab without inviting him to follow her. If he hadn't been with his friends, she's pretty sure they'd be half-naked against her front door already, but since he's got company and she's been drinking too much to be sure that this is 100% real physical attraction and not something sponsored by Johnny Walker or Jack Daniels, she controls herself. So she won't have sex tonight. It's okay. She's gone without sex for a really long time and it's not like she's really that experienced anyway. She's a sexually liberated woman living in a modern city where hook-ups are as common as sneezing, after all. It's just hard for her to have sex without getting emotionally attached, or worrying that he will get emotionally attached, and then it gets messy and it's just… ugh… it's just better to not go there.

With a guy like Puck (she's going to demand his real name when she texts him in five minutes), her strict rules are challenged.

Rachel kicks off her heels and teeters on unsteady legs as she undoes her bra and slides it out from beneath her shirt. It lands somewhere on the couch as she makes her way toward the fridge, determined to get about 32 ounces of water in her before she lies down. She's going to be hung over at rehearsal tomorrow and now that she's the lead, it's probably not a good idea to demand that she wears sunglasses the whole time, so she needs to mitigate what damage she can.

Her phone beeps from her cavernous Michael Kors bag and Rachel dives for it. There's an unfamiliar number on the screen, but she smiles because she knows who it's from.

[You're probably too drunk to remember, but we've met before tonight.]

Rachel smiles at the phone and drops onto the couch to text him back, curious at what he's getting at.

[We have? Are you sure?]

His response takes long enough to come back that she's starting to get sleepy. She reads it with heavy eyes. [Yup. Well kinda. You watched me play outside Westlake a few weeks ago. Remember?]

Rachel gasps, her eyes wide. She thinks back to that day and remembers the busker with the gravelly voice and overall hotness factor that was off the charts. She grins as she texts him back. [I definitely remember. What's your real name, by the way?]

[Just call me Puck.]

She's too sleepy to argue, so after texting him goodnight, she slides a silk nightgown over her head and crawls into bed. She's still tense from being horny and it takes her a long time to go to sleep.

…

Puck hates wearing dress shirts because they squeeze his neck and makes him feel like he's cutting his own throat. He glares at his reflection in the mirror and fixes the cuffs on his shirt before grabbing his leather jacket and sliding it on. When he looks at his reflection again, he smiles. He's damn good lookin'.

"Hot date?" Sam asks from the kitchen when Puck walks out of his bedroom.

"Yeah. Meeting Rachel for dinner."

"You think you'll actually make it to dinner?"

Puck ignores the knowing look on Sam's face as he pockets his phone and his keys. Sam's actually right. There's a great chance that he and Rachel won't actually make it to dinner at all. It's going to take all his powers not to pick her up and drag her to the bedroom like a caveman when he gets to her place. They've been texting for almost three weeks straight, but they haven't had a chance to see each other again because he's been on mandatory overtime and she's been rehearsing for her musical (which Puck's afraid he's going to have to attend if they keep doing whatever it is they're doing. Don't get him wrong, he loves music and supporting the arts, but musical theater is above his level of toleration.)

"We'll make it to dinner," Puck promises, the lie leaving his lips as he shoots a peace sign at Sam and heads out the door.

The bus ride into Seattle goes fast because he plays Candy Crush on his phone for most of it. He has to transfer once and when he finally gets off the bus for good, he has a three block walk to Rachel's apartment. The monorail rumbles over his head, faces of tourists peering down at him as it wizzes toward the Space Needle about a mile down the road. He finally gets to the address Rachel's given him and stares up at the building. It's an older, brick building sitting at the corner of 5th and Blanchard. There's a small deli and a nail salon on the ground floor and apartments on the other four floors with these tiny little patios, just big enough for two chairs. He wonders if Rachel's apartment has one as he lets himself in the building and climbs up to the fourth floor.

He's a little nervous as he walks down the narrow hall towards 409. When he likes a woman, it's usually on a pretty surface level without much depth. (His three-year relationship with his high school girlfriend, Quinn, is proof of that.) The fact is, though, that he and Rachel have talked about a lot of shit through text messaging in the past three weeks. Yeah, he's tried to sext her a few times, but the responses he got back were so awkward and terrible that he gave up. She clearly wasn't a sexter, even if she did tell him she was into it. (Puck, I find your words quite arousing and I'd be lying if they didn't affect me. I'm not very adept at mastering the sexual arts from a technological standpoint, so you'll have to bear with me.) So after he got past the hope that she was going to tell him that she was getting herself off thinking about him, he actually started learning stuff about her. Cool stuff. Like the fact that she is actually the same age as him and not seventeen, like he thought. And that she has two gay days. (She made clear to point out that they were gay. Considering they weren't living in some weird 80s sitcom like My Two Dads, Puck figured they were probably gay.) She was in her high school show choir and she took them to the state championship. She wanted to be on Broadway and she still wants to, but she knew she'd need some regional theater work to get there and she heard Seattle's was top-notch, which is why she moved here after she graduated from college. She didn't plan on falling in love with the city and now she's not sure she wants to leave. She even shared with him that she had a boyfriend that she thought she'd end up marrying who died right after they graduated, so he knows she's not some little spoiled princess who's never had a tough life. With gay parents and the death of dude she loved, she's actually had a few rough spots. That made it easier for him to tell her about his deadbeat old man, his younger sister who keeps popping out babies and expecting the government to take care of them all, and his ma, who, despite her best efforts, can't stay away from the bottle. He's pretty sure Rachel figured out pretty fast that he'd moved to Seattle because it was as far away as he could possibly get from Ohio without leaving the US.

Puck reminds himself to focus as he approaches the door. He raps his knuckles below the numbers and waits. He doesn't hear anything at first, and then hears a crash, followed by a high-pitched "shit", and then the door opens and Rachel is standing there. She's wearing an off-the-shoulder purple dress that barely covers her ass and shows off her long legs. Her lips are plump and shiny, her collarbone glittery, and Puck has to bite his lip to stop himself from bending down and sinking his teeth into her neck. He just wants to lick that skin and nibble hard enough on her to make her moan and press her hot little body against him.

"Hi, Puck!" She smiles at him and pushes the door open. "Come in!"

Puck slips his hands in his pockets to stop himself from grabbing her as he steps inside. The apartment is tiny. It's one of those studio apartments, but Rachel's looks like something out of a magazine. There's about ten different shades of tan and accents in deep purple. There's a big couch and squashy pillows and, shoved in a corner, a tall bed with a lush mattress. Thick and deep and clearly designed to handle the movements of two bodies rocking together…

"Dammit," Puck mutters to himself. He's got to get his shit together and his mind in the game. Focusing on Rachel, he smiles, "Your place is nice. You got one of those small patios I saw from downstairs?"

Rachel grins and grabs his hand, dragging him across the room (so, like, 15 feet) to throw open the windows that are actually patio doors. She's definitely got a small balcony, but since it's a corner apartment, she has a pretty cool view of the monorail tracks. He steps outside and braces his hands on the rail. "You ever hang out here?"

Rachel shakes her head. "Not really. I'm usually not home until very late. Not a lot of chances to sit back and enjoy the scenery."

"Damn. It's nice out here. I'd probably sleep out here if I could. I love cool nights."

Rachel rewards him with a smile that makes him a little weak. She's got one of those smiles that shoots rainbows and shit. It takes her pretty face and turns it vibrant. Fuck, she's beautiful.

"So…" Rachel begins, and then trails off.

Puck turns around and leans against the railing, crossing his arms over his chest. "So?"

"So…" Rachel bites her lip and looks away. "I feel weird with you standing here instead of texting you."

"You want me to go into the bathroom and you shoot me a text?" Puck offers helpfully.

Rachel laughs and elbows him. "No, that's okay. It's just… we've already talked about so much. What if we run out of conversation over dinner?"

Puck lifts a brow. "You really think that'll happen?"

Rachel's laughter tells him all he needs to know as she locks her arm in his and pulls him back inside. With one longing glance toward her bed, he lets her lead him out of the apartment. He guesses they really are going to dinner, after all.

…

Rachel can't believe she's had such a good time tonight. She's used to dating Boeing engineers or Amazon software engineers, so her night out with an Alaskan Airlines airplane mechanic is something different. Certainly not ordinary. Puck is one of those cocky, handsome guys who can be charming, and, when he lets his guard down, pretty deep, and Rachel feels like she's on a roller coaster of surprises. For example, he was in the Air Force for four years after high school, which is where he learned his current trade. In all of their texting conversations, he'd never mentioned that. Now Rachel can't get the image of him in a uniform out of her head. It's actually a little distracting.

After they eat, Puck reaches out and takes her hand while they walk. It's a lovely summer night with the sun still high in the sky even though it's almost 8pm. They're not even really walking anywhere in particular. They just walk for a few blocks, turn, then walk some more. When she hears music, Rachel realizes that they're approaching the spot where she'd first seen Puck performing. He drops her hand, which makes her frown until he slips his arm across her shoulders instead. They stop and watch a thin woman play the saxophone. There aren't a lot of people paying her much attention. Rachel cringes when the woman hits an off note, but she notices that Puck digs into his wallet. He lets go of Rachel long enough to toss a five into the woman's case before he has his arm around her again and they're walking away.

"She wasn't very good," Rachel says, a little curious how he'll take her blatant honesty.

"No, she wasn't," Puck agrees, "but her arrangement was amazing. She took a pretty typical song and turned it sideways basically, and that shit takes talent."

"Why do you busk? You clearly make enough money doing what you do. Is it the thrill?"

"Partly," Puck tells her. "But mainly, it's just the music. I can play guitar for myself all day, but it's like I'm only at my best when I have people watching. It's kind of that thing where your parents tell you you're good at shit and you start believing them and then one day, you do that same shit in front of someone who isn't your parent and they laugh their asses off at you. I guess it's the need to validate that I can actually sing and write music and play guitar if I really want to, ya know?"

Rachel nods excitedly. "I know all too well. I was an eager, driven child—"

"No, shit, really?" Puck interrupts, his lips curled into a grin.

Rachel rolls her eyes at him. "Anyway, I sometimes was just so exuberant that people stopped paying attention to my talent." She pauses and cocks her head. "Okay, maybe more than sometimes. I was way too pushy and bossy and I made a lot of enemies. Instead of building other people up, I was out to tear them down if they stood in my way."

"Hold up," Puck asks. "Are you saying you're not that way now? Because I distinctly remember some shit about ovarian polyps…"

"If you'd let me finish, what I was going to say is that I can still be that way, but I'm aware of it now. I really still need that validation myself sometimes… that validation that the voice in my head isn't the only one telling me that I'm talented at what I do. So I get it… I think it's really awesome that you come out here and perform for strangers. Do you make a lot of money?"

"I can. Sometimes I do."

"What do you do with it? You're not exactly broke, you know."

They stop at an intersection and wait for the light to let them cross. She looks up at Puck while she waits for his answer and she notices that his cheeks are a little pink.

"Sometimes I donate it to our beer fund and… uh… there's this homeless shelter three blocks from my house and they seem to need a lot of shit so… sometimes they get it."

Rachel's pretty sure her heart exploded and then knitted itself back together, all in about a second flat. She can feel her breath catch in her throat as she blinks up at him. Talented and socially-minded? Oh, and hot? She just might be developing a crush.

…

After skipping drinks because Rachel doesn't want a repeat of a few weeks ago, they stop for dessert and then head back to her apartment. She's nervous because she doesn't know what she wants to do. She's so aware of his body as they walk. He has his jacket hooked over his shoulder, so she sees his muscles bunch against his dress shirt, stretching the fabric tightly across in places. When he excused himself earlier to run to the restroom, she'd appreciatively watched him walk away. A tight behind with strong thighs. And, based on what she observed as he walked toward her, a nice package rounds out the…well… the whole package. Yum.

Rachel would be lying to herself if pretended that she didn't want to sleep with him. Her body is keenly aware of the solid strength of his next to hers. Her nipples have been hard for at least the last two hours, and she's not even going to let herself think about the fact that she's wet. She can feel her body burning for his, and she can tell by the looks he's given her all night that if she invited him to stay, he wouldn't say no. She wants him in her bed, but if past history serves any lessons at all, she knows it'll only end in disaster. There will be sex, and it won't be nearly as good as she thinks it'll be, and then things will get awkward until they just stop talking. It's happened before, and even though she's pretty convinced that she likes Puck more than she liked other guys before him, she's afraid history will repeat itself.

When they get back to her apartment building, Puck pauses outside the door. Rachel knows he's waiting for her to call the shots, which she appreciates.

She places her hands on his chest. (Oh, my god, he's so solid!) "Tell me your first name?"

He stares down at her for a second, his gaze unreadable. His hazel eyes almost look green, his gaze concentrated only on her face. He's looking at her in a way that makes her pulse falter. He slowly licks his lips, and Rachel's eyes trace the tip of his tongue. Her heart picks up as she leans into him, ready for the kiss she absolutely, one thousand percent knows is coming.

"Noah." He tells her softly.

Rachel blinks. "Noah? Your name is Noah?"

Puck nods. "Yeah, although my Ma is the only person on the planet that calls me that. My boss even calls me Puck."

"Noah." Rachel tries out. "Noah… I like it."

One side of his mouth hitches up. "Figured you would."

They stare at each other for a few more seconds. People are passing them on the sidewalk while they just stand there, their eyes on each other.

"Fuck," Puck finally mutters. "Can I kiss you?"

Rachel nods eagerly. "I'd love it if you would."

When their lips meet, Rachel knows she's a goner. His arms snake around her and then she's pulled against his very solid front. His muscles are hard. Well, all of him is hard, she can feel. His kiss is firm, his lips so hot as they slide away from her mouth and along her jaw. Rachel tilts her head to give him free reign, her eyes fluttering closed. He flicks his tongue against her earlobe before pressing a kiss against the side of throat. Then his lips are on hers again, his tongue finally entering her mouth. He knows exactly how to kiss like this, Rachel realizes. His tongue plays with hers, taunting her until she's chasing his with hers, and then she's moaning and he's picking her up to hold her more tightly against him.

Oh. My. God.

When they break apart, Rachel is wet and aching. She has her legs wound around his thighs and his large hand is now cupping her bottom. She wants to press herself against him and move, just a little bit, because the friction would be delicious.

"Damn," Puck murmurs. His eyes have a hazy, unfocused look to them, making Rachel proud because she knows she did that to him. "I knew it'd be like that."

Rachel smiles, a shiver running through her. "I did, too… which is why I'm not inviting you upstairs."

He looks a little surprised.

"I'm sorry, it's just that I really like you and I don't want it to just turn—"

She stops talking when he puts his hand over her mouth. He's smiling, though. "You don't have to give me a laundry list of reasons why you don't want to have sex with me tonight, Rach. I get it. Despite the fact that I'm hard as hell, I get it. I'm cool with it."

"You are?"

"This is the 21st century, baby," Puck tells her. "No means no. Can I walk you to your door, at least?"

Rachel nods, reaching to take his hand. She knows now that she's on dangerous ground with this man. She hasn't actually been looking for a man because she has zero time in her life for a relationship, but she told herself months ago that if she did make time in her life for a man, he would be handsome, friendly, funny, gorgeous, and obviously have a heart for the people around him. She's pretty sure Puck could be that guy.

The second and final part coming very! Thanks for reading!