Only You and I, My Love

by noothernames

She is looking back at you and there is no timidity in her eye, no insecurity, just intensity. It catches you by surprise and your breath is trapped in your chest. If the look says anything, it is "I'm the one you've been looking for all this time." AU.

Notes:

AU marriage fic for day 3 of Brittana week. Originally planned as a multi-chap but since I was making little headway with the story I figured I'd post the first chapter as an oneshot. Enjoy.

/ / /

The story of you and her starts off like most stories do.

In midst of utter dissatisfaction.

There's this terrible buzzing.

It stops and you sigh in relief. Thank God for little miracles.

But then it comes back, as though telling you "not so fast, buddy." You groan and turn over in your bed, covering your head with the blanket in an effort to resist the oncoming consciousness. Sleep is your friend because when you're asleep that means you're not awake and you don't have to deal with much more than what your subconscious can think up. But the buzz is insistent, vibrating furiously, like that bee hive you hit with a baseball bat when you were eight because you wanted to see what would happen.

You were a pretty dumb kid.

You apparently haven't learned any better since then because you're once again paying no heed to that violent, warning buzz.

Finally, after you use every trick in the book to try to block out the sound (save the obvious one of actually getting up to investigate, of course), it stops completely. You bask in the wave of silence that washes over you. If there was only some kind of way to bottle the silence and tranquility that comes when you ignore your alarm in the morning, you are sure that you could make millions. Enough to not have to get up in the morning. Except maybe to make breakfast for the hot girls you will have bedded the night before.

And with that thought you come to realise that you are completely awake, despite your efforts.

You groan again and peel the sheets off of yourself, opening your eyes with undue effort. The culprit behind your consciousness lies on your bedside table, taunting you. You pick up the phone and see you have a new voice message. Unsurprisingly, it's from Quinn –the only person who thinks it's socially acceptable to call someone at six in the morning, before their alarm even goes off. You press a button to listen to the thing, although you can already predict what she's going to say.

"Santana, this is your best friend Quinn. That's right, best friend so you'd better listen to me, alright? Do not, and I repeat do not quit your job today-"

You scoff even though no one's there to witness it. Quinn is always trying to tell you what to do. Thank God you aren't dating her anymore. Who knows if you'd be allowed to even choose your own meals?

"I know you think you know better than me, Miss 'Ice cream can be dinner', but you need this job right now. You might hate it, but you know what you'll hate more? Me badgering you day and night while you sleep on my couch because you'll be homeless. Yeah. Not a pretty picture. Keep that in mind when you're filing papers and typing whatever stupid things you have to type. Now I have a class to prepare for so I'm going to go. Later."

Has Quinn always been that nasal or does she just seem extra nasally when she's nagging? But she has a point. You don't want to be living off her measly salary (who decides to teach English as a second language but not take advantage of the opportunity to travel all over the world, anyway? An idiot, that's who.)

So you decide to be an adult about this and not call into work to quit.

Instead, you call in sick –feigning some kind of viral illness.

You think this restraint shows a maturity beyond your years.

With a job well done, you go to the bathroom quickly to relieve yourself and then hop back under the covers to catch a couple more hours of shut-eye. Instead of the rest you were hoping for, you lay there –half-asleep, dreaming of the work day you would be missing.

Your bedroom is converted into a makeshift office –your bed a desk. But everything's terribly disorganized. Your computer lies on your rib cage and there are important memos at your ankles, but you're ruffling them up terribly with all the tossing and turning you're doing. Rob from accounting is trying to chat you up, not noticing (or not caring) that you are in your sleepwear. Meanwhile Mindy is at your other side, asking you to kindly photocopy a dozen things for her. You feel like telling her to photocopy her own damn things because you're under a pile of paperwork here and you're getting more and more urgent emails that you need to respond to and she's just not helping things at all. You're filing and stapling and typing and answering the phone and it's all getting to be so much that you wake up, more tired than ever and stressed out and just plain angry. At the world, or maybe just that bitch Mindy.

This is not the way to start off a day you don't have to work. Quinn would call that karma. And then later she would get mad when she trips over her own feet and you yell out "KARMA!" while laughing uproariously. Man, was that ever a good day.

Today, however, is not.

You confirm that fact when you go to the fridge and only find that sour non-fat Greek yogurt that Quinn had insisted that you would love (You hate it.) Instead of trying to choke it down with the aid of some sugar packets you swiped from a local diner, you decide to just take a nice hot shower. Maybe it'll help you forget about how you hate your job so much that it quite literally haunts you in your dreams.

A step into the room places you in front of the large mirror. There you are –hair slightly stringy and dull, face pale and lifeless.

How very appealing, you look like a junkie.

But in reality the only things you're addicted to are self-loathing and feeling sorry for yourself.

You tear yourself away from the sight and turn on the shower at full blast. Soon enough your clothes are on the floor and you're standing on the spot, shivering. You now avoid the mirror at all costs. The streaming water is hot –too hot. It scalds your skin so you hurriedly fiddle with the faucet. You sigh in relief when the temperature becomes bearable –just right. You make quick work of cleansing yourself, lathering up from head to toe with a bar of soap and then dipping under the water once more. You give your hair a much needed wash. You hang your head under the stream of water long after all the suds have flowed into the drain. The locks of thick, dark hair form a tent around your face, blocking out all the world, save the echo of water drip-drip-dripping and the yellowish tint of the bottom of the shower stall.

Only when the water goes frigid do you get out of the shower. Nothing lasts forever.

You dress and dry your hair. You put the minimum amount of effort into your appearance today. You're not going into work, where your gossipy straight coworkers would judge you for not slapping on several coats of makeup (even though you would still look twice as good as any of them do on their best days). You're not going out today looking to impress a girl that you will date and inevitably grow bored of.

You don't especially know why your heart (your head? Your gut?) is pulling you out of your cozy little apartment today when you could just lie in bed watching TV shows on your laptop all day. It doesn't make sense. But your head or your heart keep tugging and you're feeling a bit restless so why not give in?

/ / /

You meet her in the subway.

It's at that point in the day where the morning rush to work is done and the rush to lunch has not quite started. You're minding your business, sitting on a bench reading a free newspaper that a homeless woman had thrust towards you and you were too polite to say no to. It's full of politics you don't want to get into, sport news you couldn't give a shit about, and the latest on the Kardashian/Hilton/Lohan/whoever the fuck this celebrity is and their newest break up/plastic surgery/public meltdown. The tug brought you down here but you don't know exactly where to go or what to do from here on out. When the train comes you're just going to get on and ride it to the end –get some good people watching done. If you're busy wondering what subject the college kid sitting across from you is studying for then you won't have time to contemplate when exactly you just gave up.

You're getting to the horoscopes when you start to hear the sound of someone taking the stairs down to the station two at a time. You frown. Why bother? It's not like they're going to miss the train –it's not even here yet. Shaking your head in disapproval, you scan your horoscope.

"Try something new today and you will be pleasantly surprised," It reads.

You scoff, fold the newspaper up noisily and toss it to the side. Since when are horoscopes supposed to read like fortune cookies?

The hurried footsteps seem to increase to a barrelling speed. You look up in time to catch the sight of a body bundled up against the cold bursting down the stairs and a thick mane of blonde hair flipping round with the leap. The hair is moved aside and you are encountered with the most gorgeous girl you've seen in a long while. As clichéd as it sounds, the surprise quite literally takes your breath away. In fact, it seems to eradicate all memory of having ever breathed.

She doesn't seem to notice your disconcertion. Rather, she doesn't seem to notice your presence at all. She's jumping up excitedly, looking at her watch and apparently congratulating herself on beating her previous time. Or that's what you're guessing.

After a bit she looks up and spots you sitting alone on the bench. Embarrassed, your eyes make their way back to the newspaper. It's vapid and actually pretty boring for a newspaper that seems to pride itself on its sensationalism, but now you try for all the world to seem engrossed in it. Light steps approach. You furrow your brows and look at the paper critically. The steps go past you. You let out a soft breath. And then the bench gives slightly as the blonde woman sits down on the other side of it.

Before you can stop yourself, you're looking over at her. She smiles this little smile that gives you visions of romantic picnics in the park and then of writhing pleasure in front of a warm fireplace after a night of champagne and flirtation. The thing is –you don't even have a fireplace.

Nervously, you fold (more like scrunch) the newspaper and set it to the side. Then you check your watch. You already know what time it is. Now you're checking your phone. You know you don't have any messages. You just need the pretense. You just need that little bit of technology to separate yourself from the thought of this nameless girl and exactly what you would like to do with her.

Girl. You're so pretty.

Girl. Wanna date me?

Girl. Let me touch you.

Girl. I'm going to dump you.

Because that's your pattern, now isn't it?

Just another reason why you're such a loser.

You type out a text to Quinn to further your act of nonchalance, punching each letter much more forcefully than you need to.

"I haven't quit my job. Feel free to congratulate me with celebratory breadsticks at your convenience."

You send it and sigh. Staring straight ahead, you tuck your phone away and relax.

The train is sure taking its sweet time getting to the station today.

Blonde Girl doesn't seem to mind. You feel her looking at you as though she wants to start up a conversation. But what good would that do? What would a conversation with a woman you're never going to see again do for you? And if you get her number? What then? You go through the routine, day by day until either she dumps you because you forgot that you're supposed to give a shit or you dump her because everything is wrong and she's just reminding you of all the things you can't feel.

Finally, Blonde Girl gives up on striking up a conversation and just stares forward at the spot where sooner or later a train will show up. She lays her hands down on the bench on either side of her. For a second your fingers touch –just the pinkies, really. Hers covers yours as though you're about to make a promise.

It's an accident.

Her hand pulls away and she shoots you a sheepish look before smoothing her hands out on her thighs. It's a good thing too. You don't make childish promises with girls like her. Blonde and pretty, with legs that go on for days, and those blue eyes. How could you trust anyone with eyes that blue? The simple answer is that you can't. Or rather you shouldn't.

When the train comes you let her go in first. You're on the same subway car. You keep to the back and she keeps to the front. You watch station and station go by. You don't remember what the feeling was that brought you here or what was the point of listening to a vague feeling like that in the first place. You're a mess. An absolute mess. The kind you can't clean up with sawdust and a mop, but rather with tears and ripped guts and late night blog posts that are deleted in the morning out of pure shame. And now here you are in the underground, sitting among strangers who couldn't give a shit if you paid them to, contemplating all the self-inflicted shortcomings of your life.

Each stop people get off and your individual issues come on board.

This station brings aboard the mediocre job that you chose in lieu of one that you would actually enjoy.

The next brings the tenuous, strained friendships that you form. You wonder when it will be that Quinn, the one that's been there all along, just gives up on you altogether.

And now your issues with women are brought forward. You can't even think about those. It's too much of a mess.

You must be a masochist. You must be getting some secret kick out of all this because how else are you keeping your life such a mess?

You look up and quite some time must have passed because you don't seem to recognise a single face in the crowd. Or so you think until you see those tempting blue eyes staring a hole into you. Or holes maybe, because she's not focusing on any one part of you. She's taking you all in. Her eyes roam from your shoes up your legs, to your chest, and then finally your face. When she meets your eyes and notices your gaze she seems surprised. She quickly looks away. Your brows draw together in suspicion.

Was she giving you the one-over or did you actually look so pathetic today that it was attracting attention?

But suddenly she is looking back at you and there is no timidity in her eye, no insecurity, just intensity. It catches you by complete surprise and your breath is trapped in your chest. It's hard to describe the look exactly, but if it says anything, it is "I'm the one you've been looking for all this time". The be all and end all.

It's fucking terrifying.

You break the eye contact out of panic. It's all too intimate. Too familiar. You have so many problems in your life –you don't need to add one more to the list.

Your eyes train to the window. The fluorescent lit station starts escaping view as the car moves slowly forward on the track before gaining speed and leaving the station behind completely. As the black upon black of the tunnel fills up your sight, the crowd on the subway platform leaps to your mind –those listless people under the unforgiving glare of artificial light, who seemingly bored into you with their dull eyes. You wonder if you look just like them, staring out of the window passively. Your stomach turns.

Out of your peripherals you see movement, but before you can even move to see, there's a soft thud and someone's sitting next to you. Not just 'someone', really. You know exactly who it is.

"Where are you going?"

She has this lovely, airy voice. Quieter than you expect. She sounds more fragile than you think a confident woman such as she should be. And maybe you're tempted by the mystery of her, maybe you just want to figure her out, but whatever the reason is, you turn, look the blonde in the eye and answer.

"Nowhere."

One word. Short enough to make her lose interest. And a word that would make it seem like you're trying to get rid of her. It was your attempt at an experiment. If she left you alone then you could continue your day, find that the tug was pulling toward your apartment and directing you to start a rom-com marathon. And if she didn't…

Well. You don't know exactly what you'd do.

You see Blondie's eyes shift, wishing she hadn't started talking to you in the first place. She just wanted to be friendly, and here you are being difficult. She's thinking of the places she needs to go today and the things she needs to do. Not one of those things includes trying to force conversation with an unambitious, anti-social loser like you.

"I hear nowhere's a lonely place," she says, giving you a warm smile.

Your stomach suddenly stops churning and just sort of leaps. You don't know how to react so you just make an agreeing sound and try not to look into her eyes. They're your downfall.

But now something's gone wrong and her hand is covering yours protectively. You know you should think she's crazy for being so intimate with a stranger. You should snatch your hand away and get off at the next stop but you don't know that you want to do that. Your head's all muddled right now. You're the one that feels crazy.

"If it's okay, I think I'll go with you," She says now.

You should have eaten this morning. You should have gone to work. You should have listened to Quinn's annoying voice.

But you didn't. And now everything's changed. You're nodding, agreeing to go nowhere with beautiful strangers in a subway car that is caked with mud leftover from melted snow.

The car's slowing down, coming to a stop. She gets up, your hands still connected. When you don't rise she tugs at your hand insistently. Hurriedly, you rush to obey her and you follow her out of the car, onto the platform. And somehow, under that dismal lighting, she shines like the sun. You've lived a life of artificiality and here this girl is, genuine and unsynthesized.

"Come on," she says, tugging at your hand once more.

The action made you realise that it was the same. The tug that started your day off and the tug at your hands were one and the same. Your throat's suddenly dry –you swallow thickly before licking your lips and trying some words out.

"What's your name?"

She pauses in her movement towards the stairs. She seems delighted at the question. Or perhaps she's just happy that you're using more than one word this time.

"Brittany –my name's Brittany."

She lifts an eyebrow and gives you a pointed look.

"Santana," you say, feeling that old self-consciousness over your name that you thought you left behind years ago.

But she doesn't ask if you're related to Carlos or say "that's an interesting name" or ask you why in the world your parents named you that, as so many people have asked you before (yet another reason why you loathe your job –the name tag). She just lets the word sink in.

"Santana…" She says slowly, as though she is savouring your name.

Finally she grips your hand a little tighter and starts leading you towards the stairs again.

"You hungry?" she asks.

Your painfully honest stomach grumbles loudly.

/ / /

You got off the subway downtown. She ends up leading you to this small little diner that you've never seen before. You order Belgian waffles and nearly die when you take the first bite. They are the best thing you've tasted in a while. They put your mediocre attempts at making breakfast to shame. She orders a fruit salad and devours it all, save for the sliced bananas in it. She pushes these to the side of the bowl with a look of distaste. Without thinking, you file this information away in the folders of your mind, as though it would be useful one day.

You never really know, do you?

When the bill comes you reach for your wallet, but before you can even open it, Brittany slaps down some money and pays for both of your meals. You try to convince her that you can pay for yourself, but she's already standing up and ushering you out of the restaurant, saying something along the lines of "You can pay next time."

You don't let other people pay for you. Ever. You may be poor, but you've always paid for your own way. But there is something in the way that Brittany insists on paying, as though she really wants to do it without any ulterior motives, that makes you want to relax your grip on that rule of yours.

You walk through the city, hand in hand still, peering into store windows and casually entering if anything catches your eye. Brittany doesn't care who exactly sees you two holding hands and what they might think of it. Whether you are passing teenage girls or rough looking men on the street, her grip never falters, nor does her radiant smile leave her face. You couldn't say the same for yourself, unfortunately.

You've always worried too much about what others thought of you. Even now, when you're a fully grown adult who came out years ago.

She can feel you tense up at times. Not just from worrying about attracting attention, but from the sudden realisation that happens upon you –that you are holding hands and playing at a date with an absolute stranger. The realisation lights the fuse to a bomb made of anxiety that explodes in your chest. The carnage is unreal.

She stops you on the sidewalk in front of a record store. She's in front of you, grasping you by the shoulders lightly. Her eyebrows are drawn together and instead of looking her right in the eyes, you focus on the little puffs of air she's exhaling out of that tempting mouth.

You're incorrigible.

She's touching your face now, making you look her in the eye –whether you like it or not. Her fingers are soft and familiar.

"Relax," she directs you, firmly.

And then she tips your chin up and kisses you.

You chose to press pause on your life today and now you're being kissed like you've never been kissed before.

Effortlessly and precisely, Brittany has infiltrated your body, diffused the bomb in your chest and made off with it, leaving only a rapidly beating heart in her wake.

A woman brushes past you roughly, holding her toddler close to her body possessively. You break apart and breathe in new air. You look at Brittany hazily, letting a contented look grace your countenance. She has a similar look on her face.

And then you think.

That's it.

She's ruined you.

There's no going back now.

You kiss her this time. Nothing's changed. Everything is about you and her and the melding of lips, tongues, breath.

You slowly pull apart from her and Brittany looks at you proudly. She sees that you now realise what she's known all along. You've realised that she's not a stranger –not at all. Every cell, every atom of your body was made with her in mind. Your body has ever been waiting for her arrival. Ever waiting for that magic moment when you let yourself be drawn skin to skin in glorious union.

It's bliss.

And as her fingers entwine in yours you think –you wouldn't have it any other way.

/ / /

She shows you all the parts of the city that you never knew existed. You spend the better part of the morning in an old two-storey bookstore. It's a hidden treasure, housing rows upon rows of tomes. The owner, an older man with wire-rimmed glasses, greets the pair of you with warm eyes when you enter. It makes you feel like you're visiting an eccentric grandparent who's devoted his life to his bibliophilic tendencies and is now sharing his life's works with you.

You sit in the cosy armchairs set at the end of the aisles and pore over leather-bound classics, reading your favourite bits aloud to Brittany. Despite the fact that she brought you here in the first place, Brittany seems more interested in the two long-haired cats that the owner lets run free in the store. But when she bores of them she goes to the shelves –choosing a book, opening it up, and then, just as quickly, closing it and returning it to its home. She goes through this process many times, never sparing more than a momentary glance before rejecting a title. Once in a while she tucks a book under her arm instead of setting it back onto the shelf.

You watch her overtop of your book, curious. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to her choosing one book over another but apparently she has a process because soon she has a whole pile of books. Once satisfied, she makes her way over to you, nearly toppling over a couple times from the weight and awkwardness of her cargo. She sets the books down besides the chair and sits in your lap.

A prick of fear stings at you. You think of the store owner –of how soon that kind smile might get wiped off his face if he came across you like this. Perhaps he would look upon you like your grandmother, your abuelita that you loved so dearly, did when you told her what you really were. You see her now –her eyes crinkled with disgust, her face grossly distorted by the volume of her hate. He would likely say the same words, the ones that reverberate in your mind sometimes when you're trying to sleep at night.

"Get out."

Your disconcertion is momentary –a reflex you can't seem to shake –and it is erased completely when Brittany settles more into you and flips open the cover of the first book to show you just what she had been searching for.

"Look," she says.

On one page you see the book's title –"Nicholas Nickleby" –but on the opposite page you're greeted by some kind of insignia. You look closer and find what looks like a school's crest. Underneath words are hand-written "To Jonathan Hardwicke for another exceptional year of service." The headmaster's name followed, as well as the date.

"1910 –wow."

Nodding, Brittany grabs the next book and opens it up. This one's the collected love poems of Pablo Neruda. "To my queen," the note, written in a messy scrawl, reads "You know I'm not good with my words. Somehow I've seemed to fumble my way into your heart. Sometimes I don't think that the simple 'I love yous' that I plan on telling you every day for the rest of my life are enough. So I'll give you this book, with hopes that it can go some ways in explaining why there will never be anyone but you. Love always, your Matthew."

If the first note piques your curiosity, then the second one brings upon you an obsession. This time it was you reaching for the next book. You two go through the pile, taking turns reading the notes aloud to each other. There are the simple ones "Hope you enjoy the book!" and there are elaborate ones that take up two pages.

Brittany is still in your lap –you don't leave this intimate position even when you head the tinkle of the front door's bell, announcing a new customer. Perhaps four or five people come through and not one person bats an eye, seeing you two. In fact, a couple of them smiled or paid you a congenial "hello." It gives you a sort of confidence that hangs in the center of your chest and lets you pull Brittany a little closer.

Maybe Brittany can feel your sudden certainty because she turns her head to look at you and says something entirely unexpected.

"Do you think we'll ever have memories like this?"

A jolt goes through you. "You and I?" you clarify.

She nods. "Yeah, us. Together. These people seem so happy and in love. Do you think we'll have that?"

It's absurd and much too soon to be talking about the future. Normally you'd be already out the door, running as far away from this conversation as possible. But here, with Brittany, the air is different and that instinct never kicks in. You look in her eyes and see that she doesn't seem apprehensive so much as curious.

"Yes," the word drops out of your mouth before you can think about what it means. "Yes, I do."

Satisfied, she goes to the next book and you feel this unbridled happiness fill your body.

You really can't remember the last time you felt this happy.

Maybe when you were in college, studying criminal justice. But that was a lifetime ago and look at where it got you.

When you run out of things to look at, she gets up out of your lap and tugs at your hand. You remove yourself from the chair and follow her through the store, towards the exit. But just before you leave, you think of something.

"Don't you want to go say goodbye to the cats?" You stall.

It does the trick –Brittany seems gobsmacked by her own thoughtlessness. She runs off to find the cats. You return to the book pile and grab one of the novels. Hurriedly you go to the store keeper and hand him the title and a twenty. You look over your shoulder at where you assume Brittany is and then look back to the older man, placing your index finger over your lips in a bid for secrecy. Catching on, the man winks conspiratorially at you and hands you your change. The book gets tucked into your coat just in time. Brittany comes by and hooks her arm in yours.

"You're not going to say goodbye to them too?"

You smile and shake your head.

"I don't really like cats. If I had to work as an animal protection officer or a vet or something like that I'd be miserable," You reply.

But how is that any different from your current job? Brittany furrows her brow at your words.

"Well if this thing's going to work you're going to have to learn to like them."

She's very serious when delivering that statement. It's so absolutely charming that you think of the great number of things you'd be willing to learn to like in order to be with her.

Jicama: done.

Lesbian colonies: you're feeling rather colonial anyway.

Higher taxes: why not?

Tempeh: sure thing.

Two and a Half Men (sans Ashton Kutcher): Well, let's not get too ahead of ourselves.

"That shouldn't be a problem," you tell her.

She seems pleased by this. You wave goodbye to the storekeeper and step back out into the world. You browse a couple more shops that hold nothing much of interest. You go into a store that sells expensive, incredibly specific kitchen accessories. Brittany informs you that all she really wants in this world is a wire cupcake tree and hints strongly that it would make a great Christmas present. You ask her if she really makes cupcakes that often but she says no because apparently when she does make them her cat ends up eating everything.

"But even if I won't use it often, I still like it. I like the idea of having a whole tree of things I love," she explains while glancing at a spice set with interest.

Normally sappy nonsense talk like this irritates you. So does people buying shit they don't need. But when it's Brittany saying these things, it doesn't feel schmaltzy, it's genuine. For that matter, you don't think she really wants that tree –she'd rather have the things she loves.

"That would be nice, wouldn't it?"

Setting down the bottle of saffron that probably costs more than your jacket, Brittany faces you with a whimsical look.

"If I could, I would have a tree full of cats. Full of Lord Tubbingtons, even," she announces. Then she furrows her brow. "Except the cats probably wouldn't like being up there and the firefighters wouldn't like having to get them down. But still –a whole tree of something would be awesome."

Now it's past two and your and Brittany's stomachs quickly remind you of the fact that you haven't eaten in a while. You grab a bench in a nearby park while the other girl is getting a couple of hotdogs from a food cart. You fish out the book you had purchased earlier that day and open it up. It's the Neruda book, and Matthew's scrawl leaps out of the page at you. She seemed to like this one the best, so it seemed like the obvious choice. Taking out a pen from your pocket, you flip to the back cover. You don't want to infringe on Matthew's space, after all. It would feel wrong.

You think for a few moments, pondering over different wordings. But, conscious of the fact that Brittany would be returning at any moment, you finally commit something to the yellowed paper.

Whether it's years or a single day, I want it to be just you and I. Sólo tú y yo, amor mío.

Hesitating slightly, you sign it with "Yours, Santana." You snap the book shut and press it against your chest. Your heart's beating fast now.

You never used to write notes in your textbooks. It always seemed like a crime to you. People already leave enough marks in books by creasing the spine, smudging ink with sweaty hands, and dog earing pages. You never saw the need to further mark your books with highlighters or pens, like some violent indication of possession. You didn't write your name in them because that would be the confession, the admission that yes, you were the one to wear and tear this thing you loved down.

You were never good at admitting your faults.

"What's that?" Someone says behind you.

You start and nearly drop the book to the wet ground. You manage to grab it in time, but not soon enough to hide it from Brittany, who is now before you, holding two tin-foil wrapped hotdogs in one hand, with two cans of coke held to her body with the other arm. You sigh, caught. After freeing up Brittany's hands, you show her what you bought her. She is impressed.

"When I went to go see the cats?"

You nod.

"I just thought you'd like it. You paid for breakfast and now lunch, so I wanted to get you something," You shrug.

"They're just a couple of hotdogs, you didn't have to get me anything."

You shrug again, letting yourself get distracted by some ducks floating in a distant pond. Until, that is, you feel the press of Brittany's lips on yours. Then you get distracted by the taste of her mouth and the thump in your chest. When she pulls away, the brisk cold sinks around your lips and your instincts scream for you to seek out the warmth again and never let go. What a beautiful world that would be, if you could suspend all else in favour of kissing Brittany endlessly.

"But thank you," she murmurs. "I love it."

She opens the cover and rereads Matthew's note. Then she explores the actual poems, flipping through the pages curiously. She doesn't go to the back cover to see if there is another note there, and you don't point it out to her. You just kiss her cheek chastely before starting your lunch. Soon she closes the book, puts it into her bag, and joins you. When you're both done she laughs and wipes the mustard off of your cheek, she calls you messy. You take turns pointing out your favourite ducks in the pond.

The daily trudge you usually have to force yourself to go through turns into a smooth waltz.

Maybe you're fooling yourself into thinking that every day could be like this. Maybe you're just a fool.

But for whatever reason, the next stop on your shop tour is a jewelry store that neither of you have stepped into before. It's your idea. You're surrounded by necklaces, bracelets, and rings that you could never afford with your current salary. The last time you were in a store like this, you asked to see something pricey and elaborate. The memory feels like a knot of cement sitting in the pit of your stomach. Some people would call it guilt. But you have no time for that today. Ignoring the feeling, you ask to look at simple wedding bands. The clerk beckons you to a display. Brittany's giving you a look like she's trying to figure out your plan. You smile and tilt your head slightly, as if to say it's not all that serious. You're just looking. Just looking.

The display holds a number of rings with solitaire settings, but Brittany isn't drawn to the diamonds. Instead she is intent upon the gemless gold and platinum bands to the side. She points out a pair to the clerk.

"Can we try those?"

He nods, unlocks the case, and places the rings on the counter. She lifts your left hand up and places the ring on your finger. The cool metal slides down loosely. It's a little too big. But it doesn't burn your skin like you thought it might. It feels just fine. Keeping eye contact with Brittany, you mirror her action and slide the other ring onto her finger.

As you look into her assured eyes, no panic sets in. No fight or flight instinct.

Just a type of yearning.

"We'll-"

"-take them," Brittany finishes for you, squeezing your hand a bit.

And with that, it's done. The clerk measures your ring sizes and sets your new rings into two boxes. You each pay for one and then you leave the store. The whole trip takes maybe half an hour.

A heaviness sets in.

You catch Brittany patting the coat pocket where she put the ring box with a thoughtful look on her face.

"What's on your mind?" You say.

Her hand drops from the pocket, down to her side, and you think she looks nervous. No, you correct yourself, not nervous, but something like unsure. You grasp both of her hands in your own. They're already cold, even though you've only been outside for about ten minutes.

"I didn't tell you before," she starts, her hands twitch slightly under yours before relaxing. "Even though I've been showing you all of my favourite places here, I'm kind of new to the city."

You're taken aback. You've lived in this city for ages and you didn't realise that half of the places she showed you today existed. You settled on knowing your apartment complex, Quinn's, your workplace, and a handful of others (a coffee shop, a bar, your dentist's office) without feeling the need to explore. You go from place to place out of necessity, back and forth, here and there as though you are being guided by the tracks beneath your feet, unable to break free. What a sad existence.

"And so… I don't know where it is that we need to go. Santana, do you know where we are going?"

The real questions she's asking don't come from her lips, but they hang in the air between you and her.

What's your plan?

What are we doing?

You've got the rings, now what are you going to do with them?

You know exactly what you're going to do. The plan was fuzzy in your head at first, but it was there the moment you decided to walk into that jewellery store. Maybe even before that. Maybe it was the plan the first moment you looked into those crystal blue eyes.

You might not have known where the city's best diner was. Or where you could find an amazing bookstore that houses more treasures than you could know, plus two affable Persian cats. But you know where this next place is. You thought about bringing another girl there once. It had just been a thought that you never set into motion.

Now here Brittany is and you have no hesitation.

You lean into her and kiss her cheek, then her lips softly. You retreat and she's not looking so unsure anymore. You take the ring out of your pocket and slip it back onto Brittany's hand.

"Do you feel like staying with me for a while?" You ask her.

It's not especially romantic. You don't get down on one knee. You don't tell her you love her. You don't even say "Do you feel like staying with me for the rest of your life?" you just say "for a while", as though that's what a girl wants to hear. So you're surprised when you see Brittany nodding.

"Yeah," she smiles. "Yeah, let's do that."

/ / /

You go to city hall. You say your vows, kiss to seal your promises to each other, and sign papers.

It's official.

You go out to dinner and this time you pay. You bring her to your favourite restaurant, a small, intimate place that has a little bit of everything on the menu. She delights in the stuffed portabella mushrooms she orders and brazenly declares this to be her favourite restaurant now too. She makes you laugh. You both talk for a while. She brushes the length of your forearm with the tips of her fingers casually, as though she doesn't notice she's doing it. The meal takes twice as long as it would normally because you can hardly keep your eyes off of each other. If only Quinn could see you now, out at dinner with breadsticks you have no intention of eating on the table, she'd think you had a stroke or something.

You tell Brittany this and she laughingly asks you if you have a breadstick obsession or something. You deny the charge vehemently but she obviously doesn't believe you because when the waiter comes back with a takeout container of her leftovers she piles the breadsticks into it with a conspiratorial wink to you. You probably shouldn't feel as charmed by the action as you are.

In fact, you shouldn't be charmed at all. You should be racking your brain, trying to remember if you know how marriage annulments work. You should be telling yourself that you met someone pretty and let yourself get carried away by false feelings. You should be snapping some sense into yourself.

But you're sick and tired of listening to what you should do. What has should ever done for you? You should have gone to work this morning but instead you met a beautiful, kind girl and for once had a day worth remembering.

You walk hand in hand with her towards the subway. When you're about halfway down the stairs to the station the train arrives and Brittany races you down the stairs. You make it into the car just in time, the both of you breathless and somehow still laughing. You have the car to yourselves. Brittany lets you sink your head into her shoulder. She kisses the top of your head and wraps an arm around you. It's comforting. Soon your stop is called and you stand up, tugging Brittany along out onto the platform.

She seems to be yielding to your decision, so you guide her toward your apartment rather than having her guide you to hers.

She hums happily when she enters your apartment. You suddenly are immersed in self-consciousness over the scarcely decorated, slightly messy place that you've deemed decent enough to live in.

"I know it's not the nicest place, but-"

"I love it," she interrupts you, confidently.

Her jacket comes off and now she's looking around for a place to put it. You take it from her hands and hang it on the coat rack to the side, along with your own jacket. Cheeks pink from the cold, she turns to you and serves you up another one of those gorgeous smiles. You smile back, though yours is smaller. It feels strange, having her be in a space that's so familiar –so intimately yours. Before this you were in places that were hers, or shared grounds. But now you are stepping out of that comfortable world, where work does not exist and you buy strange girls books of love poems, into your day-to-day life that is altogether different. It's a bit intimidating to say the least.

"Make yourself at home," you blurt out.

It feels like such a contrived social nicety that you're half-expecting Brittany to change her mind and leave right here and now. She doesn't.

"Can I put this in your fridge?" She asks, holding the takeout box up.

"Oh, I can take that."

You take it from her and go into the darkened kitchen. Opening the fridge door, you put the box right next to the Greek yogurt that you have no intention upon ever eating. As you're placing it, you catch sight of your wedding band, the fridge's yellow light glinting off of the gold. The enormity of the day settles in you heavily. When you return to Brittany you must look unsettled because she asks if you're all right.

That's quite the question. You are and you aren't. Then you aren't and you are. The feelings ebb and flow in you, never quite making up their minds.

The only thing that makes its way out of your mouth is "You are my wife." You know you shouldn't sound surprised because who the hell bought her a ring and took her to city hall in the first place? But you can't help but feel a bit stunned.

Brittany bridges the gap between you, pressing herself flush against your body. She kisses you firmly, without any room for misunderstanding about exactly how she feels about the fact.

"You're my wife."

The brush of air from the words whispers over your parted lips.

"That's what I said."

"No, you said that I was your wife. I'm saying that you're my wife."

Another determined kiss. You feel a bit delirious.

"You're my wife and I don't regret a thing. I don't," she tells you.

Kisses migrate to your jawline, then to your neck. When you feel the swipe of a tongue you groan. A well of desire springs up, filling your body head to toe. Your body responds to hers. She knows just how to touch you to make your knees weak.

Somehow you're able to make your way into the bedroom.

Clothes are shed –peeled off to reveal the truth of you and her. She is on top of you, showing you with the stroke of a finger, the flick of a tongue, that there are no secrets. There are no mysteries to your body that she can't solve. There is no sound that she can't wrench from your body, no pleasure that she can't draw out. She knows every step to necessary to elicit the desired reaction. She could probably write a book on it.

You try to keep up, you do, but she takes that option out of your hands when she takes you into hers and brings you to your breaking point –and then once more to make sure you really are broken.

Afterwards you lay before her, utterly dismantled, and she couldn't look happier. She rests on her side and gazes upon you with great satisfaction.

"I'm so happy," she whispers.

With those words, need fills you up again and your body quickly reassembles itself. Brittany giggles when you press her onto her back and make your way down between her thighs.

You never really dreamed of your wedding night –even when it became a distinct possibility –you told yourself that sex was just sex, it could be good or bad, but in the end all it was all just sex. But as you taste Brittany for the first time and feel her hand clench in your hair you think that this is exactly how you would have wanted it to be.

When your bodies are both sated you lie back and she settles into your side. Normally this would be the point where you subtly move out of her reach and hopes that she isn't still in your bed in the morning but you can only bring yourself to kiss the top of her head and entangle yourself in her.

Tomorrow would bring reality, but for now you have blissful rest.