Fuschia. The fuschia motorcycle jacket first caught her eye, then the motorcycle did. But when the blonde's appraising eye caught, Santana averted hers. Trouble. Obviously the girl was trouble.
She had 4.7 minutes to make it to Contracts. She tucked her chin on her books and increased her speed.
"Hey," said the girl as she passed, "you have 4.3 minutes to get to Contracts. I can get you there in 1."
Trouble, nothing but trouble.
She'd noticed the girl before, noticing her. Startled at first, later creeped out a bit, but nothing had happened, so she'd simply pretended not to notice. This was the first time she'd spoken.
"Or you could skip it and have coffee with me. I'm Brittany," said Brittany, holding out her hand.
Santana couldn't help herself. A tiny smile sneaked out.
"Um, I— can't. I don't miss classes. I'm Santana." They shook hands.
"You have 2.7 minutes now. Can I give you a ride on my bike?" Brittany handed her a helmet, and before she could give it back, Brittany was straddling the bike, a grin creasing her face.
Santana's skirt was going to be… interesting once she got on the bike. Trouble. So much trouble.
Santana surrendered to necessity, and necessity involved full contact, her hands on Brittany's belly, and straddling a motorcycle seat. Suddenly Spring in New York was hotter than usual.
They arrived with 1.2 minutes to go. Brittany turned and her eyes met Santana's. Santana forgot to hear anything but her heart's insistent whisper. Brittany helped her off the bike, her glance lighting on Santana's lips, then on her eyes, which, truth be told, had lit on hers.
"How about that coffee?"
40 seconds.
Santana bit her lips. "Come back at three." She fled.