Blood pounds in his head like music, thrumming against his eardrums, deafening. She gives him that look, the one that used to say 'bleachers, third period' and Puck would be excited, because that meant they were going to make out, and no one would see and no one would talk and they could be alone and just be. Even just for a little while.
But the look means something different altogether now, and he's begun to dread it. Her eyes are duller, like Beth's taken some life out of her, which wouldn't be entirely surprising. Regardless of how vibrant she looks, her beauty hasn't faded, hasn't worn or aged. She still looks exactly the same as she did the first day, minus the flowing blonde hair and the stretch marks on her stomach, constantly hidden by floral dresses or pastel cardigans.
The look means something else, and he knows she wants to talk. About what, he doesn't know, but then again, he doesn't care. Her voice is always soft, gentle, even when she's angry. There's a little nasal quality to it, an imperfection, but it makes her seem more real, more beautiful.
She's waiting for him on the bleachers, and briefly he thinks about the first time he kisses her as he approaches. How soft her lips were, how tentative she moved against him. How he could feel her heart jack hammering like a rabbit's against his own chest, thudding nails into the wall of his ribcage.
She looks up and smiles at him, and he feels a wave of something resembling home as he sits and takes her hand. They haven't done this in forever; sat and just talked, but she lays her head on his shoulder just the same and asks him if he misses it.
He asks, "What?" Even though he knows full well what she means, and the look she gives him, expectant and almost disappointed, cuts into him.
"You never fooled me," she tells him idly, but doesn't say anything more.
Her lips still taste the same, like strawberry lip gloss and sunshine, still just as soft, still moving just as tentatively. But her heart is different, it isn't so afraid anymore, not quite so anxious. It's dull thrum against his own brings comfort, and when she brings her shaky hands to his hair, he almost feels like crying because for a moment—even just for a moment—it's like the first time. The first time, when all he was worried about was getting caught and getting punched in the face by Finn, even though he deserved it.
She pulls away slightly, resting her forehead against his. Gently, almost like she's afraid she'll break him.
"I don't miss it, you know." he tells her, and she looks so hurt for a moment, so fragile, like she's plummeting to the earth.
But then he kisses her again, and without words, he tells her he can't miss something that never left.