They don't sleep together.

They have sex. A lot of sex, and he isn't deluding himself about what that means. But it doesn't matter which of their houses they're in, which of their beds (if they're in a bed at all), they always fall asleep separately, alone. Puck in his bed, Rachel in hers. Actually sleeping together wasn't a part of their arrangement; Puck thinks it probably crosses the imaginary boundaries Rachel has set for this thing they're doing, and he isn't going to be the one who brings it up, especially not when she's slipping her dress over her head to go home.

He thinks it might make him look like he wants her more than she wants him.

(He does.)

It only bothers him because he's totally into middle of the night, half-asleep sex. You know, when you fall asleep with a chick, and sometime before dawn, you wake up just enough for that slow, lazy, quiet sex that's like, weirdly satisfying.

He's resigned himself to not having that with Rachel, but it's probably better that way. The more time they spend together with clothes on...

It's just better that they don't.

He's working shipment at Sheets 'n Things two days a week, plus a couple of regular shifts, which means that he goes in at seven a.m. to unload the truck and is done by eleven. It's cool, because it's easy and he doesn't have to deal with customers or wear a stupid apron, but it sucks a little, because, you know, seven a.m. He isn't letting it cramp his style though; he does what he has to do, and most afternoons he heads home to crash for a couple of hours before he finds something better to do with his time. (Like Rachel.)

Today the shipment was light, so Mr. Schue's ex tells him and Tommy, the other guy who works these mornings with him, to cut out as soon as they're finished with the promise to fuck the computerized payroll system and pay them for the full shift, and Puck's totally taking advantage of that shit. He hits the drive-thru at Starbucks and gets an iced black coffee and and an iced soy chai latte thing and drives over to Rachel's. Her dads are as devoted to their schedules as Rachel always was to hers (at least now Puck knows where she gets it), so they're always, always out of the house by 8:10 on weekday mornings. He'll wake her up and convince her to let him get her off (see, he's not totally selfish), then he can go home and nap until Abby nags him out of bed.

The street she lives on is sort of narrow, and the guy across the way has parked both of his cars on the street to mow the lawn without getting grass all over them, so Puck pulls into the driveway behind Rachel's little silver car instead of at the curb like usual. He knows that they leave the back door unlocked habitually, so he lets himself in the gate and walks around the side of the house with both of their drinks in one hand, thinking, not for the first time, how ridiculous it is that they're obsessed with locking the front door when they never bother with the back one.

He can hear the shower running when he gets to the top of the stairs, and he's disappointed that he won't get to wake her up for a split second. Then he thinks about Rachel being naked in that shower, her hands gliding over that tight little body covered in soap suds, hair slicked back against her head.

He's totally getting in that shower with her.

She's singing quietly, that fucking Ke$ha song that's all over the radio that he knows she hates, but also kind of loves a little bit, and it makes him grin as he puts the cups on her desk, toes off his shoes, and steps through the open bathroom door. He's half-hard just thinking about her in there, water streaming over her naked body...fuck, she's hot.

And loud, which he's reminded of when he pulls back the curtain and she let's out a fucking ear-splitting scream.

"Fuck, Rach!" he cries, putting his hands over his ears as her voice echoes off the tiles. He isn't just exaggerating: That shit hurts. "It's me, it's me!"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she demands, throwing her yellow body pouf at him. It smells like citrus, lemon or grapefruit or something, and leaves a wet, sudsy spot on the front of his shirt before falling to the bathmat. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" She looks furious, one hand pressed over her heart on her bare chest.

"No!" he insists, trying to keep his eyes on her face. It's fucking difficult since she's, you know, naked. He decides to take a chance and pulls his shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor. "I just wanted to see you."

She huffs out a breath, but her gaze drop down to his stomach and he knows he has her. He watches her eyes as he unbuckles his belt and steps out of his pants and boxers, sees her swallow when she sees that he's half-hard for her. She says his name when he steps over the edge of the tub, wraps her hand around his length and begins stroking as he tugs the curtain closed again before turning to kiss her hard, his tongue moving against hers, tasting her immediately instead of easing into it the way she usually likes.

Her heart is beating fast when she feels his fingers teasing between her legs, and while it was because he scared her, now it's because she wants him. She wants to be angry - she is angry - she will be angry later - but right now she just wants him to stop teasing and make her come like she knows he can. So she tells him, murmuring it against his ear, letting her teeth graze the lobe because she knows it'll make him do what she wants. He brings one of her legs up, wrapping his arm around it to keep it at his hip when he slips into her her, and she lets out a breath because no matter how many times they do this, it always feels so good when he's finally inside her.

"Fuck, baby."

Something about this is ridiculously fucking hot, and it isn't just because Rachel likes her water almost scalding. He feels like he's going to come basically the minute he's inside her, and if they hadn't done this before, he'd be embarrassed by how quick he knows it's going to be, and even so, he'll make sure she goes first and hard to make up for it. He's got her pressed against the wall, supporting most of her weight (as if she's heavy) with his body, and her head is tipped back, her lips parted so she makes these little noises that make him half-crazy. He slips his hand between them, rubbing his thumb against her nerves and gritting his teeth when she comes around him because he's just realized that he isn't wearing a condom, and he's pretty sure she'll lose her fucking mind if he comes inside her.

Even though she's resting her forehead against his shoulder and breathing hard, her hand comes down to wrap around him when he pulls out, and she only strokes twice before he's coming hard on her thigh, the water sluicing over their bodies washing away the stickiness before either of them is really aware of it.

"Oh my god," she breathes against his neck. She's shivering, but she's not sure if it's because the water has cooled to lukewarm or because of what they just did. His hands are on her waist when he pulls away; she's glad because she doesn't trust her legs when they feel this rubbery.

"Fuck," he mutters, and she knows that's his way of agreeing with her. She leaves him alone in the shower, telling him that there's a towel on the counter before stepping back into her room, pulling the bathroom door closed behind her. She feels a little muddled as she gets dressed, and it doesn't help when Noah steps out of her bathroom in jeans and nothing else.

"Where's your shirt?"

"Wet," he answers. "Hung it on your towel rack." She nods, looking in the mirror as she smooths moisturizer over her face. He watches her, lets his eyes linger on the flush on her chest when she starts pulling a comb through her hair. She gets that flush whenever she gets worked up. It isn't hot, exactly, but he finds it endearing. (Dangerous thought.) "I got you a latte," he tells her when he sees the drinks sitting there, neglected, on her desk. He'd forgotten about them somewhere between her attempting to burst his eardrums and and fucking her into the shower tiles.

She smiles at him, just a little, when she takes the cup. "Thank you." Then she turns her back on him again, grabbing a bottle of lotion and sitting on her vanity stool to massage it into her skin.

So maybe she doesn't always feel the need to fill silence with words the way she used to, but this is different. This is her not talking to him. "Are you pissed at me or something?"

"Noah, you just showed up unannounced and nearly scared the life out of me," she tells him flatly, not bothering to look up from her legs. "While I was in the shower."

"I brought you a latte," he points out, then smirks wickedly. "And I made you come."

"What if my fathers had still been home?"

He gives her a look as he drops down to sit on the edge of her bed behind her. "Seriously? You really think I would've fucked you in your shower if your dads were home?" He scoffs when she raises her eyebrows at his reflection in the mirror. "Come on, Rachel. Don't be stupid."

She rolls her eyes when she turns on the stool to face him. "Fine. But we need to set up some rules."

"Rules? We've been doing this for weeks without needing rules."

"Regardless, I think it's time we institute some. Starting with calling ahead before we show up at one another's houses."

Okay, so that one probably makes sense. Her dads keep a super-strict schedule on weekdays, but his mom definitely doesn't, and neither of them is interested in explaining what they are to their parents. He has no idea what she's told her dads about his presence in their house, but his mom has definitely asked about him spending so much time with Rachel. (He told her they were friends and it was none of her business, and she seemed to accept it. He knows she isn't stupid, but she actually trusts him, so whatever.)

He's kind of already accepted that they're going to get caught together by one of their parents (probably his mom) sooner or later, but maybe they can avoid that if they actually check in with each other or whatever.

"Fine," he agrees after he's considered it. "If you want to kill all the spontaneity, it's fine with me."

She scoffs a little, but she's smiling. "You're so full of it."

He leans forward, grabs the edge of her stool and pulls it so her legs are between his thighs. "You like it," he tells her, letting his hands rest on her thighs just below the hem of the denim shorts she's wearing. Her skin is warm and smooth beneath his fingertips and the lotion she put on smells faintly of honey.

"What's your rule?" she asks, trying to ignore how good his hands feel on her skin. The touch isn't sexual, so it shouldn't make her want to close her eyes. Then again, most of Noah's touches are somehow sexual. "I made one, so you should," she tells him when he looks at her strangely.

He shakes his head, looking down at his hands on her legs as he lets his fingertips slip beneath the hem of her shorts. "Rules are for suckers, babe. You come up with 'em, I'll break 'em."

She swallows hard when one of his thumbs grazes the inside of her thigh. "Condoms," she blurts, and the way he looks at her makes her laugh so hard that she covers her mouth. "I'm sorry," she finally manages. "It's just...I'm on the pill, but no birth control is foolproof, and I know that neither of us wants to deal with...that."

She isn't quite meeting his eyes, and he thinks that's bullshit after some of the things they've done, not to mention some of the things he's still planning on doing with her. (To her. Whatever.) She should be able to tell him something like this without being embarrassed or worrying that he's going to be pissed or whatever. He catches her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilts her head up until she's looking at him. "You're right," he tells her softly.

"I usually am," she quips, squealing a little when he snags her around the waist and pulls her onto him. Her wet hair brushes his shoulders as she repositions herself to straddle his thighs. "Incorrigible."

He leans forward to kiss her, because he hasn't done that enough today, tracing the seam of her lips with his tongue and pushing his fingers into the hair at the back of her head to hold her in place, the strands wet and cool against the back of his hand.

Sex with Rachel is fucking amazing. It's only been a few weeks since Sam and Quinn's wedding, but it's already better with her than it's been with anyone before. If he let himself think about it too hard, he'd probably make the connection between the sex and the fact that he's actually sort of into her, but there's no way he's going there. Their arrangement is purely sexual, strictly platonic, and he is not going to fuck with a good thing, so to speak, and risk losing it just because he might have fucking feelings.

He's tried proving himself before. He's tried showing girls that he'd be good for them, that he wants them and they should be with him, and he's not doing it any more. He's done with grand gestures, and he's decided that he's going to take the summer to just enjoy what he has without trying to get more.

And right now he has Rachel's tongue in his mouth, so he should probably stop fucking thinking so hard.

He lies back on the bed, his hands on her shoulders to keep her upright. "Ride me," he says, smirking when her mouth falls open. "C'mon, baby. I just did a bunch of heavy lifting at work," he reminds her. It's a lie, but she doesn't know that. "Y'know you like it."

"I just showered."

"I bet you're already wet." He brushes the side of her breast with his thumb, watches her bite her lip before she pulls away from him to stand and pull her tee shirt over her head. "Fuck yes."

She doesn't think about it too much, really. They see each other a few days a week, either with friends or alone in one of their bedrooms, and while they're generally naked if they're alone, they are still capable of just hanging out. They've been comfortable together for years, and while Rachel had initially worried that they would lose that if they slept together, the opposite has been true. She'd feared awkwardness, but there's an ease to their interactions that wasn't there before. (She's entertained the idea that any discomfort between them before was due to sexual tension, but she pushed that thought aside before she could think about it too seriously.)

And really, she's having too much fun to worry about it.

Most of their friends don't know what's going on, and she's completely surprised by it, partially because they aren't deliberately hiding it and partially because Noah isn't the most discreet person in the world, even when he isn't trying to be obvious. They aren't flaunting it, exactly, but they'd agreed that lying about it was silly. Their little group has been incestuous enough over the years that it isn't surprising that she and Noah have finally fallen into bed together. The thing is, no one seems to have noticed what's going on yet. It's only a matter of time before they do, but being in this little bubble of secrecy is oddly appealing.

It's only been a few weeks since she got home, but she keeps having to remind herself that a lazy summer was her idea, that she wanted this, that it isn't boredom, it's just her brain learning what it's like not to be buzzing with schedules and expectations and information. She's keeping up with ballet and her voice lessons to maintain her training, but otherwise she has enormous amounts of free time.

She can't be blamed for thinking that, under this particular set of circumstances, sex is, in fact, a productive use of her time.

When Tina started offering her 'Drunken Arnold Palmers', she should have known better. Sweet tea-flavored vodka is still vodka, and Rachel has always been a lightweight.

They've gathered at Mercedes' place to take advantage of the hot tub before the weather gets too hot to enjoy it. Sam and Quinn are back for the weekend, full of stories about their honeymoon in Maui and moving into their new apartment in Columbus, and everyone but Mike Chang is drunk or on their way. Rachel seems to be leading the pack, something that doesn't happen often. She prefers being tipsy all night to getting properly drunk; she likes to drink slowly and with some sense of restraint, and generally does, but sitting in the hot tub just made her so thirsty.

She's sitting between Noah and Kurt, and there are so many of them in the tub that the water is bubbling up nearly to her shoulders. A tiny part of her brain is going through the statistics on bacteria in hot tubs, but the rest of her brain is soaked in vodka and is completely distracted by the way Noah is grazing his fingers over her knee beneath the water. Plus, she's been sharing germs with these people, some more directly than others, for years, so she's just going to keep her mouth shut and have fun, so to speak. She's actually having a very heated discussion with Mike and Kurt about this year's contestants on So You Think You Can Dance.

She pouts when she realizes that her cup is empty, leans her head against Noah's shoulder and asks him if he'll get her a refill. He laughs, his hand sliding to the inside of her thigh beneath the bubbling water, and asks her if she thinks she should slow down.

It pisses her off instantly.

She glares at him for a moment before hoisting herself up and out of the water, grabbing one of the towels stacked in the wicker basket off to the side and wrapping it around her waist before stalking into the house and stomping across the kitchen to the makeshift bar set-up on the counter. She hears the sliding glass door open as she pulls the pitcher of lemonade from the fridge, and even though she knows it's Noah, she refuses to acknowledge him, focusing instead on pouring a measure of liquor into her cup.

"That's a fuckton of vodka, Rach," he says evenly. He's just leaning lazily against the counter beside her, his wet board shorts dripping on the tiles as he watches her. The jerk.

She screws the cap onto the bottle and puts it back with the others on the counter. "Despite what you may think, I don't believe I have had enough tonight."

"If you drink all that, you're gonna throw up." His voice is flat, and he holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender when she glares at him. "Fuck, do whatever you want. Drink yourself sick. Just don't expect me to hold your hair or take care of you tomorrow."

She rolls her eyes, topping off her cup with lemonade and taking a pointed sip. It's a little (a lot) strong, but there's absolutely no way she'll admit that to him. "You're an ass."

"Yup," he agrees easily. "But I thought that maybe you'd let me take you home and fuck you from behind if you were just a little drunk." She looks at him with wide eyes; she cannot believe he just said that to her. "But I won't get to do that if you're totally wasted."

Her drink is suddenly far less appealing, so she sits it on the counter and turns to face him. "The girls are all staying here tonight," she tells him quietly, reaching out to trace her finger along the skin just above the waistband of his shorts. She's thinking about what he said he wants to do to her. It's the one position she hasn't agreed to yet, not because she thinks it's degrading, but because she gets the strangest feeling, irrationally, she's sure, that he's going to say something offensive to her if she does agree. She has no reason to think that, but she does, even if she won't admit the reason for her hesitance to him. Or maybe it's just because she's never let anyone else hae her that way.

God, she's drunk.

He shifts, resting his hands flat on the counter on either side of her hips, boxing her in. "That sucks." Her hands are on his hips, and her fingernails dig into his skin a little when he whispers a significantly more explicit suggestion against her ear. She can feel him smirking against her throat when she gasps, and the towel around her waist falls to her feet before she's even realized that he's touching it. Suddenly, she's very aware that the blue bikini she's wearing is quite small, and Noah's fingers are teasing at the strings holding the bottoms together at her hip as his lips slide across her collarbone, his teeth just grazing the skin.

She starts when the sliding glass door opens again. "Whoa," Mercedes draws out as Noah takes a step back. "Did I interrupt something?"

Rachel presses her lips together and looks up at Noah. "Just reminding Rach that drinking herself to a blackout probably isn't a good idea," he says easily. It isn't exactly a lie. "I gotta piss," he announces, and she drops her eyes to the floor as he turns and walks away.

The kitchen is cool, but even though her skin is damp and the air conditioner is running, she's feeling a little overheated. She lifts her cup to take a gulp, nose wrinkling when she's reminded just how much vodka she poured. "Do you want some of this?" she asks Mercedes, not looking at her friend. "I made it way too strong."

"Rachel, what the hell was that?" Mercedes asks, and Rachel finally dares to look over at her friend, standing just inside the doorway with a towel wrapped around her body under her arms. "You and Puck?" The tone of her voice isn't judgmental, but Rachel isn't sure what to call it.

She reaches for another plastic cup (They're yellow instead of the more traditional and readily available red or blue, so she knows Kurt is responsible for their presence.), pouring half of her own drink into it even though Mercedes never responded. "We were just talking," she answers, topping off both of the cups with lemonade.

"You can't lie worth a damn, girl," Mercedes says flatly, crossing the room to stand at the counter. She takes the cup Rachel offers and sips. "His lips were on your neck."

Rachel corrects the girl mentally, because his lips were actually on her collarbone, but manages to keep her thoughts to herself. "It's really nothing, Mercedes." She realizes, much too late, that her towel is still in a pile on the floor and kneels to grab it, wrapping it back around her waist. She knows she look guilty, even though she doesn't think she has a reason to be.

"Are you guys...dating?"

"No!" she answers quickly. "We're just friends."

Mercedes smiles over the rim of her cup, and there's something wicked in her dark eyes. "With benefits?"

She doesn't want to laugh, but she can't help it. They couldn't expect to make it the entire summer without their friends figuring out what they were doing, and she's drunk enough at the moment not to care even a little bit. Somehow it makes sense that they were caught in a near-compromising position rather than just telling everyone. "Something like that."

"Is he as good as he says he is?"

She bites her lip as she considers the question. She isn't the most experienced girl around, having been with only three men, but she isn't a blushing virgin either, and Noah is certainly the best she's had. In the last few weeks, they've done things she hadn't even considered before, and he's drawn reactions from her body she didn't know she was capable of. "A good girl never kisses and tells, Mercedes," she finally says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Mercedes snorts and shakes her head. "If you're having sex with Puck, there's no way you're a good girl," she says pointedly before dissolving into giggles.

Puck thinks he might miss the way things were before Mercedes caught him trying to untie Rachel's swimsuit bottoms in her kitchen. He'd spent the rest of the evening not touching Rachel while their friends gossiped and watched them. (Okay, maybe there was a little touching under the water, but nothing serious and no one noticed.) It's not that he's shy, because he's totally not, but he sort of likes that what they have is a little bit private. At least, it was. At one point, Kurt had followed him into the house when he'd gone to get another beer, fishing for details he'd insisted would stay "just between the guys." (Since Puck has known Kurt for years and, you know, isn't a moron, he'd kept his mouth shut. If Rachel wants to give details, it's her business, but he isn't going to talk about her like that.)

He knows Rachel was a little uncomfortable with the attention they were getting. Even after their little "encounter" in the kitchen (And he's pretty sure that before Mercedes came in, he'd convinced Rachel to give him what he wants.), she'd continued to drink pretty heavily, and he'll be surprised if he finds out that she didn't get sick after he left with Finn, Artie, and Mike. He's pretty sure that Kurt and Mercedes' insistent, if drunken, questioning and Quinn's knowing looks had a lot to do with it.

He wakes up a little before eleven on Saturday, or rather, is woken up when Abby pounds on the door (bless the deadbolt he installed), yelling something about his "lazy butt." He ignores her, even if he does get up, sending Rachel a text (Sup, lush?) before going to shower.

Dying. Unless you have something helpful to say, I'm ignoring you.

All right, so he told her that he wasn't going to take care of her when she was hungover, but he's been there enough times that he figures he can do her a solid and at least take her some Gatorade, so he gets dressed and stops by 7-11 on his way to her house. Her dad opens the door when Puck rings the bell, tells him to go on up. Puck's pretty sure the dude grins when he sees the sports drink in his hand, so he figures her dads must know what she was up to the night before, and it's cool that they aren't all worked up about it.

He doesn't bother knocking on her closed door, just walks in. The room is dark, the shutters on her windows closed tight, and completely silent, which he's pretty sure he's never seen. There's always music playing or the TV is on or she's babbling about something, and it almost weirds him out until she makes this completely pitiful noise from where she's curled up on her bed, facing the doorway with her eyes closed. She isn't under the covers, just has her feet tucked under the quilt folded at the foot of the bed.

"Did you puke?" he asks, grinning when she makes the noise again. "You totally puked."

She opens her eyes just a crack, and it's hilarious that she manages to glare at him like that. "Stop," she groans. "I didn't. I think I'd feel better if I did."

He sits on the edge of her bed. "Stick your fingers down your throat," he suggests, shrugging when she glares again. "If it'll make you feel better." He wouldn't do it, but he's not a chick.

She pushes herself up so she's sitting back against the pillows. "You know how they tell you to put your foot on the floor if you lie down and the room starts spinning?" He nods. That shit works. "It doesn't work if you're already lying on the floor."

He snickers, remembering that she stayed the night at Mercedes' place, and hands her the Gatorade after twisting the cap open for her. She accepts it with quiet thanks. "You've been hungover before."

"Not like this." She's taking tiny, slow sips from the bottle.

"You know what you need?" She raises her eyebrows. "French fries. I mean, you really need a cheeseburger, but you're all vegetarian and shit, so fries'll have to work."

"Noah-"

He stands and shakes his head. "Nope, no arguing. Ass out of bed, let's go."

He ignores her protests about her stomach and her "not fit for public" t-shirt and half-drags her out to the truck, giving her his aviators when she complains about the sun. (They're way too big for her face and kind of make her look like a bug, and he knows it's fucked that he thinks that's cute.) He takes her to the place she calls "their" drive-in, destroys a double cheeseburger while she picks at an order of fries and keeps sipping Gatorade, and by the time they get back to her house, she admits that she feels better.

They spend the rest of the afternoon in her dark room, watching The Hangover (she says it's appropriate) and making out a little. She tastes like orange, and he realizes that this is the first time in years that they've spent time alone together like this without one of them trying to take it further.

He doesn't hate it, even though he tries not to think about it too much.