They'd only finished half of their school day and Santana had cheerleading practice but fuck, she could care less, because she wasn't about to be seen on the bottom of the pyramid and she sure as hell didn't trust herself to not kick the shit out of Quinn.

Sitting in Puck's car in the driveway of her house just felt comfortable and calm and she was so damn content that she was afraid she'd start crying again if he asked her to get out. But he'd never do that. They'd sat in this same position so many times before, but this particular time felt different. Because they weren't touching, or talking, or even looking at each other. Every breath was careful as if the air around them was fragile.

"Are you gonna tell me what's wrong now?" He asked her quietly, hands in his lap and eyebrow raised. She regretted looking at him as soon as she did, because if there was one thing she couldn't deny it was that he was sexy. Very sexy. And compassionate Puck was her favorite kind of Puck. Mainly because he only showed her that side of him. But looking at him only made her feel sick, because she remembered what happened earlier that day and he still hadn't said anything about her new 'melons.'

"No." She said, crossing her arms over her chest because it's not like he noticed anyway. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Santana.." Puck started, and she knew he was about to get serious because he never used her full name. Just like she never used his. Unless of course they were in bed, caught up in the moment and not realizing what they were saying. "There are two things in my life I never thought I'd see. One of them was me, being a father before my senior year of high school." She winced, because God damn it, that still hurt her so fucking bad and she wished more than anything that he hadn't brought it up. "And the other was you, crying in the middle of a public hallway where anyone and everyone could see you. So please, tell me what happened."

"I'm not head cheerleader anymore." She mumbled, eyes fixed on something outside of the car.

"What?" He asked, because he must have heard her wrong.

Santana sighed, rolling her eyes because it sucked saying it once, but it was gonna be even worse saying it a second time. "I'm not head cheerleader anymore." She repeated, waiting for his reaction. When he didn't say anything, she continued. "Ms. Sylvestre basically told me my self confidence sucks so I'm not a suitable leader anymore. And I got demoted to the bottom of the fucking pyramid."

Puck looked straight ahead, racking his brain for something to say. That was why she was crying? That was something a normal girl would cry over. Not her.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" She asked, her voice cracking, making her fear that she'd start crying again. He had to have something to say to that. Anything. She'd even settle for a simple 'Why?' so that she could at least explain her boob job to him.

"Well.." He started, looking confused. "That's it?"

"What?" Because she was sure that this time she was the one who was mishearing things.

"I said, that's it? I mean, you cried just because you're not head Cheerio anymore?" Now he just looked dumb. And she was pissed. Fuck him. Fuck his charm and his good looks and his ability to make her laugh. Fuck Noah Puckerman.

"Forget it." Santana said with her hand already on the door handle, because it was a waste of time to yell at him and honestly, she felt her eyes welling up for the second time that day. Because he'd never understand what she was feeling and he'd never care.

"What? No, I didn't mean to upset you I was just.." His voice was pleading, the way it was when he'd call her at four in the morning totally wasted, and he'd beg her to come over. And she always would. Thinking about that now made her sick to her stomach, because she was Santana fucking Lopez and nobody took advantage of her like that. How could she keep doing this to herself?

She should've stopped herself the first time he ever asked her to "hook up." She was fourteen, and so was he. She was the pretty cheerleader, he was the hot football player. It just made sense. They made sense. It was awkward the first time. Quick and incredibly painful. But Puck had been her first time. And as far as she knew, she'd been his. So that had to mean something, right?

And he'd been coming back ever since then. Santana wished she could go back to that party and throw her fucking drink in his face instead of throwing herself at him. She wanted to hate him. Wanted to tell herself that no, she didn't need him. But she did.

And because of that, she slammed the door in his face, ignoring his apologies and promises to make it better. Because he couldn't make it better, even if he tried. Not this time.

Thanks so much for the reviews! I've decided to make this into a short story. But I really do mean short. Four chapters at the most. And then I have another Santana/Puck story in mind, so don't fret, loves.