This isn't like you. This isn't like you at all. You don't get nervous about women. You haven't in more than a decade. And yet, here you are. You're like your sixteen-year old self, standing in front of the mirror, trying to put on your makeup, and you're sure you're about three seconds from pulling a Bozo the clown, because your hands are sort of shaking. You can't understand this. You can't understand Brittany Pierce at all.

No. That's a lie. You can understand Brittany Pierce perfectly. She's beautiful. Those blue eyes drew you in, the instant you looked into them. They stopped your ranting dead in its tracks. They're so expressive, and you think, you think maybe she has to communicate more with them than other people, so they've adapted to reveal the entire universe in a single glance. She's sweet. Had anyone else handed you a drugstore packet of tissues to dab at the large coffee spill that dripped down the front of your clothing, you'd have tossed them back in their face and lashed them for their insincerity. But that's the thing. She isn't insincere. She's a little fumbling. She's a lot adorable. She's completely not your type, and what you don't understand is the way your stomach flips at the thought of a woman you spent less than a half hour with.

You're not sure if this is a date. You're not even sure if Brittany is interested in women. But the way your body sparked when she took your hand and (pretended?) to check it for burns, you sure hope it is, you sure hope she is. Whether it's a date or not, you've put a lot of thought into the evening. You've put a lot of thought into the evening, and not in the way you usually would. You'd spent yesterday afternoon scouring reviews on OpenTable, and not for somewhere that you could wow her with your impeccable taste in wine. You sought a place she could feel comfortable. You sought a place that wasn't too dark, because you wanted her to be able to read your lips without having to struggle. You sought a place that wasn't too loud, because you wanted to hear her voice. You love her voice already, though you can tell she's self-conscious about it. You love it, and you're so wholly impressed with the way she speaks. You love the way your name rolls off her tongue, unfamiliar to her, a little different than how other people say it, but perfect, nonetheless. After narrowing your list of places down, you ended up throwing it all away. You changed your mind. Instead of your usual, you decided you wanted to find somewhere you could sit outside. You'd seen her hesitance about bringing Otis into the bakery. You understood that, and the back of your neck burned a little in shame, thinking of the time you'd muttered under your breath about dogs in restaurants. You understood that, and you didn't want her to feel uncomfortable on this date—or, this not date, whichever—not in the slightest.

You'd found a restaurant with outside tables, you'd found a restaurant that wasn't too romantic, but yet wasn't too friendly either, and you'd made a reservation for two. You'd called ahead, you'd told them about Otis. You didn't want Brittany to have a problem. You don't want her to do that thing she'd done a few times two days earlier, where she looks down in shame because she's embarrassed of who she is. (You hate that. She shouldn't have to feel shame, she should never have to feel shame. You think she's brave and strong. You think you couldn't go through the world and be successful like she is, even if you only had to go five minutes without your hearing.) You'd sent Brittany a text message with a smiley face (who are you? You're not sure) and asked her to meet you there tonight at eight. Your stomach flipped again when she'd replied OK! Great! OK. Exclamation point. Great. Exclamation point. Something's wrong with you, you're sure, with these reactions you're having to punctuation. Something's wrong with you, and you sort of think that you don't want whatever it is to go away.

It's not like you, but you leave an hour early to get to dinner. You don't want her to have to wait. On the way, you debate stopping for flowers. But you're still unsure if it's a date (maybe she's just really enthusiastic about having dinner with a friend, what with those exclamation points and all) and you're positive you don't want to come on too strong. Instead, when you walk past a pet store, you pop inside, and you end up with a plastic bag filled with odd shaped treats for Otis. You're not even sure he's allowed to have them, you're pretty positive you've heard that service animals aren't treated like pets, but— you can't believe you're even thinking this— you really want him to like you. A dog. You want a dog to like you. No. You want her dog to like you. You're quite possibly losing your mind.

When you arrive at the restaurant, you wave off the maitre'd's offer to seat you while you wait for your dinner companion. You want to wait for Brittany at the entrance. You don't want her to have trouble finding you. But you also don't want her to think you think she can't. Because you know she can, it's just— you want this all to be perfect. Especially if it's a date. No, actually, not even especially if it's a date. You want it to be perfect no matter what. There's just something about her. She's under your skin already, you haven't stopped thinking about her for thirty-six hours, and even if it's not a date, even if she's totally not at all into women, or, just not into you, you still want it to be a perfect night. You want it to be perfect, so you wait on the bench outside. You wait, and you check your emails, and you feel your heart race and your hands grow clammier by the minute.

"Hi, Santana." You hear from above you. You hear that way she says your name, the way you want her to say over and over again, and your eyes snap up, just as she's pulling her headphones out of her ears and tucking them back into her purse.

While you take her in, you need to remind yourself to breathe. There aren't even appropriate adjectives to describe her, you're positive about that. Radiant, maybe, is as close as you can come. But even that doesn't do her justice. She's in a deep blue dress that stops mid-thigh, and you notice how she fidgets a little with it, her fingers trying not to tug at the ends. She smiles a little, before wringing her hands. She's nervous, though not as nervous as you, you don't think, and you smile in return, watching the tips of her ears turn red.

"Hi." You stand up to greet her, your heels bringing you almost to her eye level. "You look really nice."

"Thank you, Santana." She says your name again, and you shift your eyes around, thinking maybe those butterflies burst free of your stomach and are flying around above your heads. "So do you."

"Thanks." You look away for a moment, a little shy, and then you look to Otis, who seems to be regarding you carefully. You hold out your hand, but then your eyes snap back to Brittany, asking her permission to touch him. Her eyes crinkle as she nods her consent, and you pat Otis's head, scratching behind one of his floppy ears, continuing to look at Brittany, so she can see your words. "Hey Otis, thanks for coming to dinner with me. It's pretty nice out tonight, I thought you might want to sit outside."

"That sounds really good." She speaks for both of them, and you're met with this unexplainable surge of affection for her.

The maitre'd leads you over to your table, surprisingly intimate, considering you're dining al fresco, and you thank him when he pulls out the chairs for you and for Brittany. Otis lies at her feet, his head up and alert, and she pats him to settle him down. You're taken by it, you can't explain it, but something about the whole thing just, it gets you, and you can't stop staring.

"I'm sorry, he's just a little on edge tonight."

"Don't be sorry." You shake your head. "I hope it's not because of me."

"No, no, not at all." She promises. "I think he's just picking up that I'm, I'm kind of nervous. I'm sorry, I'm not supposed to say that, am I? It's just, I've never been on a date. I mean, I don't mean this is a date. Or, I don't know if I mean this is a date. Oh God."

"Hey, Brittany." You tap the back of her hand when she buries her face in it, and then repeat your words again when she pulls them back and is able to see you. "It's alright, I'm a little nervous too."

"But why? You're beautiful." She blurts, and before she can cover her face again, you hold out your hand to her, letting her take it, if she's comfortable enough to do it.

"Brittany. So are you." You tell her, and you hope she can see that your words are soft, meant only for her.

"But I'm—"

"A little awkward? Very likely to spill coffee on strangers?" You tease, not wanting her to ever think her deafness is some kind of reason you wouldn't want to be on a date with her. "I think I can work with that. I'd really like this to be a date tonight, but, if you'd rather it just be dinner between friends, I'm okay with that too."

"I think—" Brittany hesitates, but her hand is still on yours, warm, soft, absolutely perfect. "I think I'd really like to be on a date with you, Santana."

"Well then, Brittany." A smile spreads across your face, and the butterflies calm, before starting up again, stronger than ever. "I think we should make the most of your very first date."

You think that had you met anyone else who was twenty-nine years old and had never been on a date, you would have been wholly freaked out, you might have been an awful human being and fled the restaurant. But not with Brittany. You're enchanted by her. She makes it clear she doesn't want to be pitied, and she gives you no reason to pity her. She's brave, she's strong, she's passionate. You can feel it all in the way she tells you about her life, the way she shows you her paintings that she's snapshotted with her phone. The paintings, they're more vibrant than anything you've ever seen, and you see the pride in her eyes when you express your appreciation for them.

She listens—or, perhaps you need to find a different word, you're not sure— intently when you tell her about your radio show, about how people call you up for love advice, and you've been responsible for three weddings, all of which you've attended. You tell her about your childhood in Queens, how your mom raised you alone, working three jobs, so you could have all the opportunities that she didn't. She asks you if you sound like Fran Drescher, because she remembers that voice, and after you tell her "less nasal, more Puerto Rican," you both laugh until your stomachs hurt.

When you show her the treats you brought for Otis, your heart is in your throat with the way she looks at you. You can't really describe it— you can't describe anything about Brittany, really, she's so much bigger than words— but you're sure no one has ever looked at you quite that way. She lets you feed him under the table, just one, because he's on a pretty strict diet, but then he looks at you too, and you think maybe that crazy you were feeling earlier could actually be what heaven feels like.

You finish a bottle of wine, and you order dessert to share. A passion fruit cheesecake that Brittany makes the cutest sounds over, sounds that cause you to push more in her direction, because anyone enjoying something that much deserves to have more. She tries to fight you for the check, but she's not as fast as you, slipping your credit card into the leather wallet and passing it off to your server without missing a beat. She pouts a little, and you just can't help but bat your eyelashes, telling her if she wants to pay, then she'll have to take you on a second date.

"Can I walk you home?" You ask, when you finally, reluctantly stand up. You don't want this date to end just yet, and, even more so, you feel really protective of her, no matter how safe the neighborhood is. It's late, and you want to see her safely to her door, her and Otis.

"You don't have to. But—" She purses her lips. "If you want to, I'd like that a lot."

It's not a long walk, but once Brittany slips her hand into yours, her fingers finding their home in the spaces between yours, you slow your pace, wanting it to last forever. You can't really talk and walk, because it's nearly impossible for her to look at you then, but that's okay, you don't even need words to fill the comfortable silence between the two of you. It's the best date you've ever been on, you're sure of it, and you're even more sure that Brittany Pierce is the most interesting person you've ever met. As much as you've learned about her, you find yourself wanting to know more, more, more, and you sigh a little, hoping that she feels as eager for another date as you do. This isn't you, not at all, but strangely, you're completely okay with that.

"This is where I live." She tells you when you reach a brick townhouse with big bay windows, windows you immediately picture her sitting in and painting. Without dropping your hand, she turns so she's facing you, so she can see you, and Otis lies down on the sidewalk, giving you two a moment, apparently. "Thank you for dinner, Santana."

"Thank you for having it with me, Brittany." Your lips twitch, when you watch her eyes glance down to yours.

You want to kiss her, you want to kiss her so badly, you want to feel those gorgeous lips, the ones that speak your name like you've never heard it before moving against yours, but you won't. You're not sure if anyone's ever kissed her before— though you don't know. Just because she's never been on a date before doesn't mean— your thoughts are cut off when she reaches up, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear. Your senses are filled with her, she's everywhere. She's under your skin. She's in your veins. She's just, something, something else. Her eyes flicker back to yours from where they'd trained on your lips, and you see the universe again, burning bright, bright, trapped in blue.

"Hi." You whisper, the fingers of your free hand flexing at the side of your body. You've never felt like this. You're always full of bravado, but now, now you're just, so captivated that you can't even think straight.

"Hey." She speaks back, and you think maybe, maybe, she's smirking at you. "Is it okay if I…"

"It's okay if you…"

And she does. Oh, she does. She leans in, slowly, a little unsure, very, very nervous, but before you know it, her lips are pressing against yours. It's soft, it's quick, it leaves you wanting more, so much more, for the rest of eternity, but oh, it's perfect. Her nose brushes against yours when she pulls away, and her tiny sigh, different than her cheesecake sighs, and so, so much better, makes goosebumps rise on your flesh.

"Goodnight, Santana." She murmurs, sucking her lips into her mouth.

"Goodnight, Brittany. Goodnight Otis."