Thursday evening when Puck drops her off at her place (after notifying the doorman of the situation and talking with the staff security guard at her building), Puck does a quick sweep of her apartment "just to be sure." Rachel tries not to smile. He's actually not so bad when he's not being arrogant. Unfortunately, that's not very much of the time. Once he's satisfied and sure there's no one in her apartment (the thought scares her momentarily before she realizes there's really no way one could have gotten in; and yes, she's just going to keep believing that to maintain her sanity) he heads to the door and she follows behind him, one hand tucked into the back pocket of her jeans.

She laughs when she tells him to bring his suit tomorrow so he can change after her matinee. She hears him groan and mumble something about 'this stupid event'.

She locks the door behind him and turns on the television to catch up on her favourite show on her DVR. She quickly changes into her pajamas and pours herself a glass of wine, sitting down to watch Dr. Sam Bennett give the diagnosis of the week. Taye Diggs is one of the only people she's ever been starstruck in front of, which is kind of ridiculous, since Idina is practically her mentor. But she's always had a bit of a crush on him, since she first saw him in Rent on Broadway. Seeing him on television every week is lovely.

The apartment is quiet, and she can hear the city below her, buzzing with activity even at this hour.

But it's times like these she realizes how lonely she is.

She never used to be. She's always been independent and self-sufficient, and she's never needed anyone to sit with or sleep next to or talk to about her day. She doesn't need it. She just wants it. She's creeping up on 30 (or steamrolling, as it feels since she turned 28 a couple months ago) and her longest relationship was with a former costar. It ended badly and she doesn't miss him, but she misses the little things about being in a relationship. Coming home to someone, or having someone to eat meals with.

Maybe that's why, despite his complete lack of tact and manners, she actually enjoyed those couple hours of downtime with Noah today. He's quite funny when he chooses to speak polysyllabically, and when he laughs, she can't help but smile along with him.

The credits roll on her show and she turns off the television, checks the locks on the door (she may be just a little more rattled than she was letting on) and heads to bed. It's very, very strange, but she wonders if Noah has a significant other. She doesn't know why she's thinking about it. She chalks it up to spending most of her time the last few days with him.

... ... ...

He's pacing outside her apartment door wearing his stupid suit (he knows he looks awesome, but whatever; he resents having to wear a fucking suit) as he waits for her to be ready. He's been pacing for an hour and she still hasn't come out yet. He checks his watch for what feels like the 400th time, groans, and knocks at the door again.

"Rachel, c'mon. How the hell long does it take to put on a damn dress?" he asks. He's pretty sure this is what it's like to have a girlfriend (waiting, waiting, waiting), and it just reminds him that he's not interested in that shit.

There's no sound from inside, so he's sure she's still in her bedroom or something, which is just annoying as fuck. He knows there's a limo waiting for them downstairs, and she seems to be taking her sweetass time. And he swears, if this is about shoes or her fucking hair or not being able to decide which damn earrings to wear, he's gonna punch something.

The door opens a crack and he hears her tell him to come in. "Fucking finally," he mumbles as he steps into the apartment.

He doesn't really mean to stare at her. Really.

It's just that she's wearing this short little red strapless dress, and her legs (and the rest of her) look hot as fuck, and honestly, if he weren't working, he'd be hitting her with his best stuff and trying to get her to agree to let him strip her down.

Holy shit.

She's so gorgeous.

"I'm almost ready," she says, fastening her necklace.

"Leave it off," he says before he can stop himself.

She stops what she's doing and looks at him. "Pardon me?"

"The necklace." He points to the silver (or probably platinum or whatever, knowing her) necklace in her hands. "Don't wear it."

"Why not?" she asks, putting her hand on her hip. What on earth does this man know about fashion? Granted, he looks amazing in his suit and she thinks it might be a Hugo Boss or something, but that's not the point. There's no way he knows anything about accessorizing women's dresses.

(She realizes that maybe he doesn't know anything about fashion, but she's getting the impression he knows about women in general. That thought shouldn't send a jolt down her spine.)

"Looks better without," he says, shrugging his shoulder. He checks the time, but she doesn't buy the aloof act. She stares at him expectantly until he's looking at her again. He rolls his eyes. "Look, you've got a really nice upper body. Great collarbone, and your neck is..." (Hot as fuck.) "Really nice," he repeats. "The necklace is distracting. Just trust me. Now come on. Fuck. You're gonna be late for your lameass song and dance party or whatever the fuck this thing is."

She grabs her clutch purse and hopes he doesn't notice that she's blushing. He complimented her neck. She shouldn't be wondering what else he happens to think is 'nice' about her. She's losing her mind.

"Your language is appalling," she states authoritatively as she walks past him towards the door.

"Yeah, well, I don't get paid enough to clean that shit up. Move your ass, Berry."

... ... ...

Turns out this lameass song and dance party? Pretty much exactly what he expected. The cause is good, fundraising to keep music programs in schools, but if you ask him it's just a bunch of dicks with money who want the other dicks with money to see them at this event.

So whatever.

It's not exactly easy to keep his eye on Rachel, since there seems to be a ridiculous amount of people here. It's pretty stupid, actually. If he didn't know any better, he'd think she was trying to lose him or something. She's like, the life of the party. Everyone seems to want to talk to her, so she's moving around the room a lot and being pulled in a million different directions.

He sees Mike walk into the room, and he juts his chin subtly in the guy's direction. He feels a little better knowing there's someone else there looking out for her, and he knows (saw the seating chart) that Mike is sitting next to Rachel. Puck sees one of the other guys who works for his agency standing across the room, so they acknowledge one another subtly, like the guys always do for some reason.

When he goes back to watching Rachel, he sees her take a sip of her champagne, run her fingertips lightly over the front of her neck for some reason, and he decides that getting paid to watch this woman really isn't the worst thing in the world.

... ... ...

Sunday, she's singing at Yankee Stadium, and it takes her two hours and a very long phone call with her friend and unofficial stylish, Kurt, to figure out what she's supposed to wear. She decides on a pair of (ridiculously expensive, but perfectly fitting) jeans, black leather boots, and a white tee shirt with a navy tank top beneath. She's idly singing along with the top 40 radio station as she putters around, tidying up the kitchen, when there's a knock at the door. She checks the time and notes that it must be Noah, since he's finally understanding that she likes him to be at least 15 minutes earlier than any of her itineraries state.

She's actually surprised Noah hasn't commented on this being the only thing about her week he can even tolerate. Men like baseball, don't they? It's clear he's not a fan of the theater, and any conversation she's attempted to start about it has earned her an incredulous look or a roll of the eyes. She's learned that it's best to just not try to talk to him about that kind of thing.

But sports, that should excite him, shouldn't it? And she's going to be on the field, so he'll have to be close by, probably closer to the players than he's ever been. Would it kill him to show some enthusiasm?

And why has she spent the last 20 minutes thinking about this?

"Hi," she says happily. She's read that the energy you show people is the energy you get back.

Apparently that rule doesn't apply to Noah, because he grunts, nods at her, and practically taps his foot as he waits for her to grab her bag and walk towards the door. She shouldn't be annoyed. It's just that, the way she sees it, they've spent the better part of a week together and they've got two more to go, and there's no reason they can't be civilized. Yes, they've had their moments when they've actually spoken and gotten along, but does this have to be strictly a business arrangement? Don't other 'celebrities' (she uses the word cautiously) converse with their body guards? Those Gossip Girl kids are always joking with theirs (she's seen them on set). Certainly Noah could at least try to engage in conversation and be polite.

Once they're inside the town car that's taking them to the stadium Rachel glances at Noah, who has his head tipped back against the seat and his eyes closed.

"Tired?" she asks.

He opens one eye and turns his head to look at her. "Your life is exhausting," he admits. She laughs quietly, raises her brow and nods her head. "You're a busy girl."

She doesn't think anyone's referred to her as a 'girl' in at least five years. She finds she quite likes it. And for some reason she can hear his voice in her head, calling her his girl, which is just ridiculous and irrational.

"Are you excited for the game, at least?" she asks, hoping to pull him into the conversation using sports. "You must be a fan."

"Sure," he says, shrugging his shoulder. "More of an Indians fan, though."

For a moment she thinks he's complaining, but then she realizes he's just sharing a detail about himself, so she refrains from rolling her eyes at him.

"Are you from Ohio?" she asks curiously.

"Yup. Outside Cleveland."

"I'm from Ohio, too!"

She thinks she sounds far too excited, and when she turns in her seat her knee brushes against his. He gives her this little look, and she's not really sure what that means, but she likes the way his lips are curved upward in this know-it-all smirk. That's something different for her; usually she hates that kind of smug trait.

"Yeah," he tells her. "I know."

She shouldn't be embarrassed, but she is, a little bit. "Oh," she says quietly. "Right. Of course."

She wonders how much he knows about her life. She doesn't think it's very fair that she doesn't know anything about him other than he puts chipotle mayo on his burger and grew up in Ohio and apparently thinks she has a nice upper body (no, she hasn't forgotten that).

She should not want to know this man who's temporarily in her life, not the details anyway. He's only going to be around for two more weeks, then she'll probably never see him again.

So she says nothing more the entire car ride to Yankee Stadium, and when they're ushered into the building she ignores how his hand feels at the small of his back. It's just his job. He's there to 'protect her'. She appreciates it, especially after the other day.

She starts warming up in her dressing room, and Puck goes to stand outside. There are security personnel and NYPD roaming the halls already, and Puck briefly wonders if he could have done that, if he could have been a cop. He thinks about it all the time, but really, he loves his job. He likes switching up his surroundings every so often and he gets paid well for what he does. He's awesome at it, too. Sure, he doesn't carry a gun or anything like that, but he knows how to take a guy down about 25 different ways without firing a bullet. He knows how to disarm people. He's dealt with all sorts of shit.

And he gets to do shit like this, hang out in the halls of Yankee Stadium with a gorgeous woman singing scales as Andy Pettitte walks by and nods at him. Pretty fucking cool.

When they're standing at the entrance to the field right before she's about to sing, he looks down at her and she's taking big breaths, letting them out slowly.

"Knock 'em dead, kid," he says, elbowing her a little. She laughs and looks up at him and her smile is damn near the cutest thing he's ever seen.

"Thank you."

"Just stay away from A-Rod," he mumbles.

He does not expect her to laugh.

"Believe me," she says as she straightens out her jacket, "I'm very well aware of the detrimental effects of steroid use on a man's body."

So that's the first time she makes him genuinely smile.

Her name is announced and she walks out onto the field. He stands there like everyone else with his hand over his heart (mama raised him right) and listens to her absolutely belt the anthem out. She sounds amazing and the crowd loves her.

And the bonus? The whole thing goes off without any indication that there's a creepy stalker trying to get at her.

... ... ...

Apparently, his relief comes too soon.

His phone rings. It's fucking 2:00 in the fucking morning, and he's barely even able to register that it's in fact his phone making noise. He fumbles for it on the bedside table, sees that it's Santana, and hits the green button. His greeting is a grunt, but he doesn't care. (It's fucking 2:00 in the fucking morning.)

"Are you up?"

Goddamn, is her voice always that nasal? Fuck.

"No, give me a minute to picture you naked and I'll be good to go," he says sleepily, rolling onto his back.

"No, I mean are you up. You need to get to Rachel Berry's apartment right now," she barks.

"Huh? Why?" He doesn't know why he's suddenly very awake and there's a whole lot of worry coursing through him.

"There was an incident with someone getting into her building. They're not sure how, but they're checking video footage. Apparently this person has been seen loitering around the area," Santana explains. He's already got his pants on and his wallet tucked into his pocket. "You can pack a bag tomorrow. Just go there now."

Whoa. Whoa. Pack a bag?

"What?"

"Well, you're staying there with her from now on."

He doesn't know if it's dedication to the job, or just to Rachel (shut up, it's weird) that keeps him from arguing.

"Fine. I get paid more for this shit, right?" he asks. He hears her let out a huff, but honestly, he doesn't give a shit. If he's gotta deal with fucking stalkers and potential break ins, he wants a little danger pay.

"Puckerman, can you deal with that later? God, this woman's life could be in danger. You want to maybe at least make it appear like you care about someone other than yourself?" she asks.

He doesn't get a chance to respond, because she hangs up.

"Bitch," he says to his phone (her) for whatever reason. It's the middle of the night, okay? Cut the dude some slack.

... ... ...

He gets to Rachel's place with a duffel bag in one hand and a coffee in the other. Coffee! At 3:00 a.m. or whatever the fuck time it is. God, he doesn't even care. He just knows he's not sleeping any time soon.

Mike is there, sitting in a chair with the television on at a low volume as he types something out on his Blackberry. Rachel is laying on the couch, hands tucked under her cheek as she sleeps. Puck doesn't know who this dude is who opened the door, but he's little and he sizes Puck up in a way that's not entirely comfortable.

"You're the bodyguard," the guy says, eyebrow raised and a weird little grin on his face. "Even better than Costner. I approve."

Puck kind of wishes this kid was the stalker, just so punching him would be considered justifiable.

"Who's this?" Puck asks Mike, jerking his thumb in the direction of the new guy. He drops his duffel on the floor softly enough not to wake Rachel.

"Kurt. Rachel's best friend," Mike explains. He stands from his place. "She just got to sleep. Kind of a crazy night."

"Yeah," Puck says, scrubbing a hand over the top of his head. "Heard."

"There's extra security and they think they got a visual of the guy, so they're going to keep an eye out and the police have been notified. And they've activated security on the elevator, so everyone has to use a fob and they can only get to their own floors," Mike says. Puck nods. These are all good things. He looks at Rachel, then at ESPN Classic playing on the television. "We're gonna go."

"Yeah," Puck says, reaching out to shake Mike's hand. "I got it from here."

"Take care of my girl, or I will hunt you down," Kurt says seriously, arms crossed as he eyes Puck.

Seriously? This kid is Rachel's best friend? God.

Puck doesn't say anything, just ushers them to the door and locks it behind them.

It's his job to take care of the girl.

And she really does look worried, even as she's sleeping. There's a crease in her brow and she shifts every so often. He's pretty sure this whole thing scared her pretty badly, and he really hates that he wasn't around when it happened. He could have made her feel better, protected. He can't beat himself up over it, since he wasn't supposed to be around her 24 hours a day, but it's on him to make sure she's safe, and there's no way he's fucking that up. No way.

He doesn't know what the fuck is up with ESPN Classic at 3:00 a.m., but he doesn't consider Lebron's first game 'classic'. But there's exactly nothing else on, so he watches it, sips his coffee, which isn't doing anything at all to wake him up. Is it possible that it's making him more tired?

He looks over at Rachel, and seriously, he wants to be laying where she is. Not with her or anything, because fuck...no. But laying there. Sleeping. Alone. Without her taking up valuable couch space. He needs to sleep.

He sighs, because there's no way he's going to wake her up or anything, and he's not just going to leave her there and find somewhere else to sleep (she does have a spare bedroom). He walks over and scoops her up into his arms. It takes no effort whatsoever, because she weighs like, two pounds and he can bench 250. She kind of moans a little bit and literally snuggles herself against his neck. Her skin is hot against his, and he's trying really fucking hard not to pinch her and wake her up or something. He can't decide if he'd want her to kiss him or just be awake enough to realize what she's doing and stop it.

When he lays her down in her bed, she seems reluctant to let him go. He covers her over and she somehow grabs onto his arm. It's just light, her fingers on his forearm, palm close to his wrist.

"Noah," she says quietly.

He actually smiles. It's not so bad, his first name, when she's the one saying it.

"Go to sleep, Rach," he says, tucking her in a little more. She lets out a sigh and rolls onto her side, clutches the corner of her duvet in her arms.

He doesn't know why he called her that shortened form of her name, but it doesn't really matter. He leaves her bedroom door open and walks back into the living room, switches off the television, and gets comfortable on the couch.

He honestly doesn't remember the last time he stayed in a woman's apartment and slept on the couch.

Actually, he can't even remember the last time he slept at a woman's apartment, period.