"I think God has laid a hand," and now we are best friends.

There's fate and karma and God. As much as one might want to fight it, it's hard to believe that there isn't something or someone greater, pulling strings every once in a while. Maybe we don't always get what we want, and certainly we don't always get what we bargained for, but every once in a while, we're given something beautiful, something astounding, something we didn't even realize we wanted. We just have to hope that beautiful, astounding, subconsciously desired thing is not yanked from our fingertips, or if it is, once, twice, or a thousand times over, we have to believe that if it was fate, or karma, or God, that it will come back to us.

It was easy to fall back into domesticity with Heather. We worked around each other like well-oiled gears, shifting positions as if we'd been doing it for years. As the pasta boiled evenly on the stove, she would hand spices to me without a word, not looking up from her stirring, and at the same time, I'd lean back as she reached across or above me for plates and glasses and half-empty wine bottles. My head was far from the simmering sauce at the tip of my spoon however, and I kept forcing myself to flicker to the present, rather than allowing my thoughts to run me ragged emotionally. It was the distinct pop of the cork that brought me back this time, accompanied by a too long gurgle of the wine being poured generously, to say the least, into two waiting glasses. We hadn't spoken since the confessions of "I missed you," and I was afraid if I didn't speak up soon, we would never get further than that. "I missed you," always transforms into "I still love you," and magically that metamorphoses into "those jeans look a little tight; let's take them off," and quite suddenly, my inhibitions, self-control, and clothing are tossed across the room, none of them in tangible reaching distance.

"Hemo?" I began tentatively. She hummed her recognition over her wine glass, finishing a sizeable swallow. "What are we doing?"

"Cooking dinner," she stated plainly, ignoring the elephant-sized underlying meaning my question held.

"You have Taylor."

"You have Di," she retorted.

"You have a cat named Zach Morris." Her eyebrows scrunched together, in a look of confusion and general disapproval at my subject change. "Sorry, I thought we were talking about things that aren't at all relevant to how we feel about each other."

She flipped the switches on the stove off, turning toward me, scratching underneath her right eye, as she did when conversations took a turn for the uncomfortable, swiftly moving into the "No, Naya, I don't want to talk about it." She lifted her glass to her lips a second time, but made no move to take a sip, instead resting the goblet against her chin as she attempted to hold her shaking hands steady. I gingerly eased the half-empty glass away from her, setting it on the counter next to my own full one, before leaning on to the tips of my toes and pressing a firm kiss to her cheek. "I'm sorry," I breathed, worrying that the only part of her that had heard my admission were the freckles my lips grazed. She shook her head, clearing some of the lightheadedness that had easily settled in, and took hold of my hand, interlacing our fingers and tugging me toward the living room.

She flopped on the couch, pulling me down to settle against her chest and in between her legs before wrapping both arms around my waist. My left hand absentmindedly raised to scratch her temple, immediately shaking loose some of the overly rambunctious nerves coursing through her slender frame. She huffed slightly, tickling the back of my neck with her breath, before finally speaking.

"Our PR teams suck."

Trying unsuccessfully to hold back a chuckle, I ran my nails through her hair a few more times before considering reasoning with her. "They're doing their best."

"Oh yeah, absolutely." I could practically hear her eyes rolling into the back of her head. "That's why as soon as Santana came out, we were banned from doing interviews together or being seen together in public, right?"

"Hemo, they're trying, and you can't exactly be angry about that, because the interviews we've done since haven't exactly been subtle."

I could feel the vibrations of the beginning of a giggle erupting within her chest. "Well, whose fault is that Miss I'm Open to Everything? You didn't exactly help things, even back then."

"And you're so much better, Miss We're the best couple. It's like we're perfect for each other? Our fans aren't stupid, and they know damn good and well that you weren't talking about Britt and Santana," I retorted, my own laughter bubbling up.

"This coming from Naya "We make out all the time" Rivera? Okay, sure."

I flipped myself in her arms and settled my legs over both of hers. Lightly tracing my thumb over her freckled cheekbone, I pressed our lips together and her tongue immediately sought out my own. Allowing the two time to waltz behind my lips, sighing contentedly, I giggled at her pout after tugging her bottom lip and pulling away. "Well Ms. Morris, you never complained, and you certainly didn't deny anything. And then your face, when that interviewer asked if we make out a little bit?" I bit my own lip, trying my hardest to contain my laughter. "Don't ever try and play cards babe. Your poker face is terrible."

Her arms wrapped around my waist, urging me toward her chest. Our lips met, a buoy in the tumultuous sea that was crashing around me as our limbs tangled with one another, hands unable to stay still. Her fingertips traced patterns across every inch of skin she could find, and her lips had easily latched on to my neck, just underneath my hairline.

"You don't have to hide them anymore you know. Jennifer isn't going to see my neck for a while," I whispered, and her mouth steathily moved just a few inches further south, pulling away soon after with a smack. The fleshy pad of her thumb brushed over the light mark she'd left, barely visible against the hue of my skin.

"Aren't we supposed to be talking?" she breathed so quietly I knew talking was the absolute last thing on her mind. A buzz in her pocket jolted my thigh, and I quirked an eyebrow at her. She rolled her eyes in response, laughing, before pulling her phone out of her pocket.

Received: Hey babe, where are you? It's getting late and I was worried.

"You can go, if you need to."

Sent: A little too much wine, haha. I'm gonna crash at Naya's. I'll see you in the morning. 3

She tugged me back toward her, shaking my arms to loosen what she knew was the beginning of my walls coming up. She placed sloppy kisses along my jawline, loosening the tension there, and provoking a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

"There is absolutely nowhere I'd rather be right now Nay."

I visibly softened at her words, but the moment passed quickly. I knew if it weren't said now, it probably never would be, and we'd stay stuck in this neverending cycle of push and pull.

"So leave him. For good."

AN: Please leave any suggestions or feedback. I really love hearing what you're thinking about the story, and where you'd like it to go. :) Thanks so much for the support so far; you all are amazing!