Wow, awesome reviews, guys! Here's this chapter a little early. Also, shoutout to Rosetta, who gave me an amazing review. Sorry the plot is getting a little flat and sluggish, but it needs to be done to advance the whole story. Anyhoo, some serious developments in this chapter:

When she unlocked the door to her apartment at three in the morning, she didn't expect him to be sitting quietly at her dinner table, his figure partially illuminated by the dim light hanging over him. But then again, when were the two of them ever predictable?

"You're up." It was more of an observation than a salutation, but he was going to take it.

"Was waiting for you," he said pointedly, gesturing towards the empty chair across from him. She chose to ignore his offer.

"Oh. Well, here I am," she said awkwardly, as she tossed her keys into the potted plant by the door. She was jetlagged and she practically could feel her day-old makeup invading her skin, pore by pore. "I think I'm going to tune in for the night, I'm pretty tired. I'll see you in the morning." When she said she was going to come home (Well obviously, she was going to come home eventually; she didn't really know why he'd tried so hard to get her to), she wasn't expecting a big, important talk the second she walked in the door. Couldn't he just give her some space? Or time to get settled in?

"No, wait. Would you please? I really want to get this all out right now." It wasn't the first time that day that he'd requested something from her; she was in a generous mood since the stewardess on the flight back called her "miss" instead, and gave her three refills of her bubbly.

"Okay," she said, taking a seat across from him. He slid one of the two cups of tea across the table towards her, and she noticed it was warm. Had he been waiting for her all night, refilling tea cup by cup so that she wouldn't have to drink cold tea? How did he know she'd even come back that night?

"I wanted to say I'm so sorry. I know you've heard it before, but that's all that I can think of to say to you, because that's all that's been running through my mind. And you know I didn't mean it, honest."

He was right. She had heard all of that before. Many times, on many different occasions. But somehow, they always ended up in the same situation.

Okay, this was getting cruel, but Santana was the meanest person he knew, so he didn't know why he was even surprised. The bulge in his boxers was getting more agonizingly painful by the second and he needed his release. She, however, was sitting across the room on his bed, her legs tightly locked at the knees, lips firmly pursed into a thin line, and arms knotted in front of her chest so he couldn't even ogle her nipples through the slub-knit fabric while she silently fumed.

"Why did you even ask me over?" she snapped. She was sitting so still and so tensely that he was worried he might have a permanent impression of her butt leftover in his mattress when she left, which was sure to be soon, he assumed. It was as if she was trying to take up as little space as possible by sitting in the most compact position ever.

"You didn't have to come."

She only glared at him, and he instantly wished he could retract the comment. Making snarky comments was surely not the way to her forgiveness. But he was right. She didn't have to come.

"Come on, boo. Baby. San. You're my girl, you know that," he cooed, slowly inching his way towards her. She didn't so much as flinch at his blandishments, because from him, they meant nothing. She knew better. "You know I didn't mean it." Did she?

"You didn't mean it when you called me Quinn while I was on top of you? How do you just not mean something like that?" she snapped. He was now in front of her feet, and he was slowly stroking her tanned calf with his fingers, trailing the fine hairs that were quivering at his touch and against her will.

"I don't know."

"Do you really think I'm an idiot?"

"No, no, of course not. And hey, if makes you feel any better, when I was screwing her, I was thinking about you," he offered. Shit! He did it again.

"Oh great, bring that up again. Just when I was starting to forget the fact that you have a self-righteous babymama," she said sarcastically. How could she ever forget?

"I only did it because you were being a bitch that week." As if that was any type of justification.

"So now it's my fault you knocked up the frigid whore?" she shot back.

"No, shit! Look, I'm sorry. Again. For everything. For whatever it is that I did." Was it bad that he didn't even know?

"What is it that you exactly want? Sex, forgiveness, or me?" she interrogated. He was stumped. For sure, this must be some trick question that Santana was using to fuck with him to test him or some chick shit like that.

"Uh, aren't they all the same?" She rose abruptly and started to grab her purse from his desk.

"Wait! I only said that because there's so many things that you offer. Like, uhm, if I have you, then I get sex and forgiveness. Like a two for one deal!" he whined. He was treading water here.

She gave him a pathetic look and started to head out the door.

"No! I want you. Only you. I swear. Even when all this shit hits the fan, it'll still be you." He was making empty promises, but he had to play his trump card.

She stopped, and turned around.

"You didn't mean it?"

"100% didn't mean it, babe.

"Well, okay." She had given in, and he had won, again. She promised herself she was going to be stronger, more independent. Not rely on him so much. Not get attached was more like it. "You promise you don't give a shit about that fucking hypocritical, pity-party Quinn Fabray?"

"She means nothing." It was all a lie, like everything else he promised, but she chose to believe him for fear of losing everything.

"Good, now let me take care of you," she said, coming back to straddle him. She had tortured him long enough.

His hollow words meant nothing, but as long as they made her feel special for just a moment, she was going to hang onto every word. How could she resist when all she wanted was to be wanted?

"I know you didn't," she said softly. She felt herself falling into his sweet-talking trap, but made no self-conscious attempt to resist. This time, she thought, the circumstances between them were different. They were older, more mature than all the other times. This time, maybe he wasn't just telling her what he thought she would want to hear so that they'd move past their tiff and get on with the fucking. But where were all the "I need you, baby-s" or the "I can't live without you-s" that she had grown accustomed to hearing after his apologies. The kind she had got a taste of in their phone conversation. Was it wrong to expect a more direct proclamation of affection this early in their relationship? Not that their relationship was that early, it had spanned decades by this point. She felt a little bit stupid for hoping that maybe he would say that he loved her. No, he couldn't possibly love her. She was just being ridiculous again.

"I don't know what came over me," he confessed. They're relationship was quickly moving into serious territory, and he supposed he was getting cold feet.

"I kissed someone else while I was in Italy," she admitted. As long as they were on this confession roll, she might as well keep the ball rolling. She didn't want to keep anymore secrets from him (But, there were some things she couldn't tell him). She watched his face as he tried to stomach the news, and didn't speak until she saw him swallow the gulp of air that lingered in his throat.

"Okay." He could live with that. He had no one to blame. They weren't dating or anything, but after hearing her say that, he wanted them to be.

"It didn't mean anything," she said quickly backtracking. She didn't think it would have mattered that much to him, but guess not.

"Even better," he said dryly. She gave him a glare, as if to say, "Watch it. You're not off the hook yet." He relented, and tossed his hands in the air helplessly.

They sat there in silence, as the ticking of the clock broke the thick silence between them. She took a couple sips of the tea—Darjeeling, her favorite—as he watched her.

"It was one, by the way," she randomly said after a bit, out of the blue.

"One what?" He was very confused.

"One guy. One guy I fucked to get my job," she said, tossing in an empty chortle.

"Santana…" he started. She didn't have to tell him, so he wasn't going to press the matter. Besides, he wasn't sure if he really wanted to hear about it.

"No, let me tell you. You wanted to know, Freudian slip or some shit like that. You doubted me, and I get it. I really do. So it was one. It was Theodore Probst, that publishing tycoon, and it was 10 years ago," she argued.

Santana shivered as she stood on the sidewalk, waiting for the bus to come. She tapped her three inch heels impatiently, even though each time the heel hit the pavement, a jolt of pain shot straight up her leg. Who said being a model was glamorous? Nothing about her life was glamorous. She was eating peanut butter sandwiches day and night, living in an apartment in the sketchiest part of town, and all her money (the little that she made doing catalog work) went to keeping up her appearance so she could book more jobs. There were enough hours in the day. At this rate, she could work forever and still never make it.

And, god, where was the stinking bus? Public transportation in this city was not reliable. She should have taken the subway, but the last time she did that, a creepy panhandler followed her three blocks until she turned a corner into an Irish pub and lost him. Yeah, never again.

Plus, it was cold. Very cold.

"Excuse me, miss. You look very uncomfortable. Do you need a ride?" A very expensive Rolls Royce had pulled up, and an elderly man's face poked out from over the tinted windows.

Yes, she was uncomfortable. Yes, she needed a ride. But did she need a ride from him? New Yorkers did have a reputation for being rude. Surely this guy didn't want to kidnap and rape her. He looked nice and rich. Plus, how scary could a guy who driving through the Upper East Side be?

"I promise I'm not a serial killer." The guy must have read her thoughts. "I'm Theodore Probst, the publishing guy?"

"Oh!" Santana squeaked, "I just came from a shoot for some perfume that's going on the back page of Marie Claire!" Theodore Probst noticed her on a sidewalk? Oh my god! The guy was a fucking gazillionaire!

"Aha, you're a model. I thought so. I guess I'm your boss then. So what do you say? A ride? My driver can take you anywhere you need."

"Well, okay. Thanks, Mr. Probst," Santana answered shyly. She still didn't like to take things from other people, but she was getting pretty desperate.

"Please, sweetie. Call me Teddy," he replied as he pushed open the door and scooted over to make room for her. She climbed in.

"Where to?"

"Harlem," she said.

"Harlem? What's a pretty girl like you doing all the way out there?" Teddy yelped.

"It's all I can afford. I'm a struggling model; it's part of the description," Santana explained halfheartedly.

"Ah, I see. So where are you originally from?"

Santana hesitated. She had been advised not to tell anyone of her smalltown roots, because then people would take advantage of her naiveté. But she wasn't naïve, right? She was the most mature girl in Lima. Teddy seemed like a nice enough guy. Non-judgmental, even. He didn't really care that she lived in Harlem. In fact, he seemed like he was concerned!

"Lima, Ohio."

"Oh yeah? Never heard of it. What's that like?"

"Oh you wouldn't have. It's a complete wasteland. I'm so glad I'm out of there."

"I'll bet. Are you liking New York then?"

She didn't know what to say. She was grateful to this city for giving her an out of community college in Lima, but she couldn't mask her depression.

"I hate it. It's miserable. But better than Lima, so I guess that's something."

Teddy placed his hand on her bare kneecap. "Well, it will get better."

"Yeah? Cause it seems pretty fucking terrible now. Being a model….just isn't what I expected it to be."

"That's because you really haven't become a model yet. But you have a star quality. I know it when I see it. You've got it. You'll be a star in no time, honey."

"Thanks, Teddy," Santana said, as she turned away from him to gaze out the window. "Wait-where are we going?"

"Oh, I must not have told my driver we were going to Harlem. I'm so sorry. Where are we now?"

"Wall Street. Oh god, we're all the way on the other side of New York." Shit, what was she going to do? She didn't want to make him driver her all the way back.

"Crap. Tell you what, I have a penthouse suite over here. Why don't you stay the night? It's getting so late. I promise you can have all the room service you want. Seems like you need to be treated like a princess."

Uh….Santana was a little bit apprehensive but she was exhausted. And room service did sound really good. Teddy was nice. Santana was good a judging people, and he didn't seem to be any kind of creeper. Although it was probably too good to be true, she had to take her chances. "Sure. Thanks, Teddy."

She shouldn't have gotten into a car with a stranger. She certainly shouldn't be going home with him. But she was too sick of everything to care.

"I was lonely in this strange city, and Teddy made me feel wanted. He listened to me talk about myself, and it seemed like he actually cared about other people, unlike every other self-absorbed jerk in New York. So I was willing to overlook the fact that he was old enough to be my grandfather and I let him take me to his room. We did it, just once," she continued.

Again, he tried to stop her. And again, she couldn't.

"The next morning, I left. I didn't care if he was a fucking billionaire or the fact that he had the most entertainment connections in New York City. A week later, he set me up on a meeting with Thakoon as 'favor.' I booked the job, and after that, the offers started to flood in. Then I wasn't so miserable after that. And that was that," she finished.

"And now? Do you ever talk to him?" he asked.

She shook her head. "We don't really run in the same circles anymore. But he sends me a Christmas card every year."

"You know it doesn't really count as fucking someone to get a job if it wasn't your intention…"

She waved him off. "You don't need to justify my actions for me. It doesn't matter, and I don't care. Anyways, I'm glad I told you. It's fine. We're fine." Her last words solidified his forgiveness, and he felt a huge weight being lifted off of his shoulders.

"I'm glad you wanted to, I think. Can I give you something, like a gift?" he said. He picked up a little present from her the day before, after she had hung up the phone. He wanted to change the direction this conversation was headed towards.

She looked caught off guard, but quickly regained her composure by making a joke. "As long as it's not lingerie. I've had enough of that for a lifetime."

"It's not, although I was seriously considering getting you some." He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out two little strips of paper. She picked them up, and struggled to read the fine print on the slips. She scrunched her nose.

"Two tickets to 'Explore New York'? What the fuck is that?"

"Tacky tourist day, remember? I fully expect you to break out the fanny pack as we parade around in a doubledecker bus," he offered. She scoffed.

"You wish. Maybe we could even go see a Broadway show. You know, as a big 'Fuck you' to Rachel Berry and high school?"

"Sure." Of course it had nothing to do with the fact that she loved performances, singing, and dancing. Of course not.

"One more thing," he said. He hadn't been planning on adding this part in just yet, but their recent discoveries about each other forced him to move their relationship faster, at risk of losing her again.

"God, what now?" she said exasperatedly, crossing her arms over her chest. Despite her feigned annoyance, he smirked.

"I was thinking…" he trailed, purposely slowing his words.

"Gee, what a shocker. You were thinking…"

"That we should be dating. Exclusive. Together. An item." Spending days on end alone in her apartment, he'd gone through her stack of Hollywood trash rags and in turn, discovered a plethora of words to express that kind of romantic relationship between two people.

Wait, what?

"Someone's been reading too many tabloids," she teased, changing the subject. Why was she hesitant? This was what she wanted, right? Or did she only want him to admit it, just to hear him say it? Her sixteen-year-old self felt a slight sense of accomplishment. Aha! I've finally gotten you to say you want me! But her twenty-eight-year-old self felt her heart skip a couple of beats until the gravity of the situation hit her.

"So what do you say? Don't say you haven't thought about it," he prodded.

"Really?" He had better not be fucking with her.

"Really."

Oh God. He was serious. This could be it. What she had been waiting for as long as she could remember. Someone to take her seriously, not as a casual fuck. Someone like him.

"Okay, finnnnnne. But this time, you better have a really good credit score." God, it seemed like three forevers away since the last time they were "dating." And they both knew how that ended up. He grinned. Although they were taking a serious step in their relationship, they both were definitely not serious people by nature.

"Psh, don't worry babe. I've got it covered," he threw in, relaxedly. He still had more than enough money left over from what Eddie had given him.

"Good, because you know, as a woman, I need me some financial security," she said, getting up and swaying her hips as she slinked towards him. He slid his chair back to make room for her, and she climbed into his lap to straddle him. She wrapped her arms behind his head, her elbows resting on his shoulders. Her fingers were tickled by the stubble that was growing in the absence of a mohawk.

He laughed. "You're a gazillionaire. You're the definition of financial security."

"That's right. So don't think that I need you to support me, or any shit like that, because I don't. I am an independent, successful woman that needs no man. I'm not my mother. Don't let your dumbass man ego ever let you think otherwise," she said, wrapping herself in his cocoon. She was on another of her tough girl rampages, except this time she meant every word.

"Sure. You know, I have a really good feeling about this, San. I'm going to make you so happy, I swear." Happiness. God, that sounded so good. That was what she wanted, what she really needed right now.

He gave her a light kiss, and she laughed softly.

"Not like that you won't," she demanded, yanking him closer.

"Your wish is my command, babe," he said, and deepened the kiss.

"You're so corny."

"You know you love it."

Oh, Santana! Didn't your mother tell you not to talk to strangers?

A question to think about:

1) Is (past and present) Santana immature or mature? What evidence do you have of this? How might this affect her actions/decisions?

I dont want to write the next chapter until the next episode of Glee airs, because what I have planned might be affected by that episode. So depending on how motivated I feel, I'll probably have it up by next weekend.

So, review! Think we could get 100 reviews? Lucky chapter 13! Come on guys!