A/N: Come on Puckleberrians- you knew this song was coming. I just couldn't keep from using it, though I'm sure there could've been better ones out there. It's just too memorable for them. And besides, I love it!

When Rachel finally made it home that day, she felt more confused than ever. N—Puck had helped them? Had helped her? A part of her saw the sweetness in the gesture, but the forefront of her mind sternly reminded her that he'd used her, had only been interested in her because of a figure given to him by Quinn to…what? Ruin her good girl reputation? Keep her away from Finn? Degrade her in a larger-than-life prank, resulting in a sensational emotional death like Barbara in The Way We Were? She hadn't actually figured out the point of the arrangement, but she had been maintaining to herself that she didn't care; that she was stronger than them and would move on to bigger and better things: New York, college, and Evita to name just a few.

She took a long shower, washing her hair and body thoroughly as she tried to scrub and soothe away all of her worries and thoughts and cares. Afterwards, the brunette meticulously dried herself and her hair, dressing in satin lilac nightgown that dropped off just before her knees and gently brushed against her skin when she walked.

As Rachel sat at her vanity, smoothing any tangles left in her dark locks, she focused on the face in the mirror, trying to clear any messy thoughts outside of her bedroom. It was actually more difficult than she cared to admit, since the gentle pull of the brush reminded her of Noah's fingers running through her hair, causing heat to pool inside of her as her body responded to the memory.

She shook her head fiercely, trying to erase any flashes of his skin grazing hers as she tried to get a hold of herself. He wasn't real, she insisted internally. It was all just a game.

Despite what she said to anyone (including herself), however, she couldn't really believe that. The way he sang to her, talked to her; she really couldn't believe he'd open up that way if he didn't mean at least some of it. However, she wasn't willing to be part of this made-for-television soap opera she'd somehow managed to find herself in any longer. She was tired of fighting every step of the way, and, despite everything he made her feel, she felt that maybe it was for the best to give up and move on.

She hummed softly to herself, trying to find a song in her repertoire that could lift her spirits in this moment. As she began to expand her mind past the typical Barbara and Broadway, she found her voice suddenly clashing against something. She stopped singing, straining as she listened for the sound competing with her own. She stood, following what she recognized as guitar chords to her open window, and stuck her head out into the cool night air.

Standing just below her was a well-built sixteen year old male, hazel-green eyes shining up at her as he serenaded her from her front yard for all of the world to see.

Where it began
I can't begin to knowin'
But then I know it's growin' strong.

Was in the spring
Then spring became the summer.
Who'da believed you'd come along ?

Hands
Touchin' hands
Reachin' out
Touchin' me
Touchin' you.

Sweet Caroline
Good times never seemed so good.
I've been inclined
To believe they never would.
But now I –

Puck was a little worried when he'd first driven here: worried her dads would be home; worried she'd throw something at him like a tomcat on a fence—or worse, not even acknowledge his presence. He had worried about whether he'd found the right words and whether he'd be able to get it all out without puking his guts out from the nerves he felt standing in front of her house. But it didn't stop him; he needed to do this and so he stood outside of her window, strumming the chords and singing a song he picked for her.

Look at the night
And it don't seem so lonely
We fill it up with only two.

And when I hurt
Hurtin' runs off my shoulders
How can I hurt when holdin' you ?

Warm
Touchin' warm
Reachin' out
Touchin' me
Touchin' you.

Sweet Caroline
Good times never seemed so good.
I've been inclined
To believe they never would.
Oh
No
No.

He finished the last chords, and stared up at her still figure, waiting for a response. When she quickly turned from the window, shutting it forcefully, his shoulders slumped and he could feel the burning embarrassment in his face. Well, that was stupid…

Puck was about to turn back to his truck when her front door flew open. His eyes met hers, and he couldn't help but relish the look (annoyed, angry… and maybe a little awed) that she fixed him with; felt his heart skip a beat when she grabbed his hand and dragged him inside her house, up the stairs (he glanced around, noting in the back of his mind he'd never seen the entryway, the stairs…); smiled genuinely when she led him to her room and then whirled on him, her sexy purple nightie hugging her legs as she shouted furiously, "What do you think you're doing?" (He didn't care that she was pissed—at least she was talking to him).

"I have to talk to you," he told her earnestly, placing his hands on her shoulders when she began to shake her head in response. "I know that you don't want to listen, and there's no excuse for any of it, but I still want to say my piece."

Rachel's sad doe-eyes stared up at him, and his stomach wrenched at the pain still evident in them. "Why?" she asked softly. "It's over—why does it even matter anymore?"

Puck took a deep breath. "Because you make me a better person," he told her. "Because you were right about everything, and I wanted you to know that."

He let his eyes fall to the floor as he finished his first big confession: "And you deserve everything you want: so if you want to hate me, then you should know every reason why you can." He paused a moment before letting his gaze meet hers again. "And if you think it could even be possible that you could ever trust me again, well, you should know all of it then too."

He didn't say anything, and for a minute, neither did Rachel. She watched him, noting his eyes can't even seem to meet hers anymore. He looks awful (as the stern voice in her head insists he should): sad, but sincere.

She knows she should tell him to leave. She wants to tell him to remove his hands (his rough, calloused, perfect hands) and his pathetic (sweet, romantic) gestures from the premises before she breaks his head like he broke her heart. Even though she knows she desperately wants to hear his side, the voice in her head screams that she can't trust him; that he'll just say whatever he can to get back into her good graces and she should throw him out right now. She thinks of all the mean-spirited ways she could tell him off for what he's done to her. Instead, however, she finds herself slowly setting herself in her chair, nodding and telling him "Okay; I'm listening."

For the briefest moment his eyes light up, as if he sees potential in her agreeing to hear him out. But the weight of the conversation, the admission he's about to make seems to settle back on him almost instantaneously, and she watches him take a seat on her hope chest.

And so the story begins. She can tell within a minute that he's not making up or omitting anything, because there are so many parts that she knows he knows she is shocked—possibly appalled—by. He tells her about Quinn: how he took her money, screwed around and just messed with so many girls just to bolster her status; how he manipulated her into Finn's arms years ago, and yet he still slept with her. He tells her about meeting her for the first time at Santana's party: how he planned it out impeccably, only to have it blow up in his face. And how he couldn't stand being without her: how he manipulated his life to coincide with hers; and how, even when everything came out and Quinn threatened to destroy them, he still cared, confiding in Mike and Matt to try to help her, keep an eye on her.

Throughout the story, Rachel tried to keep her head clear, tried to simply soak in what he was telling her. Because Noah was right: she didn't know whether she wanted to hate him or forgive him, and it seemed this story was going to be the deciding factor. She didn't condone his actions by any means, but as she heard the remorse and passion in his voice, she couldn't help but sympathize with the seemingly lost boy that sat in front of her; the whole thing reminded the voice in her head (which, while no longer livid, was still quite upset) of Stockholm syndrome.

Finally, she heard him pause; perhaps to anyone else it would seem like he just needed a breather, maybe that he was even finished. But Rachel knew him better: the way his hand rubbed the back of his neck; his eyes refusing to look up from the floor. He was stalling—there was something more that he wasn't telling her. Something big.