You've been mad at me for three days. Three very long days. We had a fight, and we kind of sort of made up but I guess not really because you're still frosty around the edges and now there's a weird tension around us that's never really there.

Ever.

So, really, you're still mad at me, baby.

And it's so annoying.

And if I'm being completely honest, I'm still mad at you, too.

We had a fight. A big, blowout. It was one of those ones that we usually don't have that surprised us both, but it still happened.

Fights happen, even with us.

I'll take some of the blame, babe.

You were in a bad mood that day, snippy since you woke up and it annoyed me the whole day. I guess we both had the final straw because all of the sudden you were slamming the cupboard shut, spinning around and pointing at me, your sass at an all time high. You were really angry, your finger only comes out when you're really angry. And, I don't mean in the good, fun times for Brittany kind of way.

And then we were both shouting.

The yelling stops, your arms are crossed and I hear you huff. I can see the look on your face before I even turn around. I can feel the emotions rolling off of you, coating the air between us. You roll your eyes at me before meeting me with a shrug and a weave of your head, begging me to continue. To open my mouth. I almost don't. I almost let it go. But I can't. Something nags at me from the back of my mind and I don't want to let this one go. I ask the one question that has been circling in my head since this started.

"San, is this about your Abuela?"

Your eyes flash with something I very rarely see, and it slices through me. "Brittany…" your voice is low, warning.

"No, don't. I'm going to say what I have to say and you're going to listen."

You huff and cross your arms again, but you don't move. You respect me too much to move.

"You need to invite her to the wedding, Santana. Just send the invitation. Both of your parents think it's a good idea."

That gets you going again. "I cannot believe you talked to my parents about this behind my back."

"Why wouldn't I? You've been avoiding the subject-"

"I'm avoiding the subject because I don't want to deal with it, Brittany!" you cut me off and your voice is that tone that I know means not to test you, but I ignore it.

"Exactly! You don't want to deal with it because you're scared, but you have to face it sometime."

"You have no idea what you're talking about!" you brush past me with that one and storm into the bedroom, slamming the door behind you. I touched a nerve with that one. Hell, I groped it. You want to be alone, you need to be alone and if I go in there things will only get worse, we both need a second to cool down.

I turned around to prepare dinner and you stormed out the front door to take a walk, still needing more time to yourself, and when you came back you helped me plate up the food in an uneasy quiet and we sat on the couch to eat together.

Halfway through dinner, I felt your pinky finger interlock with mine, and you squeezed. It's something you only do when you're feeling shy or nervous and it's adorable. You were doing it to show me that you still loved me, even though we were in that haze of harsh words.

But, baby, I was still hurt.

I am still hurt. We haven't talked about the fight since that day and I know you're still angry. You're angry and I'm angry and we're both hurt and we are just going around in a circle.

And, honey, I miss you.

I hate fighting with you so much. I hate how cold and unfamiliar your voice gets. It's hard and unfeeling and so not the voice I'm used to, that's how you talk to other people…not to me. I only ever hear that voice when you're annoyed at someone, overwhelmed (like when we're on the subway) or when you're talking to your manager about important things.

It's so very rarely directed at me, that I often forget that you're different with me than you are with the world. I love that you're different with me, soft, emotional, adorable. No one else sees this side of you. No one else hears you hum in your sleep. No one else sees how dark your eyes get when they look at me, see me, study me. No one else sees the way your lips curl when you fall over the edge gasping for breath, gasping my name. No one else sees how deep your dimples really burrow into your cheek.

Those things, those things are all for me. That's my Santana.

And I know you miss me, because you're doing that closed off thing you do sometimes. Where you pretend something is not bugging you and you go about your days like normal but your eyes still look like a sad puppy's.

Baby, you're so silly. Did that ever work for you before? Did anyone ever believe it before?

So it lasts for three days, this weirdness between us. We're not actively mad anymore, we're not still fighting and yelling, but there's a tension that's there that isn't usually. We go about our normal routines, still kissing, still sleeping in the same bed, still using pet names, but it's a little bit frosty.

Until today when I decide I've had enough, hear the water running and find you in bathroom where I slip into the shower and then into you. Your gasp of surprise quickly turns into gasps of pleasure and angry sex takes on a whole new meaning for me. I keep my head tucked into your neck, nipping and biting, reminding you who put that shiny new ring on your finger. My fingers curl into you as my heavy breaths fall across your ears, reminding you that I'm always working for you. Your nails dig into my back, my shoulders, dragging the skin, marking me, branding me, releasing some of the pain you've been feeling. The noise you make when you break sends me into overdrive and I rut along your thigh and come before you've even finished.

We stand like that under the water trying to catch our breaths for a long time. It's quiet again, but some of the tension is gone. Your hands graze my cheeks and you tug me closer to your lips. And, honey, when they're finally on mine in that soft, passionate, way that I love, I feel like I can breathe again. This isn't a little peck like it has been for the past few days. No, this, this is the way your kisses always taste.

And it makes me feel alive again.

You break the kiss and move away, grabbing my hands and nudging my face with your nose so I'll look at you. When I do I find your eyes, dark and scared, but open and trusting. "I'm sorry Britt."

"Me too, S."

"I shouldn't have…" You clear your throat, your voice still lusty from your orgasm, "I shouldn't have reacted like that. I just… I… it's always hard for me, to think about and talk about her and…"

I squeeze your hands, reminding you that I'm here and patient. I know better than to interject.

"I really want her there and I'm afraid she'll say no." your voice is so small, a sad little whisper that I have to strain to hear. It breaks my heart.

There it is.

"Oh, San." I drop your hands and pull you into a fierce hug. Your hot tears paint my neck and all the fear, all the sadness, all the heartbreak you've been holding onto for so long finally comes out.

I don't know what to do so I do the only thing I can think of and start kissing you. Kissing your shoulder, the side of your head, any piece of skin I can reach, over and over and over, letting you get it out and reminding you again, without words, that I'm still here.

The water starts to lose its warmth and your cries finally die down. You're still tucked into me and I'm still kissing you, but now you're kissing back. I feel soft little pecks on my pulse point, replacing your hot breath, they move up to my ear, down my jaw, and finally, oh finally, to my lips.

And the hunger and the passion become electric between us again.

You reach over and shut off the water, spinning me out of the tub and back towards the bed. You throw down a towel over the sheets and push me on top of it, a glint in your eye I haven't seen alive in days. Weeks, maybe.

And then makeup sex takes on a whole new meaning.

It's hot, rough, passionate, soft, sensual. It's thrilling. It's everything.

And I don't know what I like better, the angry sex or the makeup sex.

I must have fallen asleep because when I wake up I hear you talking on the phone quietly. You're talking to your mom in a mix of English and Spanish and I can hear the hurt and trepidation in your voice. You're such a scared little mouse. I'll never fully understand everything that happened between you and your Abuela. I'll never understand how she could have cut you off like that, disowned you. You. Beautiful, brilliant, talented, loving, you.

But, what I can understand is the quiet, slow way you've made it back to each other. She called you after your single played on the radio. It was a short, almost formal, conversation, but you smiled for weeks after. She reached out again when your album dropped. And when we went on tour, and when she saw you perform on tv for the first time. It's been a beautiful, slow, rebuilding of love and trust. Each phone call getting a little bit longer, a little bit warmer. Cards and letters come in the mail, more comments from your parents about her about how they started bringing me up more, more questions from her about you…and us.

But those questions, the questions about you and me and us and our personal life, those questions have only come recently. And they are few and far between. You never bring them up and you've only just started saying 'we' in conversations with her to explain something you and I have both done, as a couple. And there hasn't been any formal apology or any sort of reparation. And I get it. I get why you're still nervous. I get why you feel like she's still not part of your life yet, why it's so hard for you to think about.

You don't want to get hurt again. You don't want this little sapling of a relationship between you two to get crushed. You can't take that heart break a second time, even if I'm here to weather it with you.

Your parents think you need to take the next step and invite her. Say that she's just as nervous as you. That's why they reached out to me about it, a point you so blindly ignored the other day. It's easier to be mad at me, I get it baby. We can make up better, and our make up will involve a mind blowing orgasm for both of us.

You sound like you're wrapping up your conversation, from the little bits I can understand, and the tone of your voice. I reach out and squeeze your thigh, softly asking for your attention and telling you I'm awake. The smile you send me gives my butterflies a reason to wake up from their power nap as well and zoom all over my body.

You hang up the phone and slide back down onto your side to face me. Your smile still brilliant and beautiful. You stay like that, looking at me and smiling for a few minutes and I let you. I love it when you get like this, I can feel the adoration you have for me roll off of you and it makes me feel like nothing else can.

You lunge forward and kiss me before I realize its happening. You kiss me with everything you've got and roll me onto my back, settling your body between my legs. You work me up again, expertly, lovingly, and we grind against each other, fitting our bodies together like only they can, and we come together.

You collapse on top of me, out of breath, your panting matching mine. "Wow."

"I know."

"I love you so much, Britt-Britt."

"Ditto."

You snort into my neck at my reply and lift up on your elbows to look at me, swatting my arm lightly, "You can't just ditto me back, Britt!"

I try to keep a straight face but know I'm doing a horrible job, "Sure I can. It's economical."

"Oh, ho…economical? You know what else is economical? That vibrator in the drawer." Your voice is still that teasing tone I love so much.

"It sure is, but you know you'd miss touching all this." I shrug my shoulders and you let out bark of laughter that has my insides singing with happiness. You keep laughing on top of me and I take a mental picture in my head of how happy you look right at this moment.

Baby, it feels so great to be the cause of it, like one of the greatest things I will ever do.