I'm usually professional with my work, I promise. It was hard at first, but I've grown accustomed to spending time with my patients, before I'm forced to let them go, say the final goodbye. But everything changed when a beautiful, Hispanic woman walked into my clinic on a rainy Tuesday morning.

"I'm not going to say everything's going to be okay, because I don't want to give you any false hope," I say gently, and I see her visibly swallow, ducking her head.

"I understand." Her voice is low and rich. "There's no hope for me anymore, then?" She looks up straight into my eyes and it is so hard keeping my resolve.

I've done this countless times, it shouldn't be this hard. But with this lady named Santana, it's different. Her mocha eyes are so deep, thinly masking the despair she holds. But she's beautiful.

"We can still try to get you on the list," I say. "But they usually only let patients who are expected to still be alive five years from now have a chance."

Santana exhales with her nose. "I'm assuming I don't fit that criteria," she mumbles. "So how long do I have left? Two years?"

I close my eyes as it stings with pain. "Less," I whisper. "Eight months."

Eight million people in New York and I bump into her the next day. I was shopping for dinner and she's in the vegetable section, no doubt following my suggestions of a reduced intensity diet.

She sees me and wades over, somehow managing to give me a genuine smile. She's so strong.

"Hey," she holds her basket with both hands, frail. "What are you doing here?"

"Shopping," I deadpan and she laughs, a beautiful sound. "Um… how are you holding up?"

"Alive," Santana replies, setting her basket down. "And wondering why you have so much bacon in your basket."

I look at my basket and she's right, there is a lot of bacon inside.

"Guilty pleasure," I blush and Santana throws her head back, laughing.

"All that red meat can't be good for you," Santana remarks. "Not following your own advice, Dr Fabray?"

"I probably should," I mumble, fidgeting with my fingers. "And please, call me Quinn." When Santana looks up questioningly, I clarify: "I'm only your doctor in the clinic. Outside of work, I'm your friend."

"Friend?" Santana quirks an eyebrow and I mentally slap myself, why did I say that?

"Yeah," I mutter and I slap myself again.

"I like it," Santana smiles and nudges my shoulder. "I've never had a doctor friend before."

I smile back.

Our coincidental bump has led to scheduled meetings. Not our appointments, but we hang out. Sitting opposite her in the café as she shyly reveals her life (or rather what it used to be before her condition struck) has only led me to yearn for more, to learn more about her. I reveal some about myself, but I'm a boring person; she is so full of life, active, always getting into sticky situations and having the brains to get out.

"Damn," Santana sighs when our laughter dies down. "If only I didn't have cystic fibrosis."

"Um, about that," I whisper, leaning forward. "How come you have never suspected anything happening? There are lots of symptoms that could've pointed to…"

"I disregarded them," Santana sighs, placing both hands on her mug. "I have asthma and hay fever, I thought it was just getting worse when I started getting breathing problems. Probably should've been more cautious."

I look down, swirling my coffee with my spoon. The whipped cream forms a heart shape.

I always want my patients to survive, always. But I think my desire for Santana to survive, however unlikely, has been greater than all the others combined. I didn't know why then.

Four months in and Santana swings by my house increasingly often.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper as I watch the small hope in Santana's eyes fade into despair. It happens every day, I do everything, and I mean everything I can to find a suitable transplant for her. But with every application came a rejection.

"It is what it is," Santana mumbles before meeting my eyes.

And they are so beautiful, even when they are glazed with unshed tears.

It's at that moment I finally realised why I wanted Santana to survive so much. Not only because I hate seeing people go. Because I wanted Santana as a love interest.

I can't help but wonder what would happen if we met under different circumstances. What could happen.

I don't know what gave me the courage to lean forwards. Santana is just sitting next to me, being so brave, strong, and beautiful and I can't help but lean in to capture her lips.

It holds for a few euphoric seconds before Santana pushes me away, and I mask the hurt from plain sight.

"Don't do this, please," Santana whimpers and tears spill out for the first time ever, I think. I want to wipe them away, so badly, but I don't know if she'd be okay with that.

"Why?" I whisper, biting my lip.

"You deserve someone who can give you what you deserve," Santana says. "Stability. Happiness. Adventure. Not me, a broken, frail being."

"You're not broken," I say emphatically, wiping a tear from Santana's cheek with my thumb, and thankfully she doesn't object. "You're not frail. You're so strong, braver than anyone I've ever met. I-I really like you, Santana."

"Please don't come any closer," Santana begs as I edge towards her. "Please…"

"W-Why?"

"Because i-if you come any closer, I might never be able to let go."

That melts all resolve inside me and our lips crash together in a heated kiss. Our tears merge into unity as we link our fingers together, bonding. I lean until Santana lies with her back against the couch, and I only break the kiss to silently question something I had subconsciously been desiring for a long time.

Santana's eyes are hooded and dark. She's no longer crying as if my kisses soothe her. I don't know if I am. It only takes a single nod before I kiss her again, relishing all the fiery sensations I will only get for a limited time.

We let ourselves go that night. And it is amazing.

In the mix of perpetual don't cry she whispers, contains one single I love you.

And I say it right back.

Two months left and I suddenly get struck with inspiration, seeing Santana's head on my shoulder as we watch a film.

"San, maybe we don't need to get you on the list," I whisper and Santana looks up, curious.

"What do you mean?"

"We have the same blood type," I say. "And you don't need both lungs to survive, maybe I could –"

"No." Santana cuts me off harshly. "Quinn, what the hell? No!"

"B-But I seriously don't mind, I –"

"I will not let you donate a lung. No! Do you know how stupid that is? We'll both be barely living, how can that be what you want?"

I sigh as I avert my gaze. "You're right," I mumble. "I just don't know what to do…" I start crying again and I don't try to stop.

"Live out the rest of our lives to the full," Santana says determinedly, wiping the tears from my eyes. "It's the least we deserve, right?"

I don't do much other than nod, sobbing into Santana's shoulder.

One month turns into a week turns into a day turns into an hour turns into a few minutes as I lie next to Santana in the hospice bed.

She hasn't talked much, but that's okay. Her presence is everything I need.

Santana's breaths are evening as a tiny smile graces her lips.

"Can I please hold you?" I ask, voice light as a feather.

It's almost imperceptible, but Santana nods. "Yes," she whispers, body relaxing. "And please don't let go."

"Never."

I give her one last lingering kiss on her lips before I bury my face into her neck.

Thanks.

I think Santana said it, but it could also be my imagination.