A/N: We're skipping most of the Quinn/Finn drama here, although it'll play a part later on. This chapter is dedicated to Lolee Ann, because she's the best! And because nobody ever responded to review whoring in a more obliging manner!

She manages to get through the rest of the day, somehow without damage. Brittany sends her a quizzical look when she arrives late in History, she replies with a big, fake smile that does the job, apparently. No questions, from her or anybody else.

Sam is in her last class of the day and she finds herself staring at him for most of it. He never so much as glances towards her and it irks her. Way to show you care, fish-face! A nagging voice in her head tells her she asked for it and she can't help but agreeing with it. The only hint of peace that relieves her mind comes from the final bell of the day, finally letting her run away.

The Lopez residence presides over the smaller homes of Fairview Avenue, standing alone at the end of it. An impressive example of modern architecture, it features large panels of glass intersected with wood and stone in an unexpected pattern. It could make a welcoming home, depending on the residents of course. With Santana's family inhabiting it, it's not the case. When she parks her car in the driveway, the familiar surge of cold fills her at the sight of the darkened windows. Her "I'm home!" reverberates on the walls of the hallway, unacknowledged. She sighs and wonders for the umpteenth time why she still says it. The day somebody greets her back, she might actually faint from surprise.

Bag drops on the doormat, followed by her shoes. Maid will take care of them, one of the upside of a privileged lifestyle. She continues shedding her clothes as she walks up the stairs and walks down the carpeted hallway. Out of habit, her steps slow down and her hand stretches to the wall. Fingertips graze the flowered wallpaper and linger on the raised "C" adorning the door next to hers. She resumes her pace and her blouse and skirt fall on the floor as she makes her way to her bedroom. She enters the large room with a sigh, stopping barely past the threshold.

In there, the silence almost takes physical form, circling her underwear-clad body. Her shivering has nothing to do with the temperature. Rampant thoughts are to blame. The kind that flourishes all too often when she's alone.

"Your father really wishes he could be there sweetie, but this conference is just crucial, you understand, right?"

"Sorry honey, I was sure you liked this band, that' why I got you those tickets…"

"No mom, I haven't listened to them since I was 12…"

"Come on, sista, kick it higher! Higher! That's it! Wow, you'll be an amazing dancer someday!"

No, don't think about Cristina, not now. Not again. she tells herself. She tries to force the memories away, to no avail. Angrily, she grabs the remote and turns the TV on. Techno music thankfully floods the room while flashy-clothed girls appear on the screen and start their demonstrations. The remote is quickly dropped on the bed, one (just one) sigh is allowed and soon enough she's attempting the usual. Pushing the anger, the guilt, the fear away with effort and sweat.

One hour later, she's thoroughly drenched and nowhere nearer peace of mind. While the usual burden is now subdued, the words Evans told her still sting. Strange, she figured it would be the other way around.

No, they don't. "Well, let's prove him wrong." she whispers. The chair emits a lamenting squeak when she lets herself fall on it ungracefully. She twists it toward the computer and her fingers start flying over the keyboard.

The pale "What are you thinking?" words of her Facebook status swiftly disappear and are replaced.

Santana Lopez is tired of it all. What's the point of holding on anyway?

She pushes herself away from the desk and heads for the adjacent bathroom. I'll show him! she thinks haughtily, turning the shower knob to scalding hot.

When she emerges 20 minutes later, in a cloud of steam, her eyes are automatically drawn to the glowing screen, to that blue header. Nothing. Not a single red digit, no comment, no private message, no nothing. Yet almost everyone she hangs out with is online, the chat section confirms it. So no one cares, that's good to know…

Despite her practice at self-control, she can feel her throat tighten. She shakes her head childishly and that's when she sees it. The blinking tab and the pop-up window.

Sam Evans messaged you!

Call me. NOW.

Where r u?

Come on Santana, quit it.

Wtf, call!

That's it, I'm coming over.

Disbelief fans over her face. For a minute, she just stands still and stares at the urgent phrases, dripping steadily on the hardwood floor. Then the doorbell rings, immediately followed by frantic pounding. She snaps, flicking her hair and spraying her desk in the same movement."Shit, shit, shit!" she swears, rummaging through her closet for clothes, her fingers finally grasping a satin robe. She slips it on as she rushes downstairs, tying up the thin belt a mere second before opening the door.

While she expected an out of breath Sam on her porch, he, on the other hand, clearly didn't think she was going to answer that fast. He leans heavily on the doorframe, panting, and a relieved grin spreads on his lips.

"Thank God, you're all right! I was seriously worried. I thought you were… Man, I don't know… What the hell was that about?" he asks between shortened breaths.

She bites her lower lip, crosses her arms and goes for a defensive glare. Unfortunately, it fails. Considering that his obvious concern is kind of sweet, it's rather hard to be mad at him or to push him away.

"A stupid experience, forget it." she replies hastily. She offers him a small smile, a penance of sorts she figures. Stepping sideways, she gestures for him to come inside.

Once the door is closed, the awkwardness rises. They stand face-to-face, Sam with his hands nervously running through his mane while Santana is growing irritated at the feeling of her own hair clinging to her neck. Their eyes meet and all movement ceases. Sam lets out a weird chuckle but his air betrays him. The questioning is still active in his mind. She knows it.

"Fine, I give up. Come on, you relentless boy." she says. She grabs his hand and starts towing him into the corridor. Past a narrow door, she leads him down the steps to an impressive basement.

"What do you mean? No wait, what are doing Santana?" the stunned boy wonders aloud.

"I'm never getting rid of you unless I fess up and I'm not doing this under 15 SPH." She states firmly. She pulls on the hand one last time, sending Sam flying in the direction of the sofa while she veers behind a high counter. He somehow manages to keep his balance and sits on the plump cushions.

Yet another question slips out.

"SPH?"

"Yeah, SPH, Shooters Per Hour. This situation totally qualifies for that. So, tequila or Jack?" she demands, shaking each bottle in alternation.

"Err, whatever's fine, you choose." he replies.

"JD it is." She bends down, pulls glasses from the cupboard and a plastic container of sliced lemons from the built-in refrigerator. Getting back up, she sees Sam now cautiously leaning against the back of the couch and suddenly all the discomfort rushes back into the room.

She clears her throat and sets the stuff on the coffee table before sitting down next to him "We should make it a game." she tells him, forcing a lemon slice at the bottom of the glass and pouring the amber liquid over it. He sends a bewildered look. "Come on, Prince Valiant, don't give me this." She sighs while handing him a shot "You wanna be this weird all night?"

"Yeah, you're right…" He cracks a small smile. "What did you have in mind?"

"Basic rules. One drink gets you one question, but we take turns. I don't wanna be the only one spilling guts here!" she states firmly.

"Fine by me, I'll even let you start!" he agrees.

She nods and kicks back the drink, her eyes squinting when the fire spreads in her body. "Humph!" she shrugs. "How did you get here?" she asks. Waiting for his answer, she leans back, letting her feet rest on the edge of the glass table.

He avoids her inquisitive look by fixating on the movement of her feet, the fidgeting toes a strangely interesting sight.

"Well, I was at Quinn's working on the Glee club assignment, you know, looking for romantic songs, when your status popped up. I happened to be at her computer and her Facebook was on. I… I just couldn't let it be, not after this afternoon… I was afraid you'd… Not sure what I imagined you'd do but anyways. I just made up an excuse and went back home. I ended up asking Puck for your address. Knowing him he must think I want to get with you…" he finishes with a sheepish smile, one she returns graciously.

"Like you have any chance…" she teases. "Queen Quinn must be super-pissed right now. Serves her right…" she mutters aside.

"What?"

She dismisses the remark. "Never mind. Your turn."

He nods, lifts his glass and deftly lets the alcohol slide into his mouth. She almost blushes when she realizes that the movement hypnotizes her but his question dampens her mood. "Why did it get to you that much, what Rachel said?" he inquires softly. A slight fit of cough follows, giving her time to get a grip.

"Damn, boy, you don't wait to go for the kill, don't ya?" she groans.

He laughs quietly. "Learning from you I guess…"

"Either that or you're not one for foreplay, huh?" she counters, closing her eyes. Her hand automatically reaches for the bottle for a refill but he prevents her from doing so.

"You said one question: one shot. It's not your turn."

A fling of the arm, another groan and she agrees. Without needing to lift her eyelids to confirm it, she knows he has that preaching, decided and yet understanding look on. That same look that convinced her to let him in today, both figuratively and literally.

"Fine, Evans, but I demand another question." Her tone is harsh but most of all sincere. "Something lighter. I'm not nearly drunk enough yet for the heavy stuff."

"Okay. What's your favorite color?"

"Oh. My. God."

Midnight comes around and the Lopez basement resembles a war zone, with the remains of a major food and alcohol binge scattered everywhere. Many game turns have now passed. The rules are no longer followed, replaced by random comments, confessions and goofiness.

Over the course of the evening, the mood shifted repeatedly. It turned tense around 8:00, when Santana decided it was time for her to get dressed. Mainly because she had seemingly forgot that, despite being in a relationship, Sam was still a straight guy with the ability to see. So parading in front of him in various outfits, without bothering to change in another room, sort of made him a little uncomfortable, and not just in his mind…

Things turned serious again when he texted his mother, around 10:00. She wondered why he didn't do it before, he replied with a shrug. When she didn't let go, he ended up telling her of his father losing his job and how his mom now had to work 2 uncertain jobs to keep the family in relative comfort. His dad was busy as well, looking for a position. They didn't have the time to worry about him; he tried not to give them reason to. Still, he had made a habit out of keeping them updated on his whereabouts.

Thankfully, 4 shots later, they both had lightened up and from then on, stuck with lighter topics. This led to right now, and the current effort of Sam to make Santana listen to his iPod…

He stumbles and for a second she fears he'll fall on top of her. The rudimentary tasks of untangling his earphones and getting up both seem behind his impaired abilities. Incontrollable giggles erupt at the sight of his wobbling body. "You… look like N'Sync in that… Bye Bye Bye video!" she bursts out.

He snorts at the demeaning comment but persists on his "journey". He finally reaches her curled up form on the couch and leans forward, awkwardly inserting the buds into her ears. The proximity does make her laughter subside. He's concentrated on the silver music player and she has nowhere else to rest her gaze but the baby face inches from hers.

For once, no biting remark comes to her mind. Can't even find another joke about that insane mouth, she can only notice how soft the lips seem…

"Just… Ah, there. I-I was looking for a romantic song for Glee assignment and…It reminded me…" he blubbers, "It just fits you, this, I think…" He falls down, voluntarily (sort of), and hands her the player. A playful smile on his lips, he lies down on the carpet, hands behind his head.

She glances at the screen and while she recognizes the artist's name (Bryan Adams), the song is unknown to her. It's already playing and she screws her eyes shut to better focus her flickering attention on the lyrics.

Was it some man
That didn't treat you right?

This line makes her scoff in derision. Most of the time she's the one mistreating them.

You're so easy to hold
It's so easy to touch you…

This line pisses her off, a little. I'm not easy. Well not any more than the rest of the Cheerios. she thinks.

It's so easy to want you that I
I can't get enough…

This one makes her grin. Join the club…

Tell me why do you have to be
Why do you have to be so hard to love?

Her smile falters at this one.

Is it some hurt, from long ago,
That makes it so hard to let your feelings show?

It disappears completely when she hears this one.

Is it the ghost of who you used to be
That makes you so afraid to bare your soul to me?

Her chin trembles at this one and she bites her lower lip, trying to keep the shake from spreading. Another failure.

By the time it's over, tears have spilled between her eyelashes and are flooding her cheeks. She rips the earphones out and throws the whole thing at a drowsy Sam.

"What? What happened?" he mutters groggily. Finally seeing her distress, he gets back to his feet, surprisingly fast for someone in his state. He has her cooped up in his arms quickly enough, yet she's already torn by wrecking sobs. She feebly tries to push him away but the emotions make it impossible.

"Hey, hey…" he whispers against her hair "Don't take it like that, it's just a song…"

"N-No, don't! Y-You're right-t, this-this song is t-t-oo, they don't… I'm j-just li-ike her…" She can't manage to choke out anything else, and it only amplifies her misery.

"What? Like who? Who are you talking about?" he asks. She shakes her head in negation, sending a few tangled strands in Sam's face. "Come on San," he insists "can't you tell me by now?"

"N-No, not-t right now." She twists her head away from him, trying to organize her thoughts coherently in spite of the alcohol and overwhelming sensations. "Tomorrow?" she whispers expectantly. Yes, tomorrow, when I will have had time to think of a reasonable explanation, when you won't be so close, when I won't be so weak.

"Tomorrow's Valentine's Day" he says slowly.

"Right." She stiffens in the enclave of his arms. His reply acts as a cold shower, halting her breakdown and steadying her breathing. She lets him go on anyway.

"What do you say we meet… before… well at like…"

"Don't bother, feather hair." she interrupts. "I don't wanna mess up your romantic plans with Her Highness!"

She bites the interior of her cheeks, hard. What a douche! What is he doing, trying to squeeze me between engagements, like I'm a doctor's appointment?

Oh God, I can't do this any longer…The mix of too many shooters, bad pizza and roller-coasters discussions is meddling with her sanity. Nausea rushes back and she closes her eyes, willing it away.

That's when she feels Sam running his hands on her messed up hair, so delicately. She no longer fears being sick, as the dizziness is replaced with the urge to cry, again. What is it about him that thwarts any attempt to push him away?

His lips trail down from her brow to her temple. The words tickle against her damp skin.

"You know I didn't mean it like that. I'm all good intentions."

"Yeah, I noticed." She can't help sniffling a bit. "Dork."

He laughs quietly and his hold slacks a little, enough for her to tilt her head up. This in turn makes her marvel at his nice open face.

"Why do you bother with me Sam, really?"

He chews his bottom lip, letting the question sink in as his teeth do the same in the plump flesh.

"You're an intriguing girl Santana. How could I not bother? Call it curiosity, but I like to think I'm just… interested."

Leaving his embrace, she lies down on the sofa, her head on the armrest, her feet on her new drinking buddy. Sam's arms seem to search for an appropriate place before settling for her legs, his hands hanging carefully away from her skin.

She cocks her head to the side, peering at him through half-closed eyelids. "I'd say you're a nice guy, through and through. Guess it does make you curious, in a way." Stretching her arms in front of her, she yawns widely. "Shouldn't have to put up…" she mumbles.

"What?" he asks half-heartedly. Her fatigue is contagious, his head keeps slamming backwards to rest on the soft cushion.

"Qu… She doesn't…" Santana mutters.

The unfinished words hang in the air, to be neither completed nor heard, since both teens are now sound asleep.

A/N (2): Lyrics were borrowed from Why Do You Have To Be So Hard To Love, by Bryan Adams.