Oh my gasp! Look at all those reviews! They were fabulous! You really delivered you guys, and I hope this lives up to your standards:

Santana dropped a big box on the floor of her apartment and the sound that came out of her could only be characterized as a cross between an "oof" and a "plop." Whatever it was, it was cute. He laughed as she tried to push the box further through the door.

"What?" she snapped. Moving was turning out to be more difficult than she had thought. And why did she even suggest starting after dinnertime? You'd think an ex-soldier would have like, a box of stuff, but no. He had to have 10 boxes, which could still be categorized as measly, she supposed. She really didn't know why she even offered up her apartment as a temporary home for her ex-boyfriend. Anybody else would call her crazy. And neither of them really had friends here, so it was just them. A crazed fan downstairs in the lobby offered to help, but she was too freaked out by his persistent pleas, and moved a little closer towards Puck.

"Nothing, that was just really cute," he replied.

"Oh," she said, pleasantly surprised. She quickly replaced the perpetually annoyed expression on her face with a smug one, another common expression. Santana didn't really do "cute," but whatever.

"So this is it, huh? Home, sweet, home," he said, surveying the modern apartment in front of him. The space was open and quiet; you could practically see the entire apartment in front of him. The ceilings were high and vaulted, with large windows letting in the ambient city light. Everything was either white, black, or some shade in between. The industrial chrome kitchen appliances had a sleek shine to them, one that gave him the impression that it was more for show, and not actual culinary uses. The lamps suspended from the ceiling looked as if they could almost be used as weapons. The dining table and its matching chairs looked like they were made of the least amount of plastic possible without forgoing their actual purpose. Everything was svelte, spotless, sharp. No, Santana Madison did not shop at IKEA.

Needless to say, the apartment was neither "comfy" nor "cozy," but then again, was Santana? It was…cool. It looked more like the showroom for a modern interior designer, not someone's home. Did she even live here?

"It's quiet," he commented.

"Well, it's kind of my little safe place. I like it secluded from everything, you know?"

"No, I totally get it. Do you ever get lonely?"

She thought for a while, before finally deciding on a no. "I'm used to the loneliness."

"Me too."

Then their pseudo-movers came up with the final boxes. She ushered in the doormen she had corralled into carrying the boxes up. "Just dump them on the shag rug," she ordered.

"Sure, Miss Madison. Now if that's all, we have work to get back to," one of the doormen said meekly.

"Yeah, here. Thanks," she muttered, shoving a hundred-dollar bill into his palm. The doorman quickly clasped the money and left before Santana could change her mind. Puck's eyes widened. In high school, the most he would ever have gotten as a "tip" for anything at all would have been like five bucks, tops. Well, the occasional housewife dropped twenty bucks…Now this tool carried a box up five floors…through an elevator…for a hundred bucks? Unbelievable. Santana threw money around like it grew on trees. Maybe for her, it did. He was still unaware of how rich she was.

She noticed his expression and justified her actions with a shrug. "Whatever, I don't carry any other cash. And he needs it more than I do." Puck relented, seeing as it was her apartment, and her money. He couldn't make decisions for her.

"So yeah, here it is. Use whatever you want, I didn't pay for most of it anyways," she said, "Sorry I don't have an extra bed, but the couch converts." She pulled at the black crescent shaped sofa until it popped out into a mattress.

"Don't worry about it, I'm used to sleeping on the floor, remember?" he said.

"Right," she said. The thought of Puck as a soldier always brought a smile to her face. Of course, she knew of all the terrible things he must have gone through in battle, but there was something about a man in a uniform that got her very excited.

"Thanks for doing this; I know we didn't end on the best terms. I appreciate it, San," he said genuinely. It was the first time either of them acknowledged what had happened in the past.

"Of course," she said softly. She looked absolutely beautiful, just in a T-shirt and jeans, with her hair in a messy bun after a night of moving. A moment passed. "I'm gonna tune in for the night. I'll be down the hall in my bedroom if you need anything."

"Sure. Good night," he said, getting up and walking towards her. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Good night," she said, walking down the hall to her bedroom, her bag swinging behind her. A couple minutes later, he heard her shower run. He got ready for bed himself. Then the shower stopped, and he heard the click of a light. She'd crawled into bed. He laid down on the couch, which was surprisingly comfortable for well, being a couch.

Two hours passed, and he continued to stare at the ceiling. The ticking of the abstract clock on her wall was magnified a thousand times. He couldn't sleep. Not because of the PTSD thing though. And not because he felt like a stranger in her home, her life. And certainly not because he was uncomfortable, because he wasn't. It was because Puck had one thing on his mind: Santana. Another hour went by. It wasn't getting any better. Why had she left? Why hadn't he done something? How would things have turned out if they'd just stayed in Lima? They'd probably be married or something, in a volatile destructive relationship with a couple of neglected kids. Maybe it was good they'd spent this time apart. They were both matured, both more responsible. This was getting ridiculous; it was obvious he still cared for her. He had to do something about it.

She was thinking the same thing. She hadn't dropped a grand on this custom Temperpedic, stress-relieving bed for nothing that wasn't working. She imagined what her life would be like if she had just stayed in Lima. No doubt she'd end up like her mother. And god, what could be worse? But was her life here worth it?

Then the door to her room creaked open. Santana stayed absolutely still; she didn't want him to know she was still awake. What could he want at this hour? She was determined to keep up this peacful façade. As far as Puck was concerned, she was going to be the famous supermodel that is so successful that she has absolutely nothing stressful in her life to keep her awake at night. Then he did something so surprising that she had to bite her lip to contain herself and hide her alertness, almost to the point where she tasted blood. He crawled into her bed and laid down right beside her, holding her tightly in his arms. She didn't say anything to him; she didn't even acknowledge his presence. All she did was succumb, and a sense of blissful nostalgia flooded through her. His warm body next to hers felt like coming home.

And soon after, they both fell asleep, just laying there. For him, it was the first time he'd gotten a good night's sleep, completely at rest. And for her, it was the first time she'd felt like nothing was missing.

The next morning was awkward, as expected. They both ignored what had happened the night before, because honestly, what did happen? Nothing. They just slept. In a bed. Together. She got up early, as always, and made coffee with her expensive cappuccino maker, although she really shouldn't have been consuming all those liquid calories. She was sitting at her coffee table, thumbing through this month's Elle, having spotted herself already three times. Once in a Tory Burch spread with Ilario. Yuck. She was waiting to leave for work. She didn't know if she should wake him, or tell him bye or something like that, before dashing out the door as fast as she could - again.

But before she got the chance to leave, he emerged from the bedroom. Sleep was still apparent in his eyes, but he looked as sexy as ever.

"Hey. Did you sleep well?" she asked, gesturing toward the cup of steaming coffee sitting across from her. His eyes lit up towards the pot of sustenance, and he took a seat.

"Yes, I did. What about you?" he asked.

"I slept…perfectly," she said, her coquettish eyes peeking out from the coffee mug she was holding in front of her face.

"Santana," he started.

"Yeah?"

"Why did you leave?" he asked, point-blank. He needed to know if chasing her was a lost cause. Because after last night, he was completely and totally ready to pursue something real with her, something that would end up right.

"Oh. So you want to talk about that…"she said, stalling for time. She wasn't expecting that. So they were talking about that now? Did they really have to?

"It's been a month. Don't you think we should?" he said. They'd put off this crucial conversation for far too long.

"I suppose. You know why I left. I had to. I wouldn't have lasted five more minutes in Lima. There wasn't anything there for me," she said. There, a standard answer. He couldn't blame her for that.

"I was there!" It all sounded like something he'd heard before. She really needed some new reasons.

"We would have gotten sick of each other eventually, Puck, like we always do," she said wistfully.

"You don't know that," he replied. She didn't. In fact, they were doing really well back then. It almost seemed like they were in it for the long run. And she knew, deep down, that maybe he was it for her. Which is why she ran, partially at least. She couldn't be held down by anyone. Nobody could derail her, nobody would stop her. She had to think with her head, not her heart.

"You would have done the same thing," she said firmly, trying to end the conversation. This was rehashing too many memories. She felt scared, and she hated being scared.

"Maybe, but I wouldn't have done it the way you did. We never heard from you again!" he protested.

"That's not true. I sent you a letter!" she exclaimed, her coffee sloshing in her mug.

"Yeah. Once, with 12 tickets to nationals. Perfect for our 11-member team. No "Hey, I'm doing well, how about you?" or "I miss you." Not a single word," he said accusingly. So it was a pathetic comeback. Whatever.

"Well, I'm sorry, okay? It was hard. I didn't know what to tell you. It wasn't like I was living it up, going to hotshot parties and making bank every night. It wasn't like that at all. In fact, it was fucking miserable. What was I going to tell you, after what I had done? Imagine the postcard! Hey, I abandoned you for nothing! Glad you haven't committed suicide already from being stuck in Lima!" she yelled. It felt good, getting all of this out after keeping it in for so long.

Silence.

"Well, I'm glad you got all that out. It seems like you needed it. Oh, and by the way, committing suicide in Lima is redundant," he said smugly. That bastard.

"Smartass," she said sneeringly, calming down. She had hit her climax, and now she was over it again. It was the story of their relationship. Extreme highs and lows, with patches of passiveness in between.

"Maybe it was good what you did, maybe it was worth it. I mean, look at how you turned out. You're a fucking star. And at least I'm not in Lima anymore. Whatever we have now is better than what we could've had together back home," he commented, not sure if he really believed that.

"Yeah. Does this mean you forgive me?" she asked quietly.

"I wasn't aware you were asking, but sure" he said, but his tone convinced her otherwise.

"Okay, well I'm going to work. See you tonight," she said, getting up to put her coffee mug in the sink. She dropped it in, making a heavy clunk sound.

"See you," he said as she walked out the door.

She was distracted at work, and Katie noticed. She still did her job well though, and the pictures turned out amazing. If she was at all disappointed or sad, the average Joe flipping through the Victoria's Secret catalogue wouldn't have noticed.

"What's wrong?" Katie asked during break.

"Nothing," Santana said, blowing her off. Katie gave her a look.

"Okay, fine. We got in our first fight, if you could even call it that. Me and Puck. I think we both agree that everything is my fucking fault, so it's not even an argument," she confessed.

"Well, what was the fight about?" Katie knew that Santana and Puck had a history, but she wasn't completely aware of all the details. She listened intently as Santana filled her in about how she only blamed herself for "ruining his life."

"Oh come on, I'm sure he doesn't blame you. And don't you think you're being a little selfish now too? Surely, you didn't make him join the army. You couldn't have been that important. Sorry, but he made his own decisions, regardless of whatever you did," Katie asserted. It was the second time today Santana hadn't expected what had been said to her. Both comments had come from people who genuinely cared about her, and both were exactly what she needed to hear, even if she didn't want to. So her ego had gotten a little big.

"That's true, but what happened is still because of me. It's funny, because we didn't care half as much about each other as we do now, and we're not even dating. We rarely even talk about anything important. It's like everything we say is so cautious. As if we say one wrong, touchy thing accidentally, everything will fall apart again."

"This was important. It'll be okay," reassured Katie.

And Katie was right, because that night, he once again joined her in bed again in the wee hours of the night, both of them becoming totally at rest. And the night after that. And the night after that.

So here's so questions to think about, answer if you want (I LOVE READING THESE):

1) What is "home"? (Is it a place? Or an experience? Or maybe with a person?) Everyone has one, so think hard!

2) Consider the two places Santana has ever lived. Which is more her home: Lima or her suave New York apartment? That is, what do each of these places reveal about where she is in her life?

PLEASE REVIEW! We're at 43 now, think we can get to 50? Please and thank you, :)