A/N: The songs I mentioned in this chapter are awesome and lay an amazing soundtrack for it. Soooo, if you're bored, GO FIND THEM AND LISTEN TO THEM AND HAVE ALL THE FEELS:

Maroon 5, "Sugar"

Bruno Mars, "Locked Out of Heaven"

Phil Vassar, "I'll Take That as a Yes (the Hot Tub Song)"

AND

Toby Keith, "When You Kiss Me Like This"

God, Puck thought. I'm like, on a fucking see-saw this whole damn week. AND IT JUST KEEPS GOING.

He sighed jaggedly, exhaustedly. "So now what?" he muttered.

Rachel's cheek was still resting on his knee as she pondered his question. Now what, indeed.

Her life hasn't always been this…theatrical.

Has it, though? Anything that involves Noah Puckerman and her, well, it's always been something.

Not hard. It's never been hard to have Noah in her life.

Well, Finn made it a little difficult, but that's neither here nor there.

Anyway, her and Puck's interactions have always been...

Dramatic. Volatile. Charged.

Something.

She's never really stopped and thought about their similarities.

He flies off the handle at the slightest of things.

But...well. Maybe I do too.

He argues stubbornly, my goodness, so stubbornly and passionately. Even if, especially if, he is wrong. (Which he is. Most of the time).

(Maybe).

But, all right, I suppose I do the same. Sometimes.

He argues back with me.

No one really….does. They usually give up, shut down, chalk my passion up to my egocentricities.

Mock my egocentricities.

Define me by my egocentricities.

Rachel knows she is an overly dramatic person. She considers it part of her charm, a blessing, per se. She can be a little (fine, maybe more than a little) self-absorbed. But, also, very empathetic. Sensitive. (often times, to a fault).

But no one notices that. True, her intentions were...are... sometimes a little misguided or cloudy, but they always came from a place of compassion.

His do, too. I've seen that Noah Puckerman heart. It's there.

No one notices it though.

She bit the inside of her cheek, an unconscious Pavlovian response to not open her mouth and let words escape. That's what normally happens. Her mouth starts and can't stop.

Becca yelled from downstairs. "Guys, food's gettin' cold!"

They're still sitting there. I don't even fucking know what to say to her right now, thought Puck. I mean. God, I was a dick. He didn't want to move. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to do anything, because the minute he does something, there's a damn good chance he will fuck something up.

Rachel shook herself out of her fog and hopped up. "Come on," she said, holding out her hand. "Dinner?"

Puck accepted her hand, holding it maybe a little too long. I can do dinner. I can't fuck up fried rice. Well, I can, but. Yeah.

Damn, her hands are so little. And soft.

Shit, Puckerman.

He remembers briefly how she came to the funeral. How she held his hand there, too. How she was there.

He dropped her hand as they walked down the stairs.

You just broke up with Quinn, he reminded himself.

Rachel hung back as Puck and his sister unpacked the Chinese food. She liked watching them interact - playful, silly. She smiled at the comfortable, relaxed way he taunted Becca, and how she gave it right back to him. The way he shoved Becca's head, teasingly, then plucked a piece of chicken out of her lo mein and popped it in his mouth.

And, my oh my, that jaw, she thought appreciatively, as she watched him. Who knew the mere act of chewing could be so….hot.

He winked at her as he stole another piece of chicken while Becca was at the fridge. Rachel half rolled her eyes at him, but with a smile.

He's leaving to go back to base soon.

I need to live in the now. Like he told me that first night. And if history repeats itself, we're both going to leave Lima and leave this "us", and I'm not sure I want to spend the last moments of an "us" trying to analyze and drudge up the past.

I want to know, though. I want to know what's going on in his mind and if he feels this...whatever "this" is, too.

Because if it were up to me?

I wouldn't just let "this" end the minute he steps on a plane.

She didn't realize she was still staring at him until Noah's eyes met hers as they were sitting down to the meal. Rachel suddenly felt exposed, like he could hear her every thought. She looked away, fiddling with a piece of hair, tucking it behind her blush-tinged ear.

I suppose it's not up to me.

When she lifted her eyes again, though, he was still watching her, and she felt a wave of warmth rush through her.

But if he means to me what I think he might mean to me, I'm going to try very hard not to mess it up.

He's living in the fucking Twilight Zone. That's the only explanation for the fact that, right now, he's sitting at his old kitchen table with the cracked plastic seats. With Becca. And Rachel Berry.

And that earlier this week, his hands were all in Rachel's panties and then she sucked his dick and then, damn, the shower, and then he dumped Quinn and then he flipped out on Rachel and she said fuck, like, a hundred times and even though she was pissed at him, it made him a little hard cause he likes it when she says fuck.

And now they're eating dinner together and Bec is telling stories about him when he was younger and Rachel is all laughing and smiling and sparkly shit and every now and then she smiles at him and when she does it just makes something in him jump and what the fuck is this life he is living.

Twilight fucking Zone.

And, man, his ma is gonna go all apeshit happy when she comes home and sees this.

Oh.

Oh.

Right. Fuck.

His mom's not here.

That's the really, super shitty part about this all.

The Rachel part and the Chinese food and all the hot and sexy time all this week, all that is damn good, damn fiiiiiiine.

But his mom's not here.

And not coming back.

She'd be so happy to see this all right now. So fucking happy 'cause, yeah, Becca was right, his ma fucking loved the shit out of Rachel. They'd come home from temple and before she'd even drop her purse on the couch, his mom would hold his face with her hands and start in about that sweet Jewish girl Rachel Berry, "how pretty she is, Noah," "what a perfect match she'd be for you, Noah," "Her fathers are just such wonderful men," "One day, you'll see, bubbeleh, you'll see how good she is for you," and, the kicker, "oh, she is such a better girl than that Santana you've been hanging around with." He would roll his eyes and tell her to, seriously, cut it out, but then, Ma would kiss him on the cheek and say, "I just want you to be happy, Noah." He'd shake her off and then run upstairs to call Santana for a little somethin' somethin'.

He shoves a forkful of fried rice in his mouth, and starts to jiggle his knee under the table, maybe a little too emphatically. Bec gives him a questioning look when the table jostles, and he forces himself to stop.

He's not about to say his ma was right.

But, ok, so maybe he's definitely not saying she's wrong, either.

They were on the couch watching some absent minded reality television ("Oh my goodness, I love Chopped!" she had squealed when he passed through the Food Network during channel surfing. Her head was in his lap so it's not like he was going to not stop on that cause, fuck, head. In. Lap). He was sitting up on the couch with his legs perched on the coffee table, while she was all curled up like a comma next to him.

He's basically zoned out on sweet and sour pork from dinner, and feels like one of those big lazy basset hound dogs that plop around all drunk-like. Rachel is soft and snuggly on him and, fuck, he likes that, even without all the sexual shit it implies. She smells good and she feels good and, whatever.

"So, um," Rachel hesitated, then started again. "When do you leave?" She couldn't see the look on his face, but she felt his leg tense and then relax, briefly, fleetingly.

"Tomorrow," he replied, subdued. "My flight is tomorrow night."

They were both quiet, the tv framing their silence with sizzles, clangs and claps.

What is my next move? She ponders. Should I...do I bring up the question of us, us in the face of both our departures?

But before she could come up with a gameplan, he starts to talk again, his voice was low. "I'm not a dick, Rachel."

She lifted her head up from his lap and looked at him, eyebrows furrowed. "Noah, I never thought you were," She paused momentarily reconsidering. "Well, I mean, when you threw slushies in my face, that was...vicious, but -"

"No, I mean," He sighed. "I mean." He stops again and closes his eyes. "I don't fucking know."

"Ok…" she slowly replied. What is he getting at here?

"I broke up with Quinn," he said. "I can't...whatever this...I mean...I just…" What the fuck am I trying to say? Jesus, spit it out, dude.

He can't find the words. Well, maybe he can, but, fuck, no, he'll just...

It's easier if he just...

Puck leans forward and kisses her. His hand is flat against her back while his fingertips tug her in closer, closer, and Rachel's eyes flutter, her lashes brushing against his cheek. She crawls into his lap, her knees resting on each side of him.

It shouldn't need to be all angst and drama, she thought. But...but if that's what it has to be, to actually, to be, then….ok, maybe then...ok.

She's shocked at how much of her life can turn around in the span of a few days. If someone would have told me last week that this is who - and what - I'd be spending my nights with, and my days analyzing...

But maybe this has been long in coming.

The more time I spend with him, the more I see Noah, and the more I fall.

I wonder. I wonder if things had been different….if I had...what if I had given him a chance before? Or if we found a chance to spend more time….I mean….was this always there and I just didn't notice?

I just want to know how he feels about this too.

Rachel breaks the embrace. "Let's go out," she announces.

Puck's confused. "Out? It's 9:30."

"So? You got a bedtime, Cinderella?" She gave him a teasing smile and there's that jumpy shit that happens to him.

"Like...out to Dairy Queen or something?" Fuck yeah, I could totally go for one of those blizzards.

"No. No, let's go...let's go to a bar."

"What?"

Rachel jumps up from his lap. "Since when does the great Noah Puckerman turn down an invitation to go to a bar? It's your last night off. I know you can't barhop that often on base," She grins at him. "Things have been so…" she chooses her words carefully, thoughtfully. "...heavy around here, I think we should go out and have some fun. Blow off some steam."

Blow, eh?

She shimmies over to him and takes his hands."Maybe dance a little bit…"

"I don't dance, Rach."

"I remembered seeing that booty shake in Glee Club...come on Noah…" Rachel gives him the puppy eyes and he's a goner. "Please?"

He likes the way her booty shakes, so, ok, fine.

She's driving, since he sold his truck before boot camp, and he feels like a tool sitting in the passenger seat of her white Prius. They stop at her dad's apartment ("Be right back, just want to change!") and she runs (and bounces and jiggles...hell yeah) upstairs and takes entirely too long. But then, she comes back out, her coat unbuttoned, and he can see this floaty lace black shirt thing on with tight curvy ass jeans and then, damn, there're these knee high boots and, ok, hips and that ass and ohh-kay, yes, this will be fiiiiine.

I want to have fun, she decided, when she was up in her bedroom, throwing her meager suitcase wardrobe around, thanking her lucky stars for bringing a pair of skinny jeans. I want to just let loose and forget all of this pressure that I am putting on this situation.

And perhaps this evening could lead to some sort of closure.

Rachel zips up her knee high black boots and examines herself in the mirror, fluffing her hair.

Mmm, perhaps a sexual closure.

Her inner voice is much more honest lately. She spreads grape-flavored lipgloss on and adds a little more mascara, ignoring the impatient honk of her car outside.

Fine. Be honest Rachel. You want, so very badly, to just do the dirty with Noah Puckerman.

She jogged back out to the Prius, flashing him a smile as she slid into the driver's seat. His eyes run appreciatively over her body, and when he smirks at her, she just about rips her clothes off right then and there. Instead, Rachel buttons her coat up and puts the car into gear.

My God, yes.

So maybe a more...comfortable bar atmosphere will assist that.

There's not exactly a happening bar scene in Lima, OH, so she drives past the coffee shops and that new "trendy" (aka, overly priced, she thought, crinkling her nose as she passes it) martini bar they just put in by the Breadstix.

The Liberty Tavern was one of those stereotypical hole in the wall bars where the fanciest beer they serve is Coors Light and they have one of those mechanical bulls you could ride for $5. It's certainly not a bar that Rachel would have chosen for a Girls Night Out (the clientele tend to be a little...coarse, in her opinion). In any other situation, Rachel would have completely foregone that scene for something a little more female friendly, but she knows Puck has frequented the place.

Also, they have a jukebox. And Rachel loves jukeboxes, because that means she gets to take charge of the setlist.

Rachel loves to be in charge.

As she pulls into the (surprisingly full) parking lot, she pep talks herself because, yes, she is still Rachel Berry. No questions. No drama. Just let the night unfold.

She smiles brightly at her passenger. "Here!"

He's curious as to how Rachel Berry knows of that honky tonk dive bar on the edge of Lima Heights, but when she puts the car in park, all he sees again are those black boots and if this is where she wants to go, ok. He's been here, probably more often than he's willing to admit, cause they never carded and, ok it was hella easy to get one of these chicks to give him a hummer in the mens room. Not that he ever needed any assistance but seriously.

Puck figured she'd be more of a hipster type bar person, being all NYC and shit, or at least choose one of those bars downtown.

For a brief moment, he gets all self conscious. Is she slumming with me or something? Fuck that noise, she ashamed of me?

As soon as those thoughts cross his mind, he's disgusted with himself.

Jesus Christ, Puckerman. Who are you?

So he follows her inside as she hops her little ass on a barstool. Puck curls his arm around her, resting a hand on her hip (because, damn she's so fucking cute) and drops a $20 on the bar. "Whatcha want, babe?"

She doesn't even hesitate. "Long Island iced tea."

He's surprised, to say the least. LIT, that's hardcore for a little midget like her. "Rachel, that's -"

She tosses a defiant look at him. "I know what it is, Noah Puckerman, and that's what I want."

Well ok then.

She needs some beer muscles. Liquor muscles. Whatever it is. It's their last night.

And maybe I want to finally have sex with Noah Puckerman. And maybe I haven't actually been waiting more than, what, a few days, really, but maybe I've also been waiting more like a few years, and, for that? I need some liquid courage.

Like every other time before, every other time that we've gotten close, this is going to end abruptly and hastily. I know it will. I don't want regrets.

I don't want it to end this time.

Did I ever want it to?

She downs half her drink in one gulp. The bar doesn't exactly have a dance floor but that's not going to stop her. Rachel wants to dance.

This girl is cruising to get plastered and what the fuck for?

And she's going to be all grabby hands on him and he's not going to want to say no and this might be the time he doesn't.

He hesitantly turns away from the bar counter to follow her.

She's shimmied and shook and wiggled and twirled her way around him, and around approximately two more LITs.

Puck's not complaining. The way she rubs against him and slides up and down? Fuck yes. He's no Fred Astaire, but dancing is like sex, and he sure as shit knows his way around that rodeo, no pun intended. He can move his hips pretty damn well, and he's just following her lead and that ass of hers is making it easy as fuck to grind against her.

And also? It's like the jukebox knows, 'cause it keeps playing songs that aren't all old school cracker country music. These are like, bump-and-grind tunes. There was some Maroon 5, that Bruno Mars song with the Jackson 5 vibe, and this one country song he really likes, about the chick in a hot tub. Then he started thinking about Rachel in a stringy little bikini, so he pulled her closer and dipped her at the waist all "Dirty Dancing" style (so maybe he's seen that movie before, shut up) and she squeaked, "Noah!" in this adorable-as-fuck voice and, fuck, he is in trouble.

He sees the flush in her cheeks when he spins her around during their fifth song in a row, her bright eyes, the giddy smile on her face, and he can't help but smirk and wiggle his eyebrows at her. So his hands, his arms, they glide into places on her body, and he brings her into his hips, so she can feel exactly the effect her dancing is having on him.

He lowers his head to whisper in her ear. "Baby, you don't even know the things you are doing to me right now." His breath against her neck sends shivers down her back.

And then she bites her lower lip and he knows and she knows, and damn, does she know because those darkly lined eyes and thick lashes are total "fuck me eyes" and yeah. Yeah. We're done here.

He's not sure he can hold out much longer. Or wants to. Well, he's never wanted to hold out, but, you know, he's trying to be honorable and shit.

She giggles. "But I want to dance more, Noah," and her begging? Almost as much of a turn on as those fucking boots, for real.

"We're done dancing here, sexy," he raises his eyebrow. "I'm gonna go hit the bathroom and then. Home."

She giggled again. "Ohhh, kay," Rachel grins. "I'll get my coat."

While Puck goes to the restroom, Rachel heads back to the bar, in desperate need of an ice water for her alcohol parched throat. She lifts her hair up and fans herself.

Home. Her head is fuzzy, a combination of drinks, dancing, adrenaline, and desire. She recalls a line from a song they've sang before, in Glee, and it floats in her head: Home is wherever I'm with you.

Her dad had always said, "Drunkenness reveals what soberness conceals," and maybe she's had just enough drinks to get herself honest, truly honest.

She's in love with Noah Puckerman. She's always been.

Rachel takes out her compact and lipgloss, when an arm slides around her waist, and an unfamiliar smell of cigarettes and scotch curls into her nostrils. "Hey there, good lookin'."

Fuck this shit. It's getting old playing this, "well behaved" game.

He wants to have sex with Rachel.

He doesn't want to fuck her, per se.

To be honest, he's never wanted to fuck Rachel Berry.

After seeing Berry down that first Long Island Iced Tea, Puck made sure to limit himself to only one drink. He can handle himself after a substantial amount of liquor, but apparently he needs to be his brain and Rachel's brain, and that's a lot of brain to be responsible for.

He's thinking crystal clearly as he rinses his hands and leaves the bathroom.

Don't know where this is all going. But I'm not gonna fuck it up.

You hear that, ma?

I'm not gonna fuck this up.

But then he walks back to the bar counter and sees this flannel-shirted asshole with his arms all around Rachel and whispering something into her ear and his fucking mouth is way too close to her neck and yeah, he wants to fuck something up alright. In about two strides, he's reached the bar and grabs the guy by his shirt collar.

"Get the fuck away from her, douchebag," he growls.

"Noah!" Rachel is astonished. In fact, her incredulity is pissing Puck off even more, because, fuck, what the fuck did she think he was going to do?

"You mean you want this shithead all over you?" He snaps at Rachel.

"Noah, don't talk to me that way," She hates this, "I am man, I protect you," vibe. She is perfectly capable of handling situations herself.

"Hey, man, it's a free country!" Flannel protests. "Chick can talk to whoever she wants, chill the fuck!" he shakes off Puck, and goes back to stand near (too fucking near) Rachel, leaning on the bar. "So, as I was saying, baby…"

"I said, leave, asshole." Rachel could see Puck's fingers curling into a fist and she grabs his arm and slides off of the stool.

"Puck!" Rachel entreats, warningly. "Puck, I can handle this myself, he wasn't -"

In a flurry of activity, Puck shoves Flannel, Flannel pushes Puck back, and Puck raises a fist, but, thankfully, just in time the bartender is involved, pushing the two of them apart.

"Dude, the fuck," Flannel shakes off and adjusts his shirt. "Jesus, I don't see no label on her ass."

Rachel glowers, because, ugh, all this testosterone. "That's because I am no one's property, and furthermore I am not a 'chick', nor a piece of real estate, and don't you dare disrespect a woman by talking to her in such a demeaning manner-"

The bartender raised his voice. "Cool it, all of you, before I have to call the cops." He has one hand on the phone behind the bar, and the look on his face means business.

"Whatever, man, I'm leaving," Flannel threw a nasty look at Puck, his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I'm done here." He throws a last, lecherous look at Rachel that makes her stomach curdle. "She's hot, but not worth this bullshit."

Oh, you better leave, motherfucker. His hands are so tightly balled into fists and fuck, what the fuck does this asshole even know, saying she's not worth it. Does he even have eyeballs, seriously, the fuck?

Cool it, calm your shit, Puckerman.

So, fine, he won't run after him and pummel his crap face in. But Noah Puckerman always gets the last word in a fight. "Fuck you, asshole," he called out after him, and wraps his arm around Rachel's waist, who shakes it off, pushing him away.

"Excuse me, Noah Puckerman!" Rachel is livid and her arms are flailing. "I do not appreciate the way you just…"

Oh shit. She's saying something and her voice has that high and shrill tone.

It's just when he saw that asshole's arm around her and all whispering in her ear and then it looked like she was giggling, and just.

Fuck.

He just doesn't want anyone else's hands on her, ok?

Fuck.

Fine. Fine.

So maybe he. Ok. Fine.

And maybe when he saw that happen at the bar, he thought about it happening when she goes back to New York. Back to New York, where he's not.

"Noah, are you even listening to me?!"

He likes how she calls him Noah. He doesn't like when anyone else does. Quinn tried to once and then he called her Lucy, and she got real pissed, so that was the end of that.

Fuck, she's still talking in that voice and I may have just fucked everything up. Fix this shit you shitted up, Puckerman.

Puck's departure cuts Rachel off mid sentence. She sees him walk over to the jukebox, shove a dollar in and pound on some keys.

Rachel inflames even more. How dare he walk away from me! How dare he act like a complete paleolithic imbecile! And I need to STOP finding his jaw-clenching so sexy. Get it together, Rachel Barbra Berry!

She fumbles in her purse for her phone to call a cab. I'm going home. My home. This is ridiculous, he is so utterly arrogant in thinking that I cannot defend myself. So maybe that man was completely not her type, and, yes, she was technically here with Noah, but really, it's not like she's in a relationship with him. Because he refuses to talk about that.

And I could have handled that guy if he got too close. Why, just before Noah intervened, I was getting ready to very politely show him my disinterest.

Her inner voice is torn between anger and reasoning. That creep's hand lingered on your behind even after you told him you weren't interested though.

I would have been fine! I have mace! Noah did not have to come threaten his life and act as though I was some defenseless damsel in distress! If that's all he thinks I am, then maybe I was wrong about -

In the midst of her internal diatribe, Puck's face appears before her, and he takes her hand, pulling her away from the bar counter. "Noah, I am absolutely disgusted by your behavior and -"

She is disarmed as he stops short and turns to face her, wrapping his arms around her waist, bringing her in close, holding her tightly. The slow twang of a guitar and a piano float throughout the bar.

"And what exactly are you doing?" She's trying to stand still and put her hands on her hips, but her attempts are futile, and he begins to sway her.

"Just shut up and dance with me," he murmured.

He's calm. Quiet. His jaw is relaxed, his tension is gone, and she sees Noah.

Noah.

She starts to melt into him a little more with the music, and, finally succumbs, clasping her hands around the nape of his freshly shaven hairline. She closes her eyes and rests her head against his chest. He grazes his fingertips up and down her spine, one hand remaining still in the small of her back. Rachel takes in a deep breath.

Yes. Perhaps I contribute my own fair share of drama to this. She realizes. And baggage.

Just tell me, Noah. Tell me what's going on here, with us. Tell me if you feel the way I do in this entire thing. Practically an entire lifetime of emotions have shot straight through me in one week.

The whole point of coming to a bar was to attempt to ignore the anxiety surrounding his impending departure tomorrow. She thought sex with him tonight would be enough closure for her. I suppose I can't be that type of girl.

And I suppose this can't be that type of relationship.

She vaguely recognizes the song. It's a Toby Keith song; her daddy has a soft spot for rip-your-heart-out country music. She and Dad always teased him endlessly about his guilty pleasure, but truth is, Rachel loves the raw and honest emotion that flows through a good country song.

There's a different feeling 'bout you tonight...s'got me thinking lots of crazy things

It's a familiar song, but she still can't quite place it.

"Noah, you didn't have to be so….I mean….I was handling it myself," She quietly began, before he silenced her again, rubbing his hand up and down her back, and the warm breath in his whisper tickles her neck.

"Shh."

You shouldn't kiss me like this unless you mean it like that

Oh. Ohhhhh. This song. She knows this song.

We'll be lost on this dance floor, spinning a round, and around, and around, and around…

It was her junior year. Rachel had just found out about Finn and Santana being...she couldn't even say it.

Intimate.

She was so hurt by Finn losing his virginity to her, of all people, Santana, flipping Lopez. Finn was supposed to be hers, true, they hadn't been together at that very moment in time, but they are now. At least, they were, until this disaster.

RachelandFinn are, were, a modern day fairy tale, and fairy tales have a happy ending. Fairy tales don't have your prince screwing your arch nemesis. Your antithesis. My goodness, did he even ever love me? How could Finn swear his love to me and do that to….Santana?

Sex should be accompanied by love. Sex should be with someone you do love.

My God, does he love her?

He can't love her. Can he? He's supposed to love me, this isn't the way things should be!

She was so angry, so upset on her walk home from school, praying and hoping the house would be empty so that she could wallow in the unfairness of her life. To her dismay, Rachel opened the door to see her daddy dusting to the beat of the stereo blasting throughout the living room.

Of course, as soon as he saw her tear stained, red face, he dropped the dust cloth and attended to her, and (parts of) her tale of heartbreak tumbled out as she hiccupped and cried on the couch.

"How could he do that to me?" She asked painfully. "I thought he loved me. I was so happy, so happy that someone finally loved me back. He's mine….he was supposed to be mine, the love of my life."

There was a silence in the room as Rachel sniffled angrily and the stereo clicked, switching to the next song.

"Babydoll, there are lots of people who love you," Daddy started. "You're young, sweetheart, and even if Finn isn't the end all, be all, there will be someone out there who will love you, someone who will put you above everyone and everything else."

"Well it certainly doesn't feel like it," she muttered, wiping tears away with the back of her hand. Slow pianic melody filled the room, and Rachel's breathing slowed as she tried to focus on the music to calm herself.

You shouldn't kiss me like this unless you mean it like that

Terrific, she thought bitterly. A love song. The last thing I need to hear right now. She leaned her head against her father's shoulder and closed her eyes. It's true, the only man a girl can truly trust is her daddy.

And her other dad.

Finn was supposed to be her fairy tale. Rachel Berry always gets the solos, the awards, the medals. But never the guy. Even when things were finally looking up for her.

Maybe I should just accept the fact that fame and fortune will be my spouse. Maybe I should accept that there is no one for me, that will understand and love me.

"I promise you, Rachel. I promise you, there is someone out there just. For. You." Her daddy squeezed her hand and tapped her on her nose to punctuate his point, and she couldn't help it, she let a (very small) smile blossom her face.

I hope you're right, Daddy. I'm so lonely sometimes.

He pulled her up by her hand. "Dance with me, babydoll, let's dance that sadness away!" He spun her in time with the song and Rachel allowed a full grin.

Spinning a round and around and around and around…

"Trust me, my girl, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but you'll find him." Her dad winked. "Or her. Whomever it is. There's someone out there for you. Love isn't always neat and tidy, and neither is Prince Charming."

The song ended, and Rachel pulled away from Puck, staring. "What exactly was that?"

"What? I wanted to dance," He replied, a little defensively.

"That wasn't just a dance, Noah," she said accusingly. "And that little scene beforehand? What was that, too?"

Why am I angry? Why am I so mad right now?

Puck sighed. "Rachel, I just." He paused. "Can't we just go home?"

I'm done, she thought. I'm done not knowing.

She wordlessly handed him her keys.

The drive back to the Puckerman house was quiet.

When Berry is quiet, shit's about to go down.

Sometimes, it's good, sexy shit.

Most of the time, though, it's talking about your feelings shit.

He braces himself for the latter.

He's driving through downtown Lima when Rachel starts.

"Noah. We need to talk."

Fucking knew it was coming.

"'kay. Talk."

"Why did you pick that song?"

"What song?"

"You know what song," She cocked her head at him. "That song. I know you chose it on the jukebox."

"Just a song, Berry. Don't mean nothing." He tries to defend himself nonchalantly.

"You're a liar." Rachel narrowed her eyes.

"I saw you choosing songs on the jukebox too. I ain't giving you the third degree."

"That's different. I chose fast songs."

"So I wanted to dance a slow song with you. So?"

"So you were completely irrational and borderline psychotic with that gentleman at the bar, and then you just happen to get the urge to dance with me to a song, a slow song in which the lyrics perfectly summarize this push-and-pull we have going on, and you expect me not to question your motives?"

"Talk English."

"Don't play stupid with me, Noah."

He grimaced. "So I just don't like when another guy has his hands all on you, ok? So sue me!"

"You were jealous." Rachel pointed at Puck.

"Jealous? Really, Rachel." He scoffed. Ok, fine, so I was.

"But you know what, Noah? You're not allowed to be jealous!"

He doesn't respond, but jerks the wheel and takes a turn a little too sharply.

She turned in the seat and glares at him. I'm done with this game. "You're not allowed to be jealous until we have the conversation we've been dodging all damn week!"

He rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. "And what conversation is that?"

"Why won't you have sex with me." It was a statement. She already knew the answer; she wanted, needed, him to say it.

"Seriously, Rachel? That? We fucking talked about that!"

"No we didn't."

"Hello, crazy, a few hours ago?"

"That wasn't good enough." Rachel folded her arms and flopped back in her seat. She saw Puck tighten his jaw and swallow, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel.

"What the fuck, you want me to be an encyclopedia or something?"

"What's stopping you? From all of this. From going ahead and actually saying and doing how you feel? Because, I don't know, Noah, we get close, so close, and you pull away at the last moment and I can't gauge how you feel about me! And you do these things to me and my body, and you kiss me like there's something...you just...you don't say anything and I can't exactly gather your intentions from merely actions!"

"You're not exactly an open fucking book, yourself, Berry. Maybe not all of us can use big fat words like you do all the damn time."

"Don't turn this around on me!"

He stops at a red light and throws his arms in the air."I told you in my room before! What more do you want from me?"

"What I want from you is to know. What. Exactly. Is. Stopping you." Her voice turns low, pleading with him, and he can't feign indifference any longer.

"You, all right! You're stopping me! It's you! I don't want it to just be a random one and done fuck, ok! Is that what you want to hear?!" His words just come pouring out all at once, like a flood.

"I'm always your fucking mistake, Rachel. Every damn time. And I know if we have sex, it's going to turn into another one of your 'mistakes'," He makes finger quotes. "And, fuck it, I don't want to be a mistake this time!" His voice is tinged with anger and an edge of…

Desperation? Is that desperation I'm hearing in his voice? Maybe this is...maybe he feels...

She remains wide eyed and silent as he continues. "And you know what?" He points to her, ignoring the green light and honking cars behind them. "I don't fucking think you want it to be a mistake this time, either. You don't exactly look at me like a fucking nun, Rachel, but I don't see you professing any shit.

"I don't want no other guy to be talking to you. I don't want no other guy to even fucking look at you. I want to talk to you. I want to look at you. I want to touch you and I want to hold you. And I don't want to go back to Texas tomorrow with another fucking mistake, again, this time because, fuck, I'm not a dick and I'm trying to not. Fuck. This. Up."

The cars are swerving past them now, middle fingers and obscene gestures flashing in the windows. The honking horns continue.

"Um," Rachel starts out timidly, quietly. "Um. The light's…"

He shoves his foot on the gas and the car lurches forward. "I get angry, ok? I'm not good at any of this shit and I just get angry and my words come out and I'm just not good at fucking words, ok?"

Oh. Oh my. Ok.

Ok.

"And I just broke up with Quinn, and, fuck, I don't miss her or regret that shit but, seriously, it's not supposed to happen, shit's not supposed to happen this way. My mom's supposed to be alive and all this week, just, God! Fuck!" He pounded the steering wheel again.

She knows she has to say something. He just poured his heart out to her, essentially, in his own Noah Puckerman way.

But before she can say anything, he's turning into the driveway. Puck gives her one last, long look after putting the gear shift into park. "And, fine, so maybe I did know that song and maybe I did choose it on purpose, so whatever, think whatever you fucking think." He throws the car door open and stalks out.

In a flash, the lyrics shoot through her mind.

When you kiss me like this

I think you mean it like that

If you do baby, kiss me again

He's at the front door fumbling with his keys. This is why I don't do fucking words and feelings and shit. He slid his key into the lock, and it won't turn. Fan-fucking-tastic. He pounds his fist against the door. I can't help myself and can't fucking shut up.

And there you go, ma, he thought miserably, angrily. There's your Puck, fucking things up again. He leans his forehead against the door and sighs. And now the fucking key is stuck in the damn lock.

Someone grabs him and spins him around, shoving his shoulders against the closed door. Rachel presses her lips against his, her hands gripping fistfuls of his shirt. She's kissing him, hard, insistent, and he can feel her chest heaving against him. She pulls away and looks him right in the eyes, a determined focus on her face as she enunciated every word.

"You are. Most certainly. Not. A mistake, Noah Puckerman."

Rachel wraps her arms around him tightly and starts kissing him again.

"I do mean it, Noah, I do, I do," She's whispering it over and over, breathing it into his mouth. "So not a mistake, so very much not a mistake..."

Oh. Ok. So maybe he didn't fuck this one up.

If my life were a movie, Rachel thinks, now would be the part where Noah scoops me up in his arms and carries me into his room to make passionate love to me.

But life's not a movie.

Instead, they're still wrapped around each other, all lips and tongues and hands and sighs, when the door suddenly opens from the other side, and Puck topples into the doorway, Rachel on top of him.

"Fuck me!" Puck swears, grimacing, and Rachel rolls off of him.

"Well, hey there, lovebirds," Becca's voice comes from above them. "Thought I heard you knock."

"Jesus, Bec!" Puck rubs his back. "I didn't knock, fuck!"

"Oh. Well. Sorry, I guess," She shrugged. "See ya." Becca turned away and walked up the stairs.

"Shit. God, that hurt like a motherfucker," Puck groaned again. "Rachel, you ok?"

Most of her fall was broken by his (delicious) body, so she wasn't in too much pain. "I'm fine. Are you…?"

"You're like, negative pounds, baby," he replied. "It hurt but. I'll live." He stretched and cracked his back, still sitting on the floor. Rachel stood over him, feeling self conscious, and scratched the back of her calf with the toe of her boot.

"So, um." She stammered. What is it about this boy that makes me so nervous?

Puck hopped up. "No um. Upstairs. Now." He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the stairs. "I want to hear more about how not a mistake I am." He smirked at her and raised his eyebrow. "Naked, of course."