Buzzing. You're absolutely buzzing as you make your way up the stairs. It's late. It's late and you have to be careful of the pressure on your stairs, because Mr. Shapiro downstairs complained to the landlord about your noise once, and you were mortified, because you had absolutely no idea that you were actually making any. You kissed her. You actually kissed her. You can't believe it. Just two days ago, you were perfectly content, just you and Otis, and now, now you can't get this girl out of your head.

You don't have any basis for comparison, but you're sure if you did, that would still be the best date in the world. She smiled so much, she laughed so much, and you think, you think, how nice it would be to hear it. But you push those thoughts down, because you can't hear it, you'll never hear it, and it would do you much better to focus on the sparkle of Santana's eyes. The soft crinkle of her forehead. Those perfect, perfect dimples on her cheeks. That's her laughter for you, and though it's soundless, you think that maybe, maybe it's more beautiful than any other laughter there could ever be.

You can taste her on your lips still. You can taste her on your lips, and it makes your heart race so fast that you're a little afraid you might have a heart attack. You hope Otis remembers how to call for help. Just in case. It wasn't a deep, passionate kiss, but it was your first. It was your first kiss, and it was soft, and gentle, and just— it was perfect. As you sink down onto the couch, Otis curling up on the floor beneath you, you still taste her, expensive lipstick, passion fruit, her. You're falling, falling, falling, and you think, even if you try to stop yourself now, you won't be able to. It's too late. Maybe it was always too late.

The whole night, you toss and turn. It might be ridiculous, but you can't help yourself. You want to text her. You want to see her again, as soon as possible, but, you've seen enough movies to know that reeks of desperation. So you wake up early, you leash up Otis, and you go for a run along the Schuylkill River, trying to clear all the buzzing in your mind and body.

It doesn't work. Not really. You're still thinking about her when you get home. You're still thinking about her in the shower. You're still thinking about her when you decide to take your pad and watercolors down to the park. She's in your head and she won't get out. Except you don't want her out. Not really. You mostly just want to text her. You mostly just want to ask her out on that second date.

You're spread out on the grass, pretty involved in a painting of a little boy flying a kite when you feel Otis tug at his leash around your wrist. You jerk your head up, and you don't expect it when you see Santana walking along the path in front of you. A smile pulls at your mouth, you can't help it, because she looks so casual, jean shorts and a black tank top, hair pulled back in a ponytail, big sunglasses covering half of her face. She doesn't see you, and you consider whether or not to call out her name. You don't get to decide. Otis makes the decision for you. Santana turns to look at you, and you know he barked, unsubtle jerk of a dog you have. You feel your cheeks flame when she lowers her sunglasses to look over at you. She shields her cup of coffee as she approaches, and you roll your eyes at her teasing little smirk.

Fancy meeting you here. She takes off her glasses and sinks down to her knees, so you can see her face. The artist at work.

"Nothing big." You shrug, and you don't bother to take your headphones out of your ears, because she knows it doesn't change anything, you don't have to put up a pretense.

Can I see? Santana drops the books she was carrying, and sets her coffee down, but doesn't try to look over your pad. You nod, lowering it so she can see what you're working on. Beautiful. She looks at your work, and then back up to your eyes. Tentatively, she reaches out to your face, and with her thumb, she wipes away what you know is a smudge of paint. You're always covered in it, your hair, your hands, your face, but, someone wiping it from your skin, that's new, and you shudder. You shudder in the best way possible, and you have to catch her hand up with your own. Hi.

"Hey." Your eyes lock with hers, and it makes you ache. It makes you ache like you've never ached before.

Hi, Otis. She reaches with her free hand to scratch his head, but she never tears her eyes from your face. I'm really happy to see you.

"Me too. Really glad. I wasn't sure if I should text you, or— I don't know the rules."

The rules are a waste of time, Santana tells you, and you think maybe she's huffing a little as she says it. You can text me whenever you want. I was going to text you this afternoon, just because I wanted to tell you again what a good time I had last night.

"I did too." You agree, though it's a little bit of a lie. Good doesn't describe it. Good doesn't even begin to describe it. "I. I hope you still want to go on that second date."

Santana smiles at you. She smiles at you and your body thrums, because you can feel she really means it. It's not that patronizing yes, dear smile your mom gives you. It's not the I'm sorry your mother wishes you were someone you can't be anymore but I can't help you, kid smile that you get from your dad. It's not that passing sympathetic smile you get from strangers or doctors. No. Santana smiles at you like she sees you, the person behind the headphones and the dog and the slowed response time. She smiles at you like you're a woman. Not a child. Not a charity case. And you can't believe that you've lived without the way it makes you feel for nearly all of your life.

Well, I would—Her lips twist into a wry look. But you haven't asked me yet.

"Oh." You pause, teasing back. You scratch Otis' head, you look around a little, all the while feeling Santana's eyes on you. In the moment, you consider asking her to go to dinner later in the week, but then. Then you think about what she said, about rules being a waste of time. You're both here now, and, the worst she can tell you is that she has other plans. "So, I was wondering. If, maybe, you want to have lunch with me this afternoon."

Brittany. Santana smiles again, you really want her to smile at you all the time, forever. I just so happen to have finished everything I had to do today this morning. I'd love to have lunch with you.

You begin gathering up your pencils, your paints, your papers that you've sort of spread out in the grass around you, and Santana watches you, intently. Under her gaze, you don't feel self-conscious. You don't feel awkward. You just feel like you're something really special. When you finally have everything put away, she begins to pick up her books, and then she freezes. She freezes, and she looks at you. She looks at you, almost like she's guilty of something, and you're confused. You're confused, until you see the spines of the books, and then you have to swallow hard, because you can feel tears pricking at the back of your throat. Sign Language for Everyone. The American Sign Language Phrase Book. A Complete Idiot's Guide to Conversational Sign.

"Santana."

I. I feel kind of dumb right now. I just— She casts her eyes down but keeps her head up, she doesn't mumble, so you can still understand her. I really like you. And. I didn't want to presume anything, but, I just really want to get to know you. I couldn't stop thinking about it last night, how you speak, and you read lips, because it's easier for me to understand you. But. I wanted to try and learn to speak your language, too. So it's easier for you. Now I'm pretty embarrassed though. We've only been on one date.

"Santana." You say her name again, and you wonder. You wonder if she can hear how awed you feel. You wonder if she can hear the tears in your throat. You wonder if she can even begin to understand just how—how everything this is to you. Your mother doesn't sign. Your sister doesn't sign. Your father tries, but, it's easier to just speak to him. But this woman. You've known her three days and she's just— You struggle to find words, because you're not sure there are any, but you need to say something. "Please don't be embarrassed. This is. The nicest thing. The nicest thing anyone has ever done for me."

What? She lifts her eyes back up, her eyes that search deep inside of you.

"It's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. Everyone always tries to make it easier, I guess, for me to fit in their world. But. No one has ever tried to fit in mine."

I would really like to fit in yours, Brittany.

"I'd really like that too, Santana."

You can't stop staring at her, you can't stop the feeling of your heart beating against your rib cage, you can't stop the swoop in your stomach that makes you feel like you're falling. And most importantly, you can't stop the urge you have to kiss her again. Your fingers twitch, like they need to touch her skin. They twitch, and you push yourself up on your knees and set your hands on her thighs. The sun-heated skin of her thighs against your palms makes you shiver. You're not used to being close to people like this. You're not used to so much physical contact. But, with Santana, you crave it more than anything. You feel her suck in air as you get close to her, and again, again, for the second time in twenty-four hours, your lips are on hers.

The kiss is different this time. It's not a sweet thank-you-for-a-wonderful-date kiss. It's not a slightly-unsure-first-kiss-of-your-life. It's an I-need-you-to-know-the-things-you-do-to-me kiss. It's an I-want-to-be-surrounded-by-you kiss. It's a kiss that causes a blooming in the pit of your stomach. A kiss that makes you part your lips, just slightly, so that you can drink more of Santana in. She brings her hands up to cup your face, and you sigh. You're in heaven. This has to be what it feels like. You just can't imagine a better feeling in all the universe. It doesn't last long. You're in public, after all. It doesn't last long, but it's perfect, and when you part, you remain lost in her eyes. You remain lost in those beautiful dark eyes of hers, and you see them dance as she smiles again.

So lunch?

"Yes, absolutely lunch."