You're trying. You'd told Santana you'd try, and you are. You're used to thriving on order and routine. It helps your world feel more in your control. But with her. With her it's different. You find you don't need as much. You find that you can be more flexible. You still see her almost every day. You show her the Dream Garden. She takes you to Chanticleer. You hold her hand in the street. She kisses you hello and goodbye. Good morning. Goodnight. I'll miss you. I'll see you tomorrow. You still don't have a word for what you are, but it's okay. It feels like something out of a storybook.

Except. Except you're scared. You're really scared. Terrified. Petrified. Paralyzed by it. When you leave her, you always think maybe, maybe it will be the last time. She's beautiful. She's sweet. She's so, so good to you. But. But you think of other girls. You think of how much better they could be for her. You think of the things they can give her that you can't. She can whisper her secrets into their ears. She can talk to them while she's driving. They can drive her places. They can listen to her sing. They can hear her radio show. They can be so much better for her than you can be. But. You can't stop yourself from falling further. You can't stop yourself from hoping, hoping. Hoping that she really means her words. Hoping that she really isn't going anywhere.

It's been over a month. Thirty-six days, to be exact, since you met her. The best thirty-six days of your life. You never stop thinking about her. You think about her while you run, while you paint, while you sip your coffee. She's everywhere. She's in your veins. She's under your skin. She's on your lips and in your hair. Santana Lopez is everywhere, and yet. Yet. You still can't get enough.

She starts work at five-thirty in the morning. You're impressed with her, because she confessed to you that she used to sleep until noon. But the morning slot on the radio is the very best one. The morning shows get the highest ratings. And a job like that? When she was offered it, she jumped on it in an instant. She jumped on it, and she trained herself to go to bed early. To wake up early. To drink lots of coffee. And she loves coffee. Maybe more than you. And you think one day. Maybe soon. If she's still here. Maybe soon, you want to ask her to stay the night. You want to wake up with her and make her coffee in the morning. You want to do other things before that, actually. But first, first you have to stop feeling so afraid.

You find a website. You can't believe you didn't know about it before. But then again. You never really had much interest in the radio. You play music in your head instead. Songs you remember from when you were young. Whitney Houston. Janet Jackson. Spin Doctors. 4 Non Blondes. Your musical dial is stuck on 1993. But you're glad. At least you can remember music at all. You didn't have any use for the radio. Until now. Until Santana. And so, you find a website. You can't believe it. It's a website that captions the radio. It's a website where you can see what it is that Santana does every day. Even if you can't hear her voice.

This website. You found it three days ago. Three days that Santana has gone to work. But you haven't used it. You're not sure why. Actually. You are, but you don't want to admit it. Even to yourself, because it's awful. It makes your stomach drop. It makes you feel like you're breaking your promise to try to trust her. It makes you feel awful, because part of you, a big part of you, is scared to find out what Santana's life is like when you're not around.

But this morning. This morning, you've promised yourself you're going to do it. You're going to read along with her show. You're going to see just what it is this girl you care so deeply about does at work each day. You're going to see her. Another side of her. You want to know all of her sides.

At four-forty-five, the alert band on your wrist vibrates to wake you up. At four-fifty-six, you're standing at the stove percolating coffee, because you know it's so much better that way. At five-twenty-seven, you're back on your bed with your laptop, legs tucked under you, brimming Phillies mug in your hands, and Otis lying at your side. His paws cover his face, because he's clearly not happy with waking up this early. But he's nothing if not loyal, and you slip him a treat in appreciation. Your stomach is knotted. You don't want to be this nervous. You really don't. But you can't help yourself.

Good morning, Philadelphia. You read on the screen, and when Otis' ears perk up, you realize you have the volume on—maybe Mr. Shapiro is right, maybe you do make a lot of noise— and you realize, you realize it has to be Santana's voice he's hearing. This is WIOQ, and as always, I'm Santana with your work day wake up. Give me a call with your special requests, the phone lines are always open.

Your screen tells you that there's music playing, and Otis sniffs a little at the computer speaker. He's trying to find Santana, you figure. He's so aware of the noise around him that you've thrown him for a loop, letting the voice of his new friend into the house without her body to match. But he doesn't seem to mind, he just lays his head down on the speaker and he waits. He waits with you. Because he wants the song to be over and for her to come back on, just as much as you do.

You're impressed. You're completely impressed with the way she talks to her callers. She makes you laugh. Just as she does in person. She's sweet to them, when they need advice. She's snarky, when they deserve it. She's absolutely incredible at her job, you think, and you have no idea why you were so afraid to listen to her. She's just who you thought she was, and really, really, you can't stop smiling all through the first hour of the program. You're picturing her. Sitting in that chair, headphones on her head, her smile, your favorite smile in the world, on her face. You feel your fingers twitch for a paintbrush, but you can't paint and focus, so you'll have to wait.

In the eight o'clock hour, someone else comes on with her. A man named Jonas, according to your screen. Her words stay red, and his come up yellow, so you can differentiate between who's speaking. Otis is still transfixed. His head is still on the speaker. It makes your stomach twist— in a good way, this time— with the way he seems to care for Santana. Otis is a good judge of character. And you're trying, you're trying, you're trying to let yourself trust.

So, Santana. You read in yellow on the screen. When are you going to come on out and tell Philadelphia about this special lady friend of yours that you haven't shut up about for weeks?

You freeze. You freeze, because it's you. Right? You freeze, because she's been talking about you. You freeze, because sometimes, more than anything, you wish you had someone to talk to about her, too. Besides, of course, Otis. You're surprised he's not sick of her, actually, the way you go on and on about her to him. All the while though, you never really imagined her telling other people about you. Of course you want to talk about her. She's perfect, really. She's more than any storybook heroine. She's more than anything you could have imagined in your wildest dreams. Of course you could go on about her for days. Years. Centuries. But you. You're just you and it steals your breath, thinking that even for a single moment, she might talk about you to the other people in her life. It steals your breath away, and it doesn't come back in the seconds you wait to read her response.

Jonas, I'm not going to tell you about my life anymore if you're going to announce it to all of Philly. You imagine her laughing. You don't know why, but you do. You picture her face. Her dancing eyes. Her dimples. It makes you smile. It makes you smile so much that your cheeks hurt, and Otis cocks his head to look at you. Maybe he's hearing her laugh, you're not sure, but you hope. Yes, there's a girl. There's a girl who I care a lot about. And that's all I'm saying.

Come on, Santana. I've already told them all that you've got it bad. And as Philly's favorite source of love advice, you've gotta tell them something about your mystery girl. Just one little thing.

Fine. You wonder if she's rolling her eyes. She does that, even when she's not really all that annoyed about giving in on something. You don't tell her, but you love when she does that. It makes you just want to lean over and kiss her. Well, it makes you want to lean over and kiss her even more than you usually do. How's this? I'll tell you two. But that's it. Everything's too new, and you know I'm superstitious about messing things up. First thing. She's a painter. Like, such an amazing painter that it'll actually blow your mind. Second thing. She's beautiful. Put her art to shame beautiful. And I'm not just talking about her face. It's her everything. She awes me.

Your eyes fill with tears, and you lose focus on the words on the screen in front of you. Santana is just. You don't even know. She's something else. Without even knowing she does it, she makes you question every single doubt you've ever had. She makes you feel like you're worthy. Like you deserve good things too. Like you really, really can trust her. She describes you, and she doesn't use the word most people would. She calls you a painter. She calls you beautiful. And it's just— She doesn't know you're seeing this, these things she's saying. And yet. Yet she still does it. She does it, you think, you really do think now, more than hope, because she really feels it. And it makes you feel like you're falling even more.

She has a meeting after her show, you know. She'd told you about it yesterday. But now. You're anxious for her to get here. You're anxious just to. You don't even know. Kiss her maybe. Just. See her face.

You're impatient. So impatient. It's raining, so you sit in the window, and you paint. You start an abstract of Boathouse Row at sunset. The view you'd seen at dinner the other night. The view you'd seen while Santana kept her arm around your waist and brought a forkful of her duck breast to your lips. That whole night made you heart race. The sunset, the food, the way she'd showed you the new signs she'd learned. Pretty. Happy. Walk. Smile. The way she'd let you press her against the front of your building. The way she'd wrapped her leg around your waist and tangled her hands in your hair to pull you closer when you kissed her goodnight. The way she looked with eyes desire-black and lipstick passion-smudged, the same colors you dip your brush in as you paint the cusp of nightfall. The way your whole universe in that moment was just the pulse of her heart against your chest, the curl of her tongue in your mouth, the feel of her gasp in your throat.

It was the best date you've had so far, and you think, as you paint. You think about how she'd told all of Philadelphia that her mystery girl was an amazing painter. You think about it, and your heart races again. You think about it, and you know with every brush stroke, that you're going to give this painting to her. You haven't yet, because you weren't sure. But now. Now you are.

It's the distraction you need. Painting for her. You stop checking your phone every few minutes to see what time it is. You get lost in the piece. You can't believe how quick it's coming along. Until you realize it wasn't all that quick. Otis is on his feet, and you know Santana is on the stairs. You can always tell when it's her now, by the way he reacts. He's so in tune with you, you can't distinguish if they're his emotions, or yours. But you're pretty sure he feels pretty strongly about her, too. When she brought you apple cider donuts, because you told her you love them, and you hate that you can only get them in the fall, she brought him a little stuffed moose. One he keeps in his spot in your bedroom now. When she kisses you too long, and Otis waits, ever-patient, she thanks him for letting her borrow you for a bit. She recognizes something other people don't. She recognizes that he's a part of you. But she also makes sure to treat him like his own being. It makes that thumping in your heart speed up. You're pretty sure she doesn't know what she does to you.

The red light above your door flashes bright, and you smile. You smile so wide. You smile, and you put down your paintbrush. You think about hiding the picture, but you don't. It's not dry, you don't want to ruin it, and you think it'll surprise Santana enough without your making a big ceremony of presenting it to her. You realize as soon as you open the door that you're in your oldest jeans. They hang low on your hips, and the knees are torn from wear, not for aesthetic. Your white t-shirt is less white and more—everycolor. Your hair is piled up on top of your head, and you know you have those paint streaks she likes to wipe off across your face and chest. You look disheveled, but when you look at her face, when you see the way she looks at you, you know it doesn't matter. You wonder. You wonder. You always wonder, if it's normal to feel the way you feel just from the way a person looks at you. But she's not just a person. She's Santana. That makes a difference.

"Santana." You say. She told you, a few weeks ago, that she loves to hear you say her name. You're not sure why. Lots of people say it. It's even on a billboard just on the other side of the Ben Franklin Bridge— you were shocked, when you saw it out her car window one day— but she says she likes the way you say it best. So you do. Because when you say her name, her eyes crinkle. That only happens for you. You've noticed that. Your heart beats so fast then, you think you might need a doctor.

How are you? She speaks it and signs it at the same time. That's another new one for her. When she signs, you think maybe you smile at her like she does when you say her name. You think of the times she's called you special. You know that she's special too.

"Good." You speak and sign back. She's been learning faster by watching you. She asks you to keep doing it.

I didn't make any plans. I hope that's okay.

"We don't need plans. I'm just glad to see you."

I'm glad to see you too, Britt. She's started calling you that lately, and you can't believe how much you like it. I'm always glad to see you.

She slips off her shoes. You never asked her to, but she noticed that you do, when you walk in the door, so she started following suit. Otis goes to her as soon as she sits down. He knows to let people get in the door first, but you can see that he's excited to see her. She greets him. She scratches his head. And you wonder if he's thinking about how she managed to get from inside of your computer to outside the door. You offer her a drink, something to eat, but she shakes her head, and she pats the seat beside her. You sign to her that you're going to wash your hands— she knows that one well, she doesn't need the words— and when you come back, having decided just to fix your hair, but not to change your clothes, Otis has his head in her lap. When you sit down beside her, Otis drops down to lie on the floor at both of your feet. Almost immediately, you take her hand. It helps you trust her, when you hold it, and today. Today you feel closer than ever.

"I have to tell you something." You tell her, and you think, maybe, as you see that crease form on her forehead again, that maybe you sounded a little dramatic. "No. It's not a bad something."

Oh. Okay good. You scared me for a second. She's earnest, and then she winks. She's warning you that she's going to tease you. You love when she does that, because sometimes her teasing doesn't translate well for you. I was a little worried that maybe we had twelve hours to make it out of the city before a solar flare took down the power grid.

"Shut up." You smile. You made her watch Doomsday Preppers the other night at her house. Not because you would do it, but because you admire their dedication and their organization. She hasn't stopped teasing you about it since. "Besides, you don't have notice if a solar flare is coming. Didn't you watch at all?"

I might have been a little distracted. You looked really cute in my sweatpants.

"I'm still sorry I spilled wine on your carpet." The tips of your ears burn again, and she brings your hand to her lips and kisses the back of it. She's never done that before. It makes your ears burn brighter.

I'm getting used to you spilling things. It's okay.

"I don't usually. Only around you." You shrug, and you play with her fingers, when she puts your hand back down. "What I was going to tell you was that I. I found a website. I read your show this morning."

You read my show? She looks at you, and you think she looks a little squirmy, but she stays still.

"I did. Otis and I woke up at 4:45. I didn't realize the volume was on— I hope it wasn't too loud, but I haven't seen a mean note from Mr. Shapiro so— anyway. Otis really liked hearing your voice. He laid his head on the speaker. And I. I liked it a lot too."

You did?

"I did. You're really funny. And the listeners. They. You give them good advice."

Did you…read the whole thing? She looks embarrassed. That's the squirmy look, you realize, and you only sort of understand why.

"I did. Well, except maybe the last twenty minutes. It's real time, and, I got a little distracted."

So you…Brittany. I hope it's okay that I….talked about you. I never do, not on air, but Jonas was teasing me. And I got caught up, and…I don't know, I really liked talking about you. But I won't if—

You have to lean over and kiss her to make her stop talking. She's rambling. She's wringing her hands. She's adorable. Really. You didn't think that she would think you'd be unhappy or uncomfortable with it. You could never be. She was saying all these perfect, perfect things, and you wish you had a way to tell the whole world how special you think she is.

"It made me feel really good, Santana. You. Talking about me."

Yeah? Her eyes sparkle and you. You're taken by them. You always are.

"Yeah. Really yeah. And Jonas called me your mystery girl. And. I liked that."

You're okay with that? I know we haven't talked about it—we've just been dating, and we didn't name this. But, I'm falling for you, Brittany. I'm falling for you, and, I've wanted to ask you properly.

Santana pauses. She pauses, and she squeezes both of your hands, and then gently puts them down in your lap. You see her take a deep breath, and point to herself, before turning her palms upward, curling the fingers slightly and pulling them toward her body, then pointing to you. I want you. You blush. You blush, you're sure, from the ends of your hair all the way down to your toes. You don't think that anyone has ever used those words for you. You're not pitying yourself. You're just. You're thinking the truth. It's the first time. And that makes Santana telling you this even more. If there's such thing as even more than everything. I want you, too, you mouth it to her, and she smiles again. She smiles her you smile, before she raises an eyebrow a little, not teasing, questioning. Her right fist, thumb poking out, strokes her cheek, and then, her pointers extend, and she crosses them. First right on top, then left on top of right. Girlfriend.

"Yes." You tell her. Maybe you sound like you're croaking. You don't know. Your throat. It has a lump so big, you don't think you can swallow. You're trying. You're trying, and you're doing it. You make the sign back to her. You make it again, and again, and you don't care if you seem ridiculous doing it. Then you think. You think you have to speak it. You wish you knew all of the languages in the universe. Because then. Then everyone would know. Everyone would know how lucky you are. "I'm your girlfriend."

And I'm yours. She still has her smile. You still have yours. The one you hope she knows is only hers. And eyes wet, you lean toward her, you press your palms to each of her cheeks, and you kiss her. You give her more in that kiss than you think you ever have before, and you feel it. You feel the way she does the same to you in return.